Walk in familiar slippers Walk when walking’s spent Walk on hollow highway Walk in a birthday dress Walk under frigid stars Walk with ancestral song Walk with right Walk with wrong Walk in spite Walk in pity Walk in the backstreets Walk in the news Walk in borrowed city
Home is leaving Home is a journey Home is coloured pencils For a distant classroom Home is a wilderness Home is an army Home is inquisition Home is another way Home is a haven Home is a promise Home is a rose bed Home is tomorrow Home is hard Home is good
This poem is inspired by the continuing ill-treatment in thought, word and deed, of refugees in the UK, notably children.
my mind may have layers stairs and levels twisting and turning halls and rooms but don't be fooled my mind is not a building my mind is not a home in fact my mind is where i get lost the most I can't find refuge not even in my own head
Dim room. A small window with a blank curtain emitting no light. The ceiling fan is spinning. No sound is heard. A French fry container is open on the floor beside a Washington Post paper and a big coffee mug, that has no coffee. An unmoving body has crashed out on a thin mattress. The smoke from a cigarette between two of his fingers fills the room. His hand is hesitant to grab the last fry. It’s probably cold and dry. It looks delicious but it won’t taste delicious. He seems in no mood to eat after yesterday’s junk food dinner that he had with his thoughts. His head is on the pillow that he holds whenever the inner battles begin. I ask him, “what battles?” “Of finding a place to call home, of finding a place to call home!” His eyes fill with tears, and he breaks the silence.
Mohammed S Arafat July 15th, 2020
This poem is dedicated to the refugees of Palestine, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and many other war-torn countries, who are still looking for a home.