Monday, April 16, 2018

It's Time... to write again

It's time to get back on this writing saddle and get going.  I'm going to take the easy way out and document a poem I wrote in 2009, partly because I want to organize some of the bits of writing that I've done, and partly because I want to get rid of some of the papers that are lying around.  What's somewhat shocking is that this poem I wrote so long ago shows me not much has changed.  Conflicts have moved into other settings.  The language of the perpetrators doesn't seem to differ.  People still die and try to escape.

Driving back from grocery shopping

The mist sits on the hill.
A crown, a toque, a beanie,
fog really.

Drapes itself around peeled trees,
drips from leaves, 
hides the road. 
Good thing I've driven this a few times.
Lights on for safety.

Kookaburras are quiet today, too busy staying dry to cackle.
We love this fog as we walk to school.
Can't see to the top of the hill.
Cockies crooning in the trees, quieter too.  Talking to themselves.
Fog distracts the birds.
Usually the magpies burble in the mist
calling, look, here's a tasty little bite.
They talked quietly this morning.

Washing on the line is soaking again.  I forgot to take it in last night.
Little lakes are starting to fill -- they have been dry for 10 years.
Hope is strong in the man's voice on the radio.
He's been farming for years.
He's middle aged
he says.
The dry has left him without much more than his good reputation.

The hill is often wet, at least since the heat stopped.
Slippery leaves and sliding mud along our walk.
A small wind stirs the giants in the fog and they spill onto my carry bags.
I love how the small drips fall from leaf to leaf.  Makes them twist.
No little parrot having a rest on the branch today.  The berries have been eaten,
but those little red parrots like to sit there, dozing.
Must be annoying,
those little drops of water on your back when you are trying to sleep.

The Americans are talking about fighting again.
How they must take on the evil warlords (or words like that)
in Afghanistan.
The Diggers and Canucks die often, far away from their own homes.
It's dry there, no more paradise of figs, apricots, roses, fruit, roasted lamb and doogh.

The word enemy is repeated by the President's people.

Oh, civilians are dying too.  They're trying to go, trying to find a place that isn't as dry.
Another boat was intercepted yeterday.
They get on boats and float across the water, hoping the money they gave to a man 
will get them into safety, hills,
mist to hide them.
I should turn that radio off.

I just wanted to make a nice meal for my family.
And the fog look great, crowning the hills.

Ferny Creek, 2009

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