sex for an old man

Sex for an old Man


They are coming nearer those dancing bony old women
who look nice in a Dior dress, but naked has skin that
wraps around them like an old stocking, they have no
tits and could be mistaken for skinny old men who have
had their penises removed. They are coming closer stale
perfume hides not their urinal smell, back against the wall
I have no where to run; “You are as old as us, we are your
only choice for sex, so come lick our cunts, fuck us you
can’t, not with your slack cock, they chant and laugh
loudly to the sound of their own vulgarity. I close my eyes
when I open them again they are transformed into some
obese women, fat as pregnant pigs, with buffalo hides and
udders bigger than prize cows; they too laugh and taunts
my lack of prowess and it strikes me that heroic is an old
man who can fuck an old woman or perhaps it is because
he’s blind and suffers from senility?

the gorge

The Gorge

In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; “I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence

the gorge

The Gorge

In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence

I nearly met a poet once

I nearly met a poet once.


No I can’t swim, there are no swimming pools
where I live and the coast is so far away.
I’m watching a program about a Portuguese
poet, she came from a rich family, had homes
dotted about the landscape, she loved the sea and
wrote many poems about the oceans

I used to work on the seas, on ships, as a cook,
I write about the seas too, but from a different
perspective and they, my poems are naturally
less romantic; about seeking beauty where love
is a commodity, seeing pain in eyes of those who
must wear a smile while being degraded.

She wrote about Greece her language and Gods,
I wrote about Athens, whore houses, booze and
eternal shame, but I do know of the odd moment
when eyes met in a bar understanding each others
quest for truth and beauty and knew I would win
through, one day.

senryu

Senryu

When one talks
Another must listen
Let it not be me

disheartened

Disheartened


The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms, and who says grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.

The Eyes Have It

The “Eyes” Have It

There are many summers, but we only get one
to remember, the rest ends up in a blur.
This particular one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a nice little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom
the salt sea. Late September still summer though,
but the window in her cottage was shut, knocked
on her door, a neighbour came, said she had gone
to abroad with her old boyfriend who was Danish.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.

Daybreak brought a chill in the air, dark clouds
congregated and it rained. Many years later I was
served in a bar in Copenhagen by an old woman
carrying too much make up on her warn face, but
those eyes, a memory stirred. Her hand shook when
pouring beer into my glass, yes I know all those
long nights, she didn’t look at me and swiftly left
through the back door and a younger woman took
her place. I left soon after, outside I looked up and
saw the curtain on the first floor move; those eyes
I had seen them before, but refused to remember.

tanka

Tanka

We’ve two TV’s
When we had one, we fought
Almost divorced
Now she watches the football
While I watch Brazilian soaps

tanka

Tanka


I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery

winter night

Winter Night


When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode

Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.

A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned

the future is a dream

The Future Is a Dream

I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.

The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.

I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.

A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.

In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.

Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea

fun wall

Fun-Wall.


It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.

I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left

an old fool

An Old Fool


At fifty two he looked remarkable young; that, he told
everyone who asked, was because he had never been
in love and spared debilitating heartache…silly remark.
So he fell brutally in love with a woman half his age,
never knew that love making could be that wonderful,
but than he experience, in this matter, was limited to
massage parlours. He bought her costly sweets and frilly
knickers, diamonds too, she was his queen a slight tiff,
he couldn’t sleep called her in the middle of the night
and begged forgiveness.

Then suddenly her door was shut, he knocked and rang,
stood outside her house all night, in the rain, but she had
fallen in love with someone else; yes, it was October.
He thought of castles in the sky, blankets on the ground,
yes Willy Nelson understood his woos. Went to bed and
stayed there till spring came and a neighbour gave him
a puppy dog. Bad on his feet, gout, showing his age, yet
he walks for miles with his mute. If asked if he would
have wished not to have fallen in love; he will, I think,
shake his head, look soulful, and walk on

Tasers

The New Weapon


Taser him, taser everyone out there
who looks different from the norm
or answer back. Taser, them to they
wet themselves and taste dirt.

Taser all those who looks aggressive
and has an opinion unlike yours,
we, the men in blue, are in charge;
a taser leaves no mark

double Tanaka

Double Tanka

we train a canine
not to follow its instinct
and sink its teeth
a postman’s tempting behind
but wag a tail for peace

but we do train man
to follow his deep instinct
to fight and to kill
and he needs no excuse
if his foe has a long nose

tanak Christmas thought

Tanka (Christmas Thought)

Poor little children
Mortality amongst them
In free Iraq
Is thirty percent higher now
Then under Saddam Hussein

timewell

timeless

When sky and land parted and the sea became
their child, god created man, but since this
happened before time existed it is useless to
speculation whether it took a day, seven or
seventy million years; therefore, evolution is
creation, which must be good to know for
those of religious faith, if meaningless for those
who seek a logic explanation for everything

the slaughter

The Slaughter.


A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.

women of Iraq

Women of Iraq

Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?

After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished

Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.

Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate

The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.

come dancing

Come Dancing

The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.

A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.

no lady

No Lady.

She, the hex with magic charms, stands in a forest’s
clearing and smiles brightly, rich and translucent
white is her body, rosebuds on her breasts; in scented
air, floats multi coloured moons and silver stars.

I’m drawn to her ethereally sensuality, she and I,
and it is much more what pedestrians call love,
a rabbit and a hare, nature’s cowards, warn me not
to approach; but I laugh at their comic alarm.

Just as I’m to touch her, a wild boar butts her bum,
in the air she flies lands on a bush full of religious
thorns; blue flames darts from her mouth, and foul
language stinks of phosphorous in the clearing.

So now we know, she ain’t no lady and heartily
we laugh, the rabbit, hare and I, but not the boar
it didn’t think it was a mirthful matter, humorless
and brave it knows not of fear

tanka

Tanka

On a bail of straw
The newborn child soundly slept
When dawn brought light
To what now is Christmas Day
We had a Saviour.

farwell Marilyn

Farewell Marilyn

Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination

a short visit

A Short Visit

Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s
funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his
place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen
engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer.
I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk,
the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still
my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles
three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him
the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to
remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him
in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see
the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving
harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us
all, never told my brother I loved him

come dancing

Come Dancing

The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.

A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.

women of Iraq

Women of Iraq

Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?

After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished

Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.

Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate

The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.

viva Cuba

Viva Cuba.


Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.

He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.

the theft

The Theft

I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.

Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should

I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .

Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.

tanka

Tanka

I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.


Tanka

Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous



Tanka (x-mass warning)

Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo

a cottage

A Cottage


I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;

no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;

unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;

I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.

peace6 quiet

Peace & Quiet.

Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.

Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.

There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?

Going home

Going Home

The white day was gliding into twilight details
clearer and shadows deeper, traffic lights sharp
green, amber and red and cars that had stopped
gleamed like a pearl necklace.

Ambulance and police sirens, there had been an
accident traffic down to a trickle, a small car
has hit a truck from behind, white sheet over
lady driver, her hand showed she had many rings.

Was she rushing home after seeing her lover?
an affair caused by the boredom of having too
little to do? Or just another middle aged woman
hasting home to make the evening meal?

The pulse of the traffic is quickening, motorway
ahead car lights are on now the accident is
already forgotten, the woman was being careless
not thinking, we are safe and in our metal boxes.

A positive Cristmas story

A positive Christmas story

There had been a long war and peace time was hard
and winters, with its lack of wood to burn, colder
than in the years of war, christmas was looming and
mother had got hold of some rice and margarine,
she made a big pan of rice porridge for the eve night.
And did we eat I thought I was going to burst, mother
was tired after this Herculean effort and went to bed.
I sat near the fire feeling a bit lost, when the doorbell
rang it was Uncle William and Aunt Teresa they had
brought cakes, sweets, presents and a tree with lights
and around the tree we walked around singing carols.
In the end I was so tired that I fell asleep on the sofa.
Mother, being very tired had slept through all this
festivities, she worked long hours at a canning factory
for very little pay, but I told her about it and she was
glad that I had had a great Christmas

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

I love this land for its plentiful sunlight,
long Nordic winter nights depress me
it has a brooding violence within.

I love this land because I do not understand
the language and is not expected to partake
in chit chat (never was a great talker)

I love this land they are so kind, now that
they know my silence is harmless and I need
not perform an act, only smile.

I love my valley, in this land, it’s modest and
has olive and almond tree, long legged sheep
but sadly no donkeys left

Yet as I get older and look like a weathered
sand stone, I long for silent snow that used
to fall every Christmas Eve, up north.

when a spade is a spade

When a spade is a spade.


There are festering sores on the face of Africa murder,
sickness, poverty injustice and excessive vulgarity of
the powerful, but we are so polite will not point our
white fingers and say anything that might cause offence,
but we must and not perversely go on blaming ourselves
for Africa’s many ills, they must walk their own walk
and stop blaming their colonial past for their problems
There is great injustice done to the Palestinians, by Israeli
occupiers who stolen and keep stealing their land, but we
are so polite will not point our goy fingers and not say
anything that might cause offense to those who call
themselves “the chosen people,” but we must, not go on
perversely excusing them in the holy name of holocaust

a viking funreal

A Viking Funereal

My cat, originally called Satan since it was black, but
re-christened to Odin after my wife, who’s from Kinshasa,
objected, I found - on the terrace one afternoon - dead;
some sort of pest I supposed. When my wife came home
it was dark she wasn’t feeling well and went to bed.
I had a good fire going in the hearth and put the cat there;
“I smell burning hair” she hollered from the bedroom.
“Yes dear, I’ve been cleaning the cat’s bed plenty of hair.”
In the morning as I was cleaning the fireplace of ash and
tiny bones, she wondered where the cat was. “Probably eaten
by foxes, many have been seen lately in the vicinity, wildlife
is moving into towns now” I learnedly said. Meow, “so there
you are” she said as Odin, the cat, jumped up and sat on her
lap, purred, looking triumphantly at me.

Christmas poem

Christmas Poem

By shop entrance, in a quiet street, that still emitted
Warmth from a busy day, he stood; he wasn’t cold
The Salvation Army had given him a big coat and
Solid boots; snow had fallen and street lamps lit this
Christmas Eve and there was peace over the land.

He unscrewed the cork of a bottle of strong spirit,
Drank and lit a cigarette, at the hostel there was a bed
Waiting for him and food, but he didn’t want to go
There now, meeting other losers, men who had lost
It all he didn’t want to see ruined lives tonight.

The purity of snow, he drank some more spilt some
On his coat, the glow of his cigarette touch it and
A blue flame began eating into his coat, he struggled
To get it off; spilt more spirit, a human torch. A child
Looked out and wondered what it was.

look again

Senryu

warm was summer
we swam in various rivers,
in a mere once


no man or woman
can win a war on mars
or on a new moon

employment

Employment


At the office by the docks where sailors go to get
a job, wretched people in drab jeans, I went there
dressed as always, in a striped business suit; they
thought I was a captain in need of a crew. I handed
my papers to the man at the desk, he leafed through
them, looked up and said; my man you’re seventy
five.” So what! I’m have been ship cook for fifty
years and can make Irish stew and Danish meatballs.

A whisper flew amongst the harbour dredge, “he’s
only an old cook,” their laughter had no mercy,
I had given the sea scum something to make them
feel less inferior, but only for a moment; till the clerk
said: “but we have a job for you on the Staten Island
ferry, starting tonight; knew it wasn’t true, adjusted
my tie walked out of the office ram rod straight, as
only an old sailor on his last job can do

Noah the seafarer

Noah the Seafarer.


There was an inundation years ago, seas rose up and flooded
the landscape, what used to be valleys became lakes. Why?
I don’t know, only have a degree in domestic science, my ship
this had engine problems just followed the surge and cast
anchor in one of those lakes. I saw villagers clinging to hill
tops waiting for the water to sink; and it did, my ship was sunk
in the mud only her super structure was visible. The crew,
faithless as the oceans, fled to the coast, I didn’t ,
and soon mud greened into grassland. I bought land and sheep,
the bridge of my ship is a roof terrace, a house now but I do
speak of her as she. I know what they say about me around here
that I’m a relic from the sea, a flotsam, let them.
I’m a hill farmer know and don’t miss the sea at all; however,
should there be another floodI’m ready to rescue my sheep and
set sail again