Tanka
So they hung Saddam
The brutal, old dictator
But as they gloated
He faced the hangman bravely
That will be remembered.
Zen
with
a vicious
act.
2006
ended
as it
began
Senryu
Behind democracy.
Lurks pitiless high finance.
Your vote is a joke.
Happy New Year
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
at the end of time
At the End of Time.
When the clock struck nine a Swiss cuckoo
came out, flew onto the roof where it laid
eggs in a sparrow’s nest, under the tiles.
It came back with all the haste of a delayed
rocket, broke the window collided brutally
with the clock that fell off the wall and into
the soup. Digits floated around in infinite
variation, but when the soup had settled it
was midnight I could see 2007, ate the two
zeroes but, it didn’t make much difference,
fireworks soared in the sky scared dogs and
shell shocked war veterans who didn’t get
sympathy from those who had never heard
the deadly whine of hot iron searing air
When the clock struck nine a Swiss cuckoo
came out, flew onto the roof where it laid
eggs in a sparrow’s nest, under the tiles.
It came back with all the haste of a delayed
rocket, broke the window collided brutally
with the clock that fell off the wall and into
the soup. Digits floated around in infinite
variation, but when the soup had settled it
was midnight I could see 2007, ate the two
zeroes but, it didn’t make much difference,
fireworks soared in the sky scared dogs and
shell shocked war veterans who didn’t get
sympathy from those who had never heard
the deadly whine of hot iron searing air
end of year
End of a Year.
Childhood didn’t last long, the years when
we’re a family, a clan, unafraid and whole,
the big bang came and I was thrown into
a world of dishonesty, cruelty and paid for
love; nothing much of interest happened
since. There are times, when my old heart
aches, I can see those years clearly, but
there is no return ticket to the past, no bus
at the terminal, walk I can’t, the distance
too far for that, legs too weak, or perhaps
it’s the will that’s fragile. I wonder if there
is in the landscape of death, a valley where
we are reunited with the years of wholeness
before trivial nonexistence sets in.
Childhood didn’t last long, the years when
we’re a family, a clan, unafraid and whole,
the big bang came and I was thrown into
a world of dishonesty, cruelty and paid for
love; nothing much of interest happened
since. There are times, when my old heart
aches, I can see those years clearly, but
there is no return ticket to the past, no bus
at the terminal, walk I can’t, the distance
too far for that, legs too weak, or perhaps
it’s the will that’s fragile. I wonder if there
is in the landscape of death, a valley where
we are reunited with the years of wholeness
before trivial nonexistence sets in.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
nonattendance
Nonattendance
There is an absence in my
rooms, it has erased memories,
voices and laughter;
the tick of the clock kills time,
here where silence is
threatening, and thoughts are
dust on bookshelves.
Unbearable, these rooms,
a converted stable, no aroma
of horses remain; as they were
an illusion, hooves on stones
late at night going home;
yes, there is an absence here
I cannot define, except that
the future has lost the past.
There is an absence in my
rooms, it has erased memories,
voices and laughter;
the tick of the clock kills time,
here where silence is
threatening, and thoughts are
dust on bookshelves.
Unbearable, these rooms,
a converted stable, no aroma
of horses remain; as they were
an illusion, hooves on stones
late at night going home;
yes, there is an absence here
I cannot define, except that
the future has lost the past.
The end of an Era
End Of an Era
In the narrow shopping street in the old town
melancholy hangs heavy amongst christmas
decorations, small shops selling blouses, shirts,
lingerie, suits and shoes are mostly empty and
dying, the relentless stride of Chinese shops
selling stuff at a price they cannot match, is
strangling them, and the public will not come
to their rescue. They used to be a dignified lot,
men and women of commerce, selling good
quality cloths, a church going bourgeoisie with
a healthy contempt for the crass working class,
those they made their money off, now left in
a backwater, missed only by the nostalgic, who
remember them wrongly.
In the narrow shopping street in the old town
melancholy hangs heavy amongst christmas
decorations, small shops selling blouses, shirts,
lingerie, suits and shoes are mostly empty and
dying, the relentless stride of Chinese shops
selling stuff at a price they cannot match, is
strangling them, and the public will not come
to their rescue. They used to be a dignified lot,
men and women of commerce, selling good
quality cloths, a church going bourgeoisie with
a healthy contempt for the crass working class,
those they made their money off, now left in
a backwater, missed only by the nostalgic, who
remember them wrongly.
Tanka
Tanka
Put seashell to ear
Listen to Nirvana’s pull
Unstoppable
Washing over humanity
Till nothing is remembered.
Put seashell to ear
Listen to Nirvana’s pull
Unstoppable
Washing over humanity
Till nothing is remembered.
a plea for clemency
A Plea for Clemency
Rebecca Lunch, the brave soldier, broke a leg in
her president’s war, the enemy brought her to
hospital where she was looked after till her army
came, with blazing guns, and picked her up; no,
she hadn’t been raped or beaten, the cant machine
and compliant press, could only hint at unspoken
cruelty had befallen her, they made her a heroine
anyway, picture in the paper, and after that they
let her go home to mum and dad. For this, I think,
Saddam Hussein should be given a pardon, he
isn’t a common criminal, but a big one like Bush
and Blair who will end up as elder statesmen,
(Blair a Lord) admired by us all, if not by the Iraqi
people whose country they destroyed
Rebecca Lunch, the brave soldier, broke a leg in
her president’s war, the enemy brought her to
hospital where she was looked after till her army
came, with blazing guns, and picked her up; no,
she hadn’t been raped or beaten, the cant machine
and compliant press, could only hint at unspoken
cruelty had befallen her, they made her a heroine
anyway, picture in the paper, and after that they
let her go home to mum and dad. For this, I think,
Saddam Hussein should be given a pardon, he
isn’t a common criminal, but a big one like Bush
and Blair who will end up as elder statesmen,
(Blair a Lord) admired by us all, if not by the Iraqi
people whose country they destroyed
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
New year
New Year Festivities.
Three ugly dark haired sisters at the party sang
carols… badly, the fourth one didn’t join in she,
lived in Paris, France, and spoke of Louvré,
Notre Dame, high culture and was very blond.
The three ugly sisters had unattractive husbands,
who just sat there in a corner drinking cold beer.
The fourth sister, who lived in Paris, had a spouse
who wore a three piece suit and was a director of
something important, he was insufferable French
bourgeois, sipped a glass of expensive white wine,
spoke slowly and was utterly predictable, thought
Pinochet of Chile was a good chap, said something
about omelets. I drank red wine till little of this
mattered, when morning came they had gone home
Three ugly dark haired sisters at the party sang
carols… badly, the fourth one didn’t join in she,
lived in Paris, France, and spoke of Louvré,
Notre Dame, high culture and was very blond.
The three ugly sisters had unattractive husbands,
who just sat there in a corner drinking cold beer.
The fourth sister, who lived in Paris, had a spouse
who wore a three piece suit and was a director of
something important, he was insufferable French
bourgeois, sipped a glass of expensive white wine,
spoke slowly and was utterly predictable, thought
Pinochet of Chile was a good chap, said something
about omelets. I drank red wine till little of this
mattered, when morning came they had gone home
Christmas party in Lisbon
Christmas Party In Lisbon
Plenty of food cakes and ale, big flat, two tables
sat in the living room one for us elderly and one
for the young; bright eyed, slim and beautiful.
How I envied them. On my table they spoke of
real estate, who’s died, and great poets of yore.
Drank too much, thought of my sister, ten years
ago, christmas eve, since she left us. On the way
home there had been a traffic accident, fast car
split open, white sheet over the driver, a hand
stuck out, a manicured one, not one for doing
dishes after supper; I thought the hand moved,
told a rescue worker, he said; “body’s headless.”
Coming home the house was cold and gloomy,
I remembered mirth, bright eyes and my wish.
Plenty of food cakes and ale, big flat, two tables
sat in the living room one for us elderly and one
for the young; bright eyed, slim and beautiful.
How I envied them. On my table they spoke of
real estate, who’s died, and great poets of yore.
Drank too much, thought of my sister, ten years
ago, christmas eve, since she left us. On the way
home there had been a traffic accident, fast car
split open, white sheet over the driver, a hand
stuck out, a manicured one, not one for doing
dishes after supper; I thought the hand moved,
told a rescue worker, he said; “body’s headless.”
Coming home the house was cold and gloomy,
I remembered mirth, bright eyes and my wish.
the Modern State.
The Modern State.
This modern state has two parties Right and Left
they often madly fight in the pages of newspapers,
but they are essentially the same. Married couples
are guarantied a flat, there is no homelessness here,
villas, thought, are for the elite, press proprietors,
politicians and administrators. They live in a free
zone, out of towns, away from the people, this as
to avoid direct contacts with people that can only
lead to favouritism, corruption and lewd conduct.
Once a year there is a day of protest, trade unions
with banners, march, and make theatrical demands,
fireworks, and great quantities of beer and wine is
consumed, people don’t care who wins, there is so
very little left to fight for in this great democracy.
This modern state has two parties Right and Left
they often madly fight in the pages of newspapers,
but they are essentially the same. Married couples
are guarantied a flat, there is no homelessness here,
villas, thought, are for the elite, press proprietors,
politicians and administrators. They live in a free
zone, out of towns, away from the people, this as
to avoid direct contacts with people that can only
lead to favouritism, corruption and lewd conduct.
Once a year there is a day of protest, trade unions
with banners, march, and make theatrical demands,
fireworks, and great quantities of beer and wine is
consumed, people don’t care who wins, there is so
very little left to fight for in this great democracy.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Tanka
Tanka.
Christmas Eve
The homeless are being fed
And all is well
Tomorrow they’ll look for
Half eaten burgers and fries
Christmas Eve
The homeless are being fed
And all is well
Tomorrow they’ll look for
Half eaten burgers and fries
Friday, December 22, 2006
in the park the park at night
In The Park at Night.
The town’s lake a manmade island with a tiny house
built for the rare black swan, but as swans are colour
blind to be black doesn’t mean a thing so they nests
where it suits the best. In the cellar, of the café, in
the park, rats eek a living selling empty bottles of
wine, with angst sweaty finger marks on, lick foam
of empty beer kegs while the listen to the music and
subbing feet of dancers overhead, and do ratty things,
till light comes on and the cellar man cometh, knows
they are there so he whistle a song while bring more
empty bottles and kegs to lick foam off. The rodents
know well and have told their offspring, that, if he
catches them, they will his dinner, for under the fur
of every rat, the skin is mouth-wateringly pink
The town’s lake a manmade island with a tiny house
built for the rare black swan, but as swans are colour
blind to be black doesn’t mean a thing so they nests
where it suits the best. In the cellar, of the café, in
the park, rats eek a living selling empty bottles of
wine, with angst sweaty finger marks on, lick foam
of empty beer kegs while the listen to the music and
subbing feet of dancers overhead, and do ratty things,
till light comes on and the cellar man cometh, knows
they are there so he whistle a song while bring more
empty bottles and kegs to lick foam off. The rodents
know well and have told their offspring, that, if he
catches them, they will his dinner, for under the fur
of every rat, the skin is mouth-wateringly pink
lonely eden
Lonely Eden
Unwed Johanna came to live in Vale Formosa; lovely
cottage surrounded by olive trees, perfect place for an
elderly woman to live. Striking were sunsets, but long
were evenings, got a little dog and that was nice, but
so few people in the vale, she could talk to. Took to
drinking a little to ease the pain of loneliness, helped,
for a while till she lost track of time, often it was
the sunrise she saw. Looked into the mirror unwashed
hair “How Ugly I’m,” she wailed, had another glass
of wine; Morning coat from dawn to dusk, why change,
no one around to look good for. A physical ache this
loneliness, she stopped answering the phone didn’t
want to see or speak to anyone. A naked woman hung
from an olive tree…many days before anyone noticed.
Unwed Johanna came to live in Vale Formosa; lovely
cottage surrounded by olive trees, perfect place for an
elderly woman to live. Striking were sunsets, but long
were evenings, got a little dog and that was nice, but
so few people in the vale, she could talk to. Took to
drinking a little to ease the pain of loneliness, helped,
for a while till she lost track of time, often it was
the sunrise she saw. Looked into the mirror unwashed
hair “How Ugly I’m,” she wailed, had another glass
of wine; Morning coat from dawn to dusk, why change,
no one around to look good for. A physical ache this
loneliness, she stopped answering the phone didn’t
want to see or speak to anyone. A naked woman hung
from an olive tree…many days before anyone noticed.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Sonnet to a lady
Sonnet of a Lady
Brought up in an orphanage, she didn’t have any
expectations, trampled on from the word go, few
dreams and modest hopes. At fifteen, a stroke of
luck, maid for people who had many books, she
spent two years reading, not much of a maid, and
they really needed one, so they let her go; but it
was not for her to work with words in an office,
that was for the well constituted people; factory
work then putting sardines into tins, for coppers.
Pregnancies, early marriage, an unhappy one, he
was a drunk. Her children died young she had to
follow them to the grave. She continued to read,
but to modest to write, into old age; sharp mind,
dignity and laughter that’s what I remember.
Brought up in an orphanage, she didn’t have any
expectations, trampled on from the word go, few
dreams and modest hopes. At fifteen, a stroke of
luck, maid for people who had many books, she
spent two years reading, not much of a maid, and
they really needed one, so they let her go; but it
was not for her to work with words in an office,
that was for the well constituted people; factory
work then putting sardines into tins, for coppers.
Pregnancies, early marriage, an unhappy one, he
was a drunk. Her children died young she had to
follow them to the grave. She continued to read,
but to modest to write, into old age; sharp mind,
dignity and laughter that’s what I remember.
Tanka
Be very careful
Pay heeds to a stone’s silence
Tells of a morrow.
You may not like to hear of
The future is your silence.
..............................................
Tanka
Much rain upland
River bursts overflow lowland
Burial ground a lake
Man in row-boat hits headstone
He’s not a swimmer and drowns
.................................................
Tanka (old age poverty)
Touch me now old gold
Before wealth is meaningless
Midas’s feel missing
Golden years an abstraction
Undertakers will not kiss me.
Be very careful
Pay heeds to a stone’s silence
Tells of a morrow.
You may not like to hear of
The future is your silence.
..............................................
Tanka
Much rain upland
River bursts overflow lowland
Burial ground a lake
Man in row-boat hits headstone
He’s not a swimmer and drowns
.................................................
Tanka (old age poverty)
Touch me now old gold
Before wealth is meaningless
Midas’s feel missing
Golden years an abstraction
Undertakers will not kiss me.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
For You
For You
Ten years since that dreaded, early
morning call, last night and long ago.
A nightmare I assured myself when
vividly dreaming of you, wrong name,
a misunderstanding. In the day too
I heard your voice. You let go slowly,
days drift by now when I don’t think of
you, when I do it’s with a melancholic
shrug, I shan’t see you again, our time
was yesterday.
Ten years since that dreaded, early
morning call, last night and long ago.
A nightmare I assured myself when
vividly dreaming of you, wrong name,
a misunderstanding. In the day too
I heard your voice. You let go slowly,
days drift by now when I don’t think of
you, when I do it’s with a melancholic
shrug, I shan’t see you again, our time
was yesterday.
The Good Woman
In the early morning bus, smelling of diesel and
unfinished sleep, we sat, us menial task workers
cleaners of offices, halls, steps and toilets, for
little money and no respect. Beside me sat a big
black woman on her way to clean pots and pans
in some hotel she only seen the back entrance of,
she had a very generous bosom that heaved with
the moment of the bus, a perfect place to rest my
tired head. Woke me gently and motherly smiled
as she alighted.
In the early morning bus, smelling of diesel and
unfinished sleep, we sat, us menial task workers
cleaners of offices, halls, steps and toilets, for
little money and no respect. Beside me sat a big
black woman on her way to clean pots and pans
in some hotel she only seen the back entrance of,
she had a very generous bosom that heaved with
the moment of the bus, a perfect place to rest my
tired head. Woke me gently and motherly smiled
as she alighted.
Monday, December 18, 2006
The Veiled
In Athens I lined up, with others, in a church
a priest gave us a bag of cakes each, while
I wondered what I was doing there. In front
of me an old lady, she quickly ate her cakes
and lined up for more, the priest refused,
told her to go; she eyed my bag and I gave
it to her. This made her so very glad that she
followed me around the rest of the day,
when I came out of an all night bar she sat
leaning up a against a lamppost… sleeping,
the subdued light had erased her wrinkles she
looked like a little girl made homeless by her
drunken father. Coming to the docks it was
morning and I had seen hidden beauty.
In Athens I lined up, with others, in a church
a priest gave us a bag of cakes each, while
I wondered what I was doing there. In front
of me an old lady, she quickly ate her cakes
and lined up for more, the priest refused,
told her to go; she eyed my bag and I gave
it to her. This made her so very glad that she
followed me around the rest of the day,
when I came out of an all night bar she sat
leaning up a against a lamppost… sleeping,
the subdued light had erased her wrinkles she
looked like a little girl made homeless by her
drunken father. Coming to the docks it was
morning and I had seen hidden beauty.
Morning
Night lasts long in my winter vale
darkly dreamless too, trust street
lamps to find my way into town,
tiny moons emit ideal lime-light
Stop under one and ham a poem,
didn’t see the patrol car, grinning
faces, but as I stood on one leg,
at the time, they knew I was sober.
When reaching the point of my
travail the day was flowing like
a hungry river, my streetlamps
looked pale and quite irrelevant.
Night lasts long in my winter vale
darkly dreamless too, trust street
lamps to find my way into town,
tiny moons emit ideal lime-light
Stop under one and ham a poem,
didn’t see the patrol car, grinning
faces, but as I stood on one leg,
at the time, they knew I was sober.
When reaching the point of my
travail the day was flowing like
a hungry river, my streetlamps
looked pale and quite irrelevant.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
a road well traveled
A Road Well Traveled
I’ve been driving on this stretch of
road so often that I’m on nodding
terms with telephone poles, bushes,
houses, trees and reeking tractors.
The road has been widened a bit,
tarted up too, layers of tarmac
and white markings, but under it
is the same old potholed dirt track.
I’ve been driving on this stretch of
road so often that I’m on nodding
terms with telephone poles, bushes,
houses, trees and reeking tractors.
The road has been widened a bit,
tarted up too, layers of tarmac
and white markings, but under it
is the same old potholed dirt track.
Senryu, Haiku and Zen
Senryu
Do not blame the night,
It is not darkness that kills,
But mans cruel mind.
---------------
Sat on a cold stone
When I got up to leave
It thanked me.
....................................
Senryu
The pig in the sty
Lost a hind leg last Christmas
This year, who knows?
.........................................
Senryu
Disappointing night
Went early to bed, slept long
Didn’t remember dreaming.
Do not blame the night,
It is not darkness that kills,
But mans cruel mind.
---------------
Sat on a cold stone
When I got up to leave
It thanked me.
....................................
Senryu
The pig in the sty
Lost a hind leg last Christmas
This year, who knows?
.........................................
Senryu
Disappointing night
Went early to bed, slept long
Didn’t remember dreaming.
Jealousy
Jealousy
When I loved
you
I was envious
of the sun,
moon,
stars and
any
object that
shone on
you.
When you
betrayed
Me…
I thought
of you
buried in
damp
heartless
soil
When I loved
you
I was envious
of the sun,
moon,
stars and
any
object that
shone on
you.
When you
betrayed
Me…
I thought
of you
buried in
damp
heartless
soil
Paradise
Paradise?
In the quarry, a phosphorous lake, lifeless
empty, but corpses have been floating
here, often headless or with no hands,
the mob killing each other, something for
crime magazines to write salacious about
for those addicted to the pornography of
violence. But today is different, a man in
a yellow rowing boat, with a fishing rod,
he’s standing up on the boat angling, loses
his balance falls into the lake, that from
a distance looks like an evil eye gone blind
and senile. There is a boat in the motionless
water, no gull shrieks here, air is stale and
the stillness hums of Nirvana.
In the quarry, a phosphorous lake, lifeless
empty, but corpses have been floating
here, often headless or with no hands,
the mob killing each other, something for
crime magazines to write salacious about
for those addicted to the pornography of
violence. But today is different, a man in
a yellow rowing boat, with a fishing rod,
he’s standing up on the boat angling, loses
his balance falls into the lake, that from
a distance looks like an evil eye gone blind
and senile. There is a boat in the motionless
water, no gull shrieks here, air is stale and
the stillness hums of Nirvana.
the farewell
The Farewell
A blustery day, early June,
I was going on
the train mother
followed me to the station,
she wore a dirty old coat and
hadn’t combed
her hair or washed her face,
she looked like
a bag lady, amongst
the nicely dressed people.
A shower of hailstones,
she waved, I didn’t,
in case people thought
she was my mother.
The train was five minutes late.
A blustery day, early June,
I was going on
the train mother
followed me to the station,
she wore a dirty old coat and
hadn’t combed
her hair or washed her face,
she looked like
a bag lady, amongst
the nicely dressed people.
A shower of hailstones,
she waved, I didn’t,
in case people thought
she was my mother.
The train was five minutes late.
Science And Wine.
Here they are the bloody tribe, milling
about wanting to rescue me, but from what?
They want me to be like them, God forbid…
they don’t like the friends I keep, the drinking
of wine and what neighbours might think…
respectability is all important. Tell me I can
drink wine in the basement away from folk,
robbing me of the pleasure of intoxication
lifting my glass drinking with many friends.
The righteous people wins, they always do,
I sit in the backyard, there is an anger arising…
Samson. I could sing, not about women, but
to create my own truth, and sing with Edison,
the inventor of the wind up gramophone.
Here they are the bloody tribe, milling
about wanting to rescue me, but from what?
They want me to be like them, God forbid…
they don’t like the friends I keep, the drinking
of wine and what neighbours might think…
respectability is all important. Tell me I can
drink wine in the basement away from folk,
robbing me of the pleasure of intoxication
lifting my glass drinking with many friends.
The righteous people wins, they always do,
I sit in the backyard, there is an anger arising…
Samson. I could sing, not about women, but
to create my own truth, and sing with Edison,
the inventor of the wind up gramophone.
Lemons
They said a naked lady had ridden bareback
through the village, but since it was morning
with a light fog, no one was sure. Got my bike
out and pedaled to the meadow, where mist
hung around with little to do other than being
decorative; a grazing mare, a little fiording
pale/ yellow, sturdy, good for carrying stuff
up steep mountains. It came over to the fence
I gave it lumps of sugar, it nodded and began
grazing again as steam rose from its back -
intense smell of horse. - So it had been ridden,
but the phantom lady was nowhere, back in
the village the lemon seller and his donkey
had arrived, bought ten lovely, yellows ones.
They said a naked lady had ridden bareback
through the village, but since it was morning
with a light fog, no one was sure. Got my bike
out and pedaled to the meadow, where mist
hung around with little to do other than being
decorative; a grazing mare, a little fiording
pale/ yellow, sturdy, good for carrying stuff
up steep mountains. It came over to the fence
I gave it lumps of sugar, it nodded and began
grazing again as steam rose from its back -
intense smell of horse. - So it had been ridden,
but the phantom lady was nowhere, back in
the village the lemon seller and his donkey
had arrived, bought ten lovely, yellows ones.
Hare & Hound. (Sonnet)
The sky is grey shot to shreds, lead
pellets rain beating hare hearts under
bushes dogs bark, nearing, panic
stricken now bolt across an open field
the hunted and pursuer. A hare gets hit
open eyes sees not the sky, one runs
safely down a hole, near the heap of
stones. Dog brings hare back to man,
pat on head good boy, wagging tail,
Salivating dumbness is happy now,
forgotten its sad howling to the moon,
remembering what is forgotten, this
animal that sold its soul to sit near
human fire and be fed scraps of food.
The sky is grey shot to shreds, lead
pellets rain beating hare hearts under
bushes dogs bark, nearing, panic
stricken now bolt across an open field
the hunted and pursuer. A hare gets hit
open eyes sees not the sky, one runs
safely down a hole, near the heap of
stones. Dog brings hare back to man,
pat on head good boy, wagging tail,
Salivating dumbness is happy now,
forgotten its sad howling to the moon,
remembering what is forgotten, this
animal that sold its soul to sit near
human fire and be fed scraps of food.
Winter Sonnet
Now that my rhododendron has lost its
last flower the wind has ceased and air
is winter tired, my almond tree is in hiatus,
quietly preparing for early spring when
it will overshadow every tree, throw its
abundance about, snow silk, give hope
to those who suffer gloom. But the ever
so green orange tree bears fruit, it seems,
anytime, yet dull they are and too many
of them, this army of trees receiving EU
money for just standing there in dense
silence. I’ll put orange skin on the top of
the oven, its aroma reminds me of Yule
bygone when oranges were a costly fruit.
Now that my rhododendron has lost its
last flower the wind has ceased and air
is winter tired, my almond tree is in hiatus,
quietly preparing for early spring when
it will overshadow every tree, throw its
abundance about, snow silk, give hope
to those who suffer gloom. But the ever
so green orange tree bears fruit, it seems,
anytime, yet dull they are and too many
of them, this army of trees receiving EU
money for just standing there in dense
silence. I’ll put orange skin on the top of
the oven, its aroma reminds me of Yule
bygone when oranges were a costly fruit.
Winter Sonnet
Now that my rhododendron has lost its
last flower the wind has ceased and air
is winter tired, my almond tree is in hiatus,
quietly preparing for early spring when
it will overshadow every tree, throw its
abundance about, snow silk, give hope
to those who suffer gloom. But the ever
so green orange tree bears fruit, it seems,
anytime, yet dull they are and too many
of them, this army of trees receiving EU
money for just standing there in dense
silence. I’ll put orange skin on the top of
the oven, its aroma reminds me of Yule
bygone when oranges were a costly fruit.
Now that my rhododendron has lost its
last flower the wind has ceased and air
is winter tired, my almond tree is in hiatus,
quietly preparing for early spring when
it will overshadow every tree, throw its
abundance about, snow silk, give hope
to those who suffer gloom. But the ever
so green orange tree bears fruit, it seems,
anytime, yet dull they are and too many
of them, this army of trees receiving EU
money for just standing there in dense
silence. I’ll put orange skin on the top of
the oven, its aroma reminds me of Yule
bygone when oranges were a costly fruit.
The Lost Ideal.
Like dolls, children’s faces
Pale as death;
carried by chorus of lament
to their graves.
Malevolent whispering,
brother against brother
poverty and utter
desperation
This hell hole, an open sewer,
created by people with long
experience in
cynical shrewdness.
They are in full control,
A moving wall stealing land,
uprooting biblical olive trees;
the warden is corrupt,
A Dorian Grey who will one
day look into his
soul’s mirror… fall to earth
and despair
Like dolls, children’s faces
Pale as death;
carried by chorus of lament
to their graves.
Malevolent whispering,
brother against brother
poverty and utter
desperation
This hell hole, an open sewer,
created by people with long
experience in
cynical shrewdness.
They are in full control,
A moving wall stealing land,
uprooting biblical olive trees;
the warden is corrupt,
A Dorian Grey who will one
day look into his
soul’s mirror… fall to earth
and despair
Senryu
The beast in us
Is a werewolf that
Despoils beauty
............................
Uniform make men
Collectively courageous
If not wise
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Senryu
When it rains
Seraphs, the clerical Angels,
Are Showering
Saying.
Time seeps through
Everything, and
Leaves you damp.
Senryu
If you feel a poems
Honesty, you need not understand
The words
Senryu
So why is it?
That single mothers
Are vilified
Warning.
No place
For workers pride
In modern
Industry
................................
Senryu
Without the canvas
Of live, how could
I know your face?
Zen.
Universal love
Is not for
An Individual
Zen
Every journey
Begins with
A dream
Zen.
Charity
Should not
Replace
Dignity
--------------
Zen
Sadists
Find
Suffering
Sexy
Saying
If you write your name
On a black board
It will be erased
Saying
If you wait for the future
It will deliver you
the past
Saying
The inequality
Of riches is its
Downfall
....................
Zen
Sadists
Find
Suffering
Sexy
Saying
If you write your name
On a black board
It will be erased
Saying
If you wait for the future
It will deliver you
the past
Saying
The inequality
Of riches is its
Downfall
--------------
Senryu
Darkness is permanent
Light is uncommonness
A rare illumination
Zen
First light
Brings clarity
And forgiveness
Senryu
A whispering street
Dislikes playing children
Nobel apathy
Saying
When a wish
Comes true
Sadness beckons
Senryu
The month of April
Is not the best time
To fall in love.
..................
Saying
Insecure child
Makes for
Adult monster
..........................
Senryu
If you look back
The past becomes
The future
Zen
Neglect is
The biggest
Disease
Zen
Listen to
The silence
Of stones
Senryu
Flowers are
Colourful killers
That loves a funeral
Senryu
Pride is useless
When falling off
A galloping filly
66-9
Senryu
Sex without love
Leaves behind empty silence
And dejection
Zen
Love is
A gold coin
That never rusts
Senryu
Pity the decadent
Whose only creed is hedonism
Dawn silence, a storm
Senryu
A trees’ nightmare
A hungry, noisy chainsaw
At dawn.
Senryu
Don’t mention sex
We have better things to do
Such as....?
..................................
Senryu
The peasantry,
Sleeps soundly as bears
And drink honeyed wine
Senryu
My dad, the sergeant,
Loved his army
Took it home at night
Senryu
My sibling brother
Never had a dime to spare
Only rivalry
Senryu
What’s good is
Forbidden like
A Cuban cigar
........................
Senryu
Ebony shines as
A black star on the sky
Blinding you
The beast in us
Is a werewolf that
Despoils beauty
............................
Uniform make men
Collectively courageous
If not wise
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Senryu
When it rains
Seraphs, the clerical Angels,
Are Showering
Saying.
Time seeps through
Everything, and
Leaves you damp.
Senryu
If you feel a poems
Honesty, you need not understand
The words
Senryu
So why is it?
That single mothers
Are vilified
Warning.
No place
For workers pride
In modern
Industry
................................
Senryu
Without the canvas
Of live, how could
I know your face?
Zen.
Universal love
Is not for
An Individual
Zen
Every journey
Begins with
A dream
Zen.
Charity
Should not
Replace
Dignity
--------------
Zen
Sadists
Find
Suffering
Sexy
Saying
If you write your name
On a black board
It will be erased
Saying
If you wait for the future
It will deliver you
the past
Saying
The inequality
Of riches is its
Downfall
....................
Zen
Sadists
Find
Suffering
Sexy
Saying
If you write your name
On a black board
It will be erased
Saying
If you wait for the future
It will deliver you
the past
Saying
The inequality
Of riches is its
Downfall
--------------
Senryu
Darkness is permanent
Light is uncommonness
A rare illumination
Zen
First light
Brings clarity
And forgiveness
Senryu
A whispering street
Dislikes playing children
Nobel apathy
Saying
When a wish
Comes true
Sadness beckons
Senryu
The month of April
Is not the best time
To fall in love.
..................
Saying
Insecure child
Makes for
Adult monster
..........................
Senryu
If you look back
The past becomes
The future
Zen
Neglect is
The biggest
Disease
Zen
Listen to
The silence
Of stones
Senryu
Flowers are
Colourful killers
That loves a funeral
Senryu
Pride is useless
When falling off
A galloping filly
66-9
Senryu
Sex without love
Leaves behind empty silence
And dejection
Zen
Love is
A gold coin
That never rusts
Senryu
Pity the decadent
Whose only creed is hedonism
Dawn silence, a storm
Senryu
A trees’ nightmare
A hungry, noisy chainsaw
At dawn.
Senryu
Don’t mention sex
We have better things to do
Such as....?
..................................
Senryu
The peasantry,
Sleeps soundly as bears
And drink honeyed wine
Senryu
My dad, the sergeant,
Loved his army
Took it home at night
Senryu
My sibling brother
Never had a dime to spare
Only rivalry
Senryu
What’s good is
Forbidden like
A Cuban cigar
........................
Senryu
Ebony shines as
A black star on the sky
Blinding you
The Killing
Five small, green speckled eggs, in a nest on
the ground, looked like costly gems; nearby
a bird dragged a wing along as it was broken.
The moment I killed it I knew it was faking.
Silent meadow, no bustle and natures hum,
heart pounded in my ears, looked up the sky
was darkening, shadows danced malicious
tango, across the land mocking my sorrow.
With a heel of guilt I crushed the eggs and
knew that god, in his remoteness is forever
unmoving, a galactic icon of no corollary,
but to whom endless wars are fought.
Five small, green speckled eggs, in a nest on
the ground, looked like costly gems; nearby
a bird dragged a wing along as it was broken.
The moment I killed it I knew it was faking.
Silent meadow, no bustle and natures hum,
heart pounded in my ears, looked up the sky
was darkening, shadows danced malicious
tango, across the land mocking my sorrow.
With a heel of guilt I crushed the eggs and
knew that god, in his remoteness is forever
unmoving, a galactic icon of no corollary,
but to whom endless wars are fought.
Film-clips
The past is like a grainy old movie
I see faces unclear and subdued by
neglect and age.
Used to know them, but don’t visit
as often as before.
Years go by but they are never totally
forgotten.
The past is not a place I like to dwell
on, old wounds and battles
Lost ... let it be, but sometimes I do
look back when trying to understand
my time.
The past is like a grainy old movie
I see faces unclear and subdued by
neglect and age.
Used to know them, but don’t visit
as often as before.
Years go by but they are never totally
forgotten.
The past is not a place I like to dwell
on, old wounds and battles
Lost ... let it be, but sometimes I do
look back when trying to understand
my time.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
oceanic stillness
Oceanic Stillness
The old cargo ship was slowly finding
her way across the ocean,
cigarette smoke
and talk of New Orleans when
her engine stopped.
Gentle heaves of the calm sea and stillness
as unwelcome thoughts entered,
a deck, rust the puss of irons,
between us and a maritime world
we only ploughed the surface of.
So vast the ocean and so small we are,
hushed voices. After a few attempts
the engine started, sigh of relief, forward motion,
the constant drone, blocking out
Our vulnerability.
The old cargo ship was slowly finding
her way across the ocean,
cigarette smoke
and talk of New Orleans when
her engine stopped.
Gentle heaves of the calm sea and stillness
as unwelcome thoughts entered,
a deck, rust the puss of irons,
between us and a maritime world
we only ploughed the surface of.
So vast the ocean and so small we are,
hushed voices. After a few attempts
the engine started, sigh of relief, forward motion,
the constant drone, blocking out
Our vulnerability.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
as beauty goes
As Beauty Goes.
The giraffe
that looked
into my
second floor
flat
whished
it could
be human
in next life
I saw
the beast
and whish
to be
a moonbeam
so I can
shine
through
the open
window
of an attic
room
where
a beautiful
princess sleeps
one who
has got
the same
eyelashes
as the giraffe
The giraffe
that looked
into my
second floor
flat
whished
it could
be human
in next life
I saw
the beast
and whish
to be
a moonbeam
so I can
shine
through
the open
window
of an attic
room
where
a beautiful
princess sleeps
one who
has got
the same
eyelashes
as the giraffe
the purge
The Purge.
From Bath to
Calcutta
beggars have
disappeared;
a least
from our mind
and newspaper
columns.
India has
the biggest
bourgeoisie
in the world,
I read,
isn’t that nice
to know.
New IKEA
stores in
Liverpool
and
Bombay;
we are all
middle-class,
those who
sleep
on pavements
do so because
of the heat.
Poverty has been
eradicated.
From Bath to
Calcutta
beggars have
disappeared;
a least
from our mind
and newspaper
columns.
India has
the biggest
bourgeoisie
in the world,
I read,
isn’t that nice
to know.
New IKEA
stores in
Liverpool
and
Bombay;
we are all
middle-class,
those who
sleep
on pavements
do so because
of the heat.
Poverty has been
eradicated.
desire
Desire.
The sea that
washes
over the rock face
do so with
the unseemly
passion
of envy;
thinks
to be made
of sturdy stuff
is better than
being
briny liquid.
The rock,
however,
wishes it were
a wave,
so it could escape
the sea’s
unbecoming
attention
The sea that
washes
over the rock face
do so with
the unseemly
passion
of envy;
thinks
to be made
of sturdy stuff
is better than
being
briny liquid.
The rock,
however,
wishes it were
a wave,
so it could escape
the sea’s
unbecoming
attention
the office manager
The Office Manager.
Is popular
amongst
his co workers
and in
the locality,
speaks to
everyone;
big, blond and
blue eyed,
flirts with women
young and old
in a pleasant way,
they think
it’s a pity
he is be married
to such a grey,
woman who
wears
sunglasses
even when it rains;
when home
he takes
his jacket off
expect the food
to be hot
on the dot,
if isn’t he
punches his wife
in the face.
Is popular
amongst
his co workers
and in
the locality,
speaks to
everyone;
big, blond and
blue eyed,
flirts with women
young and old
in a pleasant way,
they think
it’s a pity
he is be married
to such a grey,
woman who
wears
sunglasses
even when it rains;
when home
he takes
his jacket off
expect the food
to be hot
on the dot,
if isn’t he
punches his wife
in the face.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Desire
Desire.
The sea that
washes
over the rock face
do so with
the unseemly
passion
of envy;
thinks
to be made
of sturdy stuff
is better than
being
briny liquid.
The rock,
however,
wishes it were
a wave,
so it could escape
the sea’s
unbecoming
attention
The sea that
washes
over the rock face
do so with
the unseemly
passion
of envy;
thinks
to be made
of sturdy stuff
is better than
being
briny liquid.
The rock,
however,
wishes it were
a wave,
so it could escape
the sea’s
unbecoming
attention
The office Manager
The Office Manager.
Is popular
amongst
his co workers
and in
the locality,
speaks to
everyone;
big, blond and
blue eyed,
flirts with women
young and old
in a pleasant way,
they think
it’s a pity
he is be married
to such a grey,
woman who
wears
sunglasses
even when it rains;
when home
he takes
his jacket off
expect the food
to be hot
on the dot,
if isn’t he
punches his wife
in the face.
Is popular
amongst
his co workers
and in
the locality,
speaks to
everyone;
big, blond and
blue eyed,
flirts with women
young and old
in a pleasant way,
they think
it’s a pity
he is be married
to such a grey,
woman who
wears
sunglasses
even when it rains;
when home
he takes
his jacket off
expect the food
to be hot
on the dot,
if isn’t he
punches his wife
in the face.
a rainy afternoon in Cuba
A Rainy Afternoon
In a corner in the kitchen, which I share with
a rubber plant, I sit in my comfy chair and
survey my possession of pots and copper pans,
think of Cuban cigar and hardening of arteries,
“Only two glasses of wine a day” the doc said,
he didn’t mention sex, perhaps he would like to
know that our Saturday love, is a frugal affair,
bath, clean finger nails and, cute, little towels
under pillows; says she used to be in real estate.
Last time I was in Cuba cigars cost more than
abused whores thronging Havana’s streets, till
Fidel Castro came and put an end this disgrace,
mongers fled to Florida where they ghoulishly
sit and wait for the old man to die.
In a corner in the kitchen, which I share with
a rubber plant, I sit in my comfy chair and
survey my possession of pots and copper pans,
think of Cuban cigar and hardening of arteries,
“Only two glasses of wine a day” the doc said,
he didn’t mention sex, perhaps he would like to
know that our Saturday love, is a frugal affair,
bath, clean finger nails and, cute, little towels
under pillows; says she used to be in real estate.
Last time I was in Cuba cigars cost more than
abused whores thronging Havana’s streets, till
Fidel Castro came and put an end this disgrace,
mongers fled to Florida where they ghoulishly
sit and wait for the old man to die.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Art gallery
Art Gallery.
From the left, of the big canvas depicting
still life, an apple, a tennis ball, a bottle of
wine and a Greek vase, lava ran, forever
erasing the artist’s work;
when lava cooled I painted on its surface
a landscape of night pale flowers…and
of you, nude and extremely white, striking
pose on black velvet...
From the left, of the big canvas depicting
still life, an apple, a tennis ball, a bottle of
wine and a Greek vase, lava ran, forever
erasing the artist’s work;
when lava cooled I painted on its surface
a landscape of night pale flowers…and
of you, nude and extremely white, striking
pose on black velvet...
Iron cross
Iron Cross.
Under her white lace the baker’s wife wore
an iron cross, tight-lip secrecy, the baker was
in prison for selling cakes and information to
the enemy in exchange for nazi paraphernalia.
Alas the iron was contaminated by an unknown
substance, made her skin olive oil tanned, her
blond hair black, blue eyes brown, it was clear
for everyone to see she was a Levantine Jewess.
So they set the baker free, these people have
suffered enough, applause, tears and waving
of flag; the baker and his wife, emigrated to
Israel to help shape things to come.
Under her white lace the baker’s wife wore
an iron cross, tight-lip secrecy, the baker was
in prison for selling cakes and information to
the enemy in exchange for nazi paraphernalia.
Alas the iron was contaminated by an unknown
substance, made her skin olive oil tanned, her
blond hair black, blue eyes brown, it was clear
for everyone to see she was a Levantine Jewess.
So they set the baker free, these people have
suffered enough, applause, tears and waving
of flag; the baker and his wife, emigrated to
Israel to help shape things to come.
Sonnet to an Oak
I’m am oak with a bald crown, from my
nether branches they used hang criminals,
I still wear a scar, not that I had any say in
the matter, but I enjoyed the spectacle, lots
of people looking up, passive compliance?
Sheriff and judge are thighbones rubbing up
against the bony hips of whores, and grave
robbers grinning skulls… serves them right.
White landscape, descendant of the hanged
are coming down the road…revenge time?
I have no leaves to hide behind, but they are
not looking my way, busy cutting smaller
trees, mere saplings, and that’s ok, they are
only fir tree pretending to be a forest.
I’m am oak with a bald crown, from my
nether branches they used hang criminals,
I still wear a scar, not that I had any say in
the matter, but I enjoyed the spectacle, lots
of people looking up, passive compliance?
Sheriff and judge are thighbones rubbing up
against the bony hips of whores, and grave
robbers grinning skulls… serves them right.
White landscape, descendant of the hanged
are coming down the road…revenge time?
I have no leaves to hide behind, but they are
not looking my way, busy cutting smaller
trees, mere saplings, and that’s ok, they are
only fir tree pretending to be a forest.
truth
Truth
The whaling boat hunts an empty sea,
dots of clouds try to look albatrosses
but they can’t shriek and are myopic.
the trigger finger is cold, iron arrow
attached to a coiled snake try to catch
a breaker before it’s a foamy surge;
there is no horizon, land has gone,
a surviving sardine shines, truths are
hand reared to fit any old occasion;
The whaling boat hunts an empty sea,
dots of clouds try to look albatrosses
but they can’t shriek and are myopic.
the trigger finger is cold, iron arrow
attached to a coiled snake try to catch
a breaker before it’s a foamy surge;
there is no horizon, land has gone,
a surviving sardine shines, truths are
hand reared to fit any old occasion;
illusions
Illusions
You were so warm and tender,
so giving in bed that I thought
you felt as I.
Mind, you have busy life, often
didn’t see you for a long time,
never ask why, for when you came
back all was ok.
Winter gone, spring, I loved you
more than ever, tried not to think
why you stayed away, till I got
this dreaded call; another man.
The pink bubble burst, for a moment
engulfed by hate and dark thoughts
of revenge, but it was my own fault,
knew all along, but refused to open
my eyes and see reality.
You were so warm and tender,
so giving in bed that I thought
you felt as I.
Mind, you have busy life, often
didn’t see you for a long time,
never ask why, for when you came
back all was ok.
Winter gone, spring, I loved you
more than ever, tried not to think
why you stayed away, till I got
this dreaded call; another man.
The pink bubble burst, for a moment
engulfed by hate and dark thoughts
of revenge, but it was my own fault,
knew all along, but refused to open
my eyes and see reality.
The vast expand
The Vast Expand
Expand , my teacher said, but I was
confined by paper and pen, I had
an out of body experience, reaching
the whole world, can see car bombs
as they go off in Baghdad.
The Sidney opera house, bathers at
the beach; see president Bush walk
on the lawn outside the Whitehouse
as Russia’s president Putin combs
his hair, all this at the same time
Internet, the miracle of lies told and
truths exposed, full of triviality, but
also beauty and poetry. Something
for everyone to see; when are they
going to regulated it?
Expand , my teacher said, but I was
confined by paper and pen, I had
an out of body experience, reaching
the whole world, can see car bombs
as they go off in Baghdad.
The Sidney opera house, bathers at
the beach; see president Bush walk
on the lawn outside the Whitehouse
as Russia’s president Putin combs
his hair, all this at the same time
Internet, the miracle of lies told and
truths exposed, full of triviality, but
also beauty and poetry. Something
for everyone to see; when are they
going to regulated it?
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Friday
Friday.
Drive around been alone for a week now,
don’t want a woman, I see pathetic figures
lurking in dark ally ways and under trees,
prostitution is boring, money, cruelty and
graceless sex; not a sensible word spoken;
drive off disgusted by the netherworld of
mankind. Bright light of a big supermarket
beckons, it’s Friday family shopping day.
Christmas décor, children eating ice cream;
lonely people, mostly middle aged women,
closed faces, stern lips, acting as in a hurry
if I speak to one she will move away, but
she needs someone to talk to as much as me.
I say nothing, but listen to spoken silence
that mingles with the warm voice of a child
and the cold air from the exit.
Friday, December 01, 2006
sonnet to a film star
Sonnet to a Film-Star
It wasn’t her creamy body that caught
my attention, nothing unusual about it,
curvaceous, yes, but going soft. It was
her eyes, in a blink, they were blue,
green or brown depending on her mood
that changed faster than traffic lights
on Sunset Boulevard, between laughter,
pain and suspicion. I could see her soul
wide open eyes; they killed her slowly,
those famous men who wouldn’t let her
grow, a dumb blond forever. If I met her
I could have made her happy, but when
I found the courage to ring her doorbell,
Marilyn wasn’t around anymore
It wasn’t her creamy body that caught
my attention, nothing unusual about it,
curvaceous, yes, but going soft. It was
her eyes, in a blink, they were blue,
green or brown depending on her mood
that changed faster than traffic lights
on Sunset Boulevard, between laughter,
pain and suspicion. I could see her soul
wide open eyes; they killed her slowly,
those famous men who wouldn’t let her
grow, a dumb blond forever. If I met her
I could have made her happy, but when
I found the courage to ring her doorbell,
Marilyn wasn’t around anymore
ordinary life
Ordinary Life.
A grazing mule and a sociable donkey make
for an ordinary day, walk to the café gossip
about the lady who runs the pharmacy, her
new lover is the doctor, which makes sense,
and the baker is rumoured to be gay, where
else can you find such an ordinary day.
If I lived a busy life, saw all the worlds
wonders, lakes, oceans and big mountains,
flitted between Taj Mahal and Louvre, in
one day, just to see how great mankind can
be, I wouldn’t had time to see how strange
and fascinating ordinary life can be.
A grazing mule and a sociable donkey make
for an ordinary day, walk to the café gossip
about the lady who runs the pharmacy, her
new lover is the doctor, which makes sense,
and the baker is rumoured to be gay, where
else can you find such an ordinary day.
If I lived a busy life, saw all the worlds
wonders, lakes, oceans and big mountains,
flitted between Taj Mahal and Louvre, in
one day, just to see how great mankind can
be, I wouldn’t had time to see how strange
and fascinating ordinary life can be.
my father
My Father.
Shrunk he has, my father his suit
too big now could fit me, only
they are so old fashion and it would
be too spooky to wear one after
his death.
Ninety, feet polish pavement,
his best friend is a cobbler.
Will I be old as him?
Do I have the courage?
There is a choice, but life is the only
thing I know, every spring is
more beautiful as the previous one,
does he think the same and keep on
living out of terror of the night?
His eyes are clear, a smile plays on
his cherry lips; the old man
has read my thoughts and nods.
Shrunk he has, my father his suit
too big now could fit me, only
they are so old fashion and it would
be too spooky to wear one after
his death.
Ninety, feet polish pavement,
his best friend is a cobbler.
Will I be old as him?
Do I have the courage?
There is a choice, but life is the only
thing I know, every spring is
more beautiful as the previous one,
does he think the same and keep on
living out of terror of the night?
His eyes are clear, a smile plays on
his cherry lips; the old man
has read my thoughts and nods.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
the day of reckoning
The Day Of reckoning
It rained when I went ashore, miserable, grey drizzle
lasting for days making people indoor pale and righteous.
Met a woman in a pub, she had a tarts fallen face, which
made her interesting, most of her had fallen too, but
dressed in black she looked ok and she lived just around
the corner… In her cups she was frivolous and we did
things I had only read about in books, thought she was
wonderful asked her to marry me. It was afternoon, next
day and still drizzly, when I went down to the docks, my
ship had left, my suitcase packed, just as well the thought
of sailing on a winter ocean in the company of gossiping
Norwegian seafarers and their narrow minded ship world,
was a sacrifice I needn’t carry.. Pessimistically sober now
I winced at the thought of going back to the quiche in black,
booked into a hotel and went to bed with a bottle of rum
It rained when I went ashore, miserable, grey drizzle
lasting for days making people indoor pale and righteous.
Met a woman in a pub, she had a tarts fallen face, which
made her interesting, most of her had fallen too, but
dressed in black she looked ok and she lived just around
the corner… In her cups she was frivolous and we did
things I had only read about in books, thought she was
wonderful asked her to marry me. It was afternoon, next
day and still drizzly, when I went down to the docks, my
ship had left, my suitcase packed, just as well the thought
of sailing on a winter ocean in the company of gossiping
Norwegian seafarers and their narrow minded ship world,
was a sacrifice I needn’t carry.. Pessimistically sober now
I winced at the thought of going back to the quiche in black,
booked into a hotel and went to bed with a bottle of rum
cremation
Cremation
Mother had a picture, in a golden frame,
on the wall, of a boy in his coffin, tried not
to look but my eyes strayed and the boy’s
stillness frightened me.
Yet, she refused to take it down: “It’s good
for us to be reminded of our mortality,” she
said, young then and death was something
that happened to other people.
Years passed, the picture still hung there,
if forgotten, till cancer snatched my brother,
then she took the picture down and burnt it,
but sensible kept the frame
Mother had a picture, in a golden frame,
on the wall, of a boy in his coffin, tried not
to look but my eyes strayed and the boy’s
stillness frightened me.
Yet, she refused to take it down: “It’s good
for us to be reminded of our mortality,” she
said, young then and death was something
that happened to other people.
Years passed, the picture still hung there,
if forgotten, till cancer snatched my brother,
then she took the picture down and burnt it,
but sensible kept the frame
Sonnet to Equality.
Four chairs around the kitchen table, no space
for the fifth chair though, it was put in a corner
with a rubber plant on its seat. First it looked
embarrassed, then got mad, would, if it could,
thrown the plant through the closed window;
then it got so depressed that it nearly collapsed
into pieces of planed sticks of wood, something
had to give; “A week each in the corner” I told
the other four, they demurred, but relented,
since we do still live in a democratic society.
A timbered whisper: “What about you?. When
are you going stand in the corner with a pot plant
in your arms.” With great stateliness I rose from
the chair and said :“I’m the one who sits on you.”
Four chairs around the kitchen table, no space
for the fifth chair though, it was put in a corner
with a rubber plant on its seat. First it looked
embarrassed, then got mad, would, if it could,
thrown the plant through the closed window;
then it got so depressed that it nearly collapsed
into pieces of planed sticks of wood, something
had to give; “A week each in the corner” I told
the other four, they demurred, but relented,
since we do still live in a democratic society.
A timbered whisper: “What about you?. When
are you going stand in the corner with a pot plant
in your arms.” With great stateliness I rose from
the chair and said :“I’m the one who sits on you.”
Senryu, Haiku and Zen
Senryu
Siege,
Hospital Surrounded by
Undertakers.
Doctors’ surgery
Full of unspoken worries
Telling silence.
Haiku.
When sun left
Ice roses appeared
On windows.
Zen
Dawn
Frost kills twigs
Cold sun
Morning
Sunrays kill
Dew
Siege,
Hospital Surrounded by
Undertakers.
Doctors’ surgery
Full of unspoken worries
Telling silence.
Haiku.
When sun left
Ice roses appeared
On windows.
Zen
Dawn
Frost kills twigs
Cold sun
Morning
Sunrays kill
Dew
freedom
Freedom
Dizzily happy, the two escaped canary bird,
sitting lackadaisical on an olive twig, bright
as lemons, picking insects from its branches.
enjoying the inner glow independence gives,
when a hawk swooped grabbed one of them.
The other one flew back to find the safety
of its cage, but the window was closed, if
sat on the ledge thrilling the sweetest tones
and gladdened the heart of neighbours and
killer cats alike, till the hawk returned
Dizzily happy, the two escaped canary bird,
sitting lackadaisical on an olive twig, bright
as lemons, picking insects from its branches.
enjoying the inner glow independence gives,
when a hawk swooped grabbed one of them.
The other one flew back to find the safety
of its cage, but the window was closed, if
sat on the ledge thrilling the sweetest tones
and gladdened the heart of neighbours and
killer cats alike, till the hawk returned
sonnet to mother raindrop
Sonnet to Mother Raindrop.
She didn’t want the lunch I had prepared,
on a diet, unhappy with her body, but ate
half of a sugar melon to keep me company.
Wish she hadn’t, could not stop talking about
her discontent as I tried to enjoy my lunch of
cauliflower with cheese sauce, baked potatoes
and Roquefort on celery stick, gone vegetarian
just to please her. Later, alone on the terrace,
seeing to my rosebush, it needed compost and
water; looked up and saw a gigantic sapphire,
raindrop falling. It hit the terrace burst open,
gave birth to millions of smaller once. Ladled
them up, fed them to the rosebush, it blushed.
grew quickly and produced maroon flowers.
She didn’t want the lunch I had prepared,
on a diet, unhappy with her body, but ate
half of a sugar melon to keep me company.
Wish she hadn’t, could not stop talking about
her discontent as I tried to enjoy my lunch of
cauliflower with cheese sauce, baked potatoes
and Roquefort on celery stick, gone vegetarian
just to please her. Later, alone on the terrace,
seeing to my rosebush, it needed compost and
water; looked up and saw a gigantic sapphire,
raindrop falling. It hit the terrace burst open,
gave birth to millions of smaller once. Ladled
them up, fed them to the rosebush, it blushed.
grew quickly and produced maroon flowers.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Godwill season
Goodwill Season
Early winter,
frost on windows
living room cold,
too early to lit the fire,
put an extra jumper on
she says.
She’s baking cakes
for Christmas and
preparing food stuff,
famed for her festive
generosity
X. mass day, lit fire
warm rooms cakes &
Ale…the lot;
lovely couple, it’s said,
devoted to each other.
Early winter,
frost on windows
living room cold,
too early to lit the fire,
put an extra jumper on
she says.
She’s baking cakes
for Christmas and
preparing food stuff,
famed for her festive
generosity
X. mass day, lit fire
warm rooms cakes &
Ale…the lot;
lovely couple, it’s said,
devoted to each other.
Senryu, Haiku and Zen
Senryu
Siege,
Hospital Surrounded by
Undertakers.
Doctors’ surgery
Full of unspoken worries
Telling silence.
Haiku.
When sun left
Ice roses appeared
On windows.
Zen
Dawn
Frost kills twigs
Cold sun
Morning
Sunrays kill
Dew
Siege,
Hospital Surrounded by
Undertakers.
Doctors’ surgery
Full of unspoken worries
Telling silence.
Haiku.
When sun left
Ice roses appeared
On windows.
Zen
Dawn
Frost kills twigs
Cold sun
Morning
Sunrays kill
Dew
Freedom
Freedom
Dizzily happy, the two escaped canary bird,
sitting lackadaisical on an olive twig, bright
as lemons, picking insects from its branches.
enjoying the inner glow independence gives,
when a hawk swooped grabbed one of them.
The other one flew back to find the safety
of its cage, but the window was closed, if
sat on the ledge thrilling the sweetest tones
and gladdened the heart of neighbours and
killer cats alike, till the hawk returned
Dizzily happy, the two escaped canary bird,
sitting lackadaisical on an olive twig, bright
as lemons, picking insects from its branches.
enjoying the inner glow independence gives,
when a hawk swooped grabbed one of them.
The other one flew back to find the safety
of its cage, but the window was closed, if
sat on the ledge thrilling the sweetest tones
and gladdened the heart of neighbours and
killer cats alike, till the hawk returned
sonnet to mother raindrop
Sonnet to Mother Raindrop.
She didn’t want the lunch I had prepared,
on a diet, unhappy with her body, but ate
half of a sugar melon to keep me company.
Wish she hadn’t, could not stop talking about
her discontent as I tried to enjoy my lunch of
cauliflower with cheese sauce, baked potatoes
and Roquefort on celery stick, gone vegetarian
just to please her. Later, alone on the terrace,
seeing to my rosebush, it needed compost and
water; looked up and saw a gigantic sapphire,
raindrop falling. It hit the terrace burst open,
gave birth to millions of smaller once. Ladled
them up, fed them to the rosebush, it blushed.
grew quickly and produced maroon flowers.
She didn’t want the lunch I had prepared,
on a diet, unhappy with her body, but ate
half of a sugar melon to keep me company.
Wish she hadn’t, could not stop talking about
her discontent as I tried to enjoy my lunch of
cauliflower with cheese sauce, baked potatoes
and Roquefort on celery stick, gone vegetarian
just to please her. Later, alone on the terrace,
seeing to my rosebush, it needed compost and
water; looked up and saw a gigantic sapphire,
raindrop falling. It hit the terrace burst open,
gave birth to millions of smaller once. Ladled
them up, fed them to the rosebush, it blushed.
grew quickly and produced maroon flowers.
The tribe
The Tribe. .
Under canvas in the rain, their horses tethered
safely beneath the thick branches of carob trees;
difficult days for the Roma tribe who wander
their way deep in the landscape, but at the outer
edges of our regimented, intolerant society.
When the weather clears and they’ll ramble
again there will be rubble on the ground they
briefly occupied and the locals will complain:
“those dirty people they have no respect for
other peoples property, see this mess
White bellies of dead fish in rivers and lakes
float down to an lifeless ocean, greenhouse
gases, trading in emissions, more hurricanes,
floods and needless wars, but the Roma people
treks on, oblivious to our plight
Under canvas in the rain, their horses tethered
safely beneath the thick branches of carob trees;
difficult days for the Roma tribe who wander
their way deep in the landscape, but at the outer
edges of our regimented, intolerant society.
When the weather clears and they’ll ramble
again there will be rubble on the ground they
briefly occupied and the locals will complain:
“those dirty people they have no respect for
other peoples property, see this mess
White bellies of dead fish in rivers and lakes
float down to an lifeless ocean, greenhouse
gases, trading in emissions, more hurricanes,
floods and needless wars, but the Roma people
treks on, oblivious to our plight
autumnal dance
Autumnal Dance
Leaves, in the square, twirl with dust and
paper napkins smeared with ruby lipstick;
from corner to corner reel, stop when wind
drops, gossip, wait and whirl again, shun
the square’s middle ground, though.
Those caught there are blown over houses
an into a blueberry haze; but as wind tires
and depart they are huddled behind a bin,
declaring undying love to life and beauty;
decaying leaves are compost for red roses.
Leaves, in the square, twirl with dust and
paper napkins smeared with ruby lipstick;
from corner to corner reel, stop when wind
drops, gossip, wait and whirl again, shun
the square’s middle ground, though.
Those caught there are blown over houses
an into a blueberry haze; but as wind tires
and depart they are huddled behind a bin,
declaring undying love to life and beauty;
decaying leaves are compost for red roses.
hug a star.
Hug a Star.
A tiny star, kicked out of the Milky-way by
a bigger one, envious of its delightful shine;
fell to earth, landed in a cove, lit the sea where
ugly fish, looking as cartoon capitalists, swam.
Pulled the star on to a beach that surrounded by
palm looked like a fairytale; I fell in love, but not
with anyone in particular, as female fireflies
drifted among, the trees secretive and ageless.
Towards dawn the star paled into a grey slab,
of stone, excellent for gutting fish, a suited man
came, said the cove was now the property of
a hotel -chain and I was kicked off their beach.
A tiny star, kicked out of the Milky-way by
a bigger one, envious of its delightful shine;
fell to earth, landed in a cove, lit the sea where
ugly fish, looking as cartoon capitalists, swam.
Pulled the star on to a beach that surrounded by
palm looked like a fairytale; I fell in love, but not
with anyone in particular, as female fireflies
drifted among, the trees secretive and ageless.
Towards dawn the star paled into a grey slab,
of stone, excellent for gutting fish, a suited man
came, said the cove was now the property of
a hotel -chain and I was kicked off their beach.
gobsmacked
Gobsmacked
The small trout in the creek stood still
looking at me, a fearless gaze it had;
as I made a face it flicked its tail, stuck
my tongue out, another flick.
A dream had come true I was having
a conversation with a fish, recited an
epic poem: “Terje Viken” by Henrik
Ibsen, its tail flicked no ends.
Bubbles to surface, it spoke to me, but
a big shadow came behind it, too late;
the tiny fish was eaten by a big one that
didn’t have the gift of speech
The small trout in the creek stood still
looking at me, a fearless gaze it had;
as I made a face it flicked its tail, stuck
my tongue out, another flick.
A dream had come true I was having
a conversation with a fish, recited an
epic poem: “Terje Viken” by Henrik
Ibsen, its tail flicked no ends.
Bubbles to surface, it spoke to me, but
a big shadow came behind it, too late;
the tiny fish was eaten by a big one that
didn’t have the gift of speech
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
the lonely heart
The Lonely Heart. .
Ten years now, since they gave me her heart,
eighteen, so very young, had she been free she
would have been married, one or two children,
a mortgaged home (a husband too) not a caged
bride in the cavity an old man’s chest.
Been thinking of her often lately, fallen in love
with her and that is a foolish thing to do, she
urgently wants to leave; blue lights and sirens,
if the doctors can sway her to stay a bit longer
I’ll let her dream her own dreams.
Ten years now, since they gave me her heart,
eighteen, so very young, had she been free she
would have been married, one or two children,
a mortgaged home (a husband too) not a caged
bride in the cavity an old man’s chest.
Been thinking of her often lately, fallen in love
with her and that is a foolish thing to do, she
urgently wants to leave; blue lights and sirens,
if the doctors can sway her to stay a bit longer
I’ll let her dream her own dreams.
misty beginning
Misty Beginning.
White mist this morning,
tastes of the ocean
it’s a good moment to be outside,
the world is at ease, no jet-planes streak
across the sky no ominous clatter of
helicopter gun-ships;
Children of Palestine can sleep
in peace, for now.
The mist’s lifting I can see houses,
they lean on each other, still shuttered
and asleep.
It’s clear day now I hear rattle as
a red-cross helicopter crosses
the blue sky its rotor churns sunlight
around, hope the patient makes it.
White mist this morning,
tastes of the ocean
it’s a good moment to be outside,
the world is at ease, no jet-planes streak
across the sky no ominous clatter of
helicopter gun-ships;
Children of Palestine can sleep
in peace, for now.
The mist’s lifting I can see houses,
they lean on each other, still shuttered
and asleep.
It’s clear day now I hear rattle as
a red-cross helicopter crosses
the blue sky its rotor churns sunlight
around, hope the patient makes it.
sonnet to a boulder
Sonnet to a Boulder.
This big boulder in the middle of the field,
puzzles me, why is it there on its own and
not with its brother further down the vale?
It must be a sandstone has many holes, but
No mice live there, I thought it would have
been perfect home for furry creatures, but
crossing the field, too fraught; beady eyes
and wings everywhere, not missing a thing.
Guess time isn’t important for a boulder it’s
summer now and it is hot to the touch but
there will be no rain before October, a few
months is no more than waiting for a train
that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say,
but it does whistle when the wind blows.
This big boulder in the middle of the field,
puzzles me, why is it there on its own and
not with its brother further down the vale?
It must be a sandstone has many holes, but
No mice live there, I thought it would have
been perfect home for furry creatures, but
crossing the field, too fraught; beady eyes
and wings everywhere, not missing a thing.
Guess time isn’t important for a boulder it’s
summer now and it is hot to the touch but
there will be no rain before October, a few
months is no more than waiting for a train
that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say,
but it does whistle when the wind blows.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Lost Recollections
Couldn’t find my car looked everywhere, main roads,
side streets, alley ways and the back of closed down
warehouses by the docks where old cars, once a family’s
pride, are dumped; and memories of Sunday outing ends
as bird droppings and flat tyres Silence, no one about
only immobile autos, I must be dreaming, tried to wake
up, couldn’t, unmoving as an abandoned family saloon
could not move a muscle; a scream, as someone sinking
in a mist of bland oblivion brought me back from
the precipice of permanent unconsciousness. Icicle hung
from the ceiling, my bed was cold it gave me no comfort,
crept to the terrace to draw nutrition from the new day.
side streets, alley ways and the back of closed down
warehouses by the docks where old cars, once a family’s
pride, are dumped; and memories of Sunday outing ends
as bird droppings and flat tyres Silence, no one about
only immobile autos, I must be dreaming, tried to wake
up, couldn’t, unmoving as an abandoned family saloon
could not move a muscle; a scream, as someone sinking
in a mist of bland oblivion brought me back from
the precipice of permanent unconsciousness. Icicle hung
from the ceiling, my bed was cold it gave me no comfort,
crept to the terrace to draw nutrition from the new day.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
A Picture
Intoxicating June day,
she stands on a stone wall,
sleek, shiny fur, chest white
as the sunlit wall;
green bushes in the background,
perfection but
for a darker shadow,
a stalker, a harbinger of
unhappiness and grief;
she sees not the omen
for this her moment, never mind
the morrows.
Blessed she was
I remember her well
she stands on a stone wall,
sleek, shiny fur, chest white
as the sunlit wall;
green bushes in the background,
perfection but
for a darker shadow,
a stalker, a harbinger of
unhappiness and grief;
she sees not the omen
for this her moment, never mind
the morrows.
Blessed she was
I remember her well
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Homecoming.
I hadn’t been here for thirty years, came and put up
a new gate, it made the inhabited house look posh.
I had been spotted, didn’t think anyone remembered
me; people came, family I had never met, they were
clones, of the older generation, with new bodies and
young faces. Clean streets, their children played in
A garden of plastic trees and rubber lawn, they wore
Helmets in case of an accident. The new adults talked
about house prices, homeowners now, thought they
were rich and I wondered if the houses knew they had
become investments instead of homes. In my old room
on the attic there was a painting of me when a young
man, looked at it with some disinterest, wasn’t a pretty
back then, nothing has changed, so I must be timeless.
a new gate, it made the inhabited house look posh.
I had been spotted, didn’t think anyone remembered
me; people came, family I had never met, they were
clones, of the older generation, with new bodies and
young faces. Clean streets, their children played in
A garden of plastic trees and rubber lawn, they wore
Helmets in case of an accident. The new adults talked
about house prices, homeowners now, thought they
were rich and I wondered if the houses knew they had
become investments instead of homes. In my old room
on the attic there was a painting of me when a young
man, looked at it with some disinterest, wasn’t a pretty
back then, nothing has changed, so I must be timeless.
Up The Workers.
Your enemy isn’t a fool hiding out in some
damp cave, no he wears a nice suit, smile often,
has an all year tan, is trim, works out at the gym.
If you earn too much money he’ll close your
factory down and relocate to where workers are
poor and less demanding; it is his right to do so.
You will be out of work, lose your house and
self respect when asking the state for a meagre
handout; your brother will tell you that there
is plenty of work around if you only try hard
enough, and really want to…his mother agrees
Look at me, he’ll say I work 12 hours shift, his
wife is a loveless prune, but they both live for
his retirement in about 2050, your enemy smile
nods his head but doesn’t give a damn, for him
you’re but a tool.
damp cave, no he wears a nice suit, smile often,
has an all year tan, is trim, works out at the gym.
If you earn too much money he’ll close your
factory down and relocate to where workers are
poor and less demanding; it is his right to do so.
You will be out of work, lose your house and
self respect when asking the state for a meagre
handout; your brother will tell you that there
is plenty of work around if you only try hard
enough, and really want to…his mother agrees
Look at me, he’ll say I work 12 hours shift, his
wife is a loveless prune, but they both live for
his retirement in about 2050, your enemy smile
nods his head but doesn’t give a damn, for him
you’re but a tool.
The Loss.
The boy, on the pier, was playing with two
furry rats, a friendly lad the animals didn’t
try to run away. He lifted them up to show
them to me, I took a step back, he laughed
knew I was scared; he then jumped into
the dark sea, with his friends.
There were now many more rats swimming
about and together with my boy they swam
towards a big sewer pipe, shouted to him not
to climb in, he didn’t hear me. The sea was
now glassy and blue I could see its bottom,
it was sandy and empty.
furry rats, a friendly lad the animals didn’t
try to run away. He lifted them up to show
them to me, I took a step back, he laughed
knew I was scared; he then jumped into
the dark sea, with his friends.
There were now many more rats swimming
about and together with my boy they swam
towards a big sewer pipe, shouted to him not
to climb in, he didn’t hear me. The sea was
now glassy and blue I could see its bottom,
it was sandy and empty.
The Visitors.
The middles aged people who come here
in jeeps, and dressed in shirts that look
like tapestry, are tourists; take pictures of
ancient houses about to fall down and of
dogs, cats and hoary old goats.
They are very friendly, ask how old I’m,
impressed and put money into my hands,
when I say 105; it is the air and calm life
they tell each other, no point telling them
I’m forty-five and drink a lot.
in jeeps, and dressed in shirts that look
like tapestry, are tourists; take pictures of
ancient houses about to fall down and of
dogs, cats and hoary old goats.
They are very friendly, ask how old I’m,
impressed and put money into my hands,
when I say 105; it is the air and calm life
they tell each other, no point telling them
I’m forty-five and drink a lot.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Welcome to the Chamber
The AucklandPoetry Chamber of Poems is a hi density vault of a selected poet's daily posts. The editors of AucklandPoetry have selected a poet and invite them to publish all their works in the Chamber and allow them to select the best work for publication on AucklandPoetry.com.
We have invited Jan Oskar Hansen to be our Poet in the Chamber.
The only way out of the Chamber is by writing excellent poetry as we know Jan is well capable. IF Jan accepts our invitation to be in the Chamber, expect a journey through poetry on oskar.aucklandpoetry.com or Jan's nominated name.
We have invited Jan Oskar Hansen to be our Poet in the Chamber.
The only way out of the Chamber is by writing excellent poetry as we know Jan is well capable. IF Jan accepts our invitation to be in the Chamber, expect a journey through poetry on oskar.aucklandpoetry.com or Jan's nominated name.
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