Fields of Broken Dreams

StephensCreekGate

Fields of Broken Dreams

There has been much sadness in our world and nation of late.  Added to this, each of us has a network of loved ones weighed down in difficulties of their own.  Yet, in all of this, the goodness of humanity still abides.  This little rhyme wrestles with the pain and the potential of such a paradox.

Fields of Broken Dreams

Sometimes it feels as if we walk

Through fields of broken dreams,

Wishing as we face the odds

That it wasn’t as it seems.

We grieve the air disasters,

Where lives flew off in a plane,

To the final sounds of “Alright, goodnight!”

Then they were never seen again.

Lives that had been a-flying

Were shot down from the sky,

Followed by calls to ‘shirt-front’ the responsible,

And still, we know not why.

Then, closer to the home front,

Fires blaze across the land,

Ashen faces lament ashen places,

And many houses no longer stand.

Then there’s all our local sadness,

The dead, the dying and the lost,

The marriages that are no more,

Make both the measured and measureless cost.

As we face up to it,

And walk through the rubble of these fields,

We fossick through the stubble,

For any meaning that it yields.

As the ashes moisten

From the dew and soaking rain,

As the beloved bodies are buried,

And people go home again.

As the sands of time grind onward,

And the broken pieces rot,

A healing slowly grows within,

Till we see what we have got.

The broken shards of pottery

Form drainage for a newly potted shoot,

For from the stench of rotting compost

New life is forming root.

We bare our scars of brokenness,

Shining in new springtime sun,

And from our anguish comes compassion,

As we realise we are one.

For we all feel it in our guts,

For those trapped in the Lindt shop,

Our hearts too plunged in the ocean

As the aeroplanes did drop.

We walk these global fields together,

Through the ashes and by the streams,

And we’ll walk on to tomorrow,

With more wisely tempered dreams.

Simon C.J. Falk                    7 January 2015

CallaghanPostStorm0115

Advertisement

Fires, Firies and Beckom!

As our State of NSW (here in Australia) continues to burn, we remember all those who are fighting fires.  We remember those who have lost homes, property and livelihood. As we experience all of this, I was reminded of a poem that came to me some months ago.  It was based on two experiences.  Firstly, visiting a farm at Beckom and beholding the vista it offered. Secondly, hearing of the local bushfire brigade responding to a serious collision between two semi-trailers on the Newell Highway at Beckom.

 

After a Day at Beckom

In the chill of winter,

When the fog comes sinking down;

As the blades of crop

Poke through the frost coating on the ground;

Morning comes to Beckom

And the farming families around.

 

Around they gather at their tables,

With breakfast to get through the day;

As they watch the sun rise upon their land

And prepare to meet the fray.

The hills give them undulation

On their stocked and grain-sown plains;

After sowing there’s celebrations,

When their dams are full from rains.

 

They tend the Newell Highway

When the traffic comes to stop;

And will lead you down safe byways

When the firies replace the cops.

For those bush firies

Try their hand where o’er their needed;

When the scrub blazes round the paddocks,

Or the highway presents the bleeded.

They toil in death and devastation

Dust and floods and smoke;

They pour out generosity before reservation,

They can be serious or joke.

 

Then they return to their families,

Lock up the chooks,

And kiss their kids.

Then it might be time for bills and books

Before they lie down and close their lids;

Their lids over eyes been wizened

From many a light of dawn and dusk;

To sheep lying dead in paddocks,

Or grain rotten in its husk.

From farewells to their old characters,

Or those far too young to die;

From when dust blows away their topsoil,

To raging torrents from the sky.

 

They gather at the Beckom Pub

After a game of bowls elsewhere;

Or may find a Church or civic do

Within the Beckom Hall there.

Lunches in the park

Have been known for hours long;

As long as beer and food will last,

And if the summer sun’s not too strong.

 

As we look across the paddocks

Of the green rising through the soil;

Beckom silos stand in sentinel,

To Beckom farmers’ toil.

 

When you drive along the Newell,

Remember to tip your hat;

For the stories of our dear ones,

Are housed along those hills and flat.

 

Simon C.J. Falk

 25 June 2013. 

Image

 

Beckom rest area near the site of the semi-trailer collision.

Richard Foote Art

The Unique Art of Richard Foote

Moira McAlister

Writing about Reading and Reading about Writing

Salini Vineeth

Fiction writer

A Hundred Quills

There's a new sun burning, and soft fruits ripening, my precious grizzled tresses tumbling, Dylan's humming 'The times they are a changing', these parting verses are mere shadows merging ...

(CALIATH)

An Empyrean Cycle

Dr Kate Gregorevic

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Daydreaming as a profession

Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.

http://www.lynnungar.com/

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Asha Seth

Bookworm. Poet. Story-teller.

THE DOGLADY'S DEN

Dogs*Life*Music*Photography*Travel*Writing

Monica Applewhite

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Ailish Sinclair

Stories and photos from Scotland

LUNA

Pen to paper

The Light Behind the Story

Seeking the magic and light in life's journeys

BY THE LEFT HAND...

Brett Kristian

%d bloggers like this: