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Simon Piesse Jul 22
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

Simon Piesse
This poem is inspired by the continuing ill-treatment in thought, word and deed, of refugees in the UK, notably children.
Graff1980 Feb 22
Look at me,
I am desperately
trying to get you
to see my humanity.

I deserve dignity.
My struggles
do not diminish me.

Traveling, running,
drowning, falling,
hope is still calling
so, I move on.

Being a refugee
does not make me wrong.

Have you ever been
as strong as the heat
and desert winds?

Do you know
the kind of fear
that turns the slightest rumble
into another bomb,
or the nightmare
of knowing
most strangers
won’t bother showing
a single particle of compassion?

I am just an atom
blowing in the air,
here and gone
before you ever
noticed I was there.

I know life is not fair,
but why don’t you care?
How about a little grace
and an ounce of decency,
to highlight your supposed
superior morality?
iamgone Nov 2020
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
what day is it?
Mohammed Arafat Jul 2020
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.
Mamta Wathare Feb 2020
With every word
The rush of night waves lapping across my mind
turn quiet
Your light enters the dark room of my soul
And I am redeemed

A low hum turns into a roar
whispers become chants
thunder drums beat into the heart
of all that needs telling

In a slow
carefully woven tale
An old moss-ridden porch
longs for company
in a deserted neighbourhood

A refugee
has found
Home
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
The sound of children suffering from some far off shore in my ear

The tears of first light shed a certain sadness as I listen for a sparse hope

But all that transmits is an echo of fear...
Ofelia Jun 2019
Seems to me that our world has gone mad
We have forgotten the meaning of life and it makes me sad

Green yards and shining new cars are far more important
Than the lives of refugee seeking shelters, moving like torrent

Nature is forsaking us,  and with reasons
We have let ourselves go too far and have commited treasons

I can't see where it ends,  but can see how
Our planet will die, by our hand since it is allowed
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