the understanding

The Understanding


A, rich man is going into a Parisian hospital to die,
thought he could have it all, now he clings to a red
blanket, given by a woman he loved and betrayed,
he loved her too, till wealth stole his heart.

Two lovers, young men, mere boys really, are being
hanged in Iran today, they have not committed any
crime, robbery or murder, they loved each other for
that they’ll twist, blindfolded, in the wind

In a Texas jail, a man wait his execution; everyone
knows he’s innocent, found guilty ten years ago
the verdict still stands; he’s been turned down by
the governor who’s tough on crime

That’s how it is; we are spectators in a drama we
have not written nor understand, yet we continue
to search for a meaning; there is little we can do
but light a torch of hope on mankind’s dark trail.

watering place

Watering Place

The stonewalled waterhole, amongst bushes on
the out mark is dry now, stones have been falling
to the bottom where there is rubbish, plastic bags
and empty paint tins, makes it a sad sight.

Until a few years ago, when local farmers had
sheep it was in regular use, I saw a fledgling once
learning to fly, miss the bush it aimed for landed
in the water, giving up on life without a struggle.

The young have better education, moved to big
towns, their children are scared of rabbits and what
crawls in the grass, often obese, they can’t wait to
be back to the city, after visiting grandparents.

The track leading to the waterhole is barely visible
I was the only one going there till I found a scented
silk hanky, the hankering for the old days has gone,
the mysterious lady is my new future.

SUPER COMPUTER

Super Computer.

It’s there in front of me a colossal
abstract mass that absorbs everything
it takes your life eat the soil the sky,
mountains, lakes, animals and
blue pigments,

in the end devour the world. all is archived
every second of your life is written down and
there is picture of you from child to old,
your laughter and your tears,
but it doesn’t know you.

The colossus exists in a vacuum;
it holds the key to life,
but its execution is death, and in the end
we shall not know
of the past, present and future

albanian proverb

Senryu

Graffiti on wall:
Chicken are friendly birds
Wish I were one


Tanka

Chopper rotors
Cutting air above my house
Searchlight shines
Kitchen is the new frontline
Dirty dishes everywhere




Albanian Proverb

In a just
society
no horse
walks
with a limp,
those that
do
will end up
as
salami

four alcoholics

Four Alcoholics

Saturday afternoon in a Nordic town, buses are neatly
parked and as diesel fume slowly dissipates, a few
snowflakes fall; streetlights are on soon it will be dark
the air is cold and damp; rats are up from sewers eating
left-overs. Four men sit on a park-bench they have
been sharing a bottle of booze, they have nowhere to go
but to their “Blue Cross” lodgings, get a bed, and a bit
to eat; Sunday, with everything shut, will be a long day.

They count the change between them not enough to
buy a bottle from the man who sells booze after hour
to double the price, they stop a lone, young man, ask
him for some money, he gives them what they need,
glad they didn’t ask for his wallet. They have a bottle,
the intention is to save it for tomorrow, but by the time
they reach their lodging the bottle is empty and they
are drunk, the receptionist will not let them in.

They blame each other, fight breaks out, police comes
Black Maria and the drunk cells. Sunday, the four are
booked, fingerprinted and let out. The church, across
the park is warm, there might even be a few pence to
be had from worshippers, they try to look middleclass,
but are stopped by the verger; told to come back next
day. Four men on a park-bench, they are thirsty, but not
lonely and that is a good thing to know.

old men in a park

Old Men in a Park.

Sunshine, they sit in the park, the old guys
I nod to them as I drive past on my scooter,
no doubt they are talking about old times.

Lately I have been remembering whence
I was a child, it’s very confusing a soldier
hangs from a hook in the basement, there
is a smell of shit, my aunt lift her skirt and
pees into the sink, aunt is my uncle, didn’t
know this and there is shrieking laughter.

Cold winters, lice in blankets, the animal
smell of unwashed bodies and the reek of
cheap alcohol. A fire behind a haze causes
shadows, a man’s voice, too sweet, entices
a child with chocolate, leading a lamb to
slaughter. There is nothing to remember
except the voice that used to read for me.

Tired, I know longer know the difference
between a nightmare and a memory, think
I’ll join the old men, in the park, and listen
to their tall tales of daring do whence they
were young.

liverpool days

Liverpool Days


Wavertree road used to have a café there called
“Tasty Toaster,” business was good till the formidable
M.T. came to power and low paid worker, my main
costumers, got the sack, and told to go on bikes they
couldn’t afford to buy in the first place.

Above the shop lived a lady teacher, she drank, at ten
in the evening, as I closed and cleaned up, I could hear
her sing, when filling her bathtub with water.
One night, it was raining; she must have had a stroke
or something, the water kept running, rotten floor she
and the bathtub ended up in my café.

Under the door the water ran and down the street, since
it was raining few has noticed. Called the police when
I got there, the landlord came, insisted that I had to pay.
I threaten to sue him; he called me a Polish shit and
blamed me for the holocaust I called him a Jewish shit
and blamed him for Palestine. I finally collected my
insurance money and retired from the catering business

a voyage to Caribbean

A Voyage to Caribbean

Europe was in the grip of winter,
ice on deck, frost smoke hung above
the sea clouds low and full of snow;
sun had been absent for weeks.

Bound for Jamaica, past the Azores
weather changed, warmer and the sun
shone on green sea and the great sea
current was on our side.

The crew, in good mood, the cook sits
on a capstan strumming his beat-up
guitar, old salts used to tropical climes,
Jamaica is home from home

failed mariner

Failed Mariner.

I spent time staring at
the ocean and sensing
its heave, at night too

I gazed at the sea, “night
and day, you’re my love,”
now wasn’t there a song?

sent ashore, bad reports,
unsociable, speaks to no one,
doesn’t play cards

Drizzle

Drizzle.

Raindrops in your hair, on your cheeks, teeth
sparkled, lips wide, moist and red, as your face
looked up to him in abandonment.

How could, you betray me, don’t you know
a fool, like me, is passionate, you sat my heart
afire, the gasp of youth has died on my breath

Have you forgotten, only yesterday you kissed
me, yet you have kissed him with rude passion
moments before seeing me.

I left the bar when you entered, walked down
an alleyway where life’s losers live in disgrace
I didn’t look back once.

a widow and a priest

A Widow and a Priest It was six in the morning I was on the roof terrace smoking an illicit cigarette when the ambulance came gliding into the hamlet, stopped outside Antonio’s house and carried him out on a stretcher, his wife came along too; Antonio saw me and feebly waved. In the forenoon his wife was a widow and she cried. The house was suddenly full of relatives, most of them women. Funeral at five that day, the widow had been astute enough to have everything arranged beforehand, his body was now in the church…waiting At the graveside the priest said the usual thing, shook hands with the widow and walked home alone, feeling friendless, he didn’t think of the funereal, had seen so many dead faces ravaged by age or sickness, immune he had become, not so when young laying awake at night thinking about it horror struck; he had served here for years now waiting for a new call or an advance within the hierarchy, feeling forsaken by the Vatican, hadn’t he written learned articles about the philosophy faiths and received a thank you note from the cardinal? Nothing more he could do, couldn’t very well ask god. At home his housekeeper served him a roast chicken and cellar cold red-wine; he sighed, tucked in, death always made him hungry. Female relatives stayed with the bereaved for a week, men are curiously absent on these occasions, then they went back to their own worries, the widow began her new life by going to the hairdresser

the long eared

The Long Eared.

Driving to town there was a donkey loose on
the road rescued and tied it under a carob tree.
Couldn’t leave it alone like that, parked
my car on a hard piece of ground and waited
for the farmer to come and collect his ass.
It began raining but both the donkey and I had
shelter. Fell asleep, when I awoke it was dark
and the hard ground mud; I mounted the beast
and rode to roadside tavern nearby.
Food and wine, it was late when riding home,
stabled the donkey in the garage. Next day
I rode back where my car was stuck in the mud,
the farmer and two police officers were there
no one asked if the car belonged to me

Losing It

Losing It.


Woke up in the night shivering hot and cold
at the same time, I had slipped through a hole
in time to a similar world where I met myself.
I waited for the other me to utter profundities;
“Fall begins at September 22,”he said, while
looking carefully down to the ground.

“Have you lost something?” “Yes, my sense
of humour” I helped him look, we didn’t find
it. His world was colder than mine, so I gave
him my red t. shirt and was back in my own
time again. It was chilly when I woke up at
dawn, looked for my t. shirt, but it was gone.

Refelction in a window

Reflection in a Window

From my window I can see morning haze, amongst
olive trees, I also see the outline of grazing sheep.
Metallic birdsong disturbs peace, not from outside,
but from my Chinese wall clock, must be eight, it
isn’t reliable, wonder if birds really sing like that in
China? I have seen this morning scene many times,
always think of it as biblical; shows how influenced
I’m by Christianity. If I were a Moslem, what I see,
the haze, trees and sheep will be the same; I would,
perhaps, think of Allah and how glad I’m to have
an unshakable creed. I was a Lutheran and think back
on times when I believed in god with blasé certainty.
Shells fall, I’m glad to be free of religious chains and
monolithic beliefs.

The mythical landscape

The Mythical Landscape


I know of a narrow dale so full of thorny bushes that
no one goes there and since it has no olive trees it’s
been left in peace. Those who are willing to get stung,
will find a clearing, near a small mere, where grass is
green all year and roses never lose their petals.

I cannot give you the location, promised the dwellers,
a dignified camel and a terrier, both escapees from
a Swedish circus, which once performed in Lisbon.

Now as days are getting shorter and my own dog has
died, and there are no one on the lane leading up to my
house, I have been thinking of going there; only they
might both be dead, or a roadway cleared down to
the mere; and I’m tired of getting stung by unfriendly
obstacles to get to the heart of the matter

a Musical instrument

A Musical Instrument

Hanover Street, Liverpool, there was a saxophone
in a shop window, not new mind, but well polished
I knew it was meant for me, knew I could play it,
just like that. Not enough money, back onboard,
I asked the captain for an advance, got it; how I ran
that day, yet came too late, it had been sold.

Later when the night was heavy with the smell of
“Park Lane” in Lime Street I heard my Sax
played badly, there weren’t harmony between
man and instrument; looked through the window,
too young to enter, the sax saw me and wonderful
music followed; the musician looked surprised,
the performance of his life.

In Livorno, Italy, I bought a mouth harmonica, it
had metallic taste and made my teeth ache, no love
lost when I threw it into the Mediterranean Sea.

Tanka

Tanka

Dali Lama is here
No heads of state will see him
China is vital.
Spiritual progress can wait
Trading is more important

The Noose

The Noose.

By the river, a big tree; on its strongest bough
there is still mark in the bark of a rope. They
hung people here, great spectacle the whole
town came to see: “Good riddance” they said
about the hanged, spat and felt like tough guys.

To be a tree is like being god things are done
in its name and is forever silent, except when
wind drizzles through its foliage there’s a faint
whisper, a moment’s hesitation, as the unsaid is
understood; and the river runs towards the sea.

No one is hanged from the tree now, the scar
of the past is almost healed, not since colour TV
came it offers more distraction, the condemned
is given a lethal injection, which offers no drama
of torchlight, lynching and the stench of fear.

a Relic

A Relic.

The big boulder in the field speaks, it’s a sandstone and
has many holes, made by million of years of rain drops.
A funny old stone looks like a molar, big people used to
live here and dinosaurs were their domestic animals, like
cows and sheep are today.

I digress it is a stone and it has an echo when the wind
blows, sounds quite eerie, but I don’t think it has anything
deep to say other than it has been at the bottom of an
ancient sea and now is a common boulder in a field, so what
advice could it possible give other than time erases
everything, even names on tombs; that nothing matters and
life is incidental, who wants to know that?

So it is quite useless as a stone of wisdom, but come spring
when roses grow through its holes you would say it looked
magic and that, by itself, was an important message to be
given away for free; if it hasn’t been bought and moved into
a theme park by then.

Haiku and Tanka

Haiku

Hear rain fall
On an old slate roof
Beautiful music



Tanka.

Timeless we are
The fertile green field and I
Entwined we’ll sleep
Till rain awakes us again
And winter is behind us



Senryu

A brittle glass star
Fell off a christmas tree
And night descended




Tanka

No electricity
Night’s fearful, has no street light
Wants to come in
I have lit many candles
I’m, the master of the world.

Lost Causes

Lost Causes.

The ridge, where the land I see ends, is black
today yet illuminated by flashes of lightning
It didn’t take long for the lightning to strike
our village, plus Homeric thunder and much
rain and the ridge disappear in a miasma of
whirling, dervish dancing clouds.

The ridge is a foal point it is from there first
light comes at dawn and the promises of
a new day begins, behind lies a place called
Spain, a massive country, it will take weeks
to cross its plain, not I’m going there; I haven’t
got a horse and there are no windmills left

After Rain

After Rain

There is no summer heat left, in the valley,
It rolled up its long skirt to the hips, fled
Just as dark clouds appeared at the ridge.

The soil opened up, to an almost unseemly
Display, and received the rain, not as a shy
Bride, but as a lusty wench of forty-five.

Passion spent, it was a thunderous night,
The vale is at ease, moist are leaves and
In the gentle air there is a hint of a smile;

Liverpool Mon Amour

Liverpool Mon Amour,

A couple from the social services are coming to asses my
need, I took out my teeth and hid poetry books and TLS
under my bed, wouldn’t like to intimidate them; gave my
bottles wine to my neighbour for safekeeping, he has been
a member of AA for 25 years; he also kept the book how
to have sex after 70. They will patronize me rotten, but all
the while look for hidden wealth, tell me to wear overcoat
when watching TV, till they see I haven’t got one. Dismay,
TV is invented to keep the poor, old and unemployed in
their place, without telly revolt would have spread from
a cake making factory in Knowsly till covering the world
now that we are a global economy, if it hadn’t been for
Coronation Street. Bet they are going to give me a new one
and “The Echo” will come take a picture. I have to sell it
all I wanted was help to pay my gas bill.

the great democracy

The Great Democracy.

Surge removes the sand, underneath though,
bare, stubborn, knife sharp rocks no surge can
remove; it’s here a nation bleed to death.

Hapless, the commander his reputation torn to
shreds, history will not remember him well,
golden stars fade in morning light.

He followed orders, issued by a dunce who is,
the product of 200 years of democracy based
on money and gross misinformation

Animal Imitator

Animal Imitator.

Finn, the Norwegian farm boy, was good at
Imitating the mooing of cows, did it so well
That the heavy uddered stopped grazing and
Mooed back.

Finn was a cleaver boy studied well became
A diploma engineer and moved into town.
At a party, years later, Finn, now a man with
Silver hair and Armani suit, mentioned his
Prowess as a cow mooing imitator and was
Asked to do it again; applause and laughter,
Yes he still had the gift, said those who had
Heard a cow moo, and those who hadn’t
Smiled and applauded too.

Towards dawn many taxis where called none
Came, the party walked outside to discover
Why, and found the street totally blocked by
Five hundred cows

Allegorical

Allegorical


They were there, in the street, my wife and her best
friend, an ugly woman of thirty five, she had one
big, red eye and one eye, small and dull, the red
one was lit up as a lantern that absorbed all sifting
and cataloguing the seen for further use.

She wore shorts her body was dough like and she
had no breasts, I didn’t want to kiss her, but since
she was my wife’s best friend and I live in a country
where people kiss a lot, I had to; but her eye had
seen my reluctance and it glowed malevolently

Lunch, I suggested her friend ought to wear a blouse,
but no, her friend had spent twenty years in a damp
dungeon and needed sun. Phone rang I had to leave,
as the red eye drilled holes of dishonour in my mind
I fell down a manhole I was unable to crawl out of.

Tanka

Tanka.

Easy days in September
Rabbits have had their off springs
Will they survive man?
Rabbits are on the menu
Shot gun pellet broke my tooth

the last kiss

The Last Kiss.

I sit here and do little, but I’m not a veterinary,
they have offered me a new body, but since
it is as old as my own, I said no; shuddering to
think were it has been with its hands.

They offered me a young brain, but I had to take
the whole head, to wake up in the morning with
with someone else’s memory and an unlived face
isn’t what an old man should suffer.

So I stumble about chew tobacco and spit brown
this so no one will notice that my phlegm is
bloody, no need to worry my wife and, anyway,
It’s over ten years since last we kissed.

familçiarity breeds contempt

Familiarity breeds contempt

They have lamplight here in this street were few people
walk after five, safe for the man who has to take his dog
for a walk, the dog knows the man has too and enjoys
this brief sense power, pull on its lead forcing the man
to walk faster then his heart likes.

A plastic seat under a lamp, I’m so very tired, have been
walking for forty years. I when my wife died, she didn’t
live long- no children- there weren’t anything to keep me
at home. After some time some I noticed a man following
me he had nothing else to do and latched on to me.

A plastic chair, you could think that after all this years I
deserve something better than a sweaty backside on
a chair made of oil shit. “I’ve nowhere to sit,” said the man
who made it his life worth to follow me around. I didn’t
answer for the simple reason, I couldn’t care less.

“For forty years I have been coming here and hoped
that something dramatic would happen like you would fall
under a bus.” “No such luck I’m your annoying brother
and I always do the right thing only crossing the road at
Zebra crossings.

There was a speeding truck noisy brakes, I didn’t look back.
I sit on a plastic chair under a street light and read lines from
a play I wrote forty years ago, my bum aches, have called
my brother cell phone there is no answer

Luciano pavarotti

Luciano Pavarotti

The twilight sun is white looks as torch with a faulty
battery; the late summer heat is passionless and tired,
the sun scares the old people a bad sign, they will say.
Pavarotti died at dawn, cancer. his heart too gregarious
for a coronary. To day my brother has been dead for
forty years, he liked to go fishing in his boat, took me
along when not out with his many mates. It is good to
wake up at dawn and be handed a clean sheet of white
paper to write on and with a pen dipped in the ink of
memories. Alzheimer is a terrible illness it erases all
what makes us human. I will write no more, but go into
the next room and listen to Pavarotti, I will have to go
to his birthplace Medina, Italy, one day.

Mother Teresa

Mother Teresa


When the nun prayed to god she got silence she wanted
a sign that her faith was not in vain; the stillness was
intolerable, she cast herself into work amongst the poor
and tired only slept four hours a night, and yet there was
a rumbling hush, and she knew there was no god, yet
continued her work as she could not leave the order and
denounce god, so she died waiting for his sign.

I do understand prayed once and silence dripped as tears
from the beams, was that a sign my baffled brain asked?
No reply. To believe in nothing is a creed, as nothing
rooms a world of denial and new possibilities, but to have
no faith is to invite melancholy into your home, you know,
as knife’s sharp slash in your heart, death is forever, there
is no memory of beauty and you will not hear the silence.

Baghdad isn't here

Baghdad, Isn’t Here.

The rhododendron loses its petal, it is September
the twilight is sepia soon it will be dark, sparrows
that live in the bush are flying in, and argue before
settling down. Dogs that have been sleeping all day
are alert now waiting to be fed, the night before they
worked as a team and chased a starving dog out of
the village, nothing a mere human can do about that
unless he wants another dog, but beware, before you
know it there are five hungry dogs fighting their way
to your door. Dogs that live amongst us may not love
us as much as we think, they will, however, defend
their food source to the end. It is dark now, the waning
moon casts a pale light, a mild breeze exhales easily
and it is a good time to be alive.

the sloop

The Sloop

In the bay a single-mast sailing vessel, a sloop, rigged
fore and aft, was anchored near the shore, I swam over
and was met by a couple in their forties who had spent
time and money doing the old ship up. The idea was to
sail along the coast delivering cargo, cheaper than by
trucks and her hold was quite roomy. I didn’t tell them
that most cargo now was in containers and that a sloop
needed her deck clear of clutter. They wanted one more
crew member, kindly offered me a job, knew they didn’t
mean it; I had gladdened them by admiring their ship.
“Too old to climb the rigs,” I said, but offered to cook,
they smiled at that. Restless night I was the captain of
a sloop bound for Buenos Aires, the great city looked
just as I remembered last time I was there… in 1964.

epigram

Epigram.

If we had a true, informative democracy and
Yet only the pretty faced and incompetent
Were elected; wouldn’t we think twice about
The soundness of plebian voters, capability?

the Losers

The Losers.

they have been silenced,
you no longer hear
the voices of Iraq’s women;

before the liberators came they were
free to get a good education and
wear modern dresses;

now, after freedom from
tyranny, it’s back to the burka,
headscarf and the veil.

Do not mention the war

Do Not Mention the War

I had promised myself not to write about the war
in Iraq, my voice is weak and goes unheard, but it
pleases me to read that 500 British troops have
left Basra and gone to the air station out of town;
soon they will have gone for good…Bon voyage.
Not the American troops though, they will have to
stay a little longer and bleed more. Let the parents
of dead soldiers believe their sons died defending
their country, they are poor and need this illusion.
Why should we insist on telling the truth that their
loved ones died for vainglorious men who thought
they could rule the world unopposed

the consequence

The consequance

A legionnaire,
in Chad,
is angry at
the sun
it has
followed
him
for weeks,
cocks his
rifle,
shoots
the burning
rock,
bits fall off
there are
forest
fires
in France...

amsterdam spring

Amsterdam Spring.

Morning in a bar, cleaned windows
New sets of curtains, shiny mirrors,
Cigarette smoke has dissipated.

Perfumed air, gleaming toilet, smells
Of bleach; jukebox is blissfully off
And the baseball bat is unemployed

sunryu

Senryu

Explosive silence
After the bomb has gone off
Before people scream


Senryu

Watery stillness
A lake mirror the dawn sky
As a lone man drowns


Senryu

Soundless dust settles
On a man who fell from sky
Broken wings of wax

The Tall Tree

It had been raining for weeks the track to my cabin muddy,
one day I sank down in it to the armpit, couldn’t get up too
slippery. Must have fallen asleep when I awoke my arms
were boughs, fingers twigs with leaves and I was covered in
a protective bark; in my crown birds sat and sang. I grew tall
and slender, people came from afar to look at me for once
I was noticed. One day to my alarm I saw they were building
a four lane motorway in the next valley, it was aiming straight
at me, unstoppable thousands of trees were brutally cut down
to give way to a river of concrete. Unbeknown to me,
I had been made into a national treasure so the road had to make a detour
Hundred yards from me it runs, very fast full of metallic junk,
bloody noise if you ask me, but in time the road will fall into
disuse and sink into the soil and I’ll get my peace.

sonnet to moonrays

Sonnet to Moon Rays

Dug a hole in unwilling soil to bury my
dog when I hit upon a round ten kilo stone.
It rolled around on the grass like a cow let
out of the shed in spring, then came to rest
in the sun. Free at last after a thousand year
in darkness. Too light for it size I thought,
and was right, when moon came, the stone
loosened into individual strands of silvery
rays that jubilantly flew up and joined their
mother… La Luna. Lost in a sudden storm
when time was new, before seasons became
a norm. Glad to have been of help I thought
of my dog she hadn’t died in vain, yet I had
a sleepless night fearing my own demise.

Senryu

Senryu

In the night
Snow flakes fell into the sea
How useless is that?

the happy ending

The Happy Ending

At the funereal, open casket, he noticed the dead man
had an expensive diamond ring on his middle finger;
the same night, before the earth had settled into hard
labour he, lets call him Harry, dug open the grave,
stole the ring, as he didn’t bother to fill in the grave
again the story was in the papers next day, apparently
the ring was fake. An unlucky man walked to the end
of the pier, where the sea is dark and shadows of fear
dance; flung the ring into its depth; plop, as a fleeting
hush cast a shroud of silver on the water. Harry, being
tall and bad on his feet, lost his balance fell in the sea
as well, since he couldn’t swim; screamed for help, as
drowning people do, and as always the echo of despair
made the sea cringe. The ring was swallowed by a cod
that was angled by an elderly fisherman, at dawn he sold
it at the fish-market? It was bought by a widow, who,
when gutting the cod, found a diamond ring, it wasn’t
a fake and happy, at last, retired to the Antibes