Gratuitous Violence

Gratuitous Violence

A vast plateau somewhere in the middle a lone oak,
perhaps a lone survivor of a time when this highland
was a gigantic forest. It wasn’t a nice, tall tree, no not
at all, it was nobly, stubby and bent by age, yet it was
there and today it was giving shade to a man who was
crossing the plateau on foot, this for the simple reason
that he couldn’t afford to buy a horse nor a mule. From
the horizon, shimmering at first, riders, cow hands who
spent weeks in the saddle looking for lost cattle, which
must be one of the most boring jobs man has to endure,
and seeing the lone man they decided he was a thief and
hung him on the old tree. And as life seeped out of his
struggling body, the dance of death relieved their ennui;
then they rode on, they were not men of deep thoughts.
When night fell they made a fire, ate beans, drank coffee,
farted loudly, laughed and went soundly to sleep

the cork tree

The Cork Tree

The phellem oak, that stands alone where the road
bends north, has been debarked- or denuded- from
waist down; had it been bare-chested with cork pants
on it wouldn’t have been so bad, in Julies everyone
around here dresses like that, some wear even less.

Its flesh of is pale and slightly blue, but what can one
expect a January day, with hint of snow in the air and
a cold wind that brazenly prods its trunk. In five years
time the bark will grow back; since the plant lives to be
800 hundred years, a few naked years ain’t that bad.

unpleasnat Senryu

Unpleasant Senryu

On tip of a nose
Hung a hefty drop of snot
Feeling very cold


A blob of mucus
Throaty and very chunky
Was licked by dogs


Outside the Chinese’s
Cats, dog and rats waited
For someone to puke

senryu, tanak and zen

Senryu

Dog hair on sofa
A sentimental memory
Hard to brush off



Tanka

The face I saw
Behind me in the mirror
Wasn’t my dad’s
Yet, eerily familiar
Is there a story untold?


Zen

Rainwater
In cupped hands
Seeps away


Zen

A rain drop
On an almond leaf
Reflects silence

Ase

Áse.

“So there you are I sensed you would be here today,
come sit here by the west wall and warm your old
body and see the sun gently fall into the sea. Don’t
try to speak I can see your eyes are full of regret and
sorrow, so let me tell you about myself. When you
left, years ago, I thought my life had come to an end,
my body ached for your caress, I thought my heart
would never mend. I have had a husband and have
children who have flown away, I don’t know where,
all I have is this cabin, a goat a cow and a cabbage
patch; and now you are here. Stay till your feet get
restless and you are off again chasing the same old
dream of riches and success, and I will sit here and
remember you well.”

invisible friend

Invisible Friend

We sat on the pier spat into the sea, sharing a bottle of plonk
and a packet of crisp, when I heard a splash, thought someone
was swimming didn’t see a bather though, then realized you
had fallen into the water and were sinking into the mud.

Courageously I jumped into the water and dragged you ashore;
wet, we walked through town looking nonchalant, yet feeling
daft. At home I changed my clothes, blue blazer, grey slacks,
green socks and brown shoes, lovingly polished by my mother.

Looked in the mirror, saw a sophisticated man, but you had
gone, if you’re not real I hope you’re a wolf they have got
wise eyes and are not dumb like rabbits, canary birds, battery
chickens and dogs infantilized by lonely women

I saw an enormous rabbit once, or was it a hare? A winter day
when it is dark till noon. I was cycling through the forest, on
my way to school, it tried to grab me, but I got away, told my
teacher, she laughed and called me a little fool.

tanka & sunryu

Tanka

If a cowboy
Had a awfully big ranch
And hundred horses
You wouldn’t hear him holler:
“A horse, a kingdom for a horse.”






Senryu

The light is off
In the hospital’s morgue
At night



Senryu

The rabbit spoors
On new fallen snow
Were bloody

Life's Avenue

Life’s Avenue


By the left hand corner, where the avenue begins,
a group of old men stand - in the afternoon shade-
talk about the gone days, life was so much better
then. They nod friendly when they see me, like I
should be one of them; but I do resist, smile back,
stop not for a chat

The German pope has nice silvery hair, if he dyes
it black he will look years younger, should he do
so people will snigger, and he’ll go down in
history as “Pope, the conceited.” I dislike talking
about the past, it fills me with sorrow, so I won’t
loiter at the old men’s corner

The sentiment

The Sentiment

Saw her in a garden, in a street where nice people
live, playing with other dogs and rolling on soft,
grass. I called her name she came to the gate
wagging her little tail; thought she remembered
me, but I was only stranger who knew her name;

she ran back to frolic with the other dogs. I have
seen her since, in other peoples lush estates and
on beaches afar, when the sea is calm and ripples
gently rinse grey pebbles till they shine as pearls,
but I don’t call her name anymore

spring haiku

Haiku (spring)

Sun and rain
Drops of light descend
Purify the soil





Conceit

She had mirrors in every room in her house, on
the bedroom ceiling also, so she could see herself
Even when there was a thunderstorm and the light
Failed, (she had a torch) and gloom tumbled down.

Then she got a wart on her nose, on the day she
Was forty, irately smashed every mirror, the one
On the ceiling too; only sees herself, when night
Descends; in brightly lit dress shops windows.

justice

Justice

Justice, I read that word on walls in books and
Newspapers, no political speech can be spoken
Without that word being mention trice.

There are exceptions of course some people
Cannot have justice less they, adjust and become
Like us and show some genuine humility.

Take the huddled lot in the middle-east; we said:
“Hold a fair election,” they did and voted for rebels.
If they want justice they must play the game.

So now they can sit behind a big wall and fret,
Till they understand they have to elect a leader
We accept, one who believes in our democracy

The legionnaires

The Legionnaires

From Oslo to Lyon, on a train, is a long way, it was
1961, but Tom and I talked a lot had planes we’re
going to join the foreign legion, a life fit for heroes.
We found the relevant office, medical examination,
they didn’t like my heart and they were not chuffed
about my lungs. Alone I was at the Lyon’s railway
going home; and alone it was an endless journey.
For once mother was silent, I ate a whole loaf with
marge and blueberry jam, felt sorry for myself, not
good enough for the bloody French; and Tom didn’t
even bother to say farewell, but over the years I often
wondered what had happened to him, till I saw, in
the park, a man older than his years- scruffy and
reeking of booze- I knew it was him, Tom; cowardly
I walked another way. You see, I had landed a good
job was now middle class and respectable and the old
days had gone; yet, Tom had come home I really have
to go talk to him some day.

passport

Passport


Schiphol, Amsterdam 1964, the old seaman must
have carried his passport in his pocket for years, it
was a disgrace loose leaved I barely hung together,
immigration wouldn’t, at first let him through;

A higher up was called, he looked at the offending
passport, shook his head pursed his lips, but let him
pass through since he was joining a ship, but with
a warning to get a new one soon

The sailor was absent, his voyage began with a dram,
his mind was already onboard away from the cold
north, sailing passed the Azores, calm sea, he stood
on deck and saw the last seagull fly back to the coast

duvet

Duvet.


Continental quilt, the hills of Wales, decked by
grazing sheep, ancient coal dust on wool; sheep
live forever around here, if not, at least for fifty
five years, some say sixty eight.

The moon is a pale sliver the rind of a cheese
thrown away by a spoilt baby troll that would
rather eat a lamb with mint sauce and boiled
potatoes. Yes, and cabbage too

Deep in the vale, amongst slag heap made by
the toil of yesterdays’ miners, a house burns
a holiday home, the firemen drink tea, take
their time and wait for morning light.

to anticipate

To Anticipate

Do not expect anything and you will not
Be disappointed. What a dreadful advice
To give anyone who likes a party.

No listen up, expect a lot and work hard
To let it happens and if it doesn’t, don’t
You come crying on my shoulders;

It is life you see and we are leaves on
Mother tree, we can dream but in the end
We fall and get trampled in the mud;

And since you are a leaf amongst millions
Of other you can still expect to be a golden
One destined to be oak leaf on a uniform.

the less enchanted forest

The Less Enchanted Forest

In an orange grove I walked, it was so vast and
Every tree looked the same, that I got lost and
Spent days in the wilderness

Somewhere in the middle of this fruit forest
Where oranges fall useless and silent to ground,
Uneaten by man, I came a cross a village

Peopled by an eccentric German sect who had
Turned their back to modernity, they lived on
Carrots and beans, fed oranges to their pigs

But the menfolk, all former storm troopers,
Had succumbed to orange wine and saluting
To a leader long since dead

The women with rusty iron crosses around
Elderly necks, where teaching their offspring
The value of Germanic culture

Since I’m blond and they thought I was a vegan
And their Fhurer, they made me a cabbage stew
While they ate succulent, pink pork chops.

A Lesson Learned

A Lesson Learned


I was selling my café to buy a small bed & breakfast
hotel, a nice couple came, very friendly, they looked
Levantine I thought. My wife didn’t like them, but
warmed to their flattery. Yes, they agreed to buy my
café and would like to take over in a fortnights time.
They asked me what sort of business I was going into,
I naively told them about my little hotel, its name and
from whom I was buying it. No one came on the day
agreed upon so I rang the owner of the hotel said
sorry but the sale of my business had fallen through.
“That’s ok I have sold the hotel to a Levanter couple,
who said you were no longer interested; never thought
I should get rid of that cockroach infested place, so
You’re the lucky one,” he said

The Fame Game

The Fame Game


The princess sat on a bench looking pretty,
behind her Taj Mahal, and a big rat that sat,
on the perfect lawn, quietly observing her
with what looks like deep concern;

there were many rats in her life hungry for
crumbs of her fame, but they were satisfied,
cornered her for more and in a dark tunnel,
without an exit

Mangled bodies and steel and the smell of
petrol, the rats scuttled off, down sewers they
came from, waiting for the next prey to come
and play the game of fame.

A holiday photo

A Holiday Photo


Remember Pula, in former Yugoslavia, thirty years ago,
I have picture of you in my blue shoebox, you smile look
Pretty, the people around you are incidental just locals
And other holidaymakers who don’t know they are forever
Caught by my camera, getting nowhere in my box.
The plane ride back to Liverpool on that old aircraft that
Shuddered and had wings that moved as a seagull’s,
We where so glad we landed that, strangers spoke to each
Other till they came back to their senses and shut up.
I know you must look different now, but what I recall is
Your smile since it, for a moment hid the problems that
Made us part. Looking into the mirror I don’t think I have
Aged much, a grand illusion, of course, that make old age
Tolerable; I wonder if you when looking into the mirror
Think the same as I, or are you delusion free, if so I do
Feel sorry for your bitter reality.

A Friend

A Friend.

Dear weak heart, do not stay indoors, sit abject
in a chair feeling sorry for yourself; never mind
what the cardiologist said, he’s a bad tempered
cigar smoker in the grip of his vice. Let’s take
a walk on the meadowland see rabbits frolic in
the grass and watch the fox’s hunting skill, there
is no room for sappiness in the world of animals,
nor should there be one between you and me.
Inhale spring air, see leaves fly without leaving
mother tree, enjoy when sunlight warms my cheeks,
for I know well that you often are awake at night
staring into the darkness and listening out for
unworldly steps. So come with me, even if it rains,
let’s walk barefoot across the grassland once more. .

epigram

Epigram.


If you make fun of a Moslem he’ll come, burn down
your home and try to kill you. Make fun of a Hebrew
he’ll call you an anti Semite; and you will be a pariah,
even the bishop of Rome will condemn you.

Couplets

Couplets

My neighbour has mowed his lawn
The aroma of cut grass sweetens the air;

I regret my hastiness when cementing
Over my turf and painting it spring green;

Soon his rose bushes will flower madly
I spray paint and dust mine once a year;

In winter when heavy snow gently falls
Our gardens are perfectly equal;

Dawn's Mist

Dawn’s Mist.


Blue iced lake perfectly smooth, snow fell
And the lake was white and stayed that way
Till winter waned and ice thinned unseen.
A Montana cowboy on his way home rode
Across and was not seen again till May.

As Spanish bluebells chimed, out of mist
He came but vanished when the morning
Sun dried tears of the youngest, tiny leaf
On a maple tree, this as verdant grass, on
Hilly fields, looked like the Atlantic sea

senryu

Senryu

If the enemy’s news
Is called propaganda
Is ours the truth?

monday blues

Monday Blues.


It’s snowing, wet flakes thawing quickly, it is too
late in the year for snow, and the almond tree petals
are much prettier to look at… A thin layer of snow
on top of the wall, I make a snowball and throw it
into the siesta sleepy street.

A critic compared me with writers I haven’t heard
of, except J. Conrad; I plainly didn’t measured up
to the great of yore; The Pole was an aristocrat,
people, even republicans, like to point that out, as
it should make any the difference.

Snow has thawed now, what we need is rain and
plenty of it, the stream looks as a badly kept road,
full of potholes, it hasn’t been like that for ninety
years, global warming is blamed. What did they
blame it on in the year of 1916?

The human mind is strange, it often records and
store useless things, the postman brought me a fan
letter today, someone, like my work well enough
to send me a letter, I’ve forgotten his words now,
but I do remember every word of the review.

when the phone rings

When the Phone Rings

As I was morning dozing cozily, the phone rang
I let it ring, but it persisted, got up and sat by
the phone till it aggravated stopped; then I lifted
the receiver, said halloo, pretended it had ceased
ringing before I got to it.

The bed was warm and comfy, but I couldn’t
sleep wondered whom the caller could have.
been. Got up made coffee, left the kitchen door
open, in case the phone rang. Stayed home all
day, the phone didn’t ring once.

flower power

Flower Power

When I die, my body shall not be ashes and
strewn upon the sea, it’s polluted enough as it is.
No, dig it six foot deep under my almond tree,
let it absorb my flesh.

If it turns out that have I a soul too, I bequeath
it to the tree as well, it will then be more careful
in whose path it strews pink & white flowers on
cold winters days

Heart transplant

Heart Transplant.


He was tired the cardiologist said his heart was so beat
that he needed a new one; he must have a suit case
ready packed and go to hospital as soon as a heart was
available, this wouldn’t be too long since the hospital
was near busy a intersection where two motorways
meet and fatal crashes appeared once or trice a month.

Soon there was one ready, a girl had lost control of her
her car, didn’t survive; so they took out his worn-out
heart placed it on a kidney shaped dish for later study,
but as the surgeon took the heart out of the box, it came
in, it slipped out of his hand and on to the stone floor,
where it bunched about before having a cardiac arrest;

the only heart on hand had belonged to a hundred and
ten year old man, it was kept in alcohol in a jar out of
curiosity, this was a desperate situation, so they gave
him that heart then. The patient wonders why is more
tired than before the surgery; he used to be teetotal now
he has taken to drink and his wife is suing for a divorce

St Valentine's day

St. Valentine’s Day


A well groomed couple walks in front of me,
he wears a club blazer, mid thirty graying hair.
She’s twenty something and for her wrinkles
is a fun word and she has long blond hair that
clearly loves her. She slips her hand into his,
he looks around, I wonder why?
Later, in a café, she leans over and kisses him,
he looks around again, plays it cool.

What’s wrong with the man is he total fool,
doesn’t he know when loves comes around he
has to grab it with both hands; or could it be
that he is married and fear that someone who
knows his wife will tell. In that case there
will be tears and recriminations; wonder what
lies he has told her? She’ll call him a love rat
and speak nastily about him for years.


On the other hand he could be a chauffeur
for a rich man and she’s a maid, both wearing
cast offs on their day off; and he’s bewildered
usually he’s ignored. Perhaps they will get
married, he’s going to buy a limousine an be
self employed, while she will open a shop and
do ironing for people who have no time to do it
themselves. And look! He’s kissing her now.

Long Life

Long Life


Now that the hope for a metaphysical heaven has
Declined longevity is the new mantra, to live till
Ninety and beyond is the goal.

Every one over seventy must do exercises, go
Early to bed, eat very little, that’s easy now that
Food is getting expensive…and be booze free.

It doesn’t matter if the last decade is spent in bed,
It’s possible to do stretch exercises from there,
And to remember who you are is not important.

No one talks about quality of life, I rather die on
A glorious day when sea and sky are in harmony,
Than in an iron bed in a room that has white wall.

Edward Hopper Painting

Edward Hopper Painting


Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on, while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.

Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.

The End of ==/

The end of ==/

My dog saw it first the log rolling gently
on the edge of the sea, only it was a man
in a dinner suit and he had a hole in his
forehead. His hands had been severed,
his dark/blond wig clung to grey neck hair
where tiny crabs had taken up residence

A handsome actor’s face, 007, I was sure
he should have taken that desk job offered
by M, now that he was middle aged and
slowing down, sad, but it happens to us
all we don’t see it before it’s too late and
we end up dead or even worse, laughed at.

As an agent he wasn’t useful to anyone,
I pushed him back to the sea the sharks or
failing that, shrimps, lobsters and crabs
could have him now; poetic justice, you
may say, he used to enjoy dear seafood
after shooting someone dead.

January Seaside

January Seaside

The yellow sanded beach has been washed
by the sea, and is now free of human debris,
such as forgotten sunglasses, suntan oil and
empty bottles of noxious soft drinks.

It is just there reborn, drying in the winter
sun, yet to be stepped on by man; and above,
large, sanitary seagulls crossly shrieks, warn
us not to trespass on their domain

Desember Forest

December Forest.


I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.

This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like gangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;

but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.

It isn’t easy to be a tree, if one happens to
be placed amongst siblings, and its roots
can’t touch a loved one, across the road,
the future must be bleak indeed

A tree can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written. And you call that solace?

Tanka poems

Tanka

Open hands at rest
On the oak kitchen table
As an oft’ read book
Loose leaved and dog eared
A mother’s sad tale?


Tanka

Weary hands at rest
On the old woman’s lap
Ask you to see
Having giving all her life
She’s empty handed now

2 short poems

Nostalgia


This land of soft stones and olive trees
Welcomes me,

But I dream of Nordic earth with rim
Frost and obstinate granite.

And I ask myself, why is it so difficult
For me to forget you?





The childless



Fallow land the old homestead is
Falling into disrepair

The last cow sent to the knacker’s yard,
There are no calves.

No reminiscence, nor a photo album
The silence speaks of nothing

The Myth

The Myth

Bashful almond tree
Proudly stands beside an oak
Jubilant today
Strews silky flowers about
To honour a fair princess

Born in the cold North
She missed snow and cried
A river of tears
Walls in her castle so damp
That everyone got the flu

Lived in Silves
Married to a Moslem prince
A tolerant man
Good to Christians and Jews
And he made swords into ploughs

(Silves is an ancient town in Portugal)

Senryu

Senryu

Poor Gustave Le Bon
He discovered black light
And was vilified


10 quid she said
Beneath the night of a tree
The moon was absent



On dazzling days
When the sun cascades
Details go unseen.

Hesitation

Hesitation


How heavy is this lake, I ask myself, it
tastes of blandness, tepid too; dust on
its surface, like the glass of water -on
the kitchen table -that should have been
drunk with the forgotten pill…and now,
nine month later, I will not go into that.

I swim to the middle of the lake where
a stone sticks out of the water, had I been
in a dingy, a hazy day, I could have hit
the mini reef. Did she forget to take that
pill? Tired arms, a swift breeze cools
the water, too cold now to drown oneself.

Oscar's proverb

Oscar’s Proverb

When you are alone
There is no one around,
Who loves you enough,
To tell you when you
Are wrong

confession

Confession.

Winter storm 1974, a supply vessel gets motor stop near
the sandy shores of Denmark where spindrift makes it
hard to see it is like being snow blind. We are together on
the bridge with life jackets on, the skipper, a religious man
asks us to sing a psalm we reluctantly do. Gripped by
the moment the first officer shouts:” Forgive me God for
I have sinned.” We are spared the rest, as the old chief
gets the engine started again and the magic of the moment
evaporates leaving behind embarrassment as we head for
the open sea which is the best place to be in a storm, if not
safely anchored in a bay. That evening there was laughter
in the mess-hall, I knew why, as so does the first officer
who, for the rest of the voyage, eats in my galley, and tries
to be as unobserved as it is possible to be on a small ship.

Heroes

Heroes?


The sky is azure
Except for easterly dust clouds
Bombed out dwellings?
Delightful whiffs of poppies
Fields of the sweetest fantasy

Guarded by blue caps
The biggest harvest for years
Drug lords are rich
Armour plated four wheels
But they will never be safe

Afghanistan
A place for those who like wars
An Eden for contract killers
The Taliban will be victors
When smoke rises above Kabul

So, how safe am I?
Sitting in the spring sun
In my backyard
Getting a deep rich man’s tan
Is it cordite I can smell?

Musical

Musical

Long time ago when Liverpool harbour side looked
like a Lawry painting, and not as now, posh homes
for the well to do, my ship docked and I was given
a half day off work. In a narrow street I found a shop
selling used musical instruments and I saw my dream,
a saxophone costing ten quid. I ran back onboard
asked the captain for a loan, luckily he was in a good
mood; but when I came back to the shop my dream
was gone. Later, when day ended and night began,
outside a jazz club- they wouldn’t let me in because
they said I was too young, I heard someone playing
beautiful music on my saxophone

an opld lover remembered

An Old Lover Remembered.


On my walks, in the part of town that is neglected, where
streetlamps are so few that they can’t link light, I met my
old lover; she has a kiosk, sells fried chicken and fries,
soft drinks and cigarettes, since there are no other outlets
for these kind of things the poor and homeless, come here
for a bit to eat and socialize on the pavement outside her
business Years hadn’t been kind, her beautiful lips that
could do tricks were now a pale scar across her ashen face,
with dried up spittle, the colour of meerschaum- only seen
in secret coves- in the corners of her mouth, short cut hair
and her Atlantic green eyes had lost their lustre. No, time
had not been kind to us, if I kissed her now and she saw
my toothless gums, she would recoil in horror. Our sexual
exploit remembered is a poorer diet than her broilers.

The homestead

The Homestead


The door used to be sky blue, my father painted it
so because mother loved that colour; mind now it’s
cracked, weather bitten and pale as dead wood.
The door to the cabin, where I was born, used to be
Big and imposing it took years before I could reach
its handle, now I had to bend down to touch it.

My derelict legacy, not been here for years; as I
opened the door, air bothered the silence, a storm
of memories spun dust about, closed my eyes, had
a dizzy spell, and opened shutters to let daylight in.
I came here because I’m old and need something
that makes sense on my voyage across the oceans.

a painting

A Painting

I have a painting of a young pilot leaning against
his bi-plane smoking a cigarette, you can see,
from his natural confidence, he must have been
born rich and benefited from a first class education

Strange, but yore was a more equal time, the sons
the rich also died on foreign battle field, they did
so as a matter of honour; now they pull threads of
gold and keep their brood safely at home.

It is a beautiful painting it oozes peace, a green
field near a river that has tall trees that endlessly
look at themselves in slow running water, and
I wonder: did the young man survive his war?

Senryu

Senryu

Freedom is costly
Those who swap for security
Will long for yesterday .

Bucolic Night

Bucolic Night


In the vale where I live, darkness is deeper than
anywhere else. No streetlights to ease the path
of a walker as trees and bushes on both side of
the road move and take threatening forms and,
there is no point to run the steps you here behind
you are sprinting as fast as you.

There is light afar, a lode star one can say, where
music is laud, voices boastful and wine runs
freely from the pewter tankard; home-road is easy
fear gone, but do not dance with a troll’s daughter
or you’ll end up in a mountain cave till you become
a one eyed troll that doesn’t like natural light.

tanka

Tanka

To be a good goy
Accept Moslems and Jews
But remember this
When the forest is logged
Affiliation supercedes nation

Tanka

Tanka

He rode his brave steed
Up a steep mountain and down
To meet his beloved
Burst lungs; the mount, useless now
Was made into salami




Tanka

From a fair distance
I could see the house was empty
Deep melancholy
Etched in faces of the dead
Frozen on the window pane
On cold winter nights
When the past comes back to haunt
Both innocent and guilty
Of what they failed to do
To give time for those in need

Senryu

Senryu

On the mountain’s tarn
Sunlight skipped crazily
On tiny waves


In rustic silence
I hear a sparrow’s egg crack
And a life begins


On new fallen snow
Flighty thoughts quickly cross
Leaves no words behind


The last drop of rain
That fell on the small atoll
Submerged it

the killing

The Killing


On the bare kitchen table a sugar lump, suitable in a cup of
coffee (two are too much) looking like a gleaming rock of
marble on a large, bare upland plain A few tiny scout house
ants had gathered around the rock sending chemical signals
to their tribe and before long they came marching, from all
four corners of the kitchen, an intense moving black mass
which collective goal was to get a holly lick, then go home
and tell about it. A few tiny house ants scars no one, but ten
millions do, so I the threw the sugar lump out of the window,
before they got the idea of turning on me. They all began
marching back to their respective cracks in the wall except
for a few that had decided to settle in a crack on the table,
that was not on so I killed them with my thumb, washed my
hands with vinegar and was absolved of my sin.

moody blue

Moody Blue

She rang said she was coming with the late train,
Since it was her birthday I had thought she would
Come early so we could go to a restaurant for
A meal and drink some good wine

The train arrived just before midnight, I was hungry
And tired of waiting, she was tired too, I had
Brought flowers, she thought they were nice and
Put them in the backseat of the car.

We drove home, both feeling wounded; at home
she made an omelet, I had a drink; later we watched
a TV show in aggrieved stillness. Next day we had
a big row and that cleared the air

keeping fit

Keeping fit.


I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike was till there, in lashing autumn rain, rusty
now, no longer an object of envy, what’s the matter
with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?

baker's dozen

The Baker’s Dozen

The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.

His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.

During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.

When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.

The good shepherd

The Good Shepherd.


As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.

The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.

Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.

Indian poem

Indian Poem

As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;

so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;

spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;

and from my old school’s window
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.

Tanka

I couldn’t find the street
Where my lover used to live
A morass of houses
Anyway it doesn’t matter
Hopeless, bringing back the past



Tanka

The festive street Tanka


Walked in blank streets
Bitter and confused cried:
Where is my home?
It’s very hard to understand
That the past has erased it




Tanka (Eyak, an Alaskan Indian Language)

A frisson of fear
The Eyak language died
Its speaker too
A minority language gone
Its silence is terrifying


Now that bars and clubs have shut
Looks disillusioned
But is a dark hunting ground
Where a rats, caught by cats, shrieks

valentine

Valentine is coming your way


“Good morning darling did you sleep well,
I heard you were up in the night, remember
to switch of the lights” “Morning sweetheart,
yes I was up had to pee, I do a lot with the pills
I’m taking Lasix 4 0, powerful stuff

Think I peed seven times.”“ Poor you,
I will get up and make the coffee and toast,
rest a bit longer, but don’t forget
that you are painting the hall this afternoon
while I go to the hairdresser”

an olive branch

An Olive Branch


A very old olive tree, owned by a Palestinian,
so aged that it might have given shade to
the carpenter Joseph when he was resting under
its shade a hot august lunch time and contemplating
his sons’ futures, was bulldozed this morning.

No big deal you may say and I agree, everything
must come to an end, even olive trees, only
the perennial was got rid of because the Israeli
army’s snipers needed a clear view to the village
where people, who didn’t like their regime, live.

Senryu

When day ends in night
Whatever we might think or say
Our deity is Dosh

Tanka

Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell
How much they love her dearly.


Epigram

An airline pilot who gets into trouble when flying
Must try to land safely, or he will be dead; if he’s
Victorious he’ll be celebrated and given a medalTanka

Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell Senryu

Valentine day
Hiding married boredom
Behind glowing words

How much they love her dearly.


For saving his own life

Years to remember

Years To Remember.

The war years, she said, was a good time, people
were glad of heart and helped one another, pigs
and chickens in the back yard had many owners,
as had rabbits in hutches on the verandahs.

The man who had a rowing boat caught codfish for
the whole neighbourhood. The middle classes went
hungry too, in bigger houses; and unskilled lawyers
learned, from clients, how to steal carrots and beans

And as the war years came to an end the occupiers
soldiers starved, asked for fish to cook in exchanges
for cigarettes or a bottle of booze, no one gloated; till
peace came and each one of us had to struggle alone.

a day when nothinhg happened

A Day When Nothing Happened.

A perfectly quiet day is coming to an end no breeze rustles
amongst green leaf that have got a shimmer on from
the pale sun. The almond trees that have been allocated
the best place in the sun have sprung flowers pink and white,
I can sense their boastful jubilation, and why not?
After being spindly and ugly for months they deserve
applause and, yes, a bit of envy from the less successful ones.

Rabbits on green run under stones I see more of them now
than my old dog lived, she was forever chasing rabbits, even
in her sleep. From my vantage point I can see the sun go down
behind, not the first sea but the seventh one, as this day is so
clear that I can see forever, but there are no clouds on the sky
for it to paint pink, but there is no need today.

And then it is night and dogs will bark from one village to
the next, perhaps they lament the burden of living in the shadow
of man, or they just like to gossip and have a good laugh on our
behalf. Should they stop barking one night I will wake up and
fear for my life

January day

January Day.

This winter day I can see the ocean shine from
the coast of Portugal to the Saragossa Sea; and
in the shimmer, I dare not breath lest the spell
is broken, I see Ireland too.

The Atlantic is a beast let it slumber and enjoy
the stillness, at least till my ship reaches
Port of Spain where the sea is azure and scars,
made by rusty tank-ships, heal in seconds.

I’ll cast my anchor there, in a bay ringed by
palm trees, but not stay too long; I will not like
to miss the blossoming of the almond trees, in
my hidden valley, near the village of Benafim.

let there be light

Let There Be Light.


The mad scientist spoke of black light,
to night, however, the darkness is
velvety sable, and reflects moonlight
in an enchanting way; erases unwanted
contours, and unfavorable details; good
for you skin too and puts gloss in your
hair, and that’s a bonus when you are
sixty-four.

keeping fit

Keeping fit.


I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike is till there, in lashing autumn rain, very
rusty now and no longer an object of envy, what’s
the matter with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?

the baker's dozen

The Baker’s Dozen

The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.

His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.

During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.

When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.

The good sheperd

The Good Shepherd.


As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.

The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.

Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.