golden pond

The Golden Pond

On the pond of good memories
a duckling swam, undulated like
an unwanted thought of demise,
on a spring wedding in Brussels.

Flat stones skipped on the pond,
in the night it surfaced, quacked,
refused to be spit out like a half
chewed toothpick and forgotten.

Expelled the duck, sent it aboard
a ship that sails for the Saragossa
Sea, to a shadowy, barren island
where the monster Amnesia lives

But I warn you keep away from
there if the ogre gets hold of you
it will not only eat the unwanted,
But all you ever knew and loved.

Animal Sentimentality

Animal Sentimentality

If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?

On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.

An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.

I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
is dear in Sweden; mind, I never visited him again.

wordless today

Wordless Today.

Pink and blue billows, on the poetic sky,
dripping of eager words. Alas, towards dawn
a westerly wind blew, cleared the sky and in
the morning it was as blank as a screen, that
lit up when the sun came through the skylight.

But the sun passes, as it must, and the screen
grays while, in vain, it waits to be written on.
To be dreamless is a curse, slow death, listless
looking at sky and finding only blandness, but
also words by other poets that I cannot steal.

If I sigh and say: “wish I had written this” and
my friend says: “you will Oscar, you will,” then
I will not fret, and cry in my absinth- laugh, say:
“You’re a droll fellow,” go on dreaming and wait
for a versifier cumulous on the morning sky

tanka

To be Food

Fell asleep under an olive tree,
woke up as a lettuce in a wood
salad bowl; in bed with diced
tomatoes and blushing radishes;

drenched in virgin extra and red
wine vinegar, I felt good about
myself; but as no one came for
lunch I got up and walked home.


Tanka (News Item)

Rhino butts camera
And I say, quite rightly so
Intrusive humans
Following a rhino around
When it’s about, romancing

...As the doctor ordered

…As the Doctor Ordered.

I used to drink burgundy wine
every evening when watching
the TV, till, is my doctor
said a glass or two of wine was
good for my health.

After that wine tasted like
a tincture that is good for me.
I drink whisky now, but I ain’t
telling my doctor, can’t have him
say it is good my complexion

the mask

The Mask


The mask near the window in the museum, of ancient
mostly stolen art, was asleep in the dark of the night,
its new director, an efficient man, doesn’t like waste
of energy. The mask shouldn’t be so near daylight as
it hurts its old eyes and, also, the mask had seen it all.
Tribal wars to mass hangings as seen from a camp SS
commandant’s window; the officer had worshipped it
as evil, a mask that had been carved by an artisan and
thus given soul. Himmel! An allied soldier had taken
the mask as a trophy, in the following years it was sold,
bought and stolen again till ended it up in a museum.
Yes, the mask should be left alone in a corner away
from prying eyes. It had seen enough. Also, gentle light
was good for the mask’s perennial complexion.

The Party

The Party


I had invited friends to a café where the desert begins
and you can see the blinking lights of Spain at night.
The food took long time coming, but there was wine
served in pitchers, didn’t think the wine was any good
so I went to the main bar to get bottled wine; they had
none. But I got two one litre jugs of cold wine, (cheap
wine should always be served iced it is tasteless then.)
When I came back my friends had eaten, nothing left
for me, they where in an vivacious mood drank my
chilled wine sang, laughed and talking loudly.

I walked to the kitchen, a big tent in the back, asked
for food, but they only had meatballs left, I don’t like
meatballs. My friend had now gone into the wasteland
walking to Spain, it was dawn before they came back,
they had had a great time. I was now so hungry that
I went back to the tent and asked for the meatballs, but
they had given them to abandoned dogs that live around
here. Drove my friends to the bus stop it was just about
to leave and it struck me that they had not spoken to me
once, which made me think I had entertained strangers.

democracy "song contest"

Democracy (song contest)

Having suffered watching euro-vision song
contest I do not longer believe in democracy.
Russia won and that’s ok, they had skaters
and acrobats, so what has that to do with
a song? Don’t ask me, their neighbours liked
their song; the Danes liked the Norwegian’s
tune, who in turn voted for the Swedish song

I sit here and can’t remember the wining song
nor can anyone else. I’m glad Russia won
they believe in managed democracy, as I do,
because the stupidity of people make it clear
they are not yet fit for running anything more
important that a song contest, and giving first
prize to a sweet heifer at an agricultural show.

eternal love

Eternal Love.


Memory, thinking of you hurts, you stayed with me
Said you loved me, while waiting for Him to be free;
when he was, you left me coldly ignoring my feelings.
Love conquers all it is also lies, hate and subversion.

Love starts wars, so when I killed him your scream of
Utter hopelessness reverberated, tore large chunks of sky
Into mist and woke god from his slumber. Too late now
For me to understand that your love for him was timeless.

the tree

The Tree

I’m the lone tree you see on top of a hill, you
can’t avoid seeing me when you are scanning
the horizon. Yet many claim not to have seen me,
like I should be an anonymous tree in the forest;

I have no defense against the cold wind of change,
but my trunk is solid my leaves still green, a hawk
has its nest in my crown and in a hollow in my
trunk a red fox smile to no one in particular.

I have time wait for the wind to blows itself into
a zephyr that whispers soft words of appreciation,
preferable on a day when the air is so clear that
you can see forever and fly should you wish to.

the lone walk

The Lone Walk


I had been walking for hours in the bush landscape
around where I live, teeming wildlife this year I even
caught the sight of a boar, she had had her brood with
her good, she didn’t see me. Tired I sat on a boulder
and lifted my feet off the ground, this was great, but
only for a while a stone was hard and my back began
to ache, so I got up and began walking towards home.

My wife had gone away for a few days but now my
aloneness was beginning to hurt; mind the first night
was great, bed all for myself, slept well and got up late
and ate what wasn’t good for me. It was darkening,
soon it will rain, May has been very wet this year, and
it began just as I reached the front door, only I had no
key; must have lost it when I sat on that stone.

Fado on my Mind

Fado on my Mind


The night is hot and window is open
the street is empty, streetlamps have
only each other for company.

The radio sings Fado of lost love and
of times gone by; dulcet melancholy
this night is for remembering.

The night is breaking up, dawn, soon
a new day will begin and that’s fine
melancholy can be addictive.

Nirvana and all that

Nirvana and all that.

Since I don’t believe in heaven or the place stokers
go too- called hell- include me in your dreams when
I go, so I can dwell in your memories, till you too join
the non returnable. And since we both are tired of being
reborn, remember the time on the African savannah
when I was the proud lion king and you an elegant
lioness I used called “baby,” or was it the other way
around? I can’t quite remember. We’re warthogs once,
but let’s not dwell on that it made you so sad not being
able to have bath; we can then fly to Nirvana and find
everlasting peace in blessed oblivion. Failing that we
can always go to Iceland, it is said to be the most
peaceful place on earth; but I can’t help wondering if,
this treeless island is not too dreary for us?

Tanka. (Triptych)

The Pompous

Those who would be kings
Must serve the people they rule
Or they will fall
Down the abyss of hubris
And condemned by history


The Middleclass

It’s not my concern
But those who seek the power
To lead the masses
Must have an enormous ego
Disregarding lesser minds


The Cynical

I really give a damn
But isn’t a bit dense to think
A leader is like us
Who use modesty as shields
To conceal our cowardice.

Cheese And Hunger

Cheese and Hunger

175 types of cheese, the new supermarket boasted,
confused I bought the same old Gauda I can’t stay
there spending a whole day just for a bit of cheese.
I like milk in my coffee bought a litre, only to see
when coming home, that it was banana flavoured.
So many choices, the food industry is obscene and
consumers are zombies to let them play with food
that way. Banana flavoured long -life milk laced
with vitamins would be fine for the poor children of
Burma; the cruelly incompetent generals there ought
to be propped up against a pagoda wall and shot.
Since Britain and USA are so keen on interfering in
eastern affairs, why don’t they invade could it be
because Burma has no oil and is too close to China?

The Cleaner

The Cleaner

My cleaner is here, she’s from Angola has many
children and is abandoned by her husband; she is
very efficient cleans very well, but she smell and
I often wish she would remember to scrub herself.

I sit on the terrace it’s covered so it doesn’t matter
if it rains, and I feel wretched and middle class and
wonder if I’m a despicable racist for thinking this
way she’s a good mother and work very hard.

She knocks tells me she’s ready to go, I pay, open
the front door, smile and say: “till next time then.”
scold myself for not being more friendly; perhaps
I ought; let her go and hire one I don’t feel sorry for.

Who's afraid of a ghost?

Who’s afraid of ghosts?

There they are driving in my almost new car,
sleeping in my bed and using my computer,
they have no shame. I’m angry but can do nothing,
I’m dead and so pathetic that they don’t even see
me when I walk through the house as a ghost.

I have met other ghosts around here they are
a wretched lot, can’t let go of things they had before
and can’t take with them wherever they are going;
so they hang around full of envy hoping the world
will collapse around the ears of the living

sunday reflections 2

Sunday Reflections 2

Having turned my back to the home town I followed
the coast road, till it veered left and I lost sight of
the sea and drove into a 1950th rural landscape where
horses still pulled the plough.

Stopped across from the small farm where I had
worked as child labourer, healthy life, milking cows
at six in the morning, but I wished they would have
let me be a child a little longer.

Remembering the child was as watching a Bergman
movie, long shots of a flat landscape, little dialogue,
a white church against a rain dark sky, a pitiless god
and preachers of doom.

On my way back to the airport I stopped by the sea, it
was so beautiful that day, and I cried for the lost child,
but I was now free to write my own and better version
of my childhood and in time believe it to be true.

sunday reflections 1

Sunday Reflections 1

I’m back but there are no fanfares, tanned by years
in a warmer clime I look as… I feel, foreign.
But all this fade I’m back in the streets of 1948
black and white the only colour was the green grass
of spring, it was a time when everyone looked old
at twenty five and interviewed by the local paper for
reaching the grand old age of sixty five.

Too bleak for words, nothing here but silenced
screams, the smell of poverty, that clings to the skin,
and empty bottles of booze. I’ll unload my memories
here on the pavement leave them for others to find;
bleached bones, no, I cannot free myself the shackles
too strong , but I can trim it at the ages and make it
pretty by adding a sun and a lamb on a hill.

the white feather

The White Feather.


I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.

The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.

the white feather

The White Feather.


I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.

The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.

ship ghost

Ghost Onboard.


When our elderly English deckhand Jimmy slipped
on iron deck, bumped his head on the railing and died,
his demise shocked the young who didn’t know that
the claw of death could strike that fast.

We rolled Jimmy in a blue sheet (white beddings for
the officers and blue for the crew) and put him in
the ship’s meat freezer so small that his body was
rubbing up against carcasses of New Zealand lamb.

The cook next day came up from the storeroom, white
in face, claiming Jimmy sat there with a blanket over
his shoulders complaining that he was cold; and yes,
he had been seen on deck too just wandering about.

Twenty two, mostly young, men were now thoroughly
spooked by an elderly dead deckhand and we still had
a three weeks voyage before reaching port, where we
may not be allowed to bury him ashore.

Burial at sea, to everyone’s relief, bits of iron fastened
to his body, the captain read something from the bible,
Jimmy’s body lowered into the water, a splash and
horror struck we saw it sink very slowly

the grand illusion

The Grand Illusion

Happiness is all about pretence
I used to be cynical and bitter
looking for my youth, laughed
at by young girls who found me
so utterly absurd. Now that I’ve
decided to be a crusty old man,
slightly cynical, yet wise I feel
so good about myself that a trite
word like happiness is quite apt.

the ghost

The Ghost.

My dog had been knocked down by a car,
still she lay, blood on her snout, thought
she was dead, put her in a large bin liner
drove through the night into the highland
where she was born and I thought of Edith
Piaf, dead in the back of a van, and driven
from Marseille to Paris in the night.

In the corner of a potato field I dug a hole
while the dog got out of the sack and sat
watching me wandering what I was up to.
When I saw her I thought she was a ghost
shocked fell into the hole and bumped my
head on a stone, woke up when the dog
licked my face trying to save my life.

I was a tired first- world- war soldiers sat
on the edge of a Flanders’ trench listening to
the silence, Christmas Eve, cannons boulder
had ceased only their ominous echo rang in
my ears, men from both side of the war zone
sang carols into the cold unforgiving night.
“War’s over Bambi let’s go home and eat. . .

the scream

The Scream

We now know why
the sky in
Edward Munk’s
painting
was so oddly red
and frightening,
there had been
a volcanic eruption in
the East,
pity the man on
the bridge, who had
his anguish
painted on
the afternoon sky

the wedding

The Wedding

I’m going to a wedding in June; in the part of
Brussels where even street cleaners speaks
French, all be it, with a working class accent.

The bride and groom have lived together for
twenty years and have grown up children,
they will look ancient walking down the aisle.

Their children, both a university, are slightly
embarrassed they had hoped, as had the groom
hoped for a modest registrar office affair.

But the bride wants her day, a wedding as big
as the one her younger sister had ten years
ago in the splendid city of Paris; so there.

I’m not a party animal, if sober I’m ill at ease,
if I drink I talk a lot till peoples’ eyes glaze
over, or I fall asleep on the nearest couch.

I have promised to be on my best behaviour
this means diet coke on ice and tries not to
look at my wrist watch every five minutes.

Tanka

Tanka.

Time is a vacuum
Through its enormity we walk
On paths unseen,
Yet each one is made for us
And leads to where sky meets sea.

a burial

A Burial


My dog lay on the backseat dripping blood
my wife worried about the seat, I screamed
to her to “fuck off”; rain obscure my mind
I have known my dog for fifteen years.

Stopped at a supermarket, bought a black bin
liner, to get the dog into it was hard work, she
was unyielding and suddenly so very heavy
and I had her blood on my hands.

I borrowed a spade from a farmer, dug a hole,
ground stony, it took time and I couldn’t see
for rain; when the hole was big enough it was
also full of mud as First World War trench

I put her into the grave anyway and filled it
with stones wouldn’t like other animals to
find and eat her. Sappy crap you may say, but
we had been together for fifteen years.

4 senryu

Senryu (Food for Thought)

The moral base
For consuming human flesh
Is a green answer

Senryu

Is cannibalism
The practical green way
To save our planet?

Senryu

Let the old feel useful
Make them into hamburgers
And feed for cattle.


Senryu

Everybody can,
Not just Italians,
Be made into salami

tanka and senryu

Tanka

Pornography films
Freedom of ones expression
Embarrassing I think
Private acts made public
Do make love cynical

,,,,,,,,

Senryu

Sixty years today
Army parade and arrogance
While Gaza burns

......

Senryu

Pity the Eskimo
With the vanishing ice cap
He can’t build a home

porno on the mind

Porno of the Mind


If you go into the woods tonight, I murmured
a song, but it isn’t needed for I saw a ghost at
the supermarket, it hovered above the head of
of a hog that had an apple in its gob and saw
my ex girlfriend, lift the head up and kiss it
square on its leering lips and the fruit fall out
revealing a brown tongue; all the while she
whispered a name that had a familiar echo.
from an poisonous fairy specializing in weird,
semen drinking sex to a hag with teeth that
could chop a trunk in half. I will not go into
the woods to night, but she has such intense
eyes boring into my soul and seeing my secret
desires drawing me into her netherworld.

to be a stead

To be a Stead.


On the pampas of Argentine I rode when surprised
by a blizzard, to survive I killed my horse split its
stomach open and crept inside, this saved my life
But when the blizzard stopped and I got out of my
shelter I looked for my rider and galloped home to
the ranch and ran around in the coral with the other
Horses that seemed surprised to see me.

Eventually I was lassoed and brought into a room
where I group of concerned friends tried to persuade
me that I was not a horse but just like them. Yes, in
a way they were right, I had noticed that they other
ran on four legs, I accepted my shortcomings and
stopped eating steppe grass; but I sold my ranch and
became a long distance runner.

in the woods

In the woods at night



Noticed when walking past the woods in the centre of this
town I had come to live many years ago was getting thinner,
rather like Castro’s beard that used to be so lush; I used to
walk here with my girlfriend, loved her and believed in true
love, alas, she though I was eccentric and used to regal her
shrieking friends in the bar with what I had said during our
trysts, and the woodland lost its enchantment.

Looked inside and discovered a wasteland of trees pulled
up by their roots and waiting for the chainsaw, nature had
lost another battle against bricks and mortar, only a necklace
of trees to give the illusion of forest. They were going to
build luxury bungalows here, protected from the glare of
the plebs by a ring of trees, houses advertised as investment
and not homes where one can find shelter from the storm.

the transplant

The Transplant



I have a bus on which I drive tourists from the coast
to the inland and show them roman ruins and a bit an
ancient road that used to lead to Rome.

But I have been losing business to the competition,
when I tout for business it is that I look too gloomy,
like I don’t really want anyone on my bus.

I told this to my dentist Jerry, he’s an American and
as such eternally optimistic, he is also a part time
cosmetic surgeon and a planter of hair on bare heads

He was only going to whiten my front teeth but when
waking up I had blond nylon hair sewed into my scalp
a permanent smile and Hollywood teeth.

Now I look as Berluscone, the Italian prime minister,
passengers think I’m a comic; when I say: “we leave
at four, you silly people” tourists laugh think I’m funny.

the smiling lady

The Smiling Lady


We sat holding hands I was seduced by her smile,
yes, no doubt in my mind the fair lady loved me.
I did vaguely remember having seen her, not long
ago, looking up to another man just like that but
this wasn’t the time to think pettily. Since she had
rented out her flat she moved into mine, two bags
four suitcases and a wine cooler made of silver.

New love exiting time we had, she was so full
of life, not for us to sit in front of the TV to have
an easy night at home, life was too short for that.
I tried my best to keep the newness of our love
fresh, but I felt as she was drifting away from me
and quietly despaired, she was getting restless and
one day she left me for another man.

I do miss her smile, but feel a sense of relived
sleep well I do, enjoy sitting on my sofa seeing
a western movie and I remember the man she was
with before me, he looked happy to now. Lovely
lady not for her to eat yesterdays cake, wonder
what she will do when her flat is free, and music
is a dripping tap in her joyless flat.

the video

The Video

They sent me a video from a time gone,
a family gathering, wine glasses held aloft
happy faces, what a grand illusion,

Moving pictures only mirrors a surface,
of something passing, it is not like the sea
mirroring the sky and telling a story

These moving pictures tell a big lie, nothing
about the anguish and betrayal anger and
clenched fist, voices shouting obscenities.

I knew those people once a Nordic year is
so short only lasts from April till September,
the rest is gloom and drunken melancholy.

the winter coat

The winter Coat


Cold day in March, mother wore a coat at least three
generations old; in the centre of town we’re stopped
by a lady highborn with a noble nose, a very distant
relation, she gave mother a 5 crown note, ( I remember
it was blue) mother was glad for that now that the fish
factory had closed and she was out of work. The fine
lady made a mistake she told mother what to buy, like
potatoes and milk, but noblesse oblige, we walked into
a very classy café where the waitresses wore uniforms
and looked down their noses; mother put the note on
the table and ordered hot chocolate and gateau, we sat
by the window in the hope the highborn should see us,
mother smoked and held the cigarette aloft the way film
stars did, but for the coat she could have pulled it off.

haiku and tanka

Haiku

On October street
Pale leaves on silver birches
Fall slowly at dusk




The heat of August
Carries a hue of sadness
Of coming decay




Tanka

Suicide bombers
Lack understanding of
Their total demise
Think they are to live forever
In the mind of the awed

summer night in Rome

Summer night in Rome


In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food

summer night in Rome

Summer night in Rome


In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food

wings

Wings.

Once I could fly, celebrating my return from the sea
My wife wouldn’t let me in, standing there in the yard
I stretched out my arm like a large phoenix bird and
Flew high above the roofs in the close where I lived
And could see I didn’t belong and could clearly see
That I didn’t belong amongst tax inspectors, office
Managers and police Sergeants.

My arms got tired I landed on the roof of my house
Where I tired fell asleep, when I awoke a fireman was
There insisted on helping me down, and days later,
When found guilty of disturbing the peace, the magistrate
Asked me how I got up on to the roof. I flew…sir
And there was talk of psychiatric valuation, but luckily
My ship came in and off I sailed never to return

The destiny (www)

The Destiny (www)


The memory of her is like a beautiful diamond
cut by the expert Time that doesn’t wear black
and lives in Rotterdam. On world wide waters
I sailed her but had to rely on fair weather to
get safely to port; but I couldn’t stop her for
being beached on the coast of Bay of Bengal and
reduced from a dignified she, to scarp iron

Yes, the loves of my life, I remember the first
one the best she has been made flawless
by time; a dignified old woman now dressed in
black, attending mass; she had dreams of
domestic bliss and a big family. My vision was
different, it ended on a foreign strand, but my
ship keeps sailing on across the deep www.

pictogram

Pictogram

When an old lion
accept defeat
and leaves its pride
it does so
with dignity

Seeks not revenge,
but walk with
neck unbowed
to a lesser
hunting ground.