the occupiers

The Occupiers


They came, the huddled masses, victims
of a war and pogrom far from our shores;
we gave them room at the inn, and on
our common land they could graze sheep.

They have now taken over the inn, stolen
our common land, bulldozed our villages
and uprooted olive trees to build roads we
cannot use, erected walls to keep us out.

They want us to leave to roam the world
as they did; we will not, we shall stay here
near our ancestors and the land and wait,
yes, wait till they uproot again and leave.

here we go again

Here we go again

One of the world biggest army has attacked Gaza, the world
biggest prison, how many killed? Who cares? I’m fed up of
this war now, we have been ringing around trying to book
a table at restaurant, everything is full in the neighbourhood.
The Gaza people have brought this on themselves, agreed
to a democratic election and elected Hamas, Israel wasn’t
standing for that having leaders who think Israel is a crown
of thorns carried by every Arab in the region; and as we know
by now (we have been told it often enough) that plucky little
Israel has the right to defend herself no matter what, they
have had their holocaust someone else can carry the can this
time. And then there is bloody Iraq, luckily not on the front
news anymore, but bombs are going off all the time killing
scores of people, at Christmas I ask you, as we sit down to eat
we get blood and mangled bodies in dusty streets, with our
turkey and two veg. why can’t Sunnis and Shiites live in peace
like us. Then there is Afghanistan those crazy Taliban and opium
smugglers like murdering people, so what we are doing there
beats me dropping bombs on wrong targets killing children and
guests at a wedding, it is their own fault, this habit of shooting
bullets up in the air confusing helicopter pilots. So who care?
It is Christmas give us a break and, anyway, without us, those
people would be riding around in donkeys. Wife rang she has
been to book a restaurant table, it is a long drive by taxi, but
what’s the heck it’s only New Year once a year…get it?

Harold Pinter RIP

Harold Pinter RIP.

Harold Pinter is dead, we had one
thing in common; he protested
against NATO’s bombing of Belgrade,
I did too. He disputed the invasion
of Iraq, so did I.

He called Bush and Blair criminals,
so did I. His voice was heard, no one
heard mine, but in the end we’re
both ignored; and that’s what we
have in common.

good to know

Good to Know

I know the famous cardiologist Cohen
he has got his surgery on the fifth floor
of a building without a lift. Those who
make it up are declared healthy enough
to work, those who don’t get a bypass
operation. No waiting list. The building
also has a florist on the first floor.

Yule tide

Yule Tide

There are no children in this house no eager
Voices full of new life or shining eyes finding
In coloured light an enchanting fairytale.

There is no laughter in this house only tired
Old people slumped in chairs watching old
Repeats of Christmases past old movies.

There are no presents under this plastic tree
No parcels to feel if they are soft or hard,
Only a blinking light howling silent despair.

This is an old peoples’ home, made for two
Who cannot escape their common boredom;
compassion is a word that carries emotion.

the path

The Path

Just off a ship I was going to meet friends
at a hotel, no one there and the staff had
gone; all rooms locked, I sat in the foyer
and waited. In the late afternoon, getting
dark, my sister came, I told her the rooms
were locked, she went upstairs anyway
but didn’t return.

Light from came from the street, I sat by
the window looked out, a party going on,
lot of actions, and coloured lanterns, but
windows, double glazed, I couldn’t hear
a thing. Tired, but didn’t dare sleep in
case lights disappeared and the street got
as dark as the night behind me.

I did fall asleep, when I awoke the street
was white and covered in pristine snow,
strolled outside, the snow was like dust.
I began walking, came to a plateau where
memory said my home town used to be:
nothing of it remained except the railway
tracks darkly going yonder

the prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

miracles

Miracle



The Dakota plane should have been scrapped years ago,
eight soldiers and me, they took off my handcuffs laughed
and said I was free to go. Looking down I could see glitzy
Pacific Ocean; they opened the door and threw me out.
I fell and fell, air rush sounded as an express train, terror
froze my brain, but I remember thinking: “this is not a day
for enjoying the view.”Miracle! A mist bank crossed my
path so thick it broke my fall to a gentle descent and put
me softly on top of a tree that had many branches, it was
like going down a ladder which I had done often,(I used
to be a house painter.) People came running, I had landed
on a tiny island, they gave me coconut milk to drink and
told of a military plane that had crashed on a mountain
slope. I didn’t, gloat knew what they must have suffered,
drank more sweet milk, climbed up a hut on stilts and went
to sleep on a fragrant mat of palm leaves.

the tidy bachelor

The Tidy Bachelor

I have been made destitute, workers in my house,
no water or heating, chalk dust and dirty footsteps.
Stay in a hotel that has institutional white sheets
can’t sleep; think of hospitals infirmity and death.

Workers gone, women arrive, in a van, to clean;
fill my little house with never ending natter, I sit
on the terrace try to read, can’t concentrate, they
laugh a lot, so what’s hilarious about my cottage.

I pay them and they leave with their buckets and
brooms, I make the bed, green sheets with large
flowers on, fresh from the laundry too, will go to
bed early; my home sighs and sinks back to itself.

The child Prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

the clairvoyant

The Clairvoyant

Over a cold Nordic coast a seagull flies and sees
the bay between the island and the coastal town.
40 minutes each way by ferry. It’s an old gull and
has a blind eye and one leg; yes, you are right,
a real pirate I used to know years ago, it knew me
too when I was a cook on that a ferry boat, sat on
the mast and waited for me to throw scraps of
food into the sea shrieking harshly, it is the gulls
way of wishing me well.

This year has no ice in the bay, there was a time
when the ferry was icebound islander folk had to
walk on ice across to get to the shops, as they do
now, there is a bridge now, ferry been sold and
is plying its trade on the delta of Bangladesh.

The day is clear I’m a seagull and can see the past
lucid as the day it is lucky that I can’t see the future,
but there is a name that warms my heart: Falluja.
The down trodden, the raped, took up arms and
fought the mightiest army the world has seen and
won a moral victory that one day will bring peace,
to Iraq. I’m not a seer, but the old pirate is, flies
beside me now and harshly shrieks, it is the way we
seagulls greet each other.

poetry carrousel

Poetry Carrousel


In Norway poets are well educated
they go to university and get a diploma
to stick on the wall in their studies.

They are respected throughout land
and in all school children learn dead
poets, name by heart

They don’t get paid as no one publish
their work, but get invited to the best
literary parties and poetry festivals.

Poets, who have been accepted by
the literati, are revered and can get,
if needed a writer’s stipend.

But the best thing for a poet is to
have a private income, say, from
his grandfather, the shipping tycoon.

The man who founded his dynasty
by sending over-insured ships to sea
hoping they would hit a horn mine.

If you are not an accepted poet you
can still be published by, say, sending
your work over the internet.

And if lucky you can have your work
assessed by the grandson of the mogul
who killed your own grandfather.

bleak coast

Bleak Coast

On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?

A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slap the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.

a night to remember

A Night to Remember.


It is cold here in this room that has wall paper
With faded roses on, which absorb the light.
From a 40 watt bulb stuck naked and hanging
On a thin rubber encased electric wire.
Too dark to read too early for a bed that doesn’t
Look inviting, I wonder who many losers
Have been trying to find sleep looking up to
Silence and asking the same question: “how
Could it come to this?” I sit on a chair and look
Out of the window, dark shadows move some
With haste in the hope of getting away from,
Here, but they have yet to formulate, to where?
On a ship of dreams I sail, at dawn ice crystals
Glitters on the window pane and tell of hope.

a christmas tale

Meat is Meat (a christmas tale)

Santa came running up the road his coat was open
exposing a hairy belly, arms full of parcels, asked
me if I was a vet, because Rudolf had broken its leg.
Told him I was a destroyer of Christmas, took delight
telling children that Santa was their own uncle Ted)
every child got an uncle Ted) but was willing this once
to help him out. I called a Lapland friend, who has
a herd of reindeer lives in a tent and is dressed for
year long winters, he gave us a reindeer for free as
he too was a sentimental fool and had eight children.
Problem solved, but what about Rudolf? We sent him
to an abattoir where he was humanly slaughtered,
(humanly, means he was shot in the temple when
was carrots) as a reindeer is too cute to eat its flesh
was sold as veal, which is meat of doe eyed calves.

the comedy

The Comedy

When the sun sets he flies through the night to
far away enclaves, looks around and declare
that he sees an improvement from eight years
ago, then he takes off, flies through the night
and in his own dreams and lands unheralded
on his own, sacred soil. The mishap on his way,
a reporter’s loose boots, has reduced his tenure
to farce, we should have laughed only it wasn’t
funny just sad; end of a failed system.

To build a tower, higher then the slain towers,
of scraped gas guzzlers, lit a fire and let it burn
itself out: end of story. The historians can pick
the skeleton clean and tell us what went wrong.
The new century has been eight years delayed
it begins in January 2009 and it will be a painful
birth; but if the elite tinkers with the old system
Athens will burn for no gain; blood will flow in
rat infested sewers as nihilism reigns supreme.

cloud nine

Cloud Nine


I see people’s faces on TV filled with rapture when
hearing rousing political or religious speeches, feel
a certain sense of envy. As an observer, ecstasy is
a mystery to me. I don’t care for its second face
though, the insistence of being right and willing to
commit act of violence in the name of an abstraction.
It’s been said:” it is better to believe in something
than in nothing.” The more I think of that sentence
the less sense it makes. Ok, I believe in equality and
justice, there is little of it, but I’m, no not so sure of
western type fairness anymore, as it is mostly given
those with money. I’d love to like to be able to jump
up and down- no, not in a bed, but in a town’s square,
amongst the people and hear a moving, soon to be
USA’s president, Hussein Obama kind of discourse.

a belly full

A Belly Full

Christmas Eve, festive shop windows
cast glee on sleet, huddled in a doorway
as seeking the fading warmth of people
in a hurry to get home, an old man sits,
looks a window display of phony happy
Santa Clauses.

Tomorrow they’ll be brought down to
a dank crypt, oddly smile in darkness
with rats nesting in their vacant bellies,
while he- the real one- will carry on as
the town’s longest living drunk for one
more year.

accident

Accident

Yellow dog, looks like damp winter straw,
crosses the road in front of me, big beast
been away from for days in pursuit of brief
happiness following the scent of love, or
is it just an instinct you unthinkingly must
obey? Tired now lost weight too it will be
good to come home eat and flop down by
the fire, wag your tail and lick your master’s
hand he will think you love him and give
you an extra bone; you will fiercely growl,
bark madly especially against other dogs.
Thud! Yellow beast, bundle of bloody fur,
sorry dog, abstruse night, I forgot to brake.

Lusitania

Lusitania

From the highroad I look down on
a town made of stones, deep down in
the valley where a wide river flows.

There are no trees so high up only
undulating blue/gray grass that looks
as the sea near the coast of Labrador.

It has been raining, clouds break up
and sunlight swipes the town and
I see an ancient fairytale of granite

Church bells toll I’ve forgotten it is
“the day of the dead” as a procession
snails its way through narrow streets.

The pageant crosses a bridge walks to
a marble necropolis where ancestors
rest; and the breeze sighs me a dream.

haiku

Haiku (dance)


Accordions play
In the land of thousand tarns
She and summer dance


In blue suits and tie
They are elegant and polite
The Ballroom dancers


Nihilistic
The Latin dance of rumba
Passion ends in death


PS. Finland is often called
“The thousand lakes land.”

festive time

Festive Time for Some

Pale little bodies wrapped in plastic
in the open freezer at the supermarket,
tiny eyebrows, closed eyes; they are
called suckling pigs I think they look
like babies…and, of course, they are.

A woman with two children in tow
bought one, forty two Euros she paid.
” Look mum,” said one, the baby pig
has eyebrows just like us, are you
sure it is dead and not just sleeping?”

broken window

Broken Window


“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.

Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can’t be choosers” I was silent.

The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.

Portuguese Blues

Portuguese Blues.

The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and then put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered bosom, sings
Fado, dark eyes fill the screen with sadness;
yeah she has been around the block ok; I put
my jacket on and walk to the nearest bar.

broken window

Broken Window


“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.

Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can be choosers” I was silent.

The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.

winter afternoon

Winter Afternoon

The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and after put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered chest sings Fado,
dark eyes fill the screen with sadness; yeah
she has been around the block ok; put my jacket
on and walk to the nearest bar.

tanka

Tanka.


Chefs are “in” right now
And isn’t that nice to know
They used to be
Unshaven men in the back
Grumpy and reeking of booze

the Unspoken

The Unspoken

On the top of the Welsh dresser in the kitchen coffee, tea and
milk jugs made of tin stand in an unemployed group, reminds
me of a set of middle aged people, not the kind who do work
outs, are ambitious, talk fast and laugh loudly while sizing
each other up with jealous eyes. No, just regular gray people
at a shopping entre near a housing estate that hasn’t drowned
in graffiti and populated by the unlucky who are losers before
they are teenagers; I think they are gentiles with dust on and
too polite to speak badly of anyone, lost in thought waiting for
a bus no one has told them will not arrive to take them back
whence they came; to a fabled place were summer lasted long,
winters had proper snow to ski on and frozen lakes to skate on.
Utensils made of tin, not quite silver, tell of a time that never
was, when they were polished and shone in gentle candle light.

epigram

Epigram

Lone mothers with infants have to go
out and find work, the government
only help corporations and big banks.

the importance of newspaper

The Importance of Newspapers


“I know nothing I don’t read newspapers anymore, so
whatever people are up to it isn’t any of my business.
I live in peace with myself and as far as I’m concerned
the Palestinians can get lost, they must learn, as I have,
to keep their head down and accept their situation is as
fated, for now. If they learn to live by this simple rule
they will find happiness, I know for I have been a sober
member of AA for than twenty years and I’m superbly
contented. I just bought a newish car, something I could
never have afforded when drinking; I’m certain that
the Palestinians, if they keep their heads down, accept
facts, can by cars and washing machines too.” Thus
he spoke my old friend who used to be very funny before
he stopped reading newspapers”

epigram

Epigram

Lone mothers with infants must work,
they can’t hang about doing nothing;
receive handouts from the state like
they should be banks, or corporations.

The fisherman/poem-story


Every Saturday morning he went fishing in
his little rowing boat and in the afternoon
he came back with a bucket of sea riches,
already gutted and cleaned for his wife and
friends; Monday morning she washed his
“fishing” jeans, hung them on the balcony.

One Saturday he didn’t return, they looked
for him everywhere on and under the water,
his boat was found floating nice and clean
on the mirror silent sea; and there was great
lamentation, greatly missed by wife, friends
and fishmongers.

Time heals grief and sorrow his widow,
still young, and one day another pair of
jeans hung on her balcony, bluer, longer
and perhaps wider around the waist, and
the aroma of fresh food of the sea wafted
through the house just as before.


The disappeared man had gone to Spain
with his mistress, there they lived happily
for a month or so till his saving was gone
and he had to take a job on a building site
12 hours a day six days a week, as a low
paid illegal worker without valid papers.


This ill suited his mistress who liked to
go out at night, dance and talk to friends
he was too tired and went to bed at nine
in the evening… This was no good, even
worse, when he came home and found
furniture gone, soap and toilet paper too.


In despair he took the bus home, and in
vanishing light walked through his old
street looked up and saw the jeans hung
there to dry, knew all was lost, found his
boat neatly docked, rowed and rowed to
land had gone and he vanished for good.


On the mirror silent sea a boat was seen,
in it a few dead mackerels and a pair of
Spanish made boots; there was gossip,
mad rumour spread by an old man who
said he had seen the ghost of the missing
walk through the street at twilight time.

The boots fitted the new “fish winner,”
since little troubled him, he wore them
with ease, but kept them in the boat as
the widow didn’t want to be reminded of
her vanished husband and the soft voiced
murmur that whispered of infidelity.

joh

the hope

The Hope


The jet black cloud that hangs over the village
is a malevolent pillow held by arms of awesome
power ready to press down and strangle us.
Serves us right we have been smug thinking we
had the keys to peace, shaking our heads
lecturing others how to, and then it all collapses.
Our democratic system that makes it possible
for the rich to steal from the poor, or our system
of law, where justice is given to those who can
afford it. It is no longer safe to live here, but how
to leave? Car-lights cannot penetrate through
the miasma of night on a road that has lost its
purpose and ends in a vale of nihilistic laughter
where the victims are told to live in peace with
their tormentors. Yet there is a beacon of light
a still flame of hope, the heart of humanity is not
yet defeated.

my web page

My web Page

I’m telling you this because the experts
say I can have my own page, so at last
I can tell you that my father was a swine.

My words of complaint came too late,
driving on the dirt roads of Idaho with
my drunken dad is not a story to tell.

There are so many stories on the net
of children abused that reading them
all causes compassion fatigue.

I kissed her sex, her delight shone on
my face. She kissed me too, said I was
her lover but left me for her husband

I have exposed, myself to a world
indifferent to my woes, but would
eagerly drink my tale were I famous

Safe in obscurity you can scour every
web page in the world, the answer
is: “ we don’t know that name.”

My father’s son could do no wrong;
he’s got diabetes, the sanctimonious,
old crock, yet he is loved by women.

I’m, an advocate of innocent reality,
my client is not guilty, come spring
we’re going on a holiday to Greece.

how can i forget

How can I forget

August eight nineteen sixty two was the day Marilyn died,
overdose they said but why was her lovely face so blue?
Once she wore a green jumper a chilly February day, aware
of the impression she had on men, still she wanted to be taken
seriously. Alas, she was not, men could not see that the object
of their desire had brains too. Her talent was disregarded they
tried to keep her in a cocoon of a child/ woman, the more
she kicked and screamed the more men of power found her
desirable a woman to be conquered. Despair, she couldn’t
win, she had to escape, but how? A blue face on the slap
in the morgue. They said Marilyn had tried to ring someone.
What can I say I loved her, she was an artist. Some day a new
generation will see her as a great actress who had laughter in
her heart and sexuality based on true love, and I whispered:
“Darling Marilyn you’re free.” Ok, this is all very well, but
today it is the Eve. In my heart it is always August eight and
I hate turkey, funny hats, drunken uncles, aunts and children.

even here in my valley

Even here in my valley

After seeing the horror of Mumbai
how peaceful my vale is, rain falls
gently on the roof; earlier today as
as sun and rain shambled about
I saw, in the old olive grove where
the rainbow had landed, forest gods
danced lustily around an angel sat
on a throne of glitzy stones.

As I came nearer they saw me and
disappeared in a mist of aromatic
rose’s scent. It was not a dream, for
I saw marks of elegant, narrow feet,
but, alas, one had a hoofed foot,
bigger then a sheep’s, about the size
of a mule’s that lacks the want to
dance in a ring of reproductive desire.

terror in Mumbay rewritten

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, flushed look and his eyes shine
with the ecstasy of total power, the one
who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute supremacy.

terror in Mumbay

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, his face is flushed and his eyes
shine with the ecstasy of total power,
the one who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute power once again

the awareness

The Awareness

As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.

An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one

No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now

As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.

the aide

The Aide

The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.

blank decency

Blank Decency



The capital of Norway, Oslo, has well lit
clean streets swept clear of humanity;
you’ll see clusters of people here and there
sat inside plastic tents- pavement cafes-
smoking tobacco. And now that it’s illegal
to buy sex too, streets will be cleaner then
before. If a consumer of bought of sex
thinks he can go abroad and buy it he will,
if found out, be prosecuted.

There are still cars driving around these
empty streets, to get rid of them it might
be an idea to ban the purchase of petrol;
a car free city, something to boast about,
tourists come and puff virtuous Oslo air.
Those who miss driving can when in, say,
Bangkok on vacation, rent a coupé for
the duration, but remember credit card
purchases can be traced.

the whiteness within me.

The whiteness within…me

Yesterday I saw an albino raven
it had just killed a sparrow and
had drops of blood on its chest.

Having had the privilege to be
white you would think it would
desist from killing sparrows.

But I must be wrong perhaps it
was an angel dressed as cardinal
they wear red and eat meat.

Or was it was a dove of peace
wearing a ruby necklace, or had
it been hurt by an Israeli sniper?

Perhaps it was a white cloud
I saw drifting along on blue
being lit up by a red eyed sun.

A white feather, cowardice is
pale as cold snow, so why does
a peace dove has to be white?

haiku

Modern Life.



Flat-pack furniture
It’s a green sofa this time.
Am I a handyman?


“The world is yours.”
A swiping promise I made.
She wants IKEA.


Fittings in flat packs,
A bathroom cupboard, she said
I made it a chair.

haiku

Haiku

Compass pointing south,
I migrate, follow the sun,
But my heart looks north.


Haiku

Chopping winter wood
The eye of a fire is blue
The colour of yours



Haiku

At twilight,
I shot a blackbird
Night fell down.

the transplant

The Transplant

You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?

My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.

I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?

Irate the heart cries and skip a beat
worryingly, been threatened by
the man it gave itself too. Why can’t
he, get off his backside and take his
wife to the ball.

A byway

A Byway

The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.

The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.

wishes and reality

Wishes and Reality

Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.

friday night blues

Friday Night Blues.

The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.

Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.

a letter partly read

A Letter Partly Read


“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.

I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.

haiku

Haiku

Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice


Haiku

On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye

Haiku

November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow

not an idle moment

Not an Idle Moment

A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.

the hunter

The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.

great war

The Great World War.

It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.

The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die

I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.

an ordinary painting

An Ordinary Painting


A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.

But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.

hauku

Haiku


Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love


The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams


Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified

past heroics

Past Heroics

They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.

Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics

the dance of life

The Dance of Life


When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;

As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;

Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension

Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory

The flowering Shrub

The Flowering Shrub


The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge

Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;

Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.

the lost president

The Lost President

Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.

the rat catcher

The Rat Catcher

When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.

They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.

To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.

I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.

the tarn of life

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

the tarn of life

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

a street in Paris

A Street in Paris


September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was

There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.

A quiet word

A Quiet Word

Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.

the silent song

The Silent Songs

Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.

mirror image

The Mirror Image


I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.

Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.

I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.

the egg

The Egg.

A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.

Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.

Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.

Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.

a cigarette

A Cigarette


Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.

haiku

Haiku

Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall

Haiku

Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost

Haiku

It was a mistake
The sun shone and it was warm Haiku

Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.

Haiku

Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.

Haiku

Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.

Indian summer

the girl who loved me

The Girl Who Loved Me.


At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.

Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.

When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .

The US Election

The US Election


Behind Obama, president almost elect, there is
Another black man, his body, who sharpens his
pencil and lick stamps. There is a whisper that
the body might be a Moslem, alas, he is a true
blue blooded American black born in a ghetto
and we are now seeing the roots of thing, as we
all started from a humble beginning- those who
didn’t have to fake one- and it’s quite right too.
Sarah too came from unassuming background,
she bravely rose above it and there isn’t a trace
of modesty in her throbbing, attractive veins.
So all is well then? We have a president, who
will rule the world kindly, make the bald eagle
a symbol of respect again. There aren’t many
eagles left in the wild, the zoo bred ones do not
know how to soar, we must me careful so this bird
doesn’t end up like the Tasmanian tiger

Nazism and the Belgian chef

Nazism and the Belgian Chef


In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.

the notion

The Notion


A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.

The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.

Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream

I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem

heat

Heat.


Summer light fades.
long shadows
weave a carpet across
the scenery,
meet and unite,
only on slopes
skeletal light
disappears;
an August day is over,
but heat lingers
domineering and violent
waits to be ignited.
Raised voices spilling
over and into the street.
Towards dawn
a slight breeze stirs,
sooths and cools brows;
for a moment bliss,
until a new August
day begins.

birthday greetings

Birthday Greeting


The darkness gives way for light, joins
Up quickly behind me, I drive home,
When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.

I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver
Handles and flowers too, my grief is
Immense nothing much to celebrate

I sail close to shore carful now under-
Water reefs, seek shelter from old age
While contemplating my sunset.

jackpot

The Jackpot


I stood where the rainbow landed, close up its light too sharp,
almost vulgar, had to close my eyes. When it vanished
the ground was soft and warm, began digging when a middle
aged man appeared, as from nowhere, thought it was god
because he looked dignified like the pianist in Alfred’s bar;
to be a pianist in bars knowing you are not going to play in
Carnegie Hall you have to look revered to survive. He asked
me what I wanted to do with all that gold. I thought of cars,
long legged blond birds, my own aircraft, a yacht and a loo
with a gold seat; got so bored with my infantile wishes that
I gave God my spade and walked home. Saw him on the TV,
a week ago, on the deck of his enormous boat, surrounded by
giggling birds; dyed his hair and goatee black and - I’m sure –
he, in his bathroom, had a loo seat made gold.

flag days

Flag Days

In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.

Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.

the sea

The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep, on your surface I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights, mountainous
waves when my only defence was luck; romantically
thought that you had secrets to divulge when hearing
whispers in the tropical night. Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be, endlessly
wet you are Saragossa weed, fog and terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced pollution
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing, late in
the night, I wish I were skimming your surface again.

african justice

African Justice

On the porcelain plate the residue
of a burnt down
candle light so all life and
sorrow must end,
yet the cur barks in the night
and the bakery
opens at five.
And morning bustles began
in Ruanda a the machete welding
thugs began
their senseless slaughter
blood on loaves and on hands
of the killers;
sated they begged
forgiveness,
yet didn’t return the rings and
money they had stolen;
as so many were guilty
a truth and reconsolidation
was formed, no one really cared
Ruanda is a backward land
it is even difficult to
find the cursed, fly infested place
on the map.

the birthday party

The Birthday Party


It was mother’s ninetieth birthday and I had arranged
the party at a nice rural hotel, plenty of food, wine
and cakes. Many people came there were wishes
flowers and the press was there, they all waited for my
twin brother Jurgen to show up he was a famous
right wing politician, he and mother were both
right winged wishing the good old days when there was
order and discipline to return.

A police officer came to see me, an been an accident
on the motorway, brother was involved and he wasn’t
coming to the party or any others. All that food and
flowers I rang the local old people’s home for them to
come and get it, worst of all it was left to me inform
my mother. She is blaming me now, if I had arranged
the bash in the town where Jurgen lived, he would
have been alive now

rendzvous

The Rendezvous


Saw her sitting by the window at the railway station’s
restaurant talking to an older man, I didn’t stop had
she looked out it would have been awkward since we
had broken up. I walked to the other side of the street
and stood looking at her in deep the shadow of
an oak tree, I loved her and felt emotionally raw and
tearful. She got up kissed the man lightly and left.

So she was going on a train journey, I got on to
the terminal and at a distance watch her take her seat
and leafing through a magazine, as the train started she
looked up and out saw me, looked pleased knocked on
the window and mouthed something, ran towards
the train but it gathered speed so I waved and waved
till long after the train had left

Walked back into the restaurant to ask her friend for
her address, an empty beer glass, he had gone and
I never saw my beloved again.

the forgotten one

The forgotten One

She was the wife of a famous prisoner, the world
Looked her way and expected greatness; a burden
She tried to bear, but was ill equipped for.

She was a vibrant woman of blood and emotion,
Not some tragic virgin wife waiting patiently for
Her man to come home. The world turned against
Her, scandals and gossip followed, she was found
Guilty for being true to herself.

The great man was released from prison and became
The president of his jailers; now he is a living saint,
No one asks:” What happened to Winnie Mandela?”

Heroism

Heroism


Days with winter rain were endless, little snow
mother wasn’t coming home from the sanatorium,
I had read a book about cowboys, they were tough
and hanged cattle thieves. A thin rope, a thread
used to wrap parcels I threw over a bough tied it
around my neck and thought of all the people who
would be sorry when hearing of my demise; thought
of that brought tears to my eyes. Stood on a chair
jumped off immense pain, struggled to get hold on
something, the rope broke and I was reborn.
Told the kids at school, showed them red marks on
my neck, but they didn’t believe me; which taught
me that a daring deed is nothing if performed alone
and not recorded,

the competition

The Competition

In the fallow where the land dipped
autumn rain collected formed a lake
that had no name but in the winter
it froze and I had an ice rink.

After school I skated for hours around
and around till I got quite giddy, but I
did win every race against the winter
sports hero of the day.

There wasn’t any witnesses to my
many sporting achievement except
the wild ducks that didn’t flew south
but used my lake as a landing pad.

I skated so fast that I took lift, flew
and saw the flat landscape from above
every pond, house and trees; but when
landing I usually fell flat on my face.

…And when I tired sat on frozen straw
and the ducks took over, I felt tired and
good as I listened to silence and the sky
was big and I was declared a winner.

Child's Play

Child’s Play


The brook, which ran across the field, was knee
deep and slow running, I often put two pieces of
wood adrift at one end, pretended they were boats,
then running downstream to see which one came
first. My boat won; I cheated, but acted as I didn’t
know. The farms were few and far between and
no children around, except for a little girl but she
was busy playing with dolls.

At times I stood in the stream, very still, was
fascinated the way the water ran around my
legs and I was an island. When I began school
I didn’t know how to play with children, told
them how I played at home, when they laughed,
I hit one of them over the head with a wooden
clog. I was good to come home from school go
down to the brook and be an island again.

deadly sex

Deadly sex

I knew she was seeing other men but pretended
I didn’t know didn’t risk confront her,
It pleased her ego to have sex with many men.
She wanted me to know about her infidelity it
made her lusty. She hinted she teased, bloody
games she played and our love got more intense,
anger was involved, left scars on our mind and
our bodies. It was love that kills, I didn’t play
that game, her next lover strangulated her… how
easily it could have been me. Desperate to win
her love I nearly killed her twice

senryu

Senryu

Red plastic roses
Faded sepia by neglect
Melancholic bouquet


Senryu

Red plastic noses
For us to look at and laugh
Sad is the joker


Senryu

The gloomy guy
At the traveling circus
Is its funny clown

dog years

Dog Years.


It’s been two years gone, but I sill
find strands of dog hair in corners,
(doesn’t say much for my cleanliness)
twelve years we had together she even
came on holiday with me; and when
a new woman came into my life she
didn’t make a fuzz sure as she was of
my love for her.

I lift a strand of her hair up to the lamp
light and remember the cruel day when
she got in the path of a car, when I sense
a movement behind me, the swishing of
a tail dare not turn around, but when I do
I see a shadow fading. Goose pimple on
my arms:” you dreaming fool, go brew
yourself a nice cup of tea.”

winter storm (tanka style)

Winter Storm


North Atlantic winter,
shafts of sunlight race across
glass green mountains
deep fear inducing valleys,
in the mess, talk is subdued;

forecast is stormy.
New York is suddenly afar
but will we get there?
A bow down a watery vale
and not coming up again.

Smoke a cigarette,
she takes the sea like a duck.
Try getting some sleep
storm is always worst at night
daylight somehow calms the seas.

poetry reading in Oslo

Poetry Reading in Oslo September 2008

These cold massive buildings, housing
national art and treasures, cold, frosty
clean window shining like Himmler’s
glasses; ice blue eyes keeping an eye on
you; making sure you’re not trespassing
with unbecoming laughter and silencing
you into submission. Fear full we left
a day early and flew towards the sun.

senryu and tanka

Senryu

In the night
All flowers are colourless
Give me the day



Tanka

Last night, wonderful!
Sang beneath a street lamp
Supreme confidence
Today I sit in darkness
And is my old fearful self.


Senryu

In obscurity
The moon caresses graveyards
Give me the sun

inventiveness

The Inventiveness

The flour swept
up from the floor
She took home,
enough to make
four loaves;
the black bits and
pieces in them
she said was
grounded nuts
and raisins,
the bent thumb tack
My sister found
she called good
a good luck charm.

short summer

Short Summer (Tanka)

Lamb on blue I saw
Went indoors drank a few beers
Came back out again
The lamb were now grazing sheep
Darksome as the winter sky

intermezzo

Intermezzo


From my third floor flat I looked down
and saw two men sat under a tree sharing
a bottle of wine, went down and joined
them with my bottle of best red.

I sat under a tree with two men we were
sharing a bottles of wine, looked up and
saw my shadow lurk behind the curtain,
I smiled and waved, free at last.

Aliens

The Aliens

The still warm sun and the zephyr is keep
winter at bay, there is sadness in the air, as
a farewell that can’t be delayed and the boy
has run to the outer fields, sits on a stone
pats his dog and learns about the unavoidable.

Dark clouds from the north where nature is
solemn and there’s not a hint of frivolities
in their cities architecture, winter in hearts,
will disperse heartless protestant culture that
does not allow for lofty dreams and passion.

The zephyr is now a chilly wind, new rules
people must work harder, the leaders say,
and the almond tree must stop flowering in
mid winter spreading unseemly thoughts of
May, love and nights of passion.

whirlpool

Whirlpool



When I opened my eyes in the dark bedroom
I saw a universe with myriads of coloured
Lights like an rainbow that had exploded and
Fragmented into millions of pieces

Vail of mists sailed by, once they had been
Mighty clouds full of thunder and lightning
Now they were a mere whisper of a memory,
Yet their silence overwhelmed me.

There is no human voice here, in this realm
Of oblivion, I strain to hear even the faintest
Noise be it of animal or man, as the stillness
Drags me under in a vortex of nothingness.

the good time

The Good Times

I used to be a seafarer, sailors meet and part
just like ships, nick name is used to avoid
friendship, so when one leaves the ship he is
easily forgotten; what was his name again?

I never worked in an office and knew not
of the scheming going on but I disliked,
when I worked in one, the false smiles and
the hidden knives and gossip

I knew nothing of networking and to whom
to have a drink with in a pub and since
I wasn’t interested in promotion, those who
failed cried on my shoulder

When I left, I did quickly and was saved
bland words; “come back and visit us
anytime.” My god, I left because I couldn’t
stand to hear about their tiny problems

I’m glad I have been spared retirement, to
sit on a chair by the sunny wall and talk
about the past; like the old day should be
anything to hanker for

Time marched on life is easier now than
before, but sadly people stay the same
and that’s a shame; it is as we feel guilty
for having it all and to struggle a bit more.

Yes, you are right I’m a right old prick
lives frugally and take the bus into town
believe in eternal peace and bicycles,
it’s a wonder I haven’t died of boredom.

poetry festival in Oslo

Poetry Festival in Oslo

Poetry bash in Oslo Norway I was invited,
should I be pleased? I was skeptical from
the outset, so I paid for my own journey
just as well what I found was that we all had been
had there was a hidden agenda here, I sensed
its murkiness it was not poetry from the likes
of me this was about, but it was about the promotion
“o gay literature.” Ok, nothing wrong with that
but at least they could have been honest about it,
perhaps the people from the department were
fooled too

tanka and double tanka

Tanka

Ashes on the sea
A showy and mean gesture
From earth to earth
Let me fertilize a tree,
Say, a flowering almond tree



Tanka (double)

It was so sudden
I had just parked the car
Outside the big mall
Flashing pain and deep silence
Wait now in a dark morgue

For you to claim me
If not a paupers grave waits
Not that it matters
It’s all such bloody vanity The need to be remembered

tanka

Tanka

The seashell I found
On the people empty beach
I can’t listen to
If the siren’s calls my name
I will drown in her embrace

Rainbow coalition

Rainbow Coalition


On a fence in that part Chile from Argentina
there is a long barbed wire fence full of plastic
bags, some from posh shops in Paris, London
and New York, There are Japanese bags too
and some with Arabic letters, you can say it is
international garbage fence, but not quite, it is
eerily beautiful like a pale sad rainbow.

There used to be skeletons here too they all had
broken bones as dropped from planes, but
they have been removed now if you are lucky
or ghoulish you might find a collar bone or two
or a skull cleans by the wind; indestructibly sacks
flap, so deafening that you can’t hear the song of
the condors.

suddenly one day

Suddenly one Day…

Warm day
hot wind blows
makes it
difficult to breath
inhale dust
I can’t see
a layer or red
on the car
inside too
Pain in chest
I curl up on
the back seat
sleep
When I awake
I’m not dead
wind has calmed
I feel fine
up my nostrils,
I can smell
Africa

A Landscape

A Landscape

Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with dead grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortal.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
into nothingness. Yet I fear not this landscape as it
is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable

The Long Delusion

The Long Delusion

I sat in a café when she came in, hadn’t seen her
for ten years, she had aged badly, used to be slim
now she was scrawny, and her glorious red hair
had lost its lustre. Her eyes grey and bland, they
used to light up and shine as diamonds in the heat
of the night, perhaps they still did. She sat down
we had coffee talking about harmless things

Then she said: “Why did you always give in and
agree with me when we had an argument?”
I was going to say: “I wasn’t interested enough in
the cause to argue about it” but said: You know
me dear, everything for a bit of peace in the house.”
I thought it was because you didn’t love me,” she
said and for a moment looking lost.

I was an island in a stream of people, but hear and
saw nothing, what a fool, how deluded, I had been
all those years, of course I didn’t love her, it was her
warm embrace I had yarned for and still did.
When I looked up to agree with her for the last time
She had gone she had gone, her scent lingered in
The air, then dissipated as all things must.

helping Banks

Helping the Banks


The night is as obscure as homemade wine the TV screen
casts a grave light in a room that has no shadow; presidents
and prime ministers appear tell us of financial woes, even
the forgotten George Bush is there; they say they are doing
the best they can and that savers money is safe; but I know
they are as powerless as I’m, but they were the ones who
let lose the beast of a free market believing in the myth that
it would correct itself that is to ask a drunk to stop drinking,
gallons of booze and it are all free. “And your money is safe”
is not true, when a bank goes belly up the savers money is
the first to go. Had I money I would take them out and place
them under my mattress but since I’m broke I tell you.
They will try to stop you say it will make matters worse, so
let it; withdrawing you money is the only power you have,
you have little to lose, they will lose everything for without
your cash they are nothing

Dick Whittington....

Dick Whittington and…


I tell my moggy that sits by the door and wants to go out
hunting in the night, that cats can only be taken out when
on a lead, because they kill sparrows and other birds; the world
is falling apart, banks are closing and the rich has to sell
their second yacht, while my terrace is full of bird droppings,
The cat is not doing its job;

am I supposed to clean up after them, fat birds feeding only
on rose petals and an ineffective cat that can’t keep order.
I’ve to get another cat one that isn’t tainted by bird calls and
not addicted by seed.

We have to change the world friendship only softens
the guardians who think they should eat from a golden troth
while we are served mud cakes from a plastic sack

And as I watch Tony Blair speak about this crises looking as
innocent as a house cat, it dawns on me that we really have to
cut off the balls of all male cats so they can’t go around
being paid for spreading obnoxious scent all over the place

the storm

A Tempestade (The Storm)
By Ibn Suhayd 992-1034


In darkness
Each flower opens its mouth
And drink from the teats of
Fertile rain


Loaded with water
Armies of black clouds
Majestically
Marches
With golden swords of lightning

animal concern

Animal Concern


I ought to protest for all, the world, they are killing
Bulls for fun in Spain. Elegant, but murderous men
with handkerchiefs folded up their crotch to give
illusion of big balls struts about with slim swords
and capes killing the stupid beast when it is tired of
a game it doesn’t understand.

When I think of the Roma children who drowned on
a beach in Italy and lay there for ours under bright
towels, while bathers, unconcerned went about their
business, when I think of these unlawful wars and
a bigger one that will engulf us all, then I must admit
that I don’t give a shit about Spanish bulls

addiction

Addiction

Rain has abated
A man under an awing
Counts falling raindrops
He has little else to do
He stopped smoking last night


Fiddles with a lighter
Clicks it on and off forever
Giggles to himself
Kicks in a sweetshop window
Grabs a handful of “all sorts”

no comment

No Comment

So here we sit shielding behind Sunday
and unspoken boredom leafing through
newspapers that predict the fall of
the society as we know it, without Wall
Street, the darkness beckons.

Crisis, we can’t all have a home, whom to
blame, if this time, not the Jews the Persians
can come in handy. Wars are ritual
bloodletting 30-40 million dead and nature
will restore it self

The ice caps will refreeze a clear distinction
between the seasons, above all, Wall Street
will bloom again, politicians will extol our
capitalism, and we will be told not to envious
of those who are filthy rich.

autumnal sunday

Autumnal Sunday


Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;

the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure they are own
their own immortality

alitre of wine

A litre of wine


The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,

but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?

Livorno Mon amour

Livorno Mon Amour



Livorno this dreary harbour port, not Rome and now in
winter a ghost town, every window shuttered telling not
of life inside. Into the bar came a young woman, long legs
like a colt, she was frozen warmed her hand and fanny by
the fire. I thought she looked like the American I had once
seen the shadow of in Trieste, I offered her a drink, she
had a coke, then she left to resume her lonely profession.
Later that night I saw her by a corner and as cold rain hung
In the air; I took her to an hotel, got heating going, she
jumped into bed ready to do her duty, but I was pensive
waiting to write a poem about Trieste.

When I awoke tired morning light seeped through holed
curtains, the girl had put a blanket around me in the night
I was grateful for that. We breakfasted; she had fried eggs
and ham, I drank coffee and a little brandy. Saw her dance
down the street, yes she looked like an eager colt. Hoped
she would meet a rich man, marry him and become his
respectable whore instead of ending up an old diseased
slag begging drinks from men who are ready to debase her.
Two days later I took the train to Trieste, I asked around
but no one had seen the American girl and the poem was
never written.

the jogger

The Jogger

They said he had invented jogging and he was quite
addicted to his invention, ran every afternoon longer
and longer distances; till he dropped dead.
“He had congenital heart disease and would have died
anyway,” the defenders of jogging said.

Sure but that’s not the point he could have died when
copulating, angling, having a splendid meal with wine
or congenial drink with friends in the bar, and not
prancing about in shorts on a cold road alone a chilly
autumnal evening.

o marmelo

O Marmelo (a pear shaped fruit of
the quince, tree can also mean
“Saio de Mulher” Bosom)
Al-Musahfi ca 982
Translated from
old Portuguese by Jan Oskar Hansen

O Marmelo
Is of the colour yellow that of shame
A narcissist’ tunic and it has a musky
Penetrating aroma

As the perfume of once beloved and has
The same force as the heart but has
The colour of one who is in love and
haggard.

Her paleness is but an imprint of my pallor
And my breath has the aroma
Of my woman’s breaths

Fragrant when the fruit is lifted from the branch
Under the brocade of woven leaves, suavely
In my hand I carry it indoors and put it as
A costly treasure, in my alcove

Dressed in grey down which flutters on its
Smooth golden body

And when in my hand, naked sans its shirt-
The colour of narcissism- makes me record
What I can’t express as the heat of my vigor
Fades and drips between my fingers

tomorrows world

Tomorrows World


So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

the disappeared

The Disappeared

The man, in our village, who died last
year is now entirely forgotten, since
he passed away- before Christmas-
someone else had to come kill the pigs.

His wife has shed her mourning dress
has got a lover, he arrives late at her
house and leaves at dawn; we know
and decorously pretend we don’t

It is a bit frightening to realize who
quickly the deceased are forgotten,
it must be so it’s good for our ego
to see how insignificant we are.

There is a new killer of pigs now, he
lives in the next village and it is said
he’s even better at it then the one who
expired; what was his name again?

As I write these meager lines millions
have died, some in agony we cannot
shed tears for the world’s monotony,
forget and welcome the newborns.

So, hold on to life do not strangle it
with impossible demands of longevity
smell the rose they are demises perfume
and hope you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.

tomorrow's world

Tomorrows World


So the world is a changing greed has failed,
Now we shall all work unselfishly for, and
Together heal the world, make financial rules
Based on trust, honesty and real democracy.

We will suffer together and prosper together,
But as usual the majority will suffer while
The minority will prosper, and when time is
Right greed will be back on the agenda.

This of course may sound pessimistic, but it
Is human nature, the will to survive; if there
Are no games to play, no wars to fight
Humans will simply sink into apathy and die

tanka for you

Tanka

Quiver in fingers
Folded as a butterflies wings
Long is the day after
Suckling pig and strong wine
And too early for a beer

white skin

Original Title
A Tez Branca
By IBN ABD RABBINI
Ca 860 - 940
White Skin


A thing like this
Have we never
Heard of,
The reward for modesty
A goat horn transformed
Into a pearl


So very shiny her face
When contemplating
Its perfection, that the real
Face vanishes in its
Own clarity

The proletariat

The Proletariat

A creamy butterfly
Sat on a big yellow rose,
Softly fluttering wings
Betrayed its modest presence
A common sparrow swooped.

I sadly concluded:
The masses don’t care for art
Busy as they are,
Wedded to a life of work,
No time to stop and wonder.

Denmark mon Amour

Denmark, Mon Amour


Aarhus, Denmark, yes I was there many years ago,
perhaps the place has changed but I doubt it. Met
a woman there her name was Margot, about my age,
a racy thirty, I was off a ship going home next day.

How perfectly we danced together and how I liked
the promising glint in her brown eyes, yes she was
the right one for me; and when the bar closed it was
only natural that I followed her home.

But as she turned the key on the lock of her door,
she asked me for money, shocked I mumbled yes,
but wondered if I would be able to after this cold
shower of naked reality

She had a dog and as she put a mattress on the floor
for us to lie on, the dog kept glaring at me, its eyes
were spiteful eyes night after night it saw men doing
things to her it could only dream of

I took my trousers off and tried to get through this
act of loves’ betrayal when the dog had had enough
and bit my bum, I began giggling and gave up this
pretense and we’re all relieved when I left.

autumnal song

An Autumnal Song

Autumn in the park leaves keep falling off trees,
silently just like snow; many people around,
children behave themselves and dogs do ditto

Oslo enjoys a rare threat, a clear Saturday sky,
soon there will be massive rain falls, later sleet and
endless snow, and naked tree will suffer for our sins.

Tomorrow I’ll return to Portugal, where leaves fall
off trees too, but in time of decay the almond tree
will flower and strew silky snow on my way.

Peace will come over me, the burden of nostalgia
and sadness that made me weary in Oslo will leave,
and I will be free of my past.

I have lived in here twenty years, that’s how old I’m
having been born twice, first time I had no say in
the matter, but this time, however, I willed it.

And I shall go on living here amongst thorny bushes,
olive, carob and almond trees, I will not leave again
until my journey comes to an end

lovesick blues

It’s Love, You See.


Knocked on the lovely ladies door, asked if
I could weed the flowers in her front garden,
mow the lawn and trim her hedge. She smiled,
said she has a man in the house to do it.
“Next year?” “Perhaps,” she said and gently
closed the door. Then it was autumn, leaves
flew trough the air making me feel blue;
then winter with snow, and from my window
I saw see her garden looked like every one
else’s, suburbia landscape

Spring came suddenly and her garden was
a mess, weeds were strangulating her flowers,
the lawn a jungle, her hedge looked like
a broken accordion. I walked over and asked
her again, she was in a foul mood, said: “I could
do what I wanted but don’t expect her to be
grateful, I hate men you’re all alike,” with that
she slammed the door shut. It took me weeks
to get the garden ship shape, but when all was
perfect I knocked on her door again.


She came out into the summer sun shine, but
she wasn’t alone leaning her head against
a man’s shoulders she smiled up to me with
teeth that looked like marble headstones in
a Spanish graveyard in moonlight, and her
eyes had the hard glint of sapphires. From my
window I can see her garden it’s lit up by
the light of her bedroom window, and when
the light is switched off I still sit there, tell
myself that I don’t lover her anymore.

sunday Reflections

Sunday Reflections


Oslo airport, outside the sun shines cold and
the sky is a sheet of blue ice. Three days I spent
in Oslo looking at dwellings, near the castle,
nicely done up they were just like whores who
have had the good fortune marrying a rich idiot,
forgotten is the shady past, serious mien the poor
husband never gets a leg over now.

Hardy people the Oslo inhabitants are drink beer
with ice lumps in while it snows, this because
they can’t go inside to smoke, their hearts too frozen
too show any emotion other than watching porno.
I wanted to say halloo to my old friend the king,
knocked on the castle’s door his dim witted son
opened, I pinned a note on his forehead and left.

It’s nice to sit inside the warm airport knowing
soon I’ll be back in Portugal, it isn’t perfect and
rich, but the people have a song in their hearts
and the weather is for walking in her landscape,
beer is very cheap too and so is good bottle of
plonk. But roots are deep, when leaving I cried
a little, wish I could love my country a little more.

Literature

Literature

Tomorrow I’ll be in Oslo, Norway, haven’t been there
for than twenty years. My brother lived in Oslo, back
then I knocked on his door, he didn’t open siblings’,
rivalry; told him I was living for Portugal and not
coming back; his silence distressed me and now he’s
dead. Yes, so I loved his wife and she came with me,
to Portugal. Tomorrow night I will be in Oslo…alone,
yes she left me too but I ain’t bitter I’ve been around for
quite awhile. By his graveside I’ll explain it all whether
he likes it or not, and make him understand that I made
a favour taking her away from his academic life; after
with her in the house he wouldn’t have been able to
write a weighty tome 800 page tome like: “The future
of poetry in the age of computers and cyber speak.”

inconsequent calamity

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

musical houses

Musical houses
And this is not a poem

A takes B´s house, B takes C’s house,
C lives in a tent and bids his time;
end of round one.

C, sees his chance retakes his house,
B goes back and demands his
rightful house from A.

A has lost, serves him right he’s
the ant Semitic bastard who started
it all, end of game till next genocide.

Texas Gush

The Texas Gush

Surge in Baghdad and soldiers build
walls how banal, as the ocean surges
and islands disappear in the pacific;

let’s invade Nepal now, ring it with
a wall of soldiers and be safe; as sea
rises we can just climb higher up;

till we reach a bergs top, spend time
pushing each other off till there is
only one left and he kills himself;

a cold rock on the vast sea no wall
to stop its surges, but will the world
be free of annoying seagull shrikes?

inconsequent calamity

Inconsequent Calamity.

Men in suits carrying cardboard boxes out of a bankrupt
finance house, it isn’t money they carry out but private
belongings, picture of wife and kids and executive toys,
so what do I care? In the basement where there are no
gleaming windows and walls are cement grey, damp and
unadorned, the janitor sits, he lives from one pay check to
the next, won’t be paid this week though;

maybe he should join the navy and see the world, but at
sixty five it isn’t a wise thing to do. But he has, unlike
the suits upstairs, been unemployed before, he can, if he
must, sweep the streets of New York. The TV’s glare and
sympathy is not on him, the world of middle class men
worries about their own future not the janitor’s or his son
who is on his third tour of duty in Iraq.

look back in sadness

Look back in Sadness.
(Written as Tanka)


Bundle of photos
Face down in a cigar box
Family and friends
From a time that is a dream
Fading into eternity

Mostly black & white
How young my parents looked
Now I’m the oldest
Siblings faded fast away
As I sailed many seas

Non returnable
Past’s gate is firmly padlocked
Wait in no mans land
Know there is no remedy
The past really is a dream.

US Soldiers

US Soldiers.


Full of propaganda and democratic zeal
the US soldiers came to Iraq; five years
later they now know there is no “Mission
Accomplished.” The soldiers have grown
up and no longer believe in this war, they
now call useless, mockingly laugh when
politicians speak of winning.

Good, working-class kids, manipulated
and lied to, from small towns and rural
communities, they are true Americans
who love their country, I salute them and
hope their leaders will think well before
asking them to fight, bleed and die for yet
another useless war.

wedding party

(Wedding Party)

Sailing down night Seine
Champagne brut and goose liver
The Eiffel Tower
Dressed in bright coloured charms
Looked like a demi monde


When the barge banked
I gave Seine the bird’s liver
Peed in the river
Studied the sliver of moon
Dreaming of ice cold lager


Paris’s night streets
September mild and at ease
Bars and bistros shut
The worthless slept in doorways
And I thought of Edit Piaf

five new haiku

Haiku

Misty night seeps down
Melancholic September
Averse sky pain for the sun


Haiku

Green moss on wet wall
The northwesterly blows rain
Normal October


Haiku

Parasols seek shelter
Courageous are umbrellas
Joust November storms


Haiku

Festive shop windows
Preen and vie for customers
Long after closing time


Haiku

Fire-works on night sky
Cannot vie with shooting stars
Quarter past twelve

four senryu (s)

Senryu

Now that I’m old
No one seeks or wants my love
Except my dog



Senryu

The girl at the till
Doesn’t see me as a person
I’m just an old face



Senryu


Graveyards are places
Where old men recall their past
And remember mum



Senryu

The fear of oldness
Can only be assuaged
By senility

review of my latest book "homecoming"

JAN OSKAR HANSEN

HOMECOMING...Prose, Poetry, Senryu

By a Norwegian sailor - stunning, candid reflections of a life on sea and land.

Published by Cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN 978-81-8253-121-5, First Edition, 140 pages, paperback, $15,00.

HOMECOMING is the third one of a triptych of poems: End Of A Voyage, Homeward Bound, Homecoming.

Hansen takes us on an unforgettable journey through his life as a high seas roller. An adventure of brilliant insights. His love, respect and understanding of both nature and humanity with all its foibles. He shocks us into another world with humour and pathos. All masterfully written in prose, poetry and senryu of literary signifance.

Jan Oskar Hansen makes us his shipmate and companion on a journey of a lifetime where we experience through his writing, each powerful, immediate, enlightening observations. His fresh individuality leads us to worlds of wonder, delights us in earthy pleasures with a philosophical twist. We become part of the tapestry he has woven of his multifaceted experiences.

We feel his emotions and passion for the written word as he witnesses many cultures, learns new languages and grows his imagination which is at once ‘dazzling’, thought provoking, candid, richly spiced with intimacy, dream, reality and vast visual vistas of profound awareness of nature in all its vitality.

In conclusion, here is an example of what you will find in HOMECOMING, Jan Oskar Hansen’s most recent brilliant achievement.

THE OLD TART

She’s and old tramp ship now, can’t afford to hire proper crew,
only harbour dregs, to take her to the next port. For some of us she’s home we try to keep her afloat a lick of paint here and there when it can be bought cheap or stolen from a warehouse, that’s getting hard now that all cargo are shipped by containers, locked and sealed. She was riding yellow swells, off Hock van Holland, when news come she’s to be sold as scrap iron the dregs are glad to be ashore bellies full of rum king. For us who loved the old lady it’s sad day, for us she will be the last ship, we know well that we don’t fit the new merchant navy regime, roll on roll off no time for poker and a little whisky.

SENRYU

The angry ocean
Left its irate foam behind
In secret coves


LOVES LAMENT

In the morning breeze I can hear you voice
softly calling my name
in the haze I can see
the contours of you face

In the meadow’s stream
I hear you laughter and
the water in the well is as clear as your tears
the day you said farewell

All in nature reminds me of you,
transient our love, like the flowering almond tree;
beauty never lasts and it was yesteryear.


HAPPY ENDING?

Love is overrated
The cynical sardonically say
But it keeps us sane




Literary review (2008) by Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Author, Poet, Visual Artist (Canada) based upon ‘Homecoming’, published by cyberwit.net, 2007, ISBN978-81-8253-121-15 First Edition, 140 Pages, CAN$15.00


JAN OSKAR HANSEN (Portugal). His poems have been published in 20 literary magazines worldwide, including:
Hudson Review, USA, Skyline, USA, Skald, Wales, La rue Bella, England, The Bards, England, War is a dangerous place, England, The Black Mountain Review, Ireland, ARS Poetica India, India, Braquemard, England, Firefly Magazine, USA, Pphoo, India, Taj Mahal Review, India, Remark Magazine, USA, Journal of Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, England.

His poems appear in many anthologies. Collections ‘Letters from Portugal’ (bewrite books) Bristol, ‘La Strada’ Lapwing Publishers), Belfast, ‘End of Voyage’ (WFP New York), ‘Marilyn Monroe Remembered’ Erbacce Press, Liverpool, ‘The Fairground’ Ranch, India (out of print now).



BARBARA ELIZABETH MERCER (CANADA) Poet, Visual Artist, Author of 4 books of poetry published by Cyberwit,net (India), SECRETS, 2008, LEGACY, 2007, SELF PORTRAIT, 2006, MYSTIC WILLS, 2005. Co-author with Steve Chering, London, UK, book of poetry WHEN POETS COLLIDE, Pub. Lulu,com, USA, Her paintings, in Public Collections: University of Toronto Art Centre, Imperial Oil, Robert McLaughlin Gallery, Oshawa, Canada. Many international private collections.