not a victim

Not a Victim

It is important for me to begin my day by not
feeling guilty or inferior for what happened
when I was a child; abuse, those grasping hands
I should have pulled a way, didn’t -out of fear-
but I also wished to please an adult world.

It is important for me to believe this every day
and not let the past break me down into despair
and hate them, for they are dead and lived a life
of little moral value; but I must be unafraid and
forgive myself for what was done to me.

the politics of the ridiculues

The Politics of the Ridicules


Dear teacher, from Liverpool, going to work in Sudan and
let the children at your school call a teddy bear Muhammad.
Didn’t you know you’re dealing with bigots scouring texts
to find an excuse to say that Europe has insulted them again?

You are amongst people, who are three centuries behind us,
and in no hurry catching up. Odin is the name of my cat, and
that’s also the name of Iceland’s god, I better be careful when
going to Reykjavik on my holiday next year.

senryu

Senryu

Lucky butterfly
It doesn’t look like a gnat
And get whacked.

Gun Culture

Gun Culture.

They teased the young black boy in the school yard,
his older twin sisters went to university and dated
White boys; he had lost street credibility and respect.
“So he bought himself a gun” as the song goes, four
bullets too. Next day at school when one of the boys
taunted him he pulled out his gun and shot him three
times in the chest.

So much blood coming out of the shot boy’s mouth;
so much noise he couldn’t hear, he ran and ran didn’t
know where; into a park where a blizzard of autumn
leaves fell and he was lost in a world of delusion.
“They will respect me, look up to me, I’m their hero,”
he said to the trees, one bullet left he shot himself in
the head, empty gun and end of dreams.

At Anchor

At Anchor


From the hilltop I can see the townscape,
a maze of roof tiles rust red in the sun,
a tank ship has anchored in the bay that is
blue with glitter on. I can see people on her
deck looking towards shore; and they have
dreams they do not share with fellow sailors.

If they get a chance to go ashore they will
find bodegas that serve good red wine and
stronger stuff as well, food is wholesome
and generously served. But they’ll not find
what they came for, windows are shuttered
and no home light illuminates their path.

epitaph

Epitaph

I scratch tiny letters
in the exercise book of the world
You’ll need a magnifying glass to read them…
and yes I know it is vanity,
but also so you can remember me
If you come across my words, say,
when you look up and cloud formations spelling
“worship” with a double “P”, you will sweetly smile
turn to your new friend and say:
“He was a hopeless speller.”

senryu

Senryu

God doesn’t do email
Hand delivered post only
Stamps not needed.

Sleepless in Portugal

Sleepless in Portugal.


Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.

I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.

Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
of shame; his sidekick, a woman, who wears so much
make-up, feign to interview him. Soon it will be morning,
and the talking and pretence on the TV will be forgotten.

europe

New Europe


The white face of Europe is slowly fading away, middleclass
couples have few children; there are exiting careers to follow
in the world of business, media and the glitzy entertainment
industry. Shake their heads, in united dismay, when reading
about a poor woman, from a sink estate, unmarried and with
seven healthy, white children; they reward her with contempt
and without shame let her live in disgraceful poverty.
There was a time when a mother like that was given a medal
called mother of the nation.

When the same couples are mid forties and successful they
miss children and import some, 3, 4 or 5, preferable healthy
ones from Asia or Chad in Africa, shower them with riches
and a superior education. Europe has a new face, a smoother,
darker skinned one, on holiday it can sit longer in the sun
without getting burned.

There are, however, a minority of people who wants
a white European culture, without ever having read a book
other than pamphlets of hate; minds blinded by fear of
the future and with hearts that only know love of kit & kin,
fight desperately against a tide of humanity that will eradicate
them. Will they be reduced to a footnote, in the era of white supremacy, when its history is written?

Encounter

Encounter

Profound tiredness I’m sinking into myself
body gone, weightless now but my mind
sees that sea and sky are one, the aimless
cosmic cloud is a redundant god that has
been alone so long it will see no one.

Mother Teresa tried to talk to It, but failed;
she was very tired when she died. There is
stillness here where there is no night or day
and a forever fading cumulous;

I have great fear, will not sleep before dawn
is here, delivering me another day.

Wick & Candle

Wick and Candle

I woke up in a strange room, couldn’t find my way out
collided with a standard lamp, thought it was an intruder
and wrestled it to the ground. Ice on the living room floor
fell many times till a Chinese lady, dressed in a short,
green shirt and blouse, showed me where the loo was.

When I came out I was very tired I’m a fireman, you see,
and there had been a forest fire, laid down on the ground
and could smell freshly dug earth and noticed, before
falling asleep, white coffins being unloaded from a truck.

Awoke it was morning in the mirror I saw a dead man he
had sot in his face a victim of the fire? I tried to get him
out of there but couldn’t break the mirror; and anyway he
disappeared when I got up from the floor.

“Not your fault, he died of a heart attack,” the Chinese lady
said and with that she climbed back into the picture on
the wall. “Your heart is weak” the cardiologist said,
“Walk an hour a day, you have to let go, someone else has
to extinguish the forest fire.”

still life

Still Life

He sat in a rowboat, in the deep fiord, with
a bottle of vodka, a flask of tea, bacon butty
and an apple. A mild spring day and he was
fishing mackerel; many he hooked too, soon
the boat was quite full of blue, silvery bodies
writhing and painfully dying.

Tea and vodka he drank munched the butty,
ate the apple; lit a cigarette inhaled deeply
and enjoyed his solitude.

Bodily functions never stop, he stood up to
have a pee, slipped on his catch and fell into
the sea; heavy boots he soon sank down to
where the sea is dark and unforgiving; rain
fell on an empty bottle of booze, apple core,
thermos flask and fish that had lost their glow.

the visitor

The Visitor


Sensed his presence, on the terrace, when I turned to look
he disappeared, first I wasn’t sure but when they rang and
said that my old friend had been claimed by cancer.

I don’t know why he came hadn’t seen him for many years,
we used to chase girls, drink a lot and live it up, but he was
claimed by love and got wed; and so did I …five times.

Oddly enough he rang me six month ago when we had
spoken of the old days we didn’t have much else to say and
I was relieved when he hung up

Don’t know what he wanted to tell me, I know one thing,
though, I can never go back to the past, lost the passport
called youth long ago, but I will remember him well.

thew future

The Future

When the last fishing boat docked it had only
a sardine and a haddock and eerily the sea
washed an indifferent shoreline;

the rich moved inland to escape the stench
of rotting seaweed that grew so thick that
one could walk form Calais to Dover in a day;

the poor took over what once were posh villas
but since they had no money for upkeep, houses
sank into ruin and stank as much as the sea did;

and the moneyed class said: look at the poor
we gave the fine housing and they have ruined
it all, their slothfulness is genetic you know;

the sardine and the haddock were preserved in
spirit so future generation could see what filthy
food people, in the old days, ate;

everyone is vegan now, even the poor who have
to do with potatoes that makes them fat, the rich
live on soy beans, cuscus and fried bananas.

more senryu and tanka

Senryu

I’m getting old
I used to think of sex a lot
Now I consider death




Tanka

Sparkly consider this:
At ninety ageing ceases
And it’s good to know
That can you run at ninety
You can do so at hundred

senryu and tanka

Senryu

Epiphany me now
With your enchanted smile
The forever I’ll see.



Tanka

Lucid as the day
Blinding sunlight obscured you
When I could see
The night had devoured you
The time when all is too late



Tanka

Mirror in the hall
Don’t sarcastically laugh
When I walk past
On my way to the kitchen
To eat another strawberry tart



Senryu

Night time lonely
Fear the encroaching stillness
Till you call my name

as the clock ticks

As The Clock Ticks

Shall I resign to old age be a kind elderly man
who sits on a park bench and smile to passers by,
and wait for something, not knowing what it is,
but serenely accept the ending of the script and
not fighting back as brain cells die and my body
is a ruined edifice where the elevator has ceased
and the plumbing is unreliable?

Much time has been fritted away on sugar coated
banalities, sweet tarts and grapes of the reddest
kind; hang on, I’m so wrong, tell myself lies, this
was life, that and bawdy songs agreeing with my
sentiment; my salient friend literary learning is of
little use, hollow pursuit, what matters is human
companionship, the rest is a waste of time

the mislaid

The Mislaid


It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month
does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast
flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call
it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by
my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach.

Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in
her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only
she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day
off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we
went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing.

Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears
strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window
it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday.
The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she
looked vulnerable and forty eight.

filling in the blanks

Filling in the blanks

A spindrift of an abstract screen,
it blinds me I can’t think of words to write down
to break the monotony of whiteness,

Bush’s wet-nurse was a Mexican,
peasant woman, that’s why he likes to hug,
and touch people;

maybe he’s a nice man
who has only seen war movie and think
all wars are like that;

he only wanted to be president
because his father had been one, wanted to prove
that he wasn’t stupid;

but he was hypnotized by an evil neo-com,
and lost the thread of his dream in
blinding spindrift

getting away

Getting Away

I rubbed my eyeballs and
saw a universe of millions of stars,
not unlike the one I see at nights,
only here stars where rainbow coloured baubles
on a stygian background
and void of life;

not even a bambi or a lion cub crossing
this firmament of endless night,
and soon it will be christmas,
baubles, coloured light and worried faces
everywhere, except for the grinning shadow
that brings winter wind.

knowledge

Knowledge.

“Listen to him he has long experience,” be careful
do not heed the old man’s words his experience is
based on a time gone by, his mind lags far behind.

Be free to make your own mistake, but do listen to
your inner voice it isn’t god’s, as some will say, but
your own voice of quiet reasons

If you do this I cannot promise, you’ll be man, and
why should you if you’re a woman; I have nothing
to give you except a smile of encouragement.

The kismet

The Kismet

Eerie, heaven has sunk, roof on houses have
disappeared, as has freedom of disagreement,
“anti” is stamped on the forehead on those who
dare question the righteousness of the mighty.

It doesn’t matter now though, silent and without
mercy the heaven presses us into the soil, it is
useless to scream; on the other hand if we look
up, we may angles be, or failing that; tiny stars.

Mist clouds drift passed my window, looks in
with a communal eye, seek revenge for the tree
I vandalized; and there will be no peace before
we get it: “nature will heal itself without us!”

Another yule

Another Yule


“Jingle bells”- “I’m dreaming of…” waft endlessly through
The supermarket and will do so for weeks; christmas is here
This time of banalities and forced goodwill, I only came here
To buy a pound of potatoes and was wished a happy Sunday
By a check-out girl dressed in a smart santa outfit and a smile
That didn’t reach her tired, soft bambi eyes; she was dying
For a break, a cup of coffee, and a quick drag of a cigarette.

There were beddings for sale at greatly reduced prices, but
Who wants a double-bed flannel sheet for Christmas? Mind,
It could be used to wrap around the baby in the arms of
The young gypsy woman breast feeding her child and begging
At the door of this Aladdin’s cave; this grand daughter of
Holocaust survivors, who never exploited their suffering; and
No remorse, no collective guilt ever sanctified them.

Slaves

Slaves

Wish I were an owner of a couple of slaves,
they can do the work in the house and paint
outside as well; I have to feed them, of course,
rancid butter and stale bread; they can sleep
on a mat in the garage, and if they get a cold
I’ll be kind and give them an aspirin.

I have a wife, who does of the housework,
but she isn’t reliable, often I have to do my
own ironing and washing up after dinner;
to get something done I have to kiss cuddle
and flatter her, my god she even wants me
to make love to once a week!

With poverty around there will be many,
hungry enough to work as slaves, perhaps
they are people who show initiative don’t
hang around, hands in pockets, demanding
handouts from the state, or beg outside
supermarkets and at the railway station.

the song of autumn

The song of Autumn.


By the dried up lake a once blue painted rowing boat
lays on it side like an animal that has died of thirst and
rots under an abusive sun.

I drove across it on my scooter a trail of dust behind me,
had the lake been full I might have drowned and found
years later by amateur divers on a Sunday outing. .

“These bones are not from here they belong to one who
lived in the cold north” the coroner will weightily say,
look at his watch, lunch time, and close the case

There is whisper in the room “time for you to go home.”
Yes I will when spring comes around, I’ll drive across
Europe on my scooter, and admire the new EU wonder.

This will take long as I would like to see Rome again,
so the winter just might get north again before me (it has
a shorter way.) Think I will stay in my valley for… now.

There is, in a village called Benafim, a sunlit cemetery
on all saint’s day women put flowers on every grave;
a lovely place of peace, sotto voce and Nirvana’s wonder.

no fear of flying

No fear of Flying

Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.

Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on

Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.

My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.

no fear of flying

No fear of Flying

Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.

Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on

Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.

My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.

precipitation

Precipitation


Rain, but I couldn’t get out brother had the raincoat
it was made of plastic and big as a tent: often walked
around in it when it wasn’t raining, it made me feel
heroic, also I had tuberculosis and must avoid getting
wet, mother had coupons to buy creamy milk and white
bread just for me; brother was jealous, I refused to share
with me, said I was weak and would soon die and then
he would eat my bread and drink my milk; I cried.
Yet a couple from the council came, mother packed
a suitcase and off to a sanatorium I went. Two years is
a long time when coming back home I noticed how poor
we were, there was free milk and bread for everyone,
but brother wasn’t there he had gone to sea as a deck boy,
he had sent her a letter from Aruba, and later a postcard
from New York, I wanted to join the merchant navy too,
but had to drink more milk first.

a cold day

A Cold Day

The new day was cold frost on windows, pavements
were ice rinks, an old lady dressed in black fell flat,
couldn’t get up, she looked as a back fly that had lost
its wings. Ashen sky the sun just had strength enough
to give light and the old woman had a nosebleed that
she dried off with the whitest hankie I had ever seen
and when she thanked me for helping her up, I went
all shy and knew I had met nobility.

Good day for school though, the classroom was warm,
icy fingers ached when warming up again. Men from
the council came, a truck full of salt strewn on ice
making it into brine which wasn’t much fun for us
children. From the classroom big window I could see
the blue mountain it had snow on top and I wondered
if there were palms and an atoll, on the cobalt wonders
other side and how to get there

fontana Della Api

Fontana Della Api
(The fountain of Bees)



At the corner of Piazza Barberini and Via Vittorio Veneto
I stood waiting for someone who did show up, it was
a warm September day, it had rained in the morning making
the air aromatic, but sensed I had fallen from grace, it was
time to leave Rome.

A horse, whose owner had gone into a bar for a fried sardine
and a glass red of wine came, pulling a cart, to drink water
off the well, when it had had enough I tried to let it drink some
more as it might be hours before it got another drink of water,
but the horse stubbornly refused, ate my flowers instead;
I led the horse back to the bar, but now it was facing the other
way, would the owner notice?

The horse didn’t know nor did I before reading about it in
a guide book that the fountain had been transferred from
the Via Sistina in 1644 (the book didn’t say why) and again
old Bernini had had a hand in its design

Fontana Sulle Piazza

Fontana Sulle Piazza
(Fountain in a square)


At the edge of Piazza di Campo dei Fiori there was
a fruit stall in august 1961, perhaps it is still there.
I bought a banana and a couple of tomatoes and sat
by the cooling sound of the late renaissance spring
eating the fruit, which where I came from was only
available at Christmas. Formed as a soup terrine
the fountain had plenty of water and I made mental
note that if the evening was too hot I could go have
a dip there when the piazza was empty of people; as
for now a naked man who isn’t a statue would cause
some disquiet. I carried the tomatoes in a paper bag
the rest the day and most of the night, forgot them at
Fonte del Tritone at the Piazza Barberini 1637 (where
I cooled off in its water, but modestly fully dressed)
A triton supported by dolphins symbolizing harmony
and proclaiming Barberinis’s fame, but yet again old
Bernini had constructed the fountain.

Fontana Del Nettuno

Fontana Del Nettuno
The fountain of Neptune


At the northern end of the Plaza Navona, Neptune
is fighting an octopus, his white sea-horse has flaring
nostrils and is ready to jump onto the plaza, this
muscular drama is unnoticed by the boy who has
jumped into the spring to pick up something floating
there, his mother calls him back he has a new shirt on,
like a boy should worry about that.

I met Neptune once on a winter beach in the Algarve,
waist deep in water he stood, old and cold while
mermaids sat on stones knitting him a pullover made
of seaweed and since he was hard of hearing made,
fun of his enormous belly.

The plaza is full of local people, this Sunday afternoon
a warm July afternoon 1961; ancestors of Antonio Della
Bitta and Gregorio Zappalà who made the sculptures
way back in 1590.

Fontana Nelle Via Romana

Fontana Nelle Via Romana

There is a fountain in the Via del Babuino,
guarded by a naked stone-man so old now
that his face is disappearing by the dust of
time; you can see he’s mad and ignored by
the women who come hear to get buckets
of soft water for washing their hair.

The stone-man has to endure this ignominy,
but his consolation is that he will guard
this street fountain after the women have
gone to their graves, what’s left of them is
an image on a photo in a black frame, thrown
into a worm eaten chest on the attic.

Fontana Della Galera

Fontana Della Galera
(Fountain of the galleon)


If I were a child and it was June 1961 I would have
enjoyed to have been captain of the galleon fountain,
near the Bramante’s stairs in the Vatican’s garden;
in my swimming trunk I would lead sailors into battle,
and strike an Errol Flynn pose.

Have the pope come to the window, dressed in white,
look down and wave, I would feel sorry for him ask
a guard if the pope can come down and be my mate,
he looked so lonely up there in the window. The guard
will tell a priest, there are many of them around,
the prelate will find this funny and tell the pope who
will come to the window, bless me and regret that he
never married and became a café owner in Berlin.

But I would not know or care to know that the fountain
was made in the 17th century, by Maderna, of whom
I know little, but I think he also was the chap who made
the Bramante’s stairs. If I go there now they will not
let me in as they would have done, the summer of 1961.

La Barccaia "The fountain of the boat"

La Barcaccia
“The fountain of the Boat”


A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.

It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human

The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things

A sunday Moment

A Sunday Moment

A large white butterfly with round markings,
like eyes, on its wings, will that be enough to
keep predatory sparrows at bay? It sat on
a rhododendron twig looking pretty amongst
wine red flowers. November, this butterfly
really has no business being here even though
the day is warm as a day in May; I ought to
catch it with my wife’s hairnet stick a needle
through it tiny heart and display it in a glass
on the mantelpiece where it will look sad, out
of place and remind me of my own mortality.
My, butterfly blessed you are not looking like
a common fly or worst of all a cockroach;
so fly off now before the sparrows see you

The autumnal

The Autumnal.

The trees, in the park, that bears lilac flowers and look
pretty in summers, are shedding their ochre leaves.
It is November but summer is still clinging on, a losing
battle, shakily pale in the morning, gather strength and
throw masculine heat about at noon, but pales after three
blending in with autumnal evensong.

I picked up a handful of leaves they felt soft and rich by
the touch, should I take some home, better not they will
end up on my bookshelf, curl up dry and die; reminding
me of years spent on iron decks in the company of men
who spoke of nothing but the last whore they had had in
some harbour hotel.

And I had stayed away from family and friends so long
that when I came home there was no one left, I was alone
walking in streets that resented my company.

Perpetual Question

The Perpetual Question.

I journeyed through the night wanted to go back to the past and ask my first love a question that had dwelled, if not festered, on my mind for forty years. She was in her sister’s house and looked at me as she didn’t remember, so I introduced myself. “I know who you are, she said,” “but aren’t you a bit old to be traveling so far?” “For you I will journey as long as it takes, I came to ask you a question did you once love me?” Before she could answer her father came in, looking like Prince Philip, and the pair of them left arm in arm. Her brother in law, who wrote about astrology- a friendly man- promised me a great future, this to assuage my distress.

I walked out of the town and came upon a agricultural landscape with fields after fields of carrots, salads, potatoes, broccoli and cabbage, the farmer, it belonged to, told me he once had a herd of 120 prime milking cows, but had turned vegetarian because of mans cruelty to animals, he had had them slaughtered and put in a mass grave where
a carpet of soft greenness grew, grazed by no one, but happy bunnies.

I met my beloved again, in a bar, she was in a better mood and alone; I was about to ask her my perennial question; when a small, blond woman came between us and said “I have loved you all my life, but you don’t even know where I live!” Ignored her turned to my first love again, but her face was in deep shadows, she was fading fast; I concentrated hard, but couldn’t bring her back, but I knew the answer and it saddened me greatly.

The bus driving back to my own time was leaving, the little blond woman came with me, but as we journeyed she got older and older, when we arrived she was so ancient and couldn’t get off the bus.
The driver, a man with kind eyes and philosophical beard, whom
I had seen in many disguises before, promised to drive her back wench she came. I had no ring to give her, gave her a shiny euro
coin. When she looks at the coin and wonder where it came from
she will realize that I never loved her. She will sigh deeply; perhaps even blubber into her hankie and marry someone else.

Inquisitive

Inquisitive Neighbour


The couple, who have moved into the yellow house by the river
that has been running dry for the last two year, are not young,
late middle age if you ask me, which you will not do as you
don’t know me, because I’m the man, hidden behind a great oak
at the edge of the forest, that is big as I have been relieving myself
up against it for over twenty years, but if they are married they
have not been so very long as the keep kissing
and cuddling a lot when painting the house inside,
I only know this because they have
no curtains yet. She, a widow and he a widower who met at
a dance (I’m guessing here) for lonely people, their love was met
with disapproval by their adult children who tend to think they
know what is best for their parents, so they left snow, frost and cold hearts, came to the Algarve. Yet they are prisoners of their past, in time their children will come, there will problem their offspring will be waiting for signs of weakness, forgetfulness a slurring of words any excuse to send them to an old folks home. But as for now they
are blissfully happy, but I do wish they will buy curtains, or paint the house’s façade ochre.

Trees on a hill

Trees on a hill

The pair of hugging trees
looks like lovers, but they resent
each others presence;

meager soil, not much nourishment
around, nature doesn’t take any
prisoners… (off with their heads)

lately though, one looks healthier
than the other, it is winning this battle
of survival,

but will hold a dead body in its
muscular embrace, till the man with
the chainsaw does his rounds;

usually in winter when trees are
shivering and the foul smell of log fire
drifts their way

mysterious is Love

Mysterious is Love.


At the supermarket today I fell in love again. I was standing
there, by the frozen fish, when I looked up and saw her by
the fruit section, weighing a bunch of bananas in her hands;
she sent me a brilliant smiled and I fell instantly in love with
my own image. I thought of Josephine Baker, the famous
dancer, and the mysterious triangle in the Caribbean where
ships and planes suddenly disappears and never seen again.

To be sure her smiled was meant for me, I turned and looked
behind me; a row of milks, on cooling shelves, strawberry,
banana, chocolate, vanilla, melon, apple, blueberry and,
ordinary white milk, a rainbow coalition of milks, all from
the same cud chewing ruminant. Looked back at her, she was
moving away from me, picking up a bottle of washing up liquid;
now an ordinary housewife in need of a perm.

thirsty cars

Thirsty Cars

Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.

Tanka

Tanka.

Painted the floor green
Sit in a corner and wait
Quick drying paint
Four hour it says on the can
Where I sit it’s a life time.

forgetfulness

Forgetfulness.

I have to remember the sentence that just came
floating into my head, I’ll write it down as soon
as I get home, I’ll repeat it a few times, that helps.
Look at that crazy driver! No wonder there are so
many accidents on the roads; I have forgotten
the shopping list. Damn, now I have forgotten that
sentence too. Must remember to have pen and
paper with me at all time, that’s no good you can’t
drive and write at the same time. Totally blank,
just gone, all I can recall is that was the first line
of a four line epigram

Senryu

Senryu (Valley)

But for the beach
My valley would have been
A deep inland sea

,,,,,,,,

But for the mountain
My valley would have been
A cacti landscape

……

But for the widow
My valley would have been
A place of bliss

,,,,,

But for the old king
I hide in a vale of shame
As his bastard son

The longest Fall

The Long Fall

This Indian summer keeps rolling along as
rivers run dry, nature licks morning dew and
asks: “What has happened to the rain of fall?

Autumn without precipitation, the old can
recall that it has occurred before, had it been
a first, we should rightly be deeply worried.

Rhododendron have red flowers, sky is blue
with fluffy, grazing lambs on, but I do ask:
“Where have the frogs in the dry pond gone?

Suave is the breeze that blows across the lane,
too urbane to play with dust; it effete strokes
my face, and tells me not to fear the morrow.

The Long farewell

The Long Farewell

We had only met a few days ago, and were in love, had
plans but first she had to go see her father who lived in
another town. At the railways station we kissed again,
she entered the carriage and found a window seat; and
we were waving farewells. Only the train didn’t leave
and our smiles became fixed, one cannot stay there all
day waving. Her eyes strayed to a magazine on her lap,
I took an interest in passers by, but every so often I had
to look up, smile and mouth; “I Love You.” Finally, to
our great relief, the whistle blew, steam engine hissed
and I waved till I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore

prince oskar

Prince Oskar


I sat in a smallish café, near the harbour, when two
flunkies came in followed by the queen of Denmark,
who headed straight for the loo; the pair in suits was
guarding the door. When her majesty came back out
she saw me and came over; I kissed her hand it smelt
of the soap for the masses, but when mingling with
her expensive perfume, gave it a brief exclusive air.

We had coffee and spoke of the old days, but a whisper
had blown through the street, people had become aware
of her presence, time for her to leave. When I had read
my papers and asked for the bill, the manager wouldn’t
hear of it, “a friend of the queen it was a great privilege
to have me.” I didn’t tell him I’m Denmark’s best kept
secret, a product of her father’s youthful indiscretion.

after the meeting

After the Meeting (resentment)


At the AA meeting, my dog, I had taken her with me as support.
looked around and went over to a tall, elegant man with a wave
of white hair and refined air (I’ve none) and sat there looking up
to him adorningly. On the way home I told her to sit in the back,
this confused her as she usually curls up on the seat beside me.
There was an awkward silence; her ears were up, knew something
was wrong: “So you think I’m bald; let me tell you this; that man
is a doctor and kill people when he’s drunk and perform heart
surgery ” Not addressing the dog directly, but I said no more as
I sounded ridiculous. Back home I drank vodka, with cola light
and ice, the dog had to sleep in outside, on the terrace.

Sernryu (ageing)

Senryu (ageing)

Over seventy seven
I count the days left of life
Forsaken by love.


Old men’s last boast
Telling all how old they are
Words of brave despair


They call me Tom here.
People used to call me Sir
Then I got old

Tanka (rejection

Tanka (Rejection)

Thanks for your poems,
Sorry, we cannot use them
Wish you luck elsewhere,
Even though we strongly doubt it
No one can be that crazy

Tanka

Tanka

The storm had abated
Dark night, no electricity
Heard rattle outside
Reached for my teeth and torch
By the door fall leaves huddled

another epigram

Existentialistic Epigram

On the kitchen table a yellow honey melon,
It struck me if I suddenly died, an elliptical
Fruit would be the last thing I saw; so I cut
It in half removed the pips and ate it.