Redondo 2004

Redondo 2004.

The little black man is buying wine, so
am I, gives me a conspiratorial smile.
Our hands a fluttering bird wings, waits
to take flight at night, dreams and music
only we can hear no need for a radio.
This nocturnal practice, we speak to no
one of, then it’s morning as we wait for
twilight time and a new solitary journey
through our many yesterdays begins.

Senryu

Senryu

Flaccid scrotum
Clanks hollow this spring
Flawed by impotence

obstacles

Obstacles.

I have moved the great berg in front of my
House, it took years, but I had to do this to
See; now there is a big black hole that waits
To be filled by candour, if you stumble and
Fall into it, look up and see an honest coin,
Don’t fault me, blame obstinate poetry that
Refuses to play games of fame with mirrors
And holy smoke.

In your face...mate

In Your Face…mate.


Moonlight becomes me,
guided by it pianissimo
I find my way home from
the den of illusions,
and hurt laughter.
In a rain puddle, where
the road is uneven,
see my aged face, looking
young as a Greek god’s,
on my head I wear
a shiny helmet;
till a car comes along and
splashes the picture of
self delusion into drops of mud

another dawn

Another Dawn

Restless night, Agent Orange, plums of fire
and burning bushes, silent dawn a flock of
tired birds flew past looking for trees, to sit
and rest a little before flying up north.

The field of almond trees, planted long ago,
without the precision of economy, was now
a battlefield of death, men with chainsaws
walked around looking for signs of life.

A scream of agony flew upwards from
pained soul, exploded into a kaleidoscopic
cacophony, fading against a sky clouded
by white sorrow and spent wrath.

Why cannot things stay the same? A face in
a crowd, everything I loved going, going
gone, the ever changing world, now sky blue
warming sun; afar, a dog barks.

They are planting orange trees in my field
insipid fruit machines, citrus twice a year;
for cash crops my trees had been slain; on
combat zone there is no mercy.

racew relation 1950

Race Relation (1950)


All we knew was what our teacher told
black people where big but very nice and
lived in bamboo huts, so when we saw
one coming off a ship we took him home
to my aunt, mother had said she was a tart,
the black man also had a bottle of rum and
cigarettes which was in great demand in
those days. She threw us kids out, locked
the door and drew the curtains (she lived
in a basement flat) disappointed we went
back to the docks to find another one to
show around.

the warrior child

The Warrior Child

Little Johanna and I sat under a bridge I was going
to marry her when grown up, she fretted, said no,
so I bit her chubby, summer brown arm, she cried
ran home, her mother too said I was a bad boy.
Fed up with women and their tears, I ran off and
joined the German army, they had a barracks nearby
and a cannon pointing upwards in case a bomber
should come our way; I sat on it and pretend
shooting down enemy planes, had a rifle too made
of wood, the real thing was too heavy, loved being
a soldier till I ate some sweet smelling snuff, threw
up and was carried home, but my dreams where often
plagued by white, still faces in the snow, the dark
realities of war no child should have to witness.

unnconected

Unconnected

The divorced men, in my café drink,
coffee and sweet wine, read newspapers,
wear suits that need dry cleaning, and
talk politic till the last bus has gone and
they have to take a cab home.

There they are fatally alone in unaired
beds, piles of washing in the bathroom,
and a bottle of whisky in the closet;
a brave shrug they muster, but Sundays
are days of utter dread.

tanka

Tanka.

If, just once more,
I saw a Caribbean dusk
I would think of you
And not of bright light and bars
Or of sex and cicadas’ song.


Tanka

If, just once more,
I saw a south Pacific dawn
I would think of you
And not the sound of kimonos
Sliding off elfin shoulders.

haiku

Haiku

Ripples on shore lines
Terns, sand and a blue sky
My sea bids farewell.



In the deep hush,
When night softly rains
Your name is a song.

the seed

The Seed

In a crack in the pavement, near the wall,
of low slung building that has an office
that helps immigrant find shelter and work,
a rare flower bloomed.

A seed had been stuck to the trousers’ leg
of a welder from Minsk and when he stamped
dust off his shoes it fell off and rolled into
this crack.

The welder, who now works at a building
site, and has milk and honey for his wife
and children, will never know he was carrier
of a delicate beauty.

snowdrops

Snowdrops

Looked up and it was spring and I hadn’t noticed,
busy looking for snow flakes, since someone said
it hadn’t snowed here for fifty years; I climbed up
mountains, and down deep ravines, stayed up late
came across flakes, on the lane, but they turned
out to be petals off my unappreciated almond tree.
The earth usually the colour of dried blood, from
slain soldiers of battle fields long forgotten, is now
covered in intense yellow flowers; in the grass cats
hunt mice; birds, home from their African sojourn,
have nothing to tell me, now busy collecting straw
and tiny twigs for their nests under the roof tiles.
Nature hums of useful, if heedless love; in my quest
for momentary recognition I had nearly missed it all

Tanka (at the airport)

Tanka (At the airport)

Anything to declare?
Nothing to be arrested for
A friendly poem
A cigarette behind my ear
And fear of authorities

the old couple

Old Couple

Cross-legged
in bed
bulky bodies,
no sweet scent
upon eager lips;
nights hold
no passion,
only the easy
warmth of
a couple who
knows each
other too well

the worshipper

The Worshipper

She dresses up for
Sunday mass,
elegant dress,
subdued colours,
black & white,
hat to match.
Her fingernails are
red as Christ’s blood
on the cross;
as she pray her face
is at ease, a half smile
ripples across her
burgundy lips.
A well preserved
schooner rides
the sea swells
well, secure in her
faith knows
that over the horizon
she will find
a tranquil bay

the taxi driver

The Taxi Driver.

When my half-brother, the sage, was a child
he was different from us, didn’t care to play
silly games but sat cross-legged on the floor
saying things that impressed the grown ups,
so mother let him sit there, he didn’t have to
do a thing, like going into the dark cellar to
get a box of coal, rats down there it wasn’t
fair that I should have to do it, just because
he was a sage. My half brother grew up a fat
child when that was, not like now, unusual,
tall too he took up of space on pavements in
our little town; in the end he too had to find
work, a taxi driver now, he has many words
of wisdom to tell his captive fares

short time

Short Time


Between me and a homeless man,
is a room with a bed, easy to clean
nylon sheets, sink, mirror, window,
a 40 watt bulb, a suitcase on top of
a wardrobe, an empty bottle of gin
and unpaid rent.

love and opera

Love And Opera.

Amanda was a competent opera singer,
I was her pianist and impresario; up and
down the land we traveled bringing, to
many a small town, musical evenings
arranged by the doctor, the lawyer, and
the man, who sells the finest chinaware.

A noble life, often mentioned in local
papers, we enjoyed giving high culture
to the people; but good times came to
an end when Amanda fell in love with
a doctor in a town, near a lake, my job
was done and back to the city I went.

For years, in summer nights, the lake
town was full of songs, that some folks
left, at that time, was due the closure of
the factory and nothing to do with her
voice; but swiftly the high notes ceased,
when the fickle doctor fell out of love.

She took the train to the city, but there
was no longer call for her music, lost
grounds do to heartache and gin, lives in
a basement room sings risqué songs in
bars -near the docks- saw her there, but
it was too late in the evening for halloos.

rising tide

Rising Tide.

Shores have gone, and tough soldiers on
the reef Everest, shot, to kill, people on
approaching ships; the ocean is master;
marine life thrives. The wind has ceased,
the sky is mild and thousand of ships that
hoped to find a shore, have disappeared.
The soldiers, who killed with skill, only
a few are left, weakened by the immense
silence they slide off the reef, one by one,
deep down in a water dale where yeti and
yaks used to live. As the sea lazily slaps
Mount Everest’s peek, sunsets come and
go unseen; there is no one around who will
wonder if the wind will ever blow again

Senryu

Senryu


Blind man
Walks into a piano
A tuner?


Senryu

A lone snowflake
Fell into Bay of Biscay,
Flooded plain of Spain

the writer

The Writer.

I was writing a novel, it took long, when
looking up, a window shutter slammed,
as the breaths of fall frostily entered.

Alone, they had gone; family and friends
tired of waiting for me to have time for
them. The October wind tells me I’m old.

Three hundred blank pages going sepia,
distant memories, love and laughter, too
late now; deep shadows obscure the past.

relationship

Relationships.

Beside a field a farmer had cleared and planted potatoes
in a row, there was a pyramid of useless stones; under
it though, lived an easygoing snake and a family of rabbits.
Rabbits breed a lot get many bunnies, but they can’t count,
the snake took one or two when no one looked, equilibrium,
the place never got crowded. A good life for all concerned,
only the snake got lonely, listening to all, that goings on in
the warren, invited lady snake into the cave to share its
fortune. Alas, she had no sense, didn’t think of tomorrow,
greedy swallowed the mother rabbit first, then the cute little
bunnies, (the father rabbit escaped to start a new family
somewhere else) to there wasn’t any left; it curled up and
when awake, after sleeping for two weeks, it was so hungry
it had to slither outside in mud, rain; cigarette butts and
rotting leaves, in the hope of finding a field mouse or, even
worse, worms and dung beetles.

charing cross road in august light

Charing Cross Road, in August Light

Sunlight that slipped between two tall edifices
onto a city grimed brick building, looked sepia,
like a photo, in a local newspaper, say, 1950.
The building housed a bookshop that had dusty
windows, yet a man in a grey suit, that hung
loosely about his slim frame, not too big- the suit-
it only seemed to have been made of too much
cloths, stood reading; and that was unusual as it
was an old bookshop selling well used hardbacks.
But he was only passing the time, a woman in
a long black dress, matching hat and flat sensible
shoes, came up to him; they briefly kissed, then
walked off together, left me wondering if they
were long time married or prudent English lovers.

consumerism

Consumerism

A pair of trousers and a yellow silk scarf,
I had the sales lady’s attention, a full frontal
smile she gave and wished me a nice day.
This shopping street, we are all middleclass
the matted hair people, who begged here, and
made us feel ill at ease, have been exiled,
live behind the gasworks, where nice people
descends, every noel, to hand out blankets,
yesterdays cakes and plastic sheets for when it
rains. We are consumers, all of us, even India,
now so prosperous, has chased beggars out of
New Delhi, shiny office blocks and rags do not
mix. Tomorrow I’ll buy a pair of brown shoes
so I can fell worthy and respected again.

the vision thing

Vision Thing?

Twenty dollars for a blue suit made
by atheists, who hunger for a god that
can do magic. “Religion is the root of
all society’s ill,” the famous professor
growls, and makes fun of a lady who
wears a cross and isn’t even beautiful.
So what’s left? Consumerism, believe
in the present and sod the future, for in
time of plenty who needs a god?

the shy lover

The Shy Lover

She sits by the bar, drinks coffee,
not young, got sexy green eyes
and a lusty smile, like she can read
my mind. Not that I’m going to talk
to her, expose the mystic chemistry
between us by too much reality, but
I do walk a bit taller having seen her
and think…perhaps next time

the month of mars

The Month of Mars

This spring’s more intense than the one before
it’s like it’s in a hasty to green the valley and
that are still winter cold to the touch; and…
Manuel’s donkey is with foal, twins, it’s said.
Does nature sense the beginning of a hundred
years war? The overture has started, believers
in an almighty god and atheists are squaring up
to slaughter one another, lay waste the land to
prove a point; and future springs that bring no
joy of life, but a place where diamonds blinks
in streams of useless tears

losers and winners

Losers and Winners

Polly’s pregnant again with her
third child, so that’s where our
tax money goes; sterilization,
I say. No wonder she’s like that,
her father, the last proletarian,
on the dole dreams of workers
brotherhood, ‘e hasn’t noticed
that the working class lost in
1997. We are all middle class
now except for migrant workers,
low paid women, and the likes
of Polly.

the recorder

The Recorder

A sparrow
Fell from
The sky,
Wings
Outstretched,
Crucified
On asphalt.
Feathers upon
Feathers
Fly the wind
Forever.
Not forgotten;
An old man,
On his bike,
Was there to
Record its
Demise

the collector

The Collector

In the basement in the house of dreams there is
a room behind a padlocked oak door, it’s where
I keep treasures collected over years, I waited
to share them with the right one who came my
way, waited till the day she came; only now
I had lost the key and couldn’t get in to give
her, my love I had hidden from view too long.
Dissolution, in her eyes as she faded in a mist
of misery. If I live to be so very old that people
will come, admire my longevity I will think
how odd it is to be famous for an irrelevant fluke;
the lock will have rusted and fallen to the floor,
and as the door glides open and sun light enters,
I shall see dust glitter as gold for me alone.

tourism

Senryu

Decisive tourist
Chancellor Adolph Hitler
Visits Paris


The final tourist
President George Bush
Visits Baghdad

mothers

A Mother.


Buddhists should be grateful for Buddha’s
Mother, hadn’t it been for her he would have
Had to get up from the floor go out and find
A job…This gave him time to think, be wise
Say the right tings, not alienating people, and
Get a following, who, when his mother died,
Fed him honeyed cakes and butter milk

a february day

A February Day

Last year my almond tree was dressed in
a white frock for spring, this year it’s
night-club pink, a tree about town, full
fun ( days of innocence gone.) Last year
the other tree, much older, fell victim to
a chain-saw, all because the farmer’s wife
was cold. Now that rain has stopped my
tree exudes perfumed air, sways slowly as
listening to a trendy tune, it looks lovely
against the pale sky and setting sun

mine layers

Mine Layers.

Tiny mines, look like toys,
dropped near homes in Lebanon
Puffs of smoke, loss of a boy’s
limbs, eyes…or a broken mind.
Maimed for life he won’t join
the ranks of Hezbollah fighters
and become an evil terrorist.

the tears

The Tears.

It rained when she drove off, she was crying
but wouldn’t tell me why; house cold and
the day darkened, evening came early not as
twilight, just murky. Bad light couldn’t escape
by reading a Mike Spillane novel, just sat there
wondered why she had cried, a long drive in
the rain, did she sense foreboding I was too
numb to feel? The flowers on table cloth are
black roses now and the outdoor lamp swings
in the wind

diamonds are forever

Diamonds are forever.

Severed hands, from Sierra Leon
and still dripping blood, hung from
the elegant lady’s ears; passing
a shop-window, she caught a glance
of herself and adoringly smiled.

Retired Men

Retired Men

Walked quickly across the town’s square
it thronged with old men talking football;
in parks their fathers sit solving the Iraqi
war; “Drop more bombs show them who’s
the boss” I’m leaving this town…today,
the pretty girls have left and no mimosa
lingers, the elderly don’t smoke anymore
and they are going to live forever.

Transpiration

Transpiration

I can’t don’t lay claim on much,
but the aroma of sweat from my
underarms is mine. I sniff the air,
yeah, it’s me alright, alone in my
room I can enjoy my tiny victory.
I’m a victim of peoples’ mania
with personal hygiene, often baths
and hide my private olfactory in
suave chemicals

the sigh

The Sigh.

Spongy and wobbly
is the track up to
where the river commence,
spring has left,
water is vapid and slow running.
He used to visit here often,
rest in the fertile undergrowth;
tired he has taken to dream
of jubilant mountain wells
whence rivers flow free and
the track up is firm and
less squishy

the sacret tree

The Sacred Tree.
In the olive grove
It is the old gnarled tree
That catches my eye.

Serious bears fruit
Produces healthy oil for you
Prune it tenderly.

the philosophy of loss

The Philosophy of Loss.


A thief came to our home, said he was
a shop-fitter, stole mother’s heart and
the savings she had in a jar; peed into
the kitchen-sink and left by the backdoor

She cried, not too long and unseemly,
a charming man had entered her dreary
poverty struck life; the money was
only worth two packets of cigarettes

tanka

Tanka

God shed diamond tears
When chasing Adam & Eve
Out of Paradise.
His immense sorrow
Glitters on manicured fingers
As the dispossessed cry

the peace

The Peace.

The upper village is morning cold, chimney smoke
rise in still air; dogs, that sleeps in sheds, sit now by
the east wall huddled together facing the sun, see
me and there are greetings, a slow wagging of tails.
The air is so incredible clear I can see the houses on
the slopes of the hazy mountain where dogs sit and
face the same sun; I know I’m witnessing a flick of
eternity when other people and their dogs will walk
across the landscape and have the same dreams and
hopes as we had. Pedro is outside smoking, his wife
won’t let him smoke inside, turns the curtain yellow,
she says, the tobacco aroma drifts my way, wonderful.
A peaceful pocket on earth, my valley is; but I do fear
an easterly wind might bring the smell of cordite.

unsolved theft

Unsolved Theft

A big black bike, with frugal rubber tires
and an old fashion handlebar, is leaning
against the whitewashed wall this morning.

Someone had nicked it when going home
from the bar last night; so the thief lives in
one of the stone cottages around here.

The bike, that looks catholic, isn’t telling
made of hollow tubes, chains and rubber
it doesn’t really care who rides it.

Homes that look pretty as seen, hazily-and
at a distance- behind flowering almond trees
in the spring sun, have shuttered windows.

The last One

The Last One


You just know it’s mad, the grey
Bull elephant,

Walks in an endless circle inside
A hanger,

That used to store double winged
Flying machines,

It is the loneliness, you see; doesn’t
Matter how much I talk

I’m not an elephant and can’t play
Any musical instruments.

as it is

as it is.

The now floats,
as a river,
down to
the lake, past;

where we
access
what happened
there:

upstream
the future is
hidden
in a mist