The World Is Burning, But ...

 

The world is burning, but

in a day or two the fires will be out.

They’re being water-bombed right now.

The houses and paddocks 

and the poor, trapped stock

will all be destroyed. But the fire

will be out. Only the blackened earth

will map its dimensions 

for a while. 

Some will leave and some

will stay to rebuild. The same 

as they do when it’s water wrecking

home, livelihood, landscape – when 

the big floods thunder, battering our walls, 

drowning whole towns, obliterating the land.

Turn up the aircon, these days

when Summers get longer, hotter.

They’ll figure out something before …

The world is burning, but

it’s over there in Europe, it’s

over there in the Middle East. Not here.

Turn off the news! Don’t watch!

All that maiming and starving, I know

you can’t bear, and the cities of bombed rubble.

It’s over there, it’s all over there.

It’s all over, there … The world is burning, but

go to sleep; there is nothing you can do. 

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #218.

The Voice of Autumn

Autumns in Australia, at their best, are somnolent, sun-drenched, beneficent, replete – my favourite season. The voice of that kind of autumn is heard in the steady hum of happy bees, the drone of a tractor in a paddock across the valley, the gentle snores of a sleepy afternoon.

At their worst they are WET! This year, autumn here began with serious flooding – the third time in rapid succession over recent years. 

To be more precise: the March 2017 flood was the worst ever in this town, until then. The one in February this year was even worse, then the one in March this year worse still. The voice of Autumn 2022 was drumming rain for days, weeks. For those in the path of the water it was huge, relentless noise – the noise of something terrible coming; something inevitable, inescapable. Like an earthquake, or a large aircraft about to crash into your walls. Of course it arrived after dark. It was debris banging heavily against the walls all night – no pattern to the sudden hits; each time a new and different shock, crash, jolt, assault.

For the rest of us it was the silence of the dawning day when the rain had at last subsided, but the water all around meant we stayed in our homes for many days thereafter. Luckily we had enough warning to stock up on food and groceries ahead of time – because even if we could have got out, the delivery trucks to the shops couldn’t get in.

Those voices of autumn have faded now, receded. But they linger in memory still. We listen with half an ear always cocked, for the next time autumn wants to rage and yell. We no longer trust in the benevolence of this pretty part of the world.

slow to clear –

piled debris of a life 

I thought I knew 

If you watch the whole video, it shows things getting progressively worse.

Written in response to Haibun Monday: aki no koe (Autumn's voice) at dVerse.  

Gratitude Journal

I’m glad I have a cat

now that I no longer

hug my friends. 

I’m glad I’d rather

read books

than go to parties.

I’m glad I live with

the Internet

and my smart TV.

I’m glad I never

have to go out –

I can shop online.

I’m glad there was time

to get over the fires

before the pandemic hit.

(Except of course for those 

still homeless, still having

nightmares. Ah well.)

When recurring floods

keep wrecking others’ houses,

I’m glad I live on a hill.

Thankfully, I don’t believe

those who say these times

are separating us.

Written for Friday Writings #27: Watching and Witnessing at Poets and Storytellers United.

Slightly belated note: Well, this poem is an epic fail! As revealed by the first few comments it has received. I was going to wait and see if anyone got it, but it has become obvious that the fault is mine, so I had better confess. I meant it to be ironic, as the speaker gradually reveals the ways in which she has become withdrawn and selfish without even realising it. Too subtle? Or is it that because I used facts from my own life, everyone assumed the persona was me, took it at face value and couldn't credit the underlying attitude I was trying to show?

Flood Poems (tanka)

forecast heavy rains

my visitor leaves for home

early, to beat floods –

drinking the extra wine

all by myself I’m lonely

       *********

after the floods

my pen is paralysed

for a month –

when poetry returns

it’s on other topics

Sharing, 8 April 2022, with Poets and Storytellers United via Friday Writings #21: What's There. I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but the recent huge floods here are still very much present to me and everyone else in the area. Many people are still homeless, many roads still impassable. It will take a long time for the region to recover, physically and emotionally. I was not personally in danger, but we have all felt the stress in various ways.