The dictator

The Dictator

He stood there on
the gallows
waiting to be
hanged,
the dictator feared
by so many,
he looked frail and
human,
yet, there was
a dignity about
him,
he didn’t beg
for his life.
And when it was over
his executioners
looked pale and
spoke with
hushed voices,
I sensed the cruel
dictator
had won his last battle

a dental poem

A Dental Poem

My dentist doesn’t need tongs pulling out
A tooth, she uses a pretty smile and magic
Hands. For my dentist I’ve no secrets, she
Has looked deep into my nostrils counted
My nasal hairs and seen what’s deposited
There. Three new teeth she gave me, they
Shine white amongst the yellow old ones,
And since I haven’t eaten yet, I guess you
Can say they are extremely pure and chaste.

Epigram

Epigram

What will Hugh Heffner, the cardinal of
Clean pornography, be remembered for?
Making orgies as tedious as an Anglican
Sunday forenoon sermon!

John the babtist

John the Baptist,

Was coming out of a shop
In Roma,
I knew it was him,
Long hair and trimmed beard,
he wore an Armani suit an
a white silk scar slung around his neck.
Scintillating angle wings quivered
in warm anticipation,
will he gaze at them?
No, he had loftier things
in mind, he wasn’t going to
get seduced by beauty yet again,
hailed a taxi:
“To the Vatican,” they heard
him say, “I have an audience
with the pope.”

spirit

Spirit

The ghost in my house
is a slip of a girl,
only appears when
the moon shines full,
through the skylight;
she sensuously dance
around the room
to a drum beat,
imperceptible to my ears,
she is delighted, has
overcome the dread of death
and will live forever.

An Autumnal Day

An autumnal Day

On the long and wide beach, I can, at a distance,
See an elephant, an unusual sight on this Nordic
Shore; but as I get nearer it retracts, like seagulls
Overhead it resents my presence here, off season,
October, humans are not supposed to be here now.
Coarse grass grow on sand dunes, forever defying
The wind that amuses itself by creating beautiful
Mares, which it sends galloping to the beach, alas,
Underwater rocks, they stumble, wane into ripples
That whisper of storm and dark days. I’m cold and
Scared, alone, there’s no one here that wilts me well;
Feeble am against a nature that’s ready to devour me;
The “I” has lost its self-belief. Far above me angry
Clouds congregate.

The Spill

Deep ocean; not blue could have been green
hadn’t it been for the big oil-slick, looks like
a resting rainbow glossy in the sun; but where
is the gold? A horizon disappearing oil carrier
has been cleaning her tanks, cheaper that way,
and no one will now, sea birds don’t tell tales,
when drowning in spill and since the ocean is
big, fish can swim deeper till all is silence.

summer poem

Summer Poem

A balsam raft, with a mast and a Latin sail, I built
for amusement on summer days on the inner sea,
but I found myself too far from shore, daydreaming
is dangerous, I had forgotten the dark undercurrent.
The shore is hazy, tomorrow it will have gone it’s
just me and the blue outer-sea where fog banks are
forgotten memories. I and the raft will end up on
a blue painted plaster sea, in an empty bottle of rum
that sits on a mantle piece collecting dust particles.

Till someone lifts it up blow cigar smoke down its
open neck, I’ll be invisible in the scented fog bank.
When the mist clears I shall be gone, the smoker,
astonished, will ask: “What happened to the raft?
and the man in the bottle. Fearful throw his cigar
into the hearth, sell his scrap metal business, buy
a dingy, leave his wife, set sail for the outer sea,
where the fly-fish fly like ospreys across the sky.
He just might find; whatever it is, he’s looking for.

Epigrams

Epigrams

When the rich catch currency fever,
I stay there and hope they’ll sneeze
On me; I lick their dinner plates, but
All I get are coins that roll away.


Democratic election held in Gaza
Giving the imprisoned population
A sense of choice; alas they choose
Hamas, we punish them for that.


EU is a rich man’s club, we are not
Invited, for them to get richer, we
Are told to work longer hours and
Receive lesser pay and pension.


The middleclass, once so prosperous
Find them-selves taxed and flayed,
The super rich, as usual, pay nothing
And it’s pointless to tax the poor.

the weather

The Weather.

The wind that came blowing into the valley,
blew summer intro a hasty retreat, it hid under
sun heated boulders that turned into a sauna
when rain came.

Never, that damnable word, has this happen
before, cold and rain in late June! Oh, yes,
the clime, how easily we forget the hailstones
of yesteryear

And that’s perhaps is the way it should be
what point is there to remember every little
detail of the gone before and boorishly say
that all is foregone

a problem solved

A Problem Solved

The Indian peasants don’t like tigers in
their cultivated land, this greatly distresses
the save-the- big- cats- lobby;
I’m glad to tell you that the problem has
been sorted out, tiger cubs are taken from
the jungle and trained to live in the gardens
of the educated middleclass

the father

The Father

A sailor,
I met in
Tokyo,
told me that
Santa Claus
is the father of
Jesus;
this makes
perfect
sense,
why else
should he
be racing
around
every Christmas
handing out,
metaphorically
speaking,
cigars to every one

First Light

First Light.

Jesus Saves, in “black& white”, the only
Neon light in town where darkness descended
Long before the day was over, those who
Worked in a factory never saw the sun before
April. No cafés, no bars, we were a reading
Proletariat didn’t bother much about Mr. Saves.

His name is still there, now in bright colours,
Green, yellow and pious pink, the competition
Is hard these days and there are many bars and
Diners, but I remember the name with fondness,
It did lit up the night, as seen from the skylight
On our the attic, when darkness no ending had

THE TRICK

The Trick.

Put brick in shoebox,
wrapped
in ominous grey,
give it to
a nosy person
you dislike
for safekeeping
till you come
back from holiday;
he will open it and
be offended
and not speak to
you again

sonata

Sonata.


A symphony of car bombs, flying fingers, a man looks
for body parts of his son, find half of a foot, wraps it in
a handkerchief, without a burial the grief will be endless.
Women will always wear black.


This ballet macabre, man are not made for intact soar
through the air, dancers try, and try again, a few seconds
wonder, it’s called art. Dame Margot and Rudolf, sailed
through the air. Magic moment, passionate our applause.


This unreal Iraq wars, there are no tall trees, new leaders
are shadowy pygmies, hiding behind walls in the green
garden, that never runs out of water for manicured lawns
and frequent showers for those who live there.


People of Iraq are not looking for democracy as it should
be an enchanted formula, water, sanitation, education, and
free of western interference is more important. A tall leader
is needed; the last one had a fatal rendezvous with a noose

How much, and loud, must people scream before they are
heard? How many must die?

This weird war motor-oil mixed with fresh blood can only
start the machinery of hate, we onlookers are so tired, we
feel not their fear- not our kin- the killing so far away, yes,
Iraq is another planet, thank God for that, and let bells toll.

the fly

The fly

High summer, a room is in darkness
the one with coffin in, the mourners
sit in another room wait for the hearse.

A fly is buzzing about, but too quick
to be swatted, a door opens, the fly
flies, into the cool dark room

Here’s silence, the fly waits for no one
but settles on the nose of the deceased
and clean its wings in peace

Edible tubers

Edible Tubers.

It is the biggest potato farm in the world, a giant field
of potatoes as far as eyes can see; new potatoes boiled
add a pat of butter, delicious no need to add a lamb.

This was once a battle field thousands of Russians and
Germans soldiers bled to dead here the soil grew fertile,
absorbed all flesh only bones and uniform buttons left.

The soldiers didn’t die in vain, only a few years before
their time; saved from old age debilities, Alzheimer,
renal diseases, hip replacement and triple bypass.

I found a rusty gun, a German Luger pistol, it fell to
pieces in my hand, bullets inside still intact, owned by
an officer telling his men to die like Prussian heroes.

Long furrows of edible tubers, made into fries, full of
fat, grandchildren of dead soldiers are obese now and
only fight virtual wars on the internet.

ageism

Ageism?

There has never been a goal keeper like me
I have studied how the big cats jump when
Catching gazelles, and do as them.
But what do you know? I cannot get a job,
Football managers smile, tell me to go home,
Won’t even let me demonstrate my method,
Too old, the say, me! At seventy three!
I have been sending film clips around to
International clubs of Rudolf, my cat, and I in
Action, they don’t even bother to write back
And thank me. I, who can win them gold and
Honours; they are hung up on ageism, bully for
Them, I’m going to China next, they attuned
To the athletic ability of us old men there

ageism

Ageism?

There has never been a goal keeper like me
I have studied how the big cats jump when
Catching gazelles, and do as them.
But what do you know? I cannot get a job,
Football managers smile, tell me to go home,
Won’t even let me demonstrate my method,
Too old, the say, me! At seventy three!
I have been sending film clips around to
International clubs of Rudolf, my cat, and I in
Action, they don’t even bother to write back
And thank me. I, who can win them gold and
Honours; they are hung up on ageism, bully for
Them, I’m going to China next, they attuned
To the athletic ability of us old men there

red cross syndrome rewritten

Red Cross Syndrome


Time and time again I’ve seen women trying to get
truculent alcoholics to stop drinking thinking love
conquers all. Or female lawyers helping their clients
to escape from jail, for love naturally, only to end up
losing their license and future. The list is long, but
what can I say, infatuation, lethal attraction? Victims
and abusers in a fatal embrace needing each other.

On the other hand, running away with a gambler has
a romantic allure, Mississippi River and steam paddlers,
robbing a bank, fleeing to Rio de Janeiro; adventure,
it beats the safe boredom of a middleclass life… for
a time, but then the dream fades as the face when
meeting reality, money gone, the man also, creaking
joints, too late now to go home.

Collectors of dogs and cats, eccentric old ladies who
have a story to tell; only there is no one around to
listen, yet still defend the man who got them in this
mess; as golden memory- a shiny illusion-. Or, if they
are lucky, get caught; spend some time in jail, find
Jesus- as Paris Hilton did. Or atone, for passed sins,
and work as a cook, in a soup kitchen, for the destitute.

Red Cross Syndrome


Time and time again I’ve seen women trying to get
hopeless alcoholics to stop drinking thinking love
conquers all. Or female lawyers helping their clients
to escape, for love naturally, only to end up losing their
license and future. The list is long, but what can I say,
it’s done in the name of love Victims and abusers in
a fatal embrace needing each other.

On the other hand, running away with a gambler has
a romantic allure, Mississippi River and steam paddlers,
robbing a bank, fleeing to Rio de Janeiro; adventure,
it beats the safe boredom of a middleclass life… for
a time, but then the dream fades as the face when
meeting reality, money gone, the man also, creaking
joints, too late now to go home.

Collectors of dogs and cats, eccentric old ladies who
have a story to tell; only there is no one around to
listen, yet still defend the man who got them in this
mess; as golden memory- a shiny illusion-. Or, if they
are lucky, get caught; spend some time in jail, find
Jesus- as Paris Hilton did. Or atone, for passed sins,
and work as a cook, in a soup kitchen, for the destitute.

wingless

Wingless.

Now that
it has
dawned
on me
that
I’m not
going to
live
forever,
I think
it’s time
to take
flying
lessons

the killing

The Killing


She walked in front of me, the young black girl
of nineteen; on her way to the market, spring in
her steps, big smile, it was a beautiful morning.
From nowhere he came, the madman, wielding
a machete attacked the girl and cut her head off
as she should be a mere chicken. He was quickly
overcome by bystanders, too late for her though.

I bent down, there was life in her eyes she had
witnessed her own destruction, but slowly her
light faded. till her eyes were mirrors reflecting
the sky. I had been with the girl in a pool of
stillness, know the noise of humanity shouted
my ears; I didn’t look up to the heavens asking
Why? But I will carry her sad eyes with me.

tanka

Tanka (drama in Tanka form)

My ship is burning
Lower lifeboats, close the bar,
Sea is full of sharks.
Blaze’s beaten, watch for ember
Guano stinks like rotting fish.

holiday in Virginia

Holiday in Virginia

Walking along a country lane in Langley carrying
a bazooka a marshal stopped and offered me a lift,
but since it was a nice day in May, I preferred to
saunter along. But I got tired, left my short range
tubular anti-tank weapon, on the verge of the road
and went into a trucker’s café, ate a burger and
swallowed a six pack of Budweiser, lifted up my
shirt to see if the cans rippled athletically on my
belly, no such luck; the waitress took offence I was
told to leave. A thief had nicked my tubular thing,
with so many agents around, wearing sunglasses,
and pocket radars, stealing ought to be impossible.
I didn’t report the theft though, too many forms to
fill in; bought a Derringer instead, easier to carry.

The noon sun

The Noon Sun.

The fierce midday sun rules the street, shadows
are packed, many layers thick, in arcades and
doorways, a dense, a dark mass of abstraction
waiting for the sun to move westerly; and as it
does shadows become less opaque and begin
occupying the street’s eastside, slowly at first,
but with resolve to defeat, yet again, the sun.
A cat comes out from a yard, yawns and surveys
its domain, a cur barks, a door opens; dog chases
moggy, which runs and hides under a parked car.
As evening approaches, light and shadows mingle
becomes one, there is peace on earth, a bell tinkle,
a mild breeze respires as angels cross the sky and
all is well… for now

The bother

The Bother.


I didn’t know she had died, my half sister,
Her funeral had been a sad affair, few had
Bothered to turn up, but when it was known
She had left some money, she suddenly had
A large family clamoring for their share of
The cash; I sit here with modest check I don’t
Want nor deserve, “take the money, a small
Voice urges it will only go to them.” Guilt,
Regrets, greed and need, this is a battle I don’t
Want. Like me she had no children, there is
An orphanage, near here, a good deed if…on
The other hand I have to see a dentist, haven’t
Been to one for ten years; I also need new tires
For the car

Famous father syndrome

Famous Father Syndrome

Jose’s father is famous politician, his mother too
is well known, she used to be a red-cross president,
sits in many comities and says weighty things.

Jose stands in their shadow and smokes a cigarette,
he’s haunted by a fact that he’s a failure and will
always be one as long as they are alive

If they stay too long it will be too late for him to
shine, the fickle audience would have gone home
leaving him on a dark stage smoking a cigarette

day of rest

Day of Rest.

Longish is Sunday
Rest and think of nothing much
What’s for dinner?
Thoughts run unconstrained
Got to catch and write ‘em down

tanka

Tanka

Snow roofed mountain
Colour white the artist likes
The brown eyes aglow…is
Of a ghostly arctic vixen
Dressed in costly fur

the fifties

The Fifties.

Sleet, snow, cold and dark before noon, Hitler
is living at a ranch in Argentina; that wasn’t fair,
only five years after the war, him snug, us cold.
And in travel books I read about Africa, white
men, in tropical hats, and naked natives, some
of them came to conquer, other to win souls for
a “Christian God.” No one asked the locals what
they thought; neither did I, they were black and
naked, for heavens sake! But they were not cold
in their Kraal, and if they were bitten, it was by
wild animals, not by icy wind. Big news, in our
dreary lives, Joseph Stalin died, mother said he
had rescued the working man, others said he was
a swine; whatever! I was still cold and it rained.

In Fame And Illness

In Fame & Illness…

Saw him at the supermarket, had seen him before
when he was a child, he bought two litre bottles
of plonk, told him to buy a better quality wine, he
didn’t listen to me. I shared a table with him and
a painter in the park, they sat there drinking didn’t
offer me any. The artist, disturbed by our silence
got up and began painting a tree, red trunk, black
leaves and something yellow in between, I thought
of the Belgian flag, had been there once, a winter,
dark place, windy, many canals, but the beer was
good. The artist, now famous, sold his tree moved
away and said deep things to magazines about art
and politics. My childhood friend died; cancer it
was said, but it could have been the wine.

new town

New Town

A new town fell from the sky landed
in my back yard and spread onto both
sides of the valley. Perfect, semis and
small, frugal European cars, coloured
dustbins, for glass, plastic, potato peels
and uneaten broccoli. I know they are
aliens, too perfect to be real, too young
and smooth skinned, all children are
two years old. I say nothing, for when
the summer is over and it rains, they’ll
melt away and sheep can cross the road,
as before, without fear of being called
Welsh lamb, and eaten; or have the wool
stolen off their backs

broken illusion

Broken Illusion.


Looked at my image
In the mirror in the hall,
The image walked off,
I was left seeing a copy
that was below par.

tanka

Tanka

Dawn, wrote a poem
Three stanzas and twelve lines
But when the breeze blew
And sun had its nightly swim
I made it into a Tanka

nothing like a dame

Nothing like a Dame.

The English actress
Who played Queen Elisabeth
Has been knighted;
Must she, in order to be knighted,
Spent a night with a knight?

first date

First Date.

I sat on a bench outside, the railway station,
beside me a bouquet of roses, wrapped in
silk paper and a man in a dirty white coat, asleep
and smelling of booze, when awake he told me
he was a surgeon, had worked for 18 hours non
stop mending someone’s broken heart.
Midnight, been here since six, no, she never
showed up; at home my mother waited, wanted
to know if all had gone well. The surgeon woke,
up told me about his job, till an ambulance came,
took him back to hospital; emergency they said,
another bleeding heart. Must have fallen asleep,
next thing I was in the belly of a rubbish truck,
and slapped in my face, by a bouquet of roses...

tanka

Tanka

To avoid racism
Newly born were injected
With a green dye
Though, some have gone all lime
They are equal and verdant

the end

The End?

Polluted sea slaps against
a cold shore where the rest
of a jade skinned humanity
sit and wait for a salvation
that will not come;

they watch each other die,
then eat the rotting flesh,
grunting and biting, they
have lost the will to speak;

when, there is no one left
the seas will clear, the sky
too, and from dark, rich soil
abundance will shoot;

but will there be conscious
life around to benefit from
the world’s renewal?

old trooper

Old Trooper

It is the circle the street light, when going
home from the bar, that makes me ham it
up, I tell jokes too but don’t sing opera
anymore, (complaints from people who live
in the houses opposite the limelight.) I used
to dance as well, but that attracted a jeering
audience and unflattering comments,
Restrict myself to read poetry now, for dogs
so homeless that they wag a tail when seeing
themselves in a dirty puddle of water, and
reticent cats, which stop, clear of the light,
wait for me to go home so rats can come out
of sewers when looking for burgers, chips
and greasy paper to lick. I don’t do encores!

computer souls

Computer Souls.

The boys, who work
in the backroom of
the computer shop,
are not real, they live
on sweet drinks
and toffee,
got no teeth
and never take a leak,
when night falls
they climb into their
own computer and
cease to exist till switched
on next day.

the sky and sea

The Sky & The Sea
(Maori Tale)

There was a time,
only remembered by the ocean,
when the sky was new,
torn from the embrace of the sea,
by a passing cloud;
they had given birth
to the moon, stars, the sun, and
the four seasons.

Never shall they meet again,
yet forever linked
by their off spring;
see each other every day, but
when their desire is too hard to bear,
sky cries, and
sea slams mighty waves
against rocky shores. .

Tanka

Tanka

Wish I could recall
The moment of beginning
Even long before
When I was a cosmic cloud
And death lacked gravity

senryu

Senryu

Old men and boys,
The difference between them
Is the skin.





The Collector

He walks around in the night, collecting
light that seeps out of windows, moonlight
that hangs in trees and street lights of desire,
into black a bin liner. On nights when life
is too sad to behold, he opens the bag and
brings hope where only darkness roamed.

The ambition

The Ambition

The upmarket restaurant has big windows, I sit on
my scooter and look in, it’s full of elderly well- to-
does, those whose only ambition in life was to make
money- and they were right! Sun tanned, Spick &
Span, they are going to live long, perhaps forever,
or till Mount Everest sinks into the Indian Ocean.

They eat steak and salad; I munch on a sandwich
bought, in a supermarket, it’s my fault, ambitions
led me astray, into the wilderness, followed a light
“Hall of Fame,” but the nearer I got the further
the light moved away, till it was a teasing flicker
on the night sky; both beautiful and unobtainable

My lodestar, will it ever guide me out of wasteland
and show me where the gold is? An old man stops,
admire my scooter, its blue with racing stripes on,
tells me he wishes he could do as me, but he hasn’t
been on a bike for years and its too late now to try;
he looks so sad that I murmur soothing words.

Unseen man

Unseen Man

He sits by the steps of the market, it has
deep doorways, sleeps there when it rains;
plastic bags of cast offs, guards them well.

He’s as a rock in the stream; people pass
him, on either side, on the way in to buy
food, yet as water, blind to his presence.

He has seen me seeing him, he’s glad and
smiles, his loneliness is cosmic I can read,
in his tired eyes, his burden will soon end.

Unseen man

Unseen Man

He sits by the steps of the market, it has
deep doorways, sleeps there when it rains;
plastic bags of cast offs, guards them well.

He’s as a rock in the stream; people pass
him, on either side, on the way in to buy
food, yet as water, blind to his presence.

He has seen me seeing him, he’s glad and
smiles, his loneliness is cosmic I can read,
in his tired eyes, his burden will soon end.

Unseen man

Unseen Man

He sits by the steps of the market, it has
deep doorways, sleeps there when it rains;
plastic bags of cast offs, guards them well.

He’s as a rock in the stream; people pass
him, on either side, on the way in to buy
food, yet as water, blind to his presence.

He has seen me seeing him, he’s glad and
smiles, his loneliness is cosmic I can read,
in his tired eyes, his burden will soon end.

experience

Experience

She sits, by the fire; I sit in the other room,
with door open, beautiful winter night, there
is nothing like log fire. She’s tearing up love
letters and tears run down her cheek as she
gives them to the flames that greedily devour
words written when the heart was afire,

I say nothing, the love letters weren’t written
by me, I’m no good at these things, but she is
doing it for me, I think, she has decided to stay
here in my cabin and is erasing her past; but
memories linger, and that’s ok; we have loved
before, this has made us who we are…now.

experience

Experience

She sits, by the fire; I sit in the other room,
with door open, beautiful winter night, there
is nothing like log fire. She’s tearing up love
letters and tears run down her cheek as she
gives them to the flames that greedily devour
words written when the heart was afire,

I say nothing, the love letters weren’t written
by me, I’m no good at these things, but she is
doing it for me, I think, she has decided to stay
here in my cabin and is erasing her past; but
memories linger, and that’s ok; we have loved
before, this has made us who we are…now.

Greek night

Greek Night

A Greek poet has sent me a collection of her poetry, 344
pages, she must be rich since she has published the book
herself; how we struggle, us poets to be heard, all we get
is the wilful neglect of other poets, and the hopeless love
of our parents. Forty years ago I was in Athens; met in
a café a poet working there, when it closed, there isn’t
any words for it, we hammered out verses on the kitchen
table amongst lettuces tomatoes and onions; the act was
fuelled by ouzo, “to be or not to be,” I fell off the table.

A picture of the lady at the back of the book, telling us of
all the medals she has received, silver and gold, for poetry,
to think I thought poetry was a peaceful affair. I really have
scrutinized her face, nothing there to tell of a sexy encounter
on the oak table at a Greek Café. There must be one other
reason, then my sexual prowess, I’ve tussled to put words
together for fifty years, still wait for the call; “Arise; poet,
you have been accepted by the TLS, and can now rest on
your laurels, fame is assured, and you’ll get a free copy.”

the misfit

The misfit.

The four of them were lawyers, wore nice suits and
I joined them; we went into a high-class restaurant,
it was full, but there were side rooms, in one of them
I lost my friends, ended up sitting by a table amongst
people who starred at me in an nasty way; I, dressed
for tennis, was out of place, quickly left followed to
exit by derisive sniggers of experts in good manners.
Outside I changed into jeans and blue shirt- just like
a seafarer- and could, from the top of the hill, see my
ship leaving the pier; ran down till I tasted blood, too
late, she was gone forever. Bought a suit walked back
up to the posh restaurant, the costumers were outside
playing tennis, some swam in the pool; they thought
I was the waiter and ordered drinks

Friday evening

Friday Evening


In the afternoon sun, the asphalt road shines
like an ice rink; flanked by green trees that
cast black shadows, helped by the breeze
they flutter slightly, soundless articulation.

My memory brings me the aroma of curried
chicken and rice, but since it is Friday it will
be smoked haddock, boiled potatoes and
stewed carrots

Still a twenty minutes drive, before getting
home, shadows merge with the evening and
the ice rink is a memory

the thimble

The Thimble
(Tranlated poem)

So brilliant
the thimble is
when caught
in the glare
of sunrays,
shines as
a bright star
on the sky

Much benefit
it receives
from
the alchemist,
who spins metal
till it snugly
fits
a golden dream.

A thimble’s
a tiny helmet,
made of hopes,
protects a
lady’s finger
from the sting
of irate needles

al-LISS
ca 1104

the sorrow

The Sorrow
(Tranlated poem)

Inconsolable
Cries verses written
By an Arab poet
Lost amongst barbaric
Christians

IBN BAQI
1145

Saviour

Saviour?


The church bells tolled heavily
in the middle of the night,
then slower and slower till a metallic
whisper and silence.
And the wind blew along
the vestry alone.
The padre’s elderly housekeeper
gave birth to a bloody mess of a child,
a son of sin,
the padre killed them both,
with his bare hands,
then hung himself,
in the belfry, till he too was still as
the carillons
But Satan came
blew life back into the child and mother
and took them back to Hades

the night

The Night.


My wine glass is full of moonlight, drank it
and I floated dreamily, on a carpet of night air.

Couldn’t resists the moon’s pull, saw my home
bathed in a spectral light, both beautiful and mortal.

Flowers in the garden were deadly pale, olive
trees wore silver capes of unrelieved sorrow

This nocturnal landscape isn’t to my liking, put
me down, red, green and golden are my colours

But I did glimpsed, behind the tall mountain,
night’s ultimate sacrifice, giving birth to dawn

vanishing world

Vanishing World.


Steamed up window, with my finger I paint
a landscape, mountain forest and a lake; the peak
cries into the lake which becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, having been made into wooden rafts,
floats. Midmorning, there is only an outline left
of the crest, this will happen to Himalaya, too,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses
gallop, flying mane and all, since man won’t be
there to domesticate, and make them drag bunk-
beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.

The rest of the world will have sunk into a big
sea that is so perfectly still that it spends all its
time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
itself and is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat,
he’s one time forgot, he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he
puts his hand in the sea and strokes the fish’s
belly: “without you,” he murmurs “I would truly
be alone.”

haiku

Haiku

Strangulating heat
Rivers dams and tarns are dry
Grain of sand in eyes

uncanny likeness

Uncanny Likeness

There was a portrait
of Hitler as a young man,
on the manager’s office wall,
this prompted me to
say was a Hassidic Jew,
he sighed and said;
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
Gave me the job,
he did as a cook in his café,
explained to me that
the picture was of his
granddad who
just happed to be
a painter too, who turned
life into stillness.

the passing

The Passing
“Translated poem”

As the evening
enters and
darkness falls
without
a warning
in me;
a fire is lit,
my heart is
burning
with desire you,
this makes
me so
thirsty
that your
vision pales
and i think
of cool water


al-Radi BI-LLah
ca. 1023
poemas arabigo-andaluzes

I think
of cold,
clear water

white complextion

White Complexion
(Tranlated poem)

A thing like
this
has never
been seen
or heard
before,
thanks
to chastity
a pearl
has been
transformed
into
a holy
mystery.

So shiny
is the surface,
that when
it reflects on
its perfection,
the pearl
disappears
into its own
clarity

IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 1112
From “Ladróes de Prazer”
Poemas arabigo-andaluzes

a summer dress

A Summer Dress

Saw her at Saks looking on to 5th Avenue,
Dressed in a chick, cheap and creamy number,
Been to the hairdresser too and her ebony skin
Gleamed, yes, black really is beautiful.

She was standing there beside a man called
Calvin Klein, a somber man in a yellow suit,
So she didn’t wave as se normally does, but
She did smile with her gazelle eyes.

I too was reluctant to show my affection, for
I had seen, in the window’s reflection a female
Detective with her spy camera, snapping away,
Trying to catch us in the act.

a moral tale

A Moral Tale

It was a sickly little palm trees, when small, yellowish
leaves like a tobacco plant in Zimbabwe not harvested,
It had been bought from a bankrupt gardening centre,
the man how got it showed no respect peed on the plant,
which he had placed outside the kitchen door, when he
was drunk; it was the only liquid the poor palm baby
ever got. The inebriate committed suicide and the plant
was purchased by a man who had no children; he spoke
softly to the palm, as it should be his own daughter, and
it thrived. Every year he had to buy a bigger pot to fit
it in, till there were no pots big enough to room the now
healthy tree. So he dug up the swimming pool, planted
his beloved tree there; it’s no ten storey high and has been
on the telly, since its long roots wrecked the man’s house.

the hidden cove

The Hidden Cove.

I sit in the cove, where
the sea-foam is yellow and hard,
and lazy ripples clean
golden pebbles,
and carve a pipe;

with it I’ll blow bubbles
in the air, see them
soar as they absorb the light
till they are transparent pearls
and burst as bubbles do;

I’ll think of nothing, but
how wonderful it is
to be alive a summer day and
own a pipe that makes dreams
come true.

Idris of Malaga

Idris of Malaga
(Tranlated poem)

For me he is the light,
the first shimmer of aurora,
before the people intones and pray
“Allah Is Great”
He sprinkles water on his wine
and sees bubbles,
rare as transient liquid pearls,
rise to the surface.
He only drinks in the company
of the noble and generous dons and
exchanges elegant pleasantries
His wine is carried by
the bearer of cups,
who is as a beautiful gazelle,
and fragrant as a jasmine.
Marvel at the wonderful sight
of king’s beard,
it has the colour of sun bleached ivory
King Idris is the son of Yahya
the son of Allah,
the son of Hammud, and the prince
of all true believers.

the hunter and the hunted

The Hunter and the Hunted

A hawk dropped a sparrow and
it fell in front of me.
picked it up held it in the palm of my hand,
to its heartbeat eased,
then put it on the handlebar of my bike;

it appeared that the birds was no aware
of my existence,
I was the hand of fate,
too big to be seen;

the sparrow scanned the sky, feeling safe
it took of and I admired it daring flight,
till a shadow blocked the sun,
casting gloom,
it was the hawk that
had returned to reclaim its kill

lost teeth

Lost Teeth

Making yet another road, despite telling us not
to drive so much, and I miss Sundays when we
used to drive around just for fun, having lunch
far from home, but I digress. They found big
stones with holes in, turned out to be bad teeth
from giants who used to live around here.
Honey cakes, carob buns and fizzy drinks, never
brushed their teeth and suffered toothache, a lot;
dentistry was practically unknown then. Little did
they know, our giant forefathers, that their rotten
teeth should end up in a museum; that’s the reason,
I think, why academics, those who dig in soil and
write learned books -with pictures in- about their
discoveries, want to be cremated when they die

love and the old poet

Love and the Old Poet.

I have been eating roast chicken & salad,
and drunk a litre mug of red wine, in
the café where the owner drives me home,
if I’m inebriated, instead of throwing me out.

The waitress, who is young and a daughter
of the landscape, fully formed and rounded,
tells me I have been drinking a whole litre
of wine with my meal,

I feign surprised and I say: “are you sure?”
My dear, I’ll not dream of arguing with
you, just give me a glass of red wine and
cup of coffee…please”

She brings me that, but I play hard to get,
I know she loves me, in her adolescent
ways, when she bends down and kisses
my bald head; I smile and hide my desire

upstairs neighbour

Upstairs Neighbours

How loquacious
the sparrows on the roof are,
wake me up before six
in the morning, inane
arguing about property rights,
their nests are
not investments,
but homes;
and never do
they pay me any rent.
Yet, I do defend them
against the killer moggy,
as I would rather have ten birds up
there, than a cat on hot roof tiles.

A Balkan state

A Balkan State

Montenegro,
lovely name,
sounds
Spanish,
yet it ain’t.
Should I go there?
Why?

Men, with guns,
remember
century
old slights,
when not smuggling
cigarettes

A black mountain,
a pass
and a stream,
everyone here
is related
to the president

Lady Greer

Lady Greer.

There was a knock on the door of my house that is so
isolated that trees are growing in the middle the lane
and grass grow savannah high. First I thought it was
me who had knocked, I often do that and run back in,
through the back door to open up, but no it wasn’t me
this time it was the renowned, the one and only… lady
Germaine Greer, that’s right; her of Big Brother fame.
Served her tea and coco macrons while she explained
to me about non penetrative sex; I loved the Australian
twang in her voice I asked if she could demonstrate, she
- to my astonishment- blushed and declined. I think she’s
a keen gardener, had dark soil under her fingernails, and
I politely pretended not to see when she stuck one of my
pot plants into her outsized possum leather bag.

spring news

Spring News

Car bomb
explodes
in Baghdad,
ten people
killed,
this sort of
paper news
has been
relegated to
the left
hand corner
on page
eight;
the front page
is about,
an all important,
flower show,
a prince
of the realm
attended

Eden undisturbed

Eden Undisturbed

Behind the tall walls there had, it was said, been
a perfect garden, where imported flowers stood
at attention for King Gardener

Local plants have seen off the foreign ones,
occupiers always lose; they grow tired of this
battle of attrition and take a chopper home.

Behind these big walls there is a paradise for
wildlife, in spring you can hear the garden sing;
cats rule ok, off limit for dogs of war, though.

I saw a property developer, on a ladder, looking
in, space enough for eight bungalows he thought
and in his mind, called the place, Conifer Close

the revenge

The Revenge


The big fat Plymouth sat on the window sill
watched the farmer, who had had a stroke, lie
helpless in his bed. The fowl jumped down
crossed the floor jumped up on the man’s chest
watched him some more then pecked and ate
his left eye. A noise, in the house, the bird
took fright and jumped back out, ran crossed
the yard and into the hen house where it
clucked and laid four eggs. When the farmer
got better and was able to walk again, he found
the Plymouth and in revenge bit its head clean
off; this caused another, this time fatal, stroke
and no one knew why the dead farmer had a bird’s
head in his mouth.

the distance traveled

The distance traveled

At last, I had made it, after traveling through many lands and
seen the infant moon, I was here in my street, it was empty;
curtain-less windows, no one inside, the wind of time blew
and autumn leaves, hard as metal, scratched names on asphalt.

When I looked up faces, in windows came into view, only to
wane when leaves erased their names; and tiny twisters, only
a mere handful of dust, twirled dismally around my feet.

Tried to leave, but was lamed by my past and had to see it
through. I was in a house looking down, but also in the street
looking up, a leaf scratched my name in asphalt, closed my
eyes didn’t want to see it erased. The wind suddenly ceased
as a mummified scream came to rest in the dust. Free!

Turned saw my vale, green and as familiar as the donkey in
the shade of the carob tree; my past was finally laid to rest.