The Surgical procedure

The Surgical procedure


The surgeon had been to my hospital bed, explaining
the procedure, a small elegant man with quick hand
movements and a shock of wavy hair; yet none of
the nurses surrounding him looked impressed, perhaps
they knew something I didn’t, a thought that gave me
a perverse delight. Perhaps his wore a wig too?

I was reading poetry, when they gave me a blue pill,
continued to read, but when I awoke twelve hours had
gone, the surgeon, in his Armani suit, looked down,
smiled satisfied and left. I hated him. It worried me
that the hours away had been dreamless and had I not
awoken I would not know I ever lived.

Faces from the hall of un-famous people, so modest
they had only appeared briefly in their death notices,
arose; made it clear there is no heaven, it’s childish
illusion best done away with; except for my old dog,
she follows me around, even in old dreams dreamt
before she was born. Her brown eyes, beg me not
to leave without her; together and unafraid we shall
walk into the borderless land of nonexistence

night walk in Amsterdam

Night Walk in Amsterdam

When I walked ashore in Amsterdam, with my
leather suitcase, no less, bought in a shop in
Hanover street, Liverpool, it was raining; fine,
persistent, precipitation, (isn’t that a nice word,)
the sort that dampens even the high spirited, at
a party, and makes him go to sleep in a corner.

I had been cook on a ship that was perpetually
sailing under a rain cloud; docked at every port
in Europe, even in Stockholm where they sell
the world’s worst beer, it’s not even cold: Do
not for a minute think you’re going to enjoy
yourself while drinking an alcoholic beverage

Tired and wet I booked into a BB hotel, found
a quiet bar drank cold beer and saw rain stop.
When I followed the barmaid home, but not in,
streets where dry and I enjoyed my solitude.

the disappearance

The Disappearance.


Where the road dips there is a puddle, but
Don’t think you can put you wellies on
And splash about; it’s bottomless. I’ve seen
Many children disappear.

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

It’s the rain you see, unstoppable, as is purity
Of evil; take the dip, in the road, away and
The puddle will appear somewhere else. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

In the garden’s ornamental pool lilies float
Tiny steps, that led there, are erased by rain
and a young life is a bitter memory. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness

senryu

Senryu

If I were a duck
I would try not to waddle
And avoid China


Senryu

If I were a lamb
I would wear an Armani suit
And avoid mint sauce


Senryu

My red toy elephant
Trumpet so melancholic
That leaves rust in May

The Wall.

I was involved in a fatal car crash but my soul took refuge
in a nearby stonewall, not any old wall, but one built by
the time Jesus was a toddler and roman soldiers walked
around in leather skirts. I’m now a wall and have absorbed
every stones’ memory, we are one. It’s ok to be wall, in
the tourist season, people come from afar to take pictures
of me, the Chinese Charge de Affairs was here, said our
wall building style is the same as in his great country, we
smiled, he’s a bit of a flatterer and is looking for trade.

My days of guarding settlements and roman forts are long
since over there is a disused field behind me, it hasn’t been
ploughed for years, they are going to turn it into a housing
estate, it’s said; can’t say I like it children with spray cans
painting me into a kaleidoscope of garish colours; there is
talk of putting me indoors, that’s ok when it rains, but it
will be a bit lonely I’m, after all, part of nature, guess I will
have to take my chances with the kids, see them grow up
fall in love, kiss and cuddle on the lee of my solid flank.

The mystic Veil

The Mystic Veil

When a child, in Norway many, women wore veils
they were usually classily dressed and wore a dead
fox with glass eyes around their necks, mother said
they were rich bitches, scared me though, faces in
deep shadows they could tongue me and I wouldn’t
know, or perhaps they were witches with festering
sores and a third eye planted on the forehead

For the opposite reason I feared nuns, they covered
everything but their stern, unadorned faces, eyes not
mild, but judgmental, when seeing one I was quick
to walk on the other side of the street. Yesterday
I saw a Moslem woman wearing a full veil, but her
burka was too snug around her bum- an impostor-?
Other women stopped and stared, it won’t be long
now before it is the latest fashion.

I'm not guilty

I’m Not Guilty


I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn’t
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn’t want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I’m blameless.
If you say I didn’t have to obey such an order it’s
because you have never been unemployed you
don’t know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes

The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: “Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?” “Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don’t care about your diet.” “How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?” “Look it’s about my pain, not yours”

Tanka reflections

Tanka Reflections


11.37 pm,
What of the morrow?
Yesterday is still on my mind
It’s a riddle
It hasn’t been re-invented yet
Can’t solve the unknown


11.38 pm.
Dawn’s a mystery
Yesterday is still on my mind
I can’t solve it
If morning abstains
I won’t know the difference

11.39pm

“What of the morrow”
I wrote that, two minutes ago
Nothing has changed
A dog on the road barked
Didn’t know that two minutes ago


11.40
Dog’s gone quiet
Silence breathes down my neck
Soon it’s midnight
“One” is knocking on the door
Is he coming to get me?

love story

Love Story

The woman who couldn’t
get warm tore the wood
paneling off her walls,
bright was the fire, but she
was still chilled to the bones.
Tore up floor boards,
she did, and terrified mice
silly, a lively fire, but her
heart was arctic.
In desperation she lit a bonfire,
made of oak furniture,
in her living room,
delicious flames,
but she was a lump of ice;
only thawed when
fireman Peterson came
and kissed her blue lips warm

the compensation

The Compensation

The town council has sent me a form to fill
It’s about seeking compensation for ills
Suffered at a home many years ago, but it’s
So long time ago I don’t want to remember.
It means I have to go back to being a child
Again, the bewilderment, brutality and abuse
By those who called themselves Christians.
I know well, when I must, that most of my
Failings, a deep rooted inferiority complex,
Uncontrollable anger, and in younger days,
Massive drinking, are caused by scars my
Childhood gave me; no money in the world
Will make them go away. I have learned to
Live with myself, it has taken time, so why
Must I remember?

bauxite

Bauxite

I opened a café once
in Liverpool eight
it was located next door
to a café that
was always full;
spillover?
No such luck.
my resentment grew
three weeks
not a soul,
only gathering of
dust on tables;
by the time a couple came
I told them to get lost,
closed my café
and joined a ship bound
for Trinidad
the bauxite trade,
now there is dust
for you.

Tommy Steele and Parkgate

Tommy Steele and Parkgate


Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer?

Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?

Politically Correct

It wasn’t really my dream, but my wife’s, she was waxing
the living room floor, had told her many time not to do that,
makes the floor slippery; I think she’s after my money.
A knock on the door, a woman with 8 children said she was
my wife and her children mine; denied all knowledge; she
called me a racist, I took my sunglasses off, yes they were
black. Feeling guilty I was about to offer them shelter when
my wife came, said with my navy pension I couldn’t even
keep a duck in a pond, slammed the door shut in the face of
the ebony lady. “Don’t be a sap; she said, there is no need
to believe people because they are black.” And that’s coming
from a woman born in Kinshasa.

Later that day driving to a masked ball in Haifa, I saw
the poor mother and her children, thought of stopping, but
desisted, 80 sticky fingers in my car...No! In Haifa I drank
fresh orange juice, and tried not to ask impertinent questions
about the plight of Palestine, wore an outsized nose the idea
was to look like roman senator. “Anti Semite” a waiter called
Olmert, thundered and tore it off, refused to serve me until
I repented and said I was deeply sorry for what had happened
to his people. Complied, who says I’m a hero? Looked out of
the window; saw a Gypsy family making slow progress across
the landscape, these victimized and neglected people,
no holocaust shrine for them

what difference a car makes

What Difference a Car Makes


Where antique moonlight is swathed around
ancient olive trees, she sat, the haunted old
woman, so gripped by a vast melancholy that
dogs howled when she came near.

She had been so proud and beautiful, but not,
perhaps, attractive enough; never took the bus to
town, only private cars would do, gave herself
for ride in shiny black Mercedes.

The cruelty of old age, it’s been ten years now
since anyone gave her a lift, a Honda van, and
when she refused to kiss the overall clad driver,
he had told her to get out

These regrets burdening her sad heart, it was her
mother who had said she was too good for yokel.
Chilly night, she was so tired; her last ride, days
later, was in a shiny black Mercedes.

autumn leaf

Autumn Leaf.

The fall leaves dance weren’t celebrating life,
but utter despair, they whirled around in
the plaza like furious dervishes, faster and
faster till they ended up, exhausted, in a heap
in the corner, near the bin, for empty bottles.

A thunder rumble, warning of rain to come,
gutters will be rivers and leaves rafts, steering
around boulders down foamy waterfalls and
into the sewers, where the outcast rat lives and
witness our gaseous effluence.

Turning into mulch, mixed with human waste;
perfect nourishment free of chemicals, perhaps
a gardeners dream? A golden oak leaf survived,
the tumult, though, drifted to the Saragossa Sea
where it became a king amongst the seaweed.

the slave trade

The Slave Trade

The African tribal chief was worried, too
many idle warrior hands in his kraal, too
few women, and no wars to fight, causing
words of bitter sedition; till an Arab trader
came along offered the chief costly Persian
carpets and a bracelet of gold in exchange
for fifty of his thumb twiddling men.

The chief told the men, before they were
marched down to the coast, that he now
released them of their bondage to him and
must now obey their new Arab master;
equilibrium restored, and ground lain for
future trade; a glad despot sat happily on
his carpets and twiddled with his bracelet.

senryu

Senryu

Depression…is
When curtains of truth opens
And the stage is bare.

Tanka

Senryu

Harvest moon
Ghosts in apple trees smile
Man! What a hoot.




Tanka (yearly migration)

Iberian village
The old till the soil
The young have gone to France
Doing menial tasks
Take Holiday here in August
Being rude, in French, to everyone

yesteryears summer

Yesteryear’s Summer

Rusty, padlocked gate, trees in the big garden need
trimming, on a swing, two rusty chains, it lacks
a seat. Autumn and there are apples unpicked on
the ground, fine rain has fallen, drops drips from
trees and glint on tall grass. Soon winter storms
will come rattle the gate and the derelict house-
unlit- will have to shoulder nature’s irate violence.

If you close your eyes and listen, can you not hear
laughter and see a child sitting on the swing?
Ice-tea and lemonade anyone? July 1956, no one
knew this was their last, a family was about to be
overtaken by life; ruin and scandals, “got what they
deserved,” the hateful said. The child, on the swing
disappears in the mist, rolling in from the sea. .

the swimmers

The Swimmers.

The two rotund, none smoking, healthy middle aged
ladies sit in their splashing pool get suntanned and wet
during the heat of the day; only venture to the beach
when the sun sets and body fascists and sand kickers
go home Far out they swim, gleaming seals that glide
with ease in the water, on their way to mate and meet
other seals frolic and play to dawn. Early bathers may
see the pair making slow progress in the sand and
there are those who will say:” Look, how fat they are.”
Not seeing they are tired, well fed seals on their way
home after a feast of fish and love on the outer rocks.

intermezzo

Intermezzo.

Night in the city, streetlamps too far apart, shadows
between them hinder contact. A cat, is it black,
crosses the street and disappear into a yard,
it’s seen by a sewer rat that waits for thrown away
food to eat outside the burger bar. A lackluster
breeze blows waste paper about, then stops rolls
itself into a ball and goes to sleep under the span of
a bridge. Two hours sleep, and it will be a morning
breeze. The cat, is it black, has fooled the long tailed,
it only to feigned disappearance to lure the rodent
into the open; short struggle, a shudder oscillate
between shadow and light, come to rest as a sight;
motherless rats will be food for bigger ones now, as
night continues its travel towards a new day.

her song

Her Song

On the shores of Bengal there is a place where they
slaughter ships, tearing them up, almost by hand, into
scraps of iron, you will have no knowledge of that
once they rode the many seas and where home for
lonely men who referred to the ship as “she”; was glad
to be onboard after a stormy night ashore. Who, when
finally leaving her, were moist eyed and silent for once.

On the shores of Bengal stories go untold, bits of iron
in a heap nothing much to get sentimental about; except
there was a ship named “Grace” she plied the coast of
America central, and was resident of Costa Rica, but
alas she was sold to unfeeling Canadians; I jumped ship
then and shamefully left her to fend for herself amongst
heathen on the icy, desolate coast of Labrador.

the blues

Melancholy.


It had taken forty years to find back to the house
where I was born, a two storey timber framed
home, smaller than I remembered it to be; painted
now it looked rather smug and middleclass, bet
the owners were lawyers with pale children.

Although the windows were the same, the house
didn’t recognize nor like me, staring at me with
glassy contempt; “So, friend, a lick of paint and
educated owners and you think you’re posh, it’s
the people who lived here I miss, not you, I know
every rotten plank you’re made of it only takes
a can of petrol and you are history.”

Harsh words it needed to be said, my memories
of a happy childhood is self invented, the reality
was of poverty and indignity; I hastily left, don’t
belong here - never did. Nostalgia! Who needs it?

hangover sonnet

Hangover Sonnet

Lucifer came, brought chocolate and sweet
Drambui. My bedroom reeks of self inflicted
pain and my uncritical dog licks vomit off
the bathroom floor. I sang opera last night till
neighbours knocked on ceilings and walls,
threatened to call the police; silly fools, they
have to get up in the morning for boring work.
No beer, the dog needs a pee, but how do I get
out unseen? Endless regrets, humiliation and
shaky hands, can’t even roll my own cigarettes
anymore; this really has to stop diet coke and
well living, starting tomorrow. As for now,
hadn’t it been for the poor dog’s needs I would
not have gone out for a cold pint of lager.

Melancholy.


It had taken forty years to find back to the house
where I was born, a two storey timber framed
home, smaller than I remembered it to be; painted
now it looked rather smug and middleclass, bet
the owners were lawyers with pale children.

Although the windows were the same, the house
didn’t recognize nor like me, staring at me with
glassy contempt; “So, friend, a lick of paint and
educated owners and you think you’re posh, it’s
the people who lived here I miss, not you, I know
every rotten plank you’re made of it only takes
a can of petrol and you are history.”

Harsh words it needed to be said, my memories
of a happy childhood is self invented, the reality
was of poverty and indignity; I hastily left, don’t
belong here - never did. Nostalgia! Who needs it?

crumbs of love

Crumbs of Love.


Cold, dark night ice on the pond, a duck walks on
unsure ice, it’s still dark when my brother starts
baking at four. I’ll have be at his bakery forenoon
and he’ll have a bag of crumbs ready for the ducks
in the park. I will feign disinterest but feel my way
to the sweet flakes, I don’t think, concerning all
the unpaid work I do for my brother, I should feel
guilty for enjoying the intense aroma of freshly
baked Danish pastry. She, who hands me the bag,
is ignorant, yet wise and there is scent of mystery
about her, the word love interrupts my thoughts.
My brother has it off with her on soft bags of flour,
I think their activity is un-elegant and sinful, a pity
really, for her this affair cannot end happily.

occupation of norway 1940-1945

Occupation of Norway 1940-1945


Early April when they came, snow still on
the ground, green uniforms, the enemy buying
cakes in bakeries, people still shocked,
soldiers offer children chocolate

Uneasy truce, it isn’t going to last, even though
the enemy is baby faced. Shots in the night on
of them is ambushed, sent home in a body bag;
civilian men are rounded up, some are executed.

It’s going to get worse, hunger and darkness,
but the people know the scores, they have got
invaders and odious traitors to deal with, and
refuse to be vanquished: Occupiers Go Home!

buried memories

Buried Memories.

I was tired when I came to a clearing in the forest,
Gravestones, some had fallen over, overgrown by
Weeds, this place of neglected memories, in the end
Nothing is left behind but the black earth.

There is a silence here I see my brother’s name,
Almost erased by the wind, but I can’t conjure up
His face, this saddens me, this canyon of years;
The face I see is of a child who casts no shadow

So much debris, someone ought to clean up this
Place , collect stones remembrance and use them
As building blocks for new memories, when laughter
Is still innocent and bears no hint of cynic despair.

shipwrecked

Shipwrecked

Sat on a raft in the Bay of Bengal, my ship had sunk
I was the only survivor. Had a carton of cigarettes,
But no matches; to pass the time I threw the ciggies,
One by one, into the sea, kept sharks away, thought
Of the poor Bengal tiger hunted to almost extinction.

Next day there was another raft slowly drifting near,
The man onboard, a lone survivor of a sunken ship,
Asked if I had cigarettes, because he had a lighter
But nothing to smoke; a screech flayed the skin of
The sea, luckily monsoon rain fell and eased the pain.

Love's a bamboo raft

Love’s a Bamboo Raft.



Puerto Lemon, Costa Rica, how can I forget!
Warm sand I was building a raft when she
walked by, and was the first esoteric woman
I have ever seen she floated through air.
The one I was building the raft for, (she had
sent me a letter of regrets,) my plan was to
sail across the ocean, a new Kon Tiki man,
ask her to reconsider; but now - on the spot-
I forgot her name.

Maria, my new desire, and the object of my
lovelorn devotion, took me by the hand, led
me to her diffident house on long stilts
Dawn in Costa Rica, isn’t a lingering affair
lasting till noon, instant sun warming green
bananas. My raft had drifted out to sea, it’s
only cargo, a six pack of lukewarm beer, yet
I hoped a thirsty fisherman would find them
before the sea got frisky.

the guest

The Guest.

When I came to the house it reminded me
of “Mary Celeste” no one there, but warm
dinner on the table. In their big garden
the swimming pool glinted like sunlight on
the Pacific Ocean; no one swam in it though.
I sat down and waited; an hour passed, my
brother came from the garden, grunted
halloo and lit a cigarette, later his wife too
came in from the garden, she ignored me,
yet looked embarrassed, took the food back
into the kitchen to re- heat it; last came their
awful twins, sniggering and whispering as
always. We ate in silence, but I had the weird
feeling that they had tried to avoid me.

recorded

Recorded.

Sunday,
the long
day,
perfect for
the beach,
but the vista
of scarlet
bodies
and
the smell
of sun
lotion
put me off;
instead I
replaced
the word
“song”
with
“tune”
in a poem
written
on
Saturday.

recorded

Recorded.

Sunday,
the long
day,
perfect for
the beach,
but the vista
of scarlet
bodies
and
the smell
of sun
lotion
put me off;
instead I
replaced
the word
“song”
with
“tune”
in a poem
written
on
Saturday.

look back in sadness

Look Back In Sadness.

I had been thinking a lot about her lately,
remembered, as one too often does, only
the good times. Drove to the street where
she lives, sat in a café in case she should
walk by. When she did I could see the hint
of laughter in her eyes had been replaced
by the glare of chronic bitterness; mascara
and lipstick on her ashen face looked like
flotsam on an autumnal beach… I looked
down on the table in front me, cake crumbs,
and my coffee was cold

Invasion

The Invasion


Peace used to be a chicken crossing a cobbled yard
Wile picking up tiny grains of seed, watched over
By a dog that had sunshine in its eyes; as a milkmaid
Came out of the cow-shed carrying an ewer of cream
In her butter soft arms and she loved me; but no more,
The chestnut throwing thugs came, the grey squirrels.
Peace is but an interval in an ongoing war, a pause
When great statesmen say:” No more wars” and music
Strikes up the national tune, hearts swell with pride,
Yes our country is better than yours. We sit indoors now,
The chicken is in the freezer, dog’s hides under the bed
The milkmaid is opening a tin of tuna fish, I look at
The computer screen news sites and My Space, shows
Video clips of marauding, conker tossing squirrels.

The home front

The Home-Front.


At the time when summer ruled by a cruel
sun, so fierce that even hardy weed crinkle
on the ground, there is one good thing,
no rifle blast or gunshots are heard. We are
spared the ungainly sight of elderly men in
camouflage uniforms shooting into bushes
and in holes in the blue sky ,bent on killing
something they don’t need to eat; …it is
called sport. Peace isn’t made to last, never
does, in August it will escape tediousness
and war will resume. As the priest talks of
God and everlasting love, shots are fired
into bushes maiming green leaves. Rabbits,
boars and fowls are Gods gift to mankind.

the visitor

The Visitor

There is a midnight caller in our village, blue
light do a shimmy on the ceiling in my room,
mercifully the ambulance didn’t use its siren;
a group of women murmur near my door.

Dogs, our nocturnal sentinels, nervously whine
know something serious is up, hushed voices and
soft slam of doors as they carry old Manuel out
on a stretcher, his face is bluish pale.

Uneasy silence I take a heart pill, switch on TV,
something about six pack abs, young people
worrying about and are obsessed by their health
and how they look. When I awake it is morning

The TV flickers a mass of white and black dots.
Manuel didn’t make it, funeral at five, this heat.
I go back to bed, don’t want to face this day yet;
as I dream, the scent of flowers overwhelms me

Transplant

Transplant.

Dear heart do not knock so rapid on heavens
door; seventeen years old, you wanted to go
dancing, the spring night called your name

Be patient, my lovely, be kind to an old man
who carries you in his chest, he understands
your desire as you know of his deep despair.

The day will come when you both are free,
and, unburdened by physicality, be of the same
age; fall in love as, indeed, is our right.

Enchanted dance in never ending May nights,
when stars are near as blossoms on apple trees;
and we both believe in love and perpetuity

restless night

Restless Night.

Fear woke up early and walked through
Empty rooms, worried, years have been
Piling up and it has lost its future.

“What now? It asks to no one special,
But a shudder, cold as an Arctic winter,
Appears, together they wait for dawn.

regrets

Regrets.


The long road is a petrified asphalt river
and where it dips and falls into an abyss
it’s boiling and steam arises, cars fall in
and disappear, never to be seen again

I have warned them, do not drive when
the sun sets, but heedless they drive into
their own oblivion.

Ancient sorrow, it’s been said that under
the new road lurks s roman road, soldiers,
who had been promised eternal life, awake
when the sun drips golden blood;

Heaven help a driver caught up in their rage.
his many regrets are as useless as morning
dew on wayside weeds

another roman road

Another Roman Road

My neighbour’s garden wall is made of stones from
the disused roman road that had stopped going
anywhere for ages; smooth stones walked over by
mules and sandaled feet. No one here used to bother
about some old road, but no longer, the heritage people
want their stones back, as do the tourist board,
who’s trying to hard attract quality vacationers, inland,
away from the coast; there is more to Portugal than she,
being Spain’s little sister, aping her big brother.
When the stones have been put back, a story can be spun
about a road that never really went to Rome, but to
a quarry behind the hill, a hole filled with thorny bushes,
snakes and femurs of my neighbour’s ancestors, worked
to death as slaves by men with Romanesque noses.

wht goes up

What Goes Up…?

Low hanging clouds, for days now, fed up
I threw a fist sized rock at them, a pause
then a hole appeared and I saw, for the first
time in weeks, the sun. People in the village
looked at me with a new respect; didn’t last
though, the rock came down and hit me on
the head

when it rains

When it Rains.


The Umbrella is a wonderful invention, collapsible,
its basic structure is as yesteryear. I had one, so
heavy that I had to use both hands when walking in
the rain, it was black, umbrellas only came in one
colour back then; I gave mine to a girl called Mary,
wonder what happened to her?

A modern paraply is much lighter and comes in many
tones, I’ve got amber one now, made in China, it’s
not meant to last long, a rain squall or two and it’s time
to buy another one. I remember now, Mary Poppins her
name, she went to work for a rich family in London;
weird girl thought she could fly.

the waiter

The Waiter

A man with no teeth served me breakfast
he began to smile, but thought better of
it, his lips disappeared into his mouth;
his eyelids fluttered though, as blinking
away tears. had lost his teeth when out
diving in the lake, near the hotel, silt had
made it impossible to find his dentures
Now he had to work double shift to save
up and pay for a new set; he could have
sold his car to pay for them, but to be seen
on a bus, now at forty, people would think
he was a loser. Just you wait, smirking
guests with perfect dentures, soon he’ll be
able to dazzle you with his mighty grin.

a sunday in july

A Sunday in July


Twilight in the village, shuttered windows
I’m walking alone, they have all died, dogs
too and cats have gone feral.

Stale heat, as heavy as a stage-curtain full of
forgotten tragedies, hangs in the air. I take no
pleasure of this walk; but I have been indoors
all day waiting for sun-fall and a cool breeze….

Back home I open windows, share my light
with the night. Sit on the sofa move my toes,
a man needs exercise, and watch news on TV

decapitation

Decapitated


On a tropical Paradise’s jetty I stood arguing with a tall man
who carried a rusty machete, said he didn’t like my blandness,
a sudden slicing move and my head parted from its body.
He lifted my head up by the hair, a dramatic, black actor,
a Hamlet, but I spat him in his face, as a last act of defiance,
shocked he threw my head into the warm, emerald sea, and as
my human life came to an end I saw a shiny dolphin

Reborn as a dolphin, happy and free, but oddly though,
I remembered my former human life, yet bore no ill feeling
against my killer; who, life is strange, I met one day when he
was out swimming near the jetty, the man liked dolphins,
I let him feel my smooth skin and we played till we’re far
from shore, where the sea is cools, is deep and dark blue.

He saw the dark, grey fins first, tiger sharks, and cried out,
turned, tried to swim ashore, a scream rippled the calm sea,
and echoed for miles as I swam away to find my family of
bottle nosed dolphins, in this weird new world of mine.

Tanka

Tanka

NHS doctor
Crosses the antiseptic floor
Nods to dusky gal
I dive behind the sofa
In case they’re blowing us up.

the art of poetry

The Art of Poetry

How to write a poem! Are you asking me?
Well, get pen and paper, close your eyes
And let the mind drift, words and images
Will come up to surface and when you have
Enough open your yes and write them down.
Do a bit of rewriting, but not too much,
A poem looks stilted if you linger too long.
Send poem to a magazine editor, he/ her
Will be polite and thank you for letting them
Read it, but it isn’t what they are looking for,
They do wish you great success elsewhere.
If you throw pen and paper in the bin, that’s
Ok, rejection is hard, but if you sit down and
Write another poem; then, you’re a bard.

confession

A Seers Confession


I’m kneeling on the floor, knees resting on glass ashtrays,
hurts like hell, but it will help me concentrate, my eyes
are closed, now or never, on opening them will I see God?
Not one of his seraphs, or his son and his bleeding feet,
not as a distant voice whispering banalities into my ears,
but the real person. (false teeth and all.) I have removed
the ashtrays, the pain I was ready to confess to anything.

Have you ever wondered why it is that prisoners appearing
in court with black eyes, are said- by their guards- to have
fallen down iron steps? But never mind that, I’m resting on
a soft pile carpet, eyes still closed, when I open them He
better be there, because my body is burning up with eager
virtue. I’m very focused, nothing, not even the barking dog
outside, shall break my religious devotion.

It’s gone quiet, I’m hungry and I need a smoke; fragrance
of Turkish Virginia tobacco, from the street below, wafts.
Tomorrow I’ll try again, seeing God isn’t such a big shake,
I’ve read that holly men have often seen Him, and sages,
coming down mountains have seen Him too. I, personally
speaking, think God looks like the sky, mirroring itself on
the calm ocean; on a day, when our eyes wide are open?

the middle class assassin

The Middleclass Assassin


The plump man who walked away from the burning car
Used in a failed attempt to blow up an airport, didn’t set
Himself, on fire; and luckily the police didn’t kill him,
We will be able to hear is explanation in court.

The man is a medical doctor, how naïve I have been
Thought this profession was a matter of higher calling,
A wish to help people in need; yet this doctor behaved
As a car mechanic would, at a car wrecking derby

So much hate, the man is a Sunni Arab, very religious
They tell us; we, the west, occupied and destroyed his
Country, yet his behaviour was utterly despicable, as
Indeed ours, for having brought anarchy to his country.

The inheritors

The Inheritors

They are in her flat now, my half sister’s relation,
five of them are going through her stuff dividing it
amongst themselves. The notion is ghoulish, will they
do ditto when I’m gone? Throw my poetry away, and
only keep books with a nice binding, placed unread,
on a bland book-shelve, in a living room. My paintings,
drawings and pictures done by, not yet, famous artists,
will be thrown into an attic, collecting dust of neglect.

Disappointed they will leave: “He didn’t have much
of value, the old man, only boxes full of unpublished
poems, there’s his cottage we can get a few thousand
for it” Scorched earth solution? Or go for long walks,
eat salad, outlive them all; change name too, or their
great-great grandchildren will come after me, arguing
amongst themselves. You see; what their ancestors
said was junk will then be priceless antiques

rain & sea

Rain & Sea.

The light from the window is quite clear today,
but the garden I see is a memory of what it
used to be thirty years ago; for all I know, I’m
almost blind, they may have cemented it over
and painted it green, Styrofoam trees and plastic
flowers, and thee is no need for a gardener.

Do I hear raindrops falling? Is it getting darker?
Or is it rats scratching to get at my inert flesh.
I have been dreaming of rain for thirty years, a
tropical deluge foaming on the sea, flashing lights,
thunder; each man frozen in a frame, no thoughts
everyone only absorbed by the eye of the storm.

When the storm passed the deck was cool to walk
on, a new clarity of thoughts, before routine sat in,
when we reach shore, I will leave this ship and
climb a mountain, to see and experience everything
anew. I’ve waited for rain and the eye of the storm
to come and make me whole and young again.

the spirit

The Spirit

By the roadside I found a bottle with a Jinni inside,
picked up the bottle took it home, next day the Jinni
knocked and said: “let me out, I’ve been eating beans
and need fresh air.” Looked ill he did, face green and
sweaty, so I uncorked the bottle, only slightly to let
bad air out, but the stink was so awful that I fell back
and lost the cork. Jinni was out and laughing.

“I’ll grant you three wishes” he said, I know you’re
short of money.” “No, I don’t want your wishes, they
only come true, and then what do I do?” Instantly
knew I had said the right thing, without human greed
the Jinni can’t function, defeated it slinked back into
the bottle, but I’m not a teacher, put the bottle, near
a bus-stop, for someone else find it and learn a lesson

Sleek bomb

Sleek Bomb.

The smart bomb fell silently, not for it
to scare people witless by whining like
a demented, diving Stuka bomber plane.

Down, it jumped from house to house to
see who was in, blew itself up in the yard
of a kindergarten.

“Insurgents had been seen coming out
of that place” an aid to a general said,
“we are so very sorry,”

Fragments of the bomb reassembled,
whole again it laughed, so very smart,
this war is going to last.

Stuka: German bomber plane in the war
1940-45

Abstract reasoning

Abstract Reasoning

How many years left do I have to drive around on
my little motorbike? Should I write my will?
sit down, and contemplate metaphysical matters,
or use my vast inexperience to tell people how to live
their life…be a sage? I think not. Girls look beautiful
today, only a few months ago they looked frumpy in
thick winter coats, they must have been on a diet,
long legs and erect nipples, October man seeing
a May girl and that’s no good, I mean to look back
that way it only brings cold northwesterly wind,
sneezing sadness and sore on lips. I’m an old dog
chasing a smart sports car, how deflating it would
be if I stopped. “Anything I can do for you sir.”
I’ve forgotten my watch can you tell me the time?”

the record breaker

The Record Breaker.

In a vat filled with foamy rubber I sat, it was night
when I plunged down the massive Niagara falls.
Camera shy, tourists had gone home, no one around
to record my attempt to be the first and survive.
Further down the river the vat firmly fastened between
two wet rocks, I opened its lid scampered out and it
was dawn; a fawn saw me as did a rabbit and a moose.
Walked for hours came to a rural town, had a beer
and was arrested for being at the wrong side of
the river, and for rolling down a waterfall when
I had not obtained permission from the department
that issues vat licenses. Thus my epic record was
disqualified; no fame for Johnnie, not hard feelings,
but I know I was the first man to do this and survive.

the middleclass assassin

The Middleclass Assassin


The plump man who walked away from the burning car
Used in a failed attempt to blow up an airport, didn’t set
Himself, on fire; and luckily the police didn’t kill him,
We will be able to hear is explanation in court.

The man is a medical doctor, how naïve I have been
Thought this profession was a matter of higher calling,
A wish to help people in need; yet this doctor behaved
As a car mechanic would, at a car wrecking derby

So much hate, the man is a Sunni Arab, very religious
They tell us; we, the west, occupied and destroyed his
Country, yet his behaviour was utterly despicable, as
Indeed ours, for having brought anarchy to his country.