i wish I did not
have the taste of
burnt dust always
on my tongue

i wish  i could go
one day without
tears in my eyes

to turn on the tv
and not see another
burnt out bouse  or
ravaging flames

i wish i did not
have to thank
volunteer fire fighters
those who risk themselves
daily to help others

i wish i did not silently weep
for the future of this land
as it goes up in flame
as flora and fauna
become extinct
in one terrible day

i wish i could get
the burnt dust smell
out of my house,
my clothes,
my nose and mouth

but apperently, this..
this new catastrophe
is the new norm around here

twenty, twenty vision
clear insights enable to see
all the stuff coming for  me

excepting my blindspot has
grown awful big about a decades
worth of blinkers, giving me tunnel vision

but there is light, up ahead
small and bright, leading me
away from darkest night
toward daybreak
future bright

step on into the day
make of the future
what we may
twenty twenty vision
all the way

with the taste of burnt and burning on my tongue
i look out to the mountains,
hidden by haze and slow drifting smoke

it is the day we put up our tree
but this year it seems  bittersweet
there are many who have lost houses
some who have lost family
all of us have lost innocence
with regard to the wrath of fire

we carry on unpacking boxes
of tinsel and bric a brac
remembering thosee who gave us
special items, remembering christmas past

we laugh and love, easing the tension
and soon the tree is done, toto green
for our climate but cheerful and robust

this afternoon the town tree light festival begins
a parade and gathering, this year an opportunity
to thank the firefighters and their families

and another new tradition, a christmas tree
where you can leave gifts for those,
who have lost something or everything
in the fires

Never known an oak to grumble about politics
or a cloud question its faith
never known a worm worried about its looks
or a hedgehog do an early morning walk of shame
never known a pebble craving attention
or a flower seeking revenge
never known a puddle to scream in anger
or a star seeking another to blame

~for betterdays, and all Aussies~


the fires massifs all around, the smokes surrounds,
the house invaded with closed-out-of-college students,
mother and father who are similarly workless, a fire bounty,
all this a treat to an nine year old (no school) boy and his dog

newly self-appointed ringleader, the little boy,
in his fire heaven, with a gang to command, to entertain,
some adults, silly college students, who don’t know “no,”
when he says this is the game we are playing next

this vignette, is not a Manhattan variety^
but an insight story heard, unwitnessed, but of
those who tell the tale, unwittingly, of finding small joys
amidst sky-full clouds, all grayed bunting of burning stink

few wiser than my old, tired and smokey clouded eyes,
though, one yet detects those who are truly not lost,
those who are found, and those who will find them all,
and lead them to the safest places inside themselves

and my heart and brain, at last in unison,
forgives the restless adults who with grownup worries,
yet can! just barely detect those mini joy-rivulets among the whiffs
of destruction and bravery, losses and new hands extended

So I ask, Mum, what game shall we play next?

Perhaps, Noah’s Ark?

fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand

the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house

ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires

men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front

devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken

and it is still only spring

stealing time
to pen some words
that may be
considerate  enough
to rhyme

stealing time
to sit  apace
with  myself
and muse away
a small portion of
this humid hour

stealing time
to stare at space
and watch
the dust motes
dance with
ballerina grace

stealing time
with vacant smile
as the world and
his wife, walk on by

it is  in moments
like these stolen away
that i gather the beauty
of each and every day