pastr& future

Past & Future

My past is
as vast as
Siberia
frozen most
of the year
and mushy
when
remembering
spring.
My future
is a strip of
land,
the size of
Palestine,
where
someone
has built a wall
hindering it
to expand

meandering afternoon

Meandering Afternoon.


The table, light catches a singular drop of
blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light,
asphalt is grey at night, not black and full of
spilt ale it felt adventurous, curled itself up
and splashed into the landscape where roads
had never before dared to thread. How happy
they were animals and tractors until they
discovered the road ended by a river, too
deep to cross in winters and too stony for
sore hooves in summers. This problem was
overcome when someone found a nugget of
gold and the landscape was full of prospectors
who survived, by eating their mules slowly.

the lily and the rose

The Lily and a Rose
IBN al QUITIYYA (ca1120)
And Jan Oskar Hansen 2007

Taste the wine as you inhale
the fragrance of white lilies,
and at dawn, with a lover, see
the awakening of a rose.

As we suckle the heavens
tits of lilies milk and
rose’s blood we fill our
hearts with love

There are those who prefer
the camphor tree, the queen
of whiteness and the rose
that steals the shade


Idealized whiteness exhibited
by the lily, signify a sad
morning farewell, the paling
of lovers hands.


Or, if preferred, tubular silver
sheaves, embedded in wood,
that in the heat of nights set
fire to the wind

an Indian kiss

An Indian Kiss.

Ravana, the Indian princess, who lives in
a palace just outside Bombay, has invited
me to her sumptuous home; alas, I can not
go, years ago, when in New Delhi, I kissed
a sweet flower lady on both cheeks and was
chased around the city by a mob who threw
sticks and stones, had to wear a false beard
for weeks and just made it across the border
to Moslem Pakistan. A court order to arrest
me, promptly, for lewd behaviour still stand,
so I guess my princess will have to come see
me at my modest cottage, if she wants a kiss
on her rosy cheeks; not at the airport though,
No! Goodness, Gracious Me!

the death of a president

The Death of a President

The first elected president after seventy years
of dictatorship, was a big man, with a flushed
whisky face and a bully too, knew who to get
to the top, but when there he was incompetent
spent much time getting drunk. So the nomen
clatura took charge, created an oligarchy who
robbed the Soviet state and her people; that
many oligarchs are Jewish is purely incidental,
if anyone keeps mentioning their origins, I will
not hesitate to call him/her a sour Anti –Semite.
They are disloyal Russians who grabbed what
they could before fleeing abroad with their
loot. Nationhood is a commodity that can be
purchased and betrayed at the drop of a shekel.

the long voyage

The Long Voyage.

Tropical night on the deck of a tank-ship,
Caribbean Sea, the highest point on earth,
nowhere else are stars so near. Ink waters,
white where it has been crushed by the ship;
and through my feet I sense her heartbeat.
It’s the day that is long for a seafarer, work
routine, and talks in ever decreasing circles,
punctuated by rancorous silence and bitter
thoughts. From time to time the ship shudder
as fearing nights and the unknown destiny,
a storm too many? A slight heave I can feel
it now, restless weather ahead; good, it may
break the ennui that slows a seaman’s mind
into tiny, introverted circles of loneliness.

the guardians

The Guardians


The big supermarket with a bell tower that chimed
at regular hours but not now after midnight, looked
like space ship in a vast car park, and the dog that
lived in field not yet covered in concrete, where one
could find bicycle pumps, if you needed one and
searched long enough, had stopped barking, why it
had done so in the first place not even it knew, it was
now looking for food, as were illegal emigrants,
near the bins, wary of uniformed sentinels who took
it upon themselves to stop the hungry getting food
that was wasted anyway. They, the nocturnal guards,
is capitalism’s triumph, low paid men doing their
dirty deed, spraying bleach on dumped food to stop
the poor from eating it.

timeless zone

Timeless Zones.

The valley where I used to live was timeless
it had no mirrors except for the still water in
the village pond, young milk maids used to
walk into it, waist deep, till the pond showed
them what they wanted to see; back on land
they married one of the men who lurked around
Alas, there were instances when there wasn’t
anyone around, no matter how many times
a poor milkmaid waded into, the often icy,
water, but no one called her spinster, instead
she became the shaman of the vale. Sadly to
say a road was built, they called it progress,
traders came with watches and, mirrors, and
I left searching for another impossible dream.

godlike

Godlike.

When I open the lid of my cistern I bring
Light down into an obscure world if a fish
Look up and see my face it will think I’m
God and pray, when the water level is low
They all pray a lot and don’t bicker as much
They do in time of plenty. I call the farmer
Who has got a borehole and brings a tank
Load of water…rainy season for my fishes.
Time has changed our village is modernized
Get water from the mains, thought of making
The cistern into a bomb shelter, but decided
To keep it as a backup in hot summers, being
God, is a responsible calling for anyone...

The tears

The Tears


Yes, there had been so many deaths first my
siblings, two, than my father and later mother,
I was sad but lived a busy life and had my
home in another land, but it was there a lump
not released, waiting for me to stop running
and face up to my loss. My dog died I buried
her in hard winter soil in the outer field and
deep to protect her from being eaten by foxes
or other dogs, then tears came for all my losses
over years a floodgate had opened thought it
would never stop and she held me in her arms,
till I fell into a deep slumber; in the morning,
cold and clear, I was able to remember them
with love and hear their joyous laughter.

Tanka.

Refuse to call him I,
The man in the hand mirror
Not a flattering sight
I’m much younger then him
And has got more illusions

snow 1954

Snow 1954

Snowy night, streets were covered in a calm,
carpet of white and since it was Sunday morning,
with few cars about, the grubby town looked as
beautiful as a fairy tale; till Monday, when traffic
would churn snow into yellow, dirty slush and
people, in black or drab grey, would have mist
coming out of their mouths as they moaned about
the weather. In the park the snow would last for
days and I could make my foot prints large by
subbing my feet on the ground White contrasting
black trees and pale sky made for stark beauty; in
front of park benches where old men sat, talking
ships, tobacco spittle. Winter 1954, colours only
appeared in comic strips, a few western movies.

summer berries

Summer Berries.

Picked wild strawberries by the wayside,
they were dusty, but filled me with ecstatic
sweetness; my lips were red and swollen.
The milk-maid kissed me smack on my
mouth, pressed her adult body against my
thin frame, chocking me; called me a lovely
boy. Her face was huge, sweaty and so very
near, her eyes had a crazy shine and wide as
troll’s. Strength ebbed I was quivering jelly
overcome by a tickling sensation; happily
a cow mooed, spell broken. I got out of her
embrace and ran a thousand mile, till dawn
came, and a cockerel crewed; I wowed not
to eat wild strawberries ever again

food parcels

Food Parcels

From sandy coloured landscape, that has
patches of green where rivers run in hidden
valleys, women in black burka appear on
the dusty road. A little later a military truck
comes into view and stops, the women chat
eagerly amongst themselves, they have lined
faces, have lived in misery so long that they
are now insult proof. The men in the truck
hand out parcels of sugar, tea, tinned milk
and rice, they dislike this work, think it’s
beneath them, take pathetic reprisal by rudely
shouting at the women, who quickly leave
the road, disappear into a mud walled villages,
unseen from the gravel road and the world

food parcels

Food Parcels

From sandy coloured landscape, that has
patches of green where rivers run in hidden
valleys, women in black burka appear on
the dusty road. A little later a military truck
comes into view and stops, the women chat
eagerly amongst themselves, they have lined
faces, have lived in misery so long that they
are now insult proof. The men in the truck
hand out parcels of sugar, tea, tinned milk
and rice, they dislike this work, think it’s
beneath them, take pathetic reprisal by rudely
shouting at the women, who quickly leave
the road, disappear into a mud walled villages,
unseen from the gravel road and the world

climate

Climate Change

The sky was ice-blue just like my father’s
after shave, the sun was pale looked as
a flashlight with dying batteries. Evening
came early, unseen clouds congregated
and snow fell, big flakes it only took ten
to make a snowball. Next day it continued,
fell so heavy we couldn’t see, but it was
great fun and cars drove with head lights on.
But the snow didn’t cease, for forty days
and forty nights it went on, till our part of
the world was a vast plain with the top of
office blocks sticking up; and silent, but
heard father say: “So this is climate change
I thought it meant palm trees and lagoons.”

climate change

Climate Change

The sky was ice-blue just like my father’s
after shave, the sun was pale looked as
a flashlight with dying batteries. Evening
came early, unseen clouds congregated
and snow fell, big flakes it only took ten
to make a snowball. Next day it continued,
fell so heavy we couldn’t see, but it was
great fun and cars drove with head lights on.
But the snow didn’t cease, for forty days
and forty nights it went on, till our part of
the world was a vast plain with the top of
office blocks sticking up; and silent, but
heard father say: “So this is climate change
I thought it meant palm trees and lagoons.”

the forgotten home

The Forgotten Home


Odd it was to say halloo to a flat that had
been empty for so long, the word dropped
on the floor and lifted dust off carpets,
an audible sigh escaped through the open
door, ten years vigil had come to an end.
Grimy windows, dead flowers on the sill,
spiders had perished in their own webs.
Letters on the floor, yellow now, addressed
to me, too late to open them, only to find
that my hasty departure and long absence
had been misplaced; I’m not Peer Gynt
my Solveig wasn’t the type to hang around
waiting too long. This is my home, journey
is over, I have shelves full of old friends.

El Rocio

El Rocio


It’s hot at the bus station, dust whirls about like
tiny malevolent tornados stinging my eyes, shirt
clings to my back as a tiresome child; my bag is
heavy too, daren’t put it down, contains nothing
much, but its all I have got and a passport giving
me an identity. Have to ask when the bus to
Spain leaves, got to go to El Rocio where I have
a cottage and my dog, waits for me. They say, it
isn’t so, that I’m deluded confusing an old dream
with reality. I know they are mistaken, if I can
get on the right bus, one that doesn’t make u-turns
with a stern voiced driver telling me to get off, I’ll
be alright. I was happy in El Rocio, a woman sang
me lullabies, perhaps she was my mother.

haiku

Haiku

Dark clouds
On August sky
Relief


Haiku

The westerly cloud
Crossing the blue summer sky
Brings cooling shade

the young and the dead

The Young and the Dead.

Blustery day in Virginia snowflakes flew
about, still not enough to make a snowman,
when a deluded student began a killing spree.
Great confusion over-weight and over-armed
police officers took up position behind open
car doors and bushes, till the shooting stopped
and the gunboy had killed himself, famous in
his own mind, and taken 30 youth with him to
the land of sorrowful memories. 31 graves dug
in soil unwilling and unprepared to give space
for young adults filled with longings of love not
yet experienced. Now I wait for the movie with
brave and slim police officers dodging a madman’s
bullets as they storm the citadel.

tanka

Tanka

Deluded boy kills
Thirty two students and staff
In US… Shocking
Car bomb kills hundreds… Iraq.
Yeah, so what is new pussycat?

summer leaves. 2

Summer leaves

The strong June leaves that floated on
the water in the ornamental pond, like
newly launched long ship, have now
submerged to the bottom, the water is
cold and murky. A deep shadow block
the sun from entering and the garden
is silent since a two year old boy tried
to catch a sunray that danced on clear
water on a perfect summer’s day.

gun slinger

The Gun Slinger

“Whose are the eyes, on the table?” “Mine, took
them off to repair the TV, have feel my way inside
it. To steal some ones eyes is a crime and I’ll have
to shoot you with my gun; six bullets- knife sharp-
in its chamber; I have the god given right to wear
arms even have cannon on my lawn to shoot birds
and other minor things that fly in above my house.
Guns don’t kill, man does. John Wayne never killed
anyone, only pretended to, those good old western
movies, the baddies fell like bumbles bees, never
a drop of blood to be seen. I have stopped walking
like a cowboy now since a movie about gay ones
ruined the fun; doesn’t bear thinking of what they
get up to in the bunkhouse or around the camp fire.”

wild beasts

Wild Beasts

Tiger and lions are not pets they look cuddly and
friendly till the day they lash out and kill their
owners and feel no remorse. You cannot tame
a wild animal they are as unpredictable as a man
who looks pleasant and quiet, but has a rage deep
in his soul that can’t be stilled, although it doesn’t
reach his eyes till he get a gun in his hands and
begin to kill friends and foe alike; and when sated
turns the gun on himself. Asking why, is of little
merit, but we can have a strict arms control, cause
humans are the most vicious beast of all, the only
one that’s ready to kill in the name of a loving God.

haiku (water related)

Haiku

In January
Every ones garden
Looks the same

poppies

Poppies

The scarlet poppies, on the verge,
where the lane bends,
were painted by Van Gogh,
who had carelessly left the canvas
behind and gone with Gauguin to madam,
Houseman’s bordello;
were picked by a lady, she though them,
pretty; meant well, but, broke
the special bond between light and soil.
She looked sad, but stopped off at a country fair,
bought poppies made of silk in China.
When Van Gogh came back to catch
the afternoon light on the canvas, it wasn’t there,
and deeply distressed cut his ear off

wonder

Wonder.

Last night
I heard the echo
of birth pain
that had its origin
in the faraway
region of
the milky-way.
When dust had
settled,
out of
Rosette Nebula
came
a new star,
adding beauty,
giving
light to our
universe

summer leaves one

Summer Leaves.


The strong June leaves that floated on
the water in the ornamental pond, like
newly launched long ship, have now
submerged to the bottom, the water is
cold and murky. A deep shadow block
the sun from entering and the garden
is silent since a two year old boy tried
to catch a sunray that danced on clear
water on a perfect summer’s day; On
ladder a man, in winter coat, stands his
eyes are dark as the pond, unforgivable
he should have been there to save his
son…if only…. He tightens the noose
and hear the child calling his name.

master mariner

Master Mariner.

I’m leaving next week going back to sea;
my last voyage before handing in my oars.
“But aren’t you a bit…?” Too old, you
mean. Not at all, had a facelift in Rome,
Italy and a new hair transplant in Argentine
The ship too has been painted, no one will
notice that she’s a bit aged; was her master
back in 42, when the Atlantic crawled with
u-boats. I’ll do all the navigation at night
and wear sunglasses during the day, don’t
worry about me I’ll be fine, look forward to
feel her moving under my feet once again.
“So what are you doing here in the park?
Feeding ducks out of date Danish pastry.”

spring light

Spring Light

The evening sun shines on grey asphalt road, like
a snake in green, spring grass, as three young men
are coming out of a tavern, they drink from a bottle
of sweet, cheap rosé wine, wrapped inside a famous
brand name. Alcohol melts a frozen soul till it’s
a drying spot on the road; I’ve lost my soul, here is
a knife, scrap it off yourself . One of them vomits
pieces of undigested meat, in pink, as a car bomb
explodes in Iraq, human flesh hangs from lampposts,
and blood runs down a drain. Fear not, democracy
is near- any day now- the people are allowed to march
and protest against the illegal occupation. If you have
lost the soles of your shoes, go buy a new pair, made
in China, the cobbler is a trade long since gone.

haiku/tanka

Haiku


Unnerving
Writing down a dream
Like catching mist
......................


Try catch, a moon ray
When it carves a name on bark
It might be yours
.............

Tanka

Melancholic moon
Sun’s modest little sister
Only shines at night
Because she’s beautiful
And her brother is envious

.............

Tanka


The red plastic rose
In my bleak winter garden
Looked dramatic
Until spring came muscling in
And cruel sun melted it

,,,,,,,,

Tanka

Sun argued with moon
He wanted to shine at night
Singed her cute nose
She, so much wiser, gave in
And night was made into day

,,,,,,,,,,,,

Tanka


Wellspring, Kosovo
Bodies and poisoned water
Ancient hatred
Inhales dust of history
A cancer on peoples’ soul


................

flower power

Tanka.

Had I only known
Old age is a tranquil bay
I would’ve hurried
Not suffered needless worry
Trying to be eternally young
,,,,,,,,,,

Flower Power

When I ride to town on my donkey
to buy wine for my elderly mother;

I’m met at the city’s gate by flower
loving housewives;

they follow me to the inn, wait for
my transport to shed fragrant dung;

they coo to my jenny and speculate
about my mother’s drinking.

the beggar of bath

The Beggar of Bath


The fountain, outside the bar- in the plaza,
where high spirited people throw pennies
late at night- has none at dawn, but soggy
leaves, ditto cigarette butts and coke cans.

At daytime a well dressed beggar sits near,
the fountain, clean hands he has, looks so
middleclass that people warm to him, smile
and throw big coins into his expensive hat.

wonderfully old

Wonderfully Old.

Woke up a day in May felt serene and old,
admired my deep facial lines and tanned
baldness; yes, I’m a survivor of mudslingers
and character assassins. Infinite, my charity
is, even toward those who criticize my style.
My experience is vast, knowledge profound,
there is no hell and the heaven is a fairytale;
thus I fear not walking into the good night.
I keep my fingernails clean, dress well, now
that I’m old; bought a blue blazer with gold
buttons on and a captain’s cap; when I walk,
with measured dignity, through my town,
women will stop and say: “What a charming
man, this ancient tar with a song in his heart.”

love's lifetime

Love’s Lifetime


Of the hundreds of photos I keep
in a lacquered box made in China,
there is none of you.

Once had one, but it hurt too much
seeing you, I tore it into small pieces
and threw them to the wind, the same
day as my almond tree shed its enchanting flowers.

Yet, when I look up to the morning sky,
if it’s blue with wooly, playful clouds,
that makes the heaven less stern;

I see your reflection it has a shadow of a smile.
Since I shan’t go up north,
where we first met, so many dreams ago,
you will forever look young.

fishing

Fishing

In the river that flows past my window
I see a posh salmon swim,
shines like an assassin’s dagger before
it finds its victim and spray
the air in a mist of pink blood.

Pale fingers too swim, in this esoteric
stream, I catch them with my net
made of spiders’ web,
fry them golden brown, eat them by
the window.

Expensive fish doesn’t empress me
anymore, they are often
bony and hand-reared in some
Scottish fiord, unsavoury as titles
bought by ego bloated men.

the storm

A Storm

Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.

the storm

A Storm

Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.

Haiku



Misty days
Good for indolence
And dreams


Haiku

Jealousy kills love
But love isn’t able to kill
Covetousness

-------

april leaving

April Leaving

The morning bus isn’t full, mostly housewives
going shopping and the elderly who never had
a car, I’m leaving the valley for good, a bag,
and laptop need no more, always rented, best
this way, property is just another mulish burden.
Warm spring rain, mist rises from asphalt, afar
I see the sea, in half an hour we will be there,
the ocean looks like a shiny steel band keeping
the land intact. Five years, I’ve been living in
the valley, know every stick and stone, stayed
too long, though, I will miss the dried up river,
crippled olive trees, the meager, rusty soil and
the almond tree that deliriously strews beautiful
flowers on cold February ground.

tomorrow

Tomorrow

Cream coloured cab, a lady is taking
me for a drive…to the airport:

suitcase packed, am going up North,
to the place where I was born;

watch planes land and take off,
busy place, drink a cup of coffee;

the lady drives me home, she’s got
grey hair and have seen it all;

forgotten my winter overcoat, will
wait till May I won’t need it then;

the heroes

The Heroes.

Fourteen men and a woman sit under a roman
bridge that spans a river that dries up in summers,
they used to be navy personnel, captured in Iran,
spent days there before being released, now they
are civilian, ex heroes, who got paid for exalting
tales spiced up by reporters. Now new freedom
beckons, the open road, they have done their stint
for the fatherland. Alas nothing is a useless as an
ex navy man, who needs one who’s good at firing
cannons, ashore? No hamburger joints I know of.
Too much booze no proper food all money gone,
pension too small; it is as one sorry for their lot if
you see them at night when they are awake staring
into the abyss. Three pieces of silver and lost years

the piano

The Piano

The piano tuner is in the big room, the one with
tall windows covered by see-through curtains.
On walls hang ancestors, serious looking men
fully bearded, in black and white, died, they did,
long before colours were invented. Women too,
on pictures, look gravely at the camera, but they
hang on less vital walls. Polished parquet floor,
a few armless chairs, placed along a wall, don’t
look inviting. The tuner has dramatic, wavy hair
wears sunglasses and doesn’t see. The upright is
black and varnished, I only keep it so the lady in
chiffon with a rose in her hair, should come one
night, when the wind blows leaves off tree, and
play me a melody of love.

writer's block

Writer’s Block

On virtual blank page
A blinking cursor stops words
From being born

Wordless.

Cosmic night, infinite and still
no one here

“You are alone.”
a whisper echoed...

Clung to a fairytale,
but lost the grip.

A cock grew, aurora saved
me from falling into emptiness

.............

the big secret

The Big Secret.

Strange to think how this big elephant come
to live in Antarctica, perhaps it’s is the last
of herd when clime was mild. It’s attracted to
the pole and had over years made a track that
made it easy for adventurers to get there and
plant flags and take pictures of themselves.
Roald Amundsen, the explorer, first man to
reach the pole, had a roman nose, looked
greatly heroic, ladies swooned, but he liked
the company of men. So different from Scott,
another lover of adventure on snow, cheated
by his wife, never found his way back home.
Why doesn’t anyone mention the elephant?
could it be because it’s white?

Don juan

Don Juan

The bar’s closed we now sit in an all-night café
drinking coffee, telling jokes that are as stale as
the doughnut we buy and eat as a surrogate for
the sex we haven’t had. The woman who serves
us is old, but willingly smiles it’s up to us to
make a move. Booze brave I grab her hand, and
only slowly let go; tell her she looks nice to night;
unusual compliment, my feeling is intense I will
sleep with her before my mates can. She mistakes
my lust for genuine desire, “Will you be mine to
night?” Sounds like a song. Friends leave, knowing
laughter. The café is emptying, she locks up; I kiss
her, think of sweet words to say, they come easily,
she’s a woman of no consequence.

August feelings

August… Feeling

Intense summer light
The road is impassable
Sun plough is broken.


White landscape
There will be no tomorrow
No one cares


August Feeling

A lone petrol pump
Café selling burgers and coke
Yesterday is today.

Necropolis

Necropolis


Intense sunlight on marble, a white necropolis;
and a sea of flowers as decorated for a party
that will not happen. A deep hole, in dry earth,
awaits… The living too are silent here, speaks
with hushed voices, children are absent, dogs
not allowed, which makes sense, a paradise of
bones. Bird song. I can see the bay, it is azure
as the sky. Her fathers name in gold, on marble,
João, died at sixty, she remembers him as old,
he always wore a dark suit, hat and tie. We are
both older than her father now, dressed in jeans
and lemon yellow shirts, we don’t feel aged; had
her old man seen us now he would have frowned,
scolded and treated us as wayward teenagers.

the fire

The Fire

They have all gone out dancing, locked the door
and left me here alone; there is a fire in the kitchen
smoke is seeping out. I can’t fine the key to get out
and the door is so very tall… “Under the carpet,”
I hear a distant voice. I find a key there, but can’t
reach the hole. I hear a song:” Forward Christian
soldiers…” So much smoke, firework outside, they
are celebrating first of May and peace by shooting
in the air. A window breaks, a big shadow picks me
up, I’m sure it was a friendly troll. Sunrise casts
rays of life on a smoldering cabin, red Indians have
burnt down our homestead, mother read about them
in a book; they have taken my father prisoner and
that’s ok, he’s always absent anyway.

to walk the walk

To Walk the Walk

On iron decks I have walked across
the Atlantic, and forever the drone
of the ship’s heart, beats in my ears
reminding me of our mortality.
Sleepless nights when the engine
ceased in port of calls
It used to be so very different
walked on solid planks to Mandalay
where fly-fish waked, flapping sails,
roaring silence and worried mariners
when rounding Cape Horn.
Memories go untold.
Fake pearls and crows’ silver I collected,
behind me a wake of loneliness

wide horizon

Wide horizon

Dawn, I forgot to draw the curtains, last
night, pale light shyly enters, I feel your
warm body beside me, but I keep my eyes
shut, nor do I lift my arm to touch you.

I know you’re not there, but the intensity
of my longings makes you real, turn my
back to you, try to dream of youth, spring
and a wide horizons

Strange birds

Strange Birds

The ladies of the night, in Puerto Limon,
when out in the glare of the day, look
like colourful bird lost and blinded by
the light; spat on by drab housewives
who call them “Putas.”

Ignored by men who looks another way;
just in case they are recognized, yet pay
for a visit when night is deep; frightened
birds, flapping wings, not welcome here,
wait for darkness and frolicsome fun.

lips

Lips.


Flowers on my window sill
are made of impregnated paper,
deep red they brighten up dull
winter days.

In summers they tend to look
pale, as lips of a woman after
a night of love; hence I paint
them red again

forenoon

Forenoon Moment

Got a ladder climbed up to the roof,
had to fix a leak, this upset sparrows
that nest under the old tiles, greatly.

Flew in circles around me and didn’t
know that their warning quaver was
a beautiful overture to spring.

late morning

Late Morning (Grumpy Man)

Nine o’clock heavy clouds obscure the light,
kitchen and living room cold think I’ll relax
here under my cozy duvet till ten. Only, if
someone knocks on my door and I’m still in
my pajamas, they will think I’m a lazy old
man who spends all his days in bed, mind I
worked late last night and deserve my rest,
my own boss, have nothing to be ashamed of.
So, who do the think they are, my neighours,
I don’t pry into their life to see how long they
sleep or when they go to work; and when their
bloody kids shouts outside my door kicking
a football about, do I say anything? I’m angry
now, so much for sleeping in for once…People!

the fading

The Fading

I sit here in the corner, facing the door- like
a fat little spider- watching the coming and
going, and wait for someone to open the door,
enter, and tell a tale I can make a meal of,
cause I have not a life of my own. My view
is a dusty back yard with a pale almond tree
I’ve wrung every drop of corniness off; lost
all leaves, not that I care, it has done its duty,
chop it down, it’s full of ants, bees will not
touch it; a tit will rather die, in the claws of
a hawk, then been seen sitting on one of its
skeletal twigs. Invisible ink, between lines,
tell a story of waiting, lust for love and fear
when someone really knocks on that door.

2 haiku

Haiku

As winter returned
Butterflies fell like confetti
On rim frosted earth



Haiku.

When the enemy came
Swans, in the sky, surrendered
Flapped their white wings.

guilt mongers

Guilt Mongers

Why are middleclass people so daft, believing in
all sorts of this and that diets, when we all know
to slim, one has to eat less and walk a bit more.
But no, that’s not good enough, the diet has to have
a name, consists of yogurt, pineapple, and pushed
by someone famous and so unhappily starved that
they beat up their maid. Muesli, this dreadful
concoction of dried fruit and oats, it’s food for horses
not for man, yet it appears on every breakfast table
in the land to make no one goes to work with a smile.
A glass of wine a day is sliming, it’s said, what rot!
I drink a bottle a day, haven’t lost a gram. It isn’t your
fault that you are middleclass boring, stop worrying
about it, go fry an egg, or two for breakfast.

white man's burden

White Man’s Burden

It has stopped raining; the barrel in the yard is full
of soft liquid, but I’m not thirsty. Look into the barrel
and as I vainly smile at my own image, a delayed
raindrop falls; my face breaks into bits; scoop them
up put them back in place, minus my clichéd grin,
which sinks to the bottom, as residue of banality and
false pride. Panzer clouds, torpedoed by sharp light,
disperse; there is sun, glorious and nude, expecting
applause, too late in the afternoon for that, my friend.
But I’m cold will stay here for awhile warm my face,
and say sorry for all my misdeeds, I’m white and has
a lot to answer for, even when I sit in the sun, to get
a deep tan I end up looking like a lobster thrown into
boiling water; so let me atone for past future sins.

Ms. god

Ms God

I saw god this morning she was naked, had
lose skin on her belly after giving birth to
the world… soldiers laughed prodded her
with sticks and called her a whore, I noticed
that her breast where firm, still lots of life
left in the old lady. Gave god a burnoose
to cover her naturality and a hood to protect
her hair from dust. “Dirty Arab!” a soldier
shouted, god smiled, she had nice even teeth,
the grin made the soldier into a statue, his
friends came and carried him away on a fork
lift truck. “Why don’t you bend every gun so?
they can shoot themselves in the ass, god. “
she shook her and said: “No, that’s suicide.”

haiku tanka

Haiku

Acendia is
Blind spots in sunlight
Lost hopes in springs.




Tanka

The mist that arises
In Indonesian jungles
When day is newborn
Is that of clouded leopards.
If logging takes its habitat
The heavens will surely cry?

old carpets and lightbulbs

Old Carpets and Light Bulbs

I thought the diminutive secondhand carpet,
the dwarf like man was selling at the market,
a bit expensive; mind, it was nice, its colour
bright, just right for the hallway. I asked him
to reduce the price he got angry, swore, not
only at me, but at the rest of the world as well
so I didn’t get offended; he had a high pitched,
squeaking voice. To mollify him I purchased
the carpet, and as he neatly wrapped it in grey
paper, I tried to be friendly, but his face was
a Janus mask of dislike, he didn’t want to be
my friend. The light-bulb in the hall had gone
and I had no spares; when my wife came home
she slipped on the carpet and broke a leg

rivalry

Rivalry


He slapped my face because I was late
coming home, this man and he’s not
my father, I’m eleven and can do what
I want. I’ve been shamed I was the man
in the house before he came along, I’ll
have my revenge; when they are asleep.
Mother needs to be freed from this man,
I’ll get up and slash his suit, with his
own shaving blade; and when they get up
I’ll be outside plying football. This man
will accuse me, but can’t prove nothing,
my mother will know, get the message
and get rid of this intruder, and we can go
back being a family again.