Fellow Authors, Reposts/Reblog Shares

#ShareAReviewDay Tuesday – Devil in the Wind by Frank Prem

 

Check it out, Arcians and consider supporting a fellow author. I realized after reading Devil in the Wind’s blurbย that 1.) It sounds very interesting and 2.) I know next to nothing about Australia. Thus I need to read and learn about these bush fires of 2009.

I pre-ordered my copy. Check out the links for more information. I’m adding this eagerly to my summer reading stack. โ˜บ๏ธ๐Ÿ“š๐Ÿ“š๐Ÿ“š

Marcia Meara's avatarThe Write Stuff

Hi, Folks! Itโ€™s #ShareAReviewDay Tuesday again, and our guest this morning is Frank Prem. Frank is sharing a review from his poetic anthology, Devil in the Wind. After reading this, Iโ€™m sold. Iโ€™ve pre-ordered this one to add to my collection of poetry anthologies, and I suspect many of you will as well. Thanks for checking it out today, and for sharing far and wide, as well.ย 

REVIEW:

Mick rated Devil In The Wind5.0 out of 5 stars on Goodreads
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/44440062-devil-in-the-wind

Like Frankโ€™s previous book, Small Town Kid, this collection of poems tells a story of rural and small town Australia. But the similarities between the two books end there.

Whereas the previous collection was a celebration of boyhood in Frankโ€™s hometown, this is an account of the dreadful bushfires of February 2009 that swept through parts of Southern Australia, the area that is home to the authorโ€ฆ

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Reposts/Reblog Shares

(what if I hear them) whistle and cry

 

A profound read.

Frank Prem's avatarFrank Prem Poetry

pexels-photo-169406-6

I hear the dead
cry out
in the colours
of the burning night

even my shadow
bows down
before them

these
are the stranger days
with ghost silhouettes
that I
can see

this killing ground
is the shade
of dying fire

and I am
alive
I wonder
why

I am alive
perhaps
to play
the witness

and what if I
were hung
to drain and dry
suspended
from my toes

what if the sound
of the wind
in my throat
was
the only proof

of a lie

troubled days
troubled thoughts
troubled visions

trouble
everywhere I go

there is no sound
that is not
the dead

whistling

the wind blows
without care

whistling

and the creaking
of each rope
is a separate song

the creaking
of each soul
is a sigh

I have to turn
away
lest these images invade me
in my sleeping

I think
I may have knownโ€ฆ

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