The bushland calls
Of my childhood dreams
Amongst the wild
My soul it, sings

The gentle breeze
light upon the skin
Sun upon my face
it welcomes me in

To the lands of summers
Though now long gone

Memories of the heats haze
With a white juvenile horse
Within a closed off field it lay
But young and free it was born

Birds flying high above
Shielding the rays of the sky
Perfectly clear a crystal bright blue
Not a single cloud in sight

Fields filled with nothing
But the dirt beneath our feet
Dull patches of green and yellow
Amongst cattle it feeds

A rooster it crows loud
The chooks begin to run
As bruce, a little staffy
Chases them about

Work shed full of tools
Covered by a rusted tin roof
Parked beside it old barrols
And a broken down ute

Stone walls of the house
To keep it cool inside
Spread across the cold floors
A reddish brown cowhide

Worn down leather couch
Out upon the front porch
An eski filled with stubbies
Where the boys had their "talks"

I feel the memories flooding back
This peacefulness, this sense of home
Hours pass by within seconds
Losing myself in the zone

My footsteps have long faded with time
As has my name once carved upon the gumtrees
The white stallion no longer grazes near by
Nor do the same cattle dwell in that field

Worn down by time and way of the land
Though I do intend to return again
To share the beauty of this place
Drawn back by the old fate

The day melts away like the snow
And I hear my parent calling my name
This place will forever be my second home
Because I know here, I'll never be alone

Let me hear
You are fine there

Hope to see again

A silhouette cross by
Like a rock star
Metal probe in his back
With alpha heart
Pointed somewhere, and
Trigger a prey

---ahhh-----ahh.
Probably, the last cry
Human, it was.

Fired more metals
Without, excuse to say

I probably,
enjoyed a view
of bloodshed
being a cannibal
waiting for a fest.

It is hard to live
Harder to feel
20-40-90, and more to count
Bang…. Bang….Bang
A fetus got a medal, before his birth
A mute got a medal, no one to hear

I turned my face towards the light
As their life have no input to mine.

Later that night,
I wake up,
before a dawn
a nasty smell of sulfur, over my surround.

Was it my smell, when I was born?
If it is not me, then who cares?

I heard an inner voice,
"Silence is a curse for humanity".
Then,
I scream loud,
Help….help

Low frequency chants from UN, I  heard,
RIP  RIP  RIP

How can,
rest in peace, be help?
Pray is not what, they asked for,
they are calling for help,
Irony, we just pray.

-
-
Blast was/is /will
Never be

Music of my choice.
-
-

Bomb lives till it blast
Making a live, dead

At the end, it commits suicide.

I own horses, hence I take photos and write short poems that go with them. The latest  poem I wrote was about the first day of bitter cold air and first snow flakes falling, sticking to my horse's mane:

Oh, no! The Arctic Blast is here
With gusts of wind and chilly air
And tiny flakes of sparkly white
Much to the horse's great delight