the disappearance

The Disappearance


There was a tramp, who lived under a wooden bridge
that crossed a stream that was lucid had shiny pebbles
and rainbow trout which he caught, fried and shared
with his dog that was big, black and looked like a bear.
When children crossed the bridge he thrillingly scared
them by asking: Who is walking on my bridge?” But
mostly he sang carols all by himself. Pious farmers
thought he was holy, left food hampers for him, made
the sign of the cross and felt good, went to church and
gave alms to the huddled poor by the sainted door.

But there were bad people too who threw stones at his
dog and shouted nasty words when crossing the bridge.
One night the tramp’s dog howled so madly that night
got scared ran off and dawn had to save the day by
arriving at one o’clock. The brave went to inspect and
found a grotto lit by candles it had the christmas aroma
of orange peel left drying on the stove. “Santa Claus has
gone forever they grieved, we mustn’t tell the children
though, so this coming winter one of us has to pretend
to be him to let the story of this man live on.

the dreamers

The Dreamers.


There was once a philosophizing cobbler, who lived
under a wooden bridge that crossed a little stream,
mainly because his wife was so argumentative that
when he said “a” she said “b.”

He wrote a manuscript, a thousand pages long, about
philosophical problems when applied to real life, and
also whether a donkey could think; his manuscript
was booze stained, ashy and difficult to read.

In winters, when the river froze over, he moved back
home to his bickering wife, she was not impressed
by his words, mocked his long sentences, but didn’t
mind warming her hands when burning his papers.

Every year he wrote a manuscript and every year his
wife put it to the fire till, one winter, he didn’t come
home because he had built a papyrus raft, floated to
the sea where his thoughts about life were fulfilled.

His wife cried but not for long she had a lest, and
cobbler’s needles, advertised and suitors came, she
picked one who couldn’t read, alas his silence drove
her mad; she fled and went to live under that bridge.

She wrote a disputation, a thousand pages long, but
it was instantly rejected by the academic community,
so she made a papyrus raft and floated to the sea to
try find what had made her husband fulfilled.

fear of her

Fear of Her


I saw your
lace curtain
move
but lumber
aired
is your home
and I will not
enter
and risk
falling asleep
in your bed
and forever
see the world
outside
through
a fine knitted
mesh
and sapped
by manly
strength
end up doing
the dishes.

2 tanka

Tanka.

Western way of life
Rests on Middle Eastern oil
If crude tap is off
It is us that will suffer most
The Bedouins have camels




Tanka

Electric cars
Were made a century ago
Now they are in vogue
Oil spivs have made their money
So let the wilderness bloom.

The Promise

The Promise.


The sea was oily looking calm and dark
perhaps marine life had died and turned
it into a pool of nothingness.

I sat in a dingy in the chill of loneliness
wrapped in a banner used 1st of Mays by
workers, asking for justice and freedom.

Now their request didn’t matter the world
had sunk beneath the sea like a Titanic, hit
by the iceberg of religious zealotry.

24 tins of tuna fish and 18 litre bottle of
water, enough to take me to an island
I had sailed past and often dreamed of.

One morning I saw a dolphin swimming
along the boat it had sought my company
and I was no longer vastly alone.

Then time stopped, days didn’t matter there
were no tomorrows, dreams and reality were
one, and we heard the green gecko sing.

Then days returned the sky blue and seas
translucent green, the world had healed
itself and the dolphin was no longer alone.

I nailed the banner, with its empty promises
of freedom, to the mast and at sunset set sail
to the island of my dreams.

the consequence

The Consequence


The door into the bar was narrow I stood outside
waited for a couple to come out. When they did
the woman carried a dead baby in her arms, said
it was mine, handed it to me; I refused to take it,
my wife’s abortion, more than forty years ago,
had nothing to do with me, we had agreed then
that time wasn’t right for us to have a child.

The waif opened its eyes stretched out tiny arms,
called me papa, I took the child in my arms, and
no longer an “It,” I stroked her golden hair, cried,
said sorry. The couple had gone back into the pub,
layers of years but I recognized her face, for her
it was too late, at sunset I walked into the woods
and buried my baby daughter alone.

the acting profession

The Acting Profession


The scene was set I was to walk into the lobby
ask the man behind the desk if so and so was
at the hotel, I was then to look around studying
the faces of the other guests, which would make
the viewers think I’m a detective or an assassin
with a slight limp. We waited Roger Moore,
the star of the movie, he was late, and then it was
lunch, hamburgers and cold beer. The star came
in the afternoon and everyone applauded.

It was decided that my role wasn’t needed, they
handed me a newspaper and I was now one of
hotel the guests. The shooting took about an hour,
they paid me in cash and I took the bus back to
town. At a traffic light on red, I looked down, saw
Roger, sit in the back of a chauffeur driven Jaguar,
a polite man, he looked up, I think he remembered
me, and waved

Wrath of God?

Wrath of God?


A pig farm in Iowa flooded, sixteen hogs got away
scampered up a levee where they stood not knowing
what to do. There is something unseemly rude, about
the artiodactyls mammal, like white, fat middle aged
men in a sauna; then the grunters were shot, one can’t
have shoats hanging about on a levee. Yes, greatly
unfair, I agree, but porkers are bred to be killed.

Like the young fellow who narrowly escaped death
in a car accident, only to be blown up in Baghdad
when sitting in his armoured auto eating an apple.
Up there an eagle flew, he grabbed hold of its feet,
in the hope it would help slow the descent. The nude,
the feathery and the dead. (Symbolism accidental)
Unfair? Yes, indeed, but what are soldiers for?

Genarations past

Generations Past.


When I get up in summer nights air in the rooms
of my old cottage are dense with souls of those
who lived here before. As I stir the air they move
away they don’t see me but feel a presence that
they think of as a passing ghost.

Young souls are fearful but are told that ghost
means no harm to anyone and that is perhaps true.
Sometime I hear murmurs, voices of sorrow
but also of pleasure, it is life lived which unseen,
relive itself endlessly.

In autumns when the rooms get cold, in a home
made of stones, I light the fire the souls settle in
the wall behind the hearth and the cottage grows
silent as we wait for a new spring.

the diggers

The Diggers

In a museum, on the Isle of Man, there was displayed
a Viking’s tooth and it was brown, not from smoking
mind, the tobacco plant hadn’t been imported to
Europe yet, but from not having brushed his teeth
when a child. There was little else left of the Viking
that’s why I ask: how did the archeologists know
that this tooth had belonged to a Viking? He could have
been a crofter who secretly smoked dry oak leaves,
because it kept colds away. He could also have been
a sheep rustler- which is far less romantic than being
a horse thief- and knifed to death by irate farmhands.

Archeologists are a strange lot, give them a rusty nail
and they construct a cathedral, or some other godly
house; should you find a piece of a wine cup, they will
tell tall tales orgies, fig leaves and Roman canapés,
but they can’t find the wrist watch I lost in the year of
1985, in Chester- England- where Roman soldiers used
to bivouac drink wine and eat fried dormice while
cursing the Cesar who had sent them to this rain cold,
ungodly country where the people are so white they
look like green ghosts in moonlight. So you see there is
no doubts about it, archeologists are poets with shovels.

senryu

Senryu

Euphonic stillness
Liquid pearls on an oar blade
In a summer fiord



Senryu

Pleasing to the ear
Clicks of mother’s knitting pins
On cold winter nights


Senryu

Melancholy is
Layers of large snow flakes
On the window sill

When time is right

When Time Is Right.


The door I knocked on was as black and shiny
as a coffin, behind the door my twin brother
stood his silence like a seashell’s hum; I could
hear the sea of forever rippling onto Nirvana’s
strand. He was born five minutes too late, and
into darkness, this blue boy, nourishment gone,
not even a lungful of air and the pain of sudden
light he was given; a dream of what could have
been. For me, a troubadour, success was natural,
gilded doors opened I was the man of May, my
message, eternal happiness. Youth was filled
with dance and laughter never did I think of you,
there was no time, till I woke up one day and
could not dance anymore an elderly Casanova,
giggles from boudoirs; an entertainer no more.
Open up the door, dear brother, I will not enter
but let in the light so we can see the wonderful
sky and together walk on summer grass.

the Happy country

The Happy Country

The king of Norway wears a top-hat and looks
like an old fashion plutocrat, it will be wrong
of you to think so because, he is a man of
the people, he say so himself. The streets of
Oslo is empty and no Latin rhythm flies out of
open café doors, this is mainly because the king
has gone to the opera, which is placed in a fjord.
And since there is no aristocracy he has taken
along a fourth generation of politicians and a third
generation TV personalities; all, let’s no forget this,
can point to a forefather who was a fisherman or
a crofter. There are not many shipping dynasties
present, if there are they try not to rock the boat,
rumours have it they mostly live in the Bahamas.
The king’s loyal subjects participate too, they sit
at home watch TV, seeing him applaud the singers
on the stage. As peace descends over the land my
wish is for the king of Norway to go lose that hat.

the ruin

The Ruin

The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.

Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.

Municipal misery

Municipal Misery

The city’s public park had been deliberately run down,
no money for its upkeep it was said, the tarn in the park
was a disgrace, dirty water, excrement and plastic bags.

It was going to be privatized, like the municipal golf
course, built in days when people believed in social
equality and golf for everyone who wished to play.

The new “public park” is a fee paying park, there are
restaurants and an expensive tennis club, you can also
walk around there but it is too dear for ordinary folks.

I’ve been once, perfectly mowed lawns, trimmed trees
and flowers are standing to attention; no surprises, this
is always so when nature is made by a committee.

Friendship

Friendship


He was my best friend we used to go for long walks;
we both liked the cinema and art, as my wife used
to say”You’re a perfect couple.” When I got arthritis
in one leg I used to keep my hand on his shoulder,
he was my cane and it eased the pain.

James, yes I was happy to be his friend, gave my
only boy his name. One day he told me he was gay,
perhaps I knew but preferred not to know, best that
way; but this knowledge changed our comradeship,
timidity had come between us.

I no longer held on to his shoulder, our bantering
was contrived. I didn’t go see the latest western
movie with him, blamed a cold, he wasn’t able to
come to a planned art exhibition. Yes, I do miss
him and my leg hurts like hell.

Tanka

Tanka

Transport drivers strike
Two days later empty shops
No milk for the child
Wretchedly helpless we are
In our shiny democracy



Tanka

Runaway price of oil
We slides towards the abyss
But refuse to see
Stick our necks in the sawdust
And watch World Cup Football



Tanka

Ready made food
The art of cooking gone
Bread, marge and jam
When there is no frozen food
Due to transportation strike

rendezvous

Rendezvous with an old Flame


In the inner disused docks she was tied up and abandoned,
fifty years old now and looking it, the Greek owners were
trying to sell her, if a daft person bought her now, it must
be for love. It is twenty years since I stood on her deck, she
had been sold to a Greek shipping company and I was evicted.
The Greeks are great seamen but shipping is business not silly
romance on the high seas. I asked the guard by the gangway
if I could come onboard, he wore a baseball cap and had lived
in New York, “ you can buy her for a dime,” he had joked
On her bridge I stood and though I could feel her valiant
heart vibrating through my feet, from the glum north Atlantic
to the smiling Indian Ocean, in fair weather and in raging
storms; never had I been afraid that she would sink beneath
the waves. “Buy her for a dime.” Sentimental fool, she’s a rusty
old bucket now and not worth a penny for my thought.

rOMAN HOLIDAY

Roman Holiday

In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.

Rivulet

Rivulet.


Lackluster stream, foams of rejection on
its surface, meanders between grey stones
before it disappears down a drain.

I used to bath her in summers that now are
dreams, and in twilight catch trout with my
homemade bamboo rod

Look at it now, a sick soul, and there is no
one around who remembers its glory, this
smelly old brook that ought to be removed.

shy as an old lover

Shy as an old Lover.


I ran through the woods chasing a pink butterfly,
caught it with my net, but fell down a deep hole
in dug there for no purpose at all.

Tried to get back up but lumps of soul kept falling
tired I released the insect which on close up wasn’t
that nice, “one of us must survive,” I nobly said.

Alas, it had a damaged wing couldn’t fly just sat
there on a lump of soul looked miserable and cold
it was now up to me to safe us both.

I was able to lasso the net on a tree roof sticking
out, put the butterfly in my mouth and with great
got up, but accidentally swallowed the insect.

This sadden me deeply my effort of being good
had ended in failure and also, the swallowing
made me feel somewhat nauseous too.

In the glade I met a sharp eyed hex and told her
what had befallen a verb I only used to impress
her, as she had a red pen in her hand.

“Don’t worry” she said, when you see a beautiful
woman, tell her of your love for her, the butterfly
will fly from your lips to her tender heart.

When I see the woman in the post office I go all
tongue tied and shy, she’s so young and if I speak
the butterfly will fly and she’ll be horrified.

Even worse, she could tell someone about my
declaration of love and soon they will laugh,
look at this silly old man falling in love at his age.

The nectar

The Nectar.

Grapes on
The vine soak
Up sunlight
When ripe
They are
Crushed
And made into
Wine.
To much
Sunlight
Isn’t good
For the skin,
It is said,
This is only
True if you are
Daft enough
To use wine
As a sun block.

Sonnet to a duvet.

Sonnet to a Duvet.


When my wife sleeps on her side the duvet wraps itself
snuggly along her contours, soft valleys and dale, there
is something unseemly the way it caresses her body, one
wonders? Yes, it is an old duvet it was in her bed before
me and when I mention we ought to buy a new one, she
refuses; in the night I’m cold as the duvet will not cover
me, and I have to get up and get a blanket. It waits for me
to disappear, as her first husband so it doesn’t have to share
her with me and times suffer the agony to be made love
upon and see my smug smile of triumph, but it is dead
wrong I will take it to a drycleaner and lose the ticket and
pretend I have forgotten where the shop is. My wife will,
when used to a new expensive duvet, eiderdown, see who
habituated she has been and not mention her old lover again

The Good News

The Good News

From the terrace of the Pousada we can see
a black swan swimming in the lake it looks
freer now than yesterday since the good news
from the USA, a black man, the very first, is
running for president, and the huddled masses,
who for so long have ignored and placed at
the edges of white America’s conscience and
enslaved by their own bitter legacy, will no
longer be overlooked, but sit at the top table
and finally feel equal and free in their souls.




PS Pousada is a Portuguese country hotel

Now for something friendly

Now, for a friendly Moment.

At a wayside café, a tour bus with a logo of a blue
elephant painted on its side, stopped so travelers could
drink coffee, eat a ham sandwich or have a quick pee.
The elephant could smell water and since it was a hot
dusty day it tore itself off the bus and walked down to
the river where it bathed and blew big bubbles about.
Then it crossed the stream met other elephants that
after some trumpeting, accepted it into their flock.
And since it was an inoffensive, slightly daft animal,
it was sat to guard baby elephants. It was delighted,
a product of an artist’s imagination it had not been
an infant, now it could relive its missing childhood.
The driver didn’t notice the missing elephant, it is so
easy to overlook what you see everyday, before he
came to the depot at the end of his long shift. Due
to the high price of diesel and petrol it was decided
not to have a new blue elephant painted on; however,
the management instructed drivers to keep an eye out
for the animal as it may get into trouble when trying to
survive on its own.

politics in the late night bar

Politics in the late night Bar


Is Darfur in Somalia or Sudan? Civil war you say,
so what’s new? Let me ask you this: “Have they
got refineries or oil wells that need to be guarded?
This is an African problem, endless wars, they are
only trying to sort themselves out; leave ’em alone.
The former colonies in Africa inherited a system not
theirs, the European ways will fail till it reaches
the level of zero (complete chaos) and Africa can
begin their system of governance suitable for them.

We may not like it, but it ain’t our business. Hasn’t
The president of South Africa said the Zimbabwe
problem is an African affair, so let them sort it out.
Let me ask you this: ”Has Zimbabwe oil refineries
or oil pipes that need protecting? No! Stop playing
the nice gay, but keep a warehouse full of blankets,
(nights are cold in Africa) and beans to donate if
asked, so keep your mouth shut, if they have no oil
a regime change is not needed.

An Insignificant Memory

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Oskar_Hansen


An Insignificant Memory


It is still here that Sunday of yore, floats on
the edges of my memory, I better record it
before it sinks into the sea of transience

It was a day of great clarity, a moment that
held no worries and had no tomorrows it
would have been, I see now, a day to die for.

As mother made dinner I went for a walk in
familiar streets, ended up outside my aunt’s
house, she looked out and asked me up.

We drank coffee, ate home made chocolate
biscuits and smoked cigarettes, aunt never
got fat and lived a long healthy life.

Strolled down to the docks, translucent sea
where fish swam about, slowly, they knew
it was Sunday, fishermen’s day off.

In the town’s park I looked up and saw
sunlight drip gold from transparent, green
leaves, and knew I witnessed a wonder.

Hasted home, I knew every house in my
town, those who lived in them too; life was
easy then when I could run like the wind.

Idyll

Idyll.


A tiny lamb bleats in my neighbour’s back garden,
(there often is a lamb bleating in their yard) it is fed
from a bottle carried around and treated as a baby
and let it run in and out of the house and taken for
a walk by their daughter and as the lamb nibbles
on straw by the road side and the girl prettily smile
city folks stop and take pictures.

Then the bleating stops, always on a Sunday, from
the back yard an aroma arises, roast lamb on a spit
lovingly turned, to an even brown, by the daughter
of the house. Guests arrive there is wine and much
laughter, and hungry I open a tin of soy meat balls.
Soon, depending on the season, another lamb will
bleat and given a happy infancy.

Dear editor

Dear Editor



My soul is timeless and older than the cobblestones
I walk on, my is older than the houses that lean and
get old together in narrow streets where shadows
huddle in doorways, away from the unforgiven sun.
My soul is so old that it can remember a time when
the weakest was banished and can only come out at
night. No, there is nothing modern about my soul,
but since it is timeless it knows what is modern today
will be old fashioned tomorrow

Zebra Days

Zebra Days

Everyone in the street wore zebra coats now that the animal
was being farmed it was good for the African economy;
of course some wore coats made of young zebras, the rich,
who just had to show their wealth, which makes sense if
you are wealthy there is no point hiding it. Zebra meat used
to taste unusual when the animal was grazing on savannah
grass, now it tastes just like any other domestic meat.
London used to have thousands of working horses and since
the English famously don’t eat horseflesh on wonders what
happen to that meat. I think it ended up in cheap pies, and
no question asked; the starving are not finicky about food.

I suppose a nobleman’s stead wasn’t eaten, but given burial
when it was old and knackered; but I guess it was given to
the stable lad so he could visit his girlfriend, with some rustic
style, and- on misty summer morning- before the bike was
invented, ride back to his master’s stable. I wondered why
peoples in the street were avoiding me till I saw myself in
a shop window; yes, I was a king lion with a fantastic well
groomed mane, sleek body and two enormous, (thank you
we don’t want to know) I smugly smiled and swelled with
pride, no point asking the zebra-coated cowards were I could
find a graceful lioness or two.

Ghosts

Ghosts.

It was three in the morn when I got up,
looked out of the window and saw,
what I had never seen before, the night
undulated like a black silk veil breathed
on by the hidden face of dawn;

soft movements, esoteric, not weighed
down by the burden of a human body,
these gentle souls dancing to a tune of
the unheard and hidden, as not to scare
those who fear the ending of days.

Banazir Bhutto

Benazir Bhutto

You looked so impossible beautiful and your voice was
so erudite words danced on your sensuous lips, never
had there been a prime minister as you; alas, there were
there were accusations of corruption and you hastily
fled your beloved country, I choose, perhaps wrongly,
not to believe your accusers and you faded from view.
When turmoil enveloped your country again, you were
back seeking power and I knew you’re doomed.
I saw you standing up in the jeep carrying you out of
the park were you had spoken to your supporters, still
striking, in a matronly ways, but your smile dazzled
and, once again, I believed you could be the saviour of
your troubled country. An explosion, Mayhem, billows
of death surrounded you and you were gone forever

Seventy today

Seventy Years Old


I used to think that when seventy I would feel
Burst with gravitas and tell people how to live
Their life; alas, I still feel like an adolescent who
Feel shy when meeting older people.

Yes, I have had my share of grief and illnesses,
And often, drunk or sober, I have fallen flat on
My face, disgrace I have often know, but next
Day when I saw the sun the surge of live returned

There are nights, however, the small hours when
Awake and fearful, knowing as I do that death is
Not afar, and my weak heart nervously misses
A beat… then I do feel tired and old.

My terrace faces the east, and I can see when
Dawn begins and I hear the sparrows under the roof
Tiles beginning their day they make me feel whole
Again, as the sun warms my ancient face.

The great survivior

The Great Survivor


One is never more than five yards from a rat
I read in my local paper, there are non in my
Cottage and it has no basement as it is build
Straight on solid rocks which makes it very
Cold in the winter.

There are mice under the roof tiles, cute little
Ones smaller than my thumb, they are very
Quite unlike the sparrow that make a hell of
A racket at dawn, not to forget the cats that
Use my roof as a hunting ground, but no rats.

At the supermarket I saw a rat coming up from
A storm drain, it looked at me, decided I was
A coward and began picking up bread crumbs,
It looked like a bruiser had boxer’s ears and
A menacing, slowly rotating whiplash tail.

A woman, carrying a bag of groceries, came
“Look” I croaked, “a rat.” Hysterical screams.
The rat disappeared, a guard came running and
looked almost like a police officer, “we will get
that rat, he said” and spoke into his mobile.

A kind man was helping the woman to pick up
The groceries she had dropped, I heard someone
Say he had seen rats here before. “shouldn’t be
Allowed, rats near a supermarket,” a woman said.
Never more than five years…it’s spooky.

The right Language

The Right Language.

Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.

Diesel

Expensive Diesel

The donkey walked in the middle of the country lane
not the smartest thing to do, they drive recklessly here
about, it was trailing along rope, which I used to tie it
up under an olive tree away from the sun, the beast was
docile and glad it didn’t have to be in charge.

And I though now that diesel for tractors is dear, and
farmer tend to use them for the smallest things, like
picking up twigs from almond groves, a mule and cart
will do the work for free and the brave farmer will not
have an early heart attack do to lack of exercise.

Life isn’t perfect, as I stood there stroking the donkey
dreamily making the bush the landscape beautiful with
imaginary horses and mules, there was a hard shriek of
oil neglected brakes; a farmer, on his tractor, hit my car;
a pity he wasn’t riding on a mule, a horse or a donkey

Cascais, Mon Amour

Cascais, Mon Amour


The old part of Cascais, Portugal where fishermen
used to live is now a place of culture and restored
expensive houses, not even the ghosts of fishermen
past can afford to walk around here where narrow
streets are packed with layers of cars, which are
Portugal’s holy cows, and must be allowed to rest
wherever they please, often on pavements.

Along the coast of Cascais there are many grand
houses with big gardens we can’t see because so
many rich people choose to imprison themselves
Behind tall walls to deter the nosy plebes from
looking in; minor royals used live here, perhaps,
they still do, now hateful old people live here and
sourly resent the world outside their reformatories.

Many tourists come here and with one eye closed,
and the other glued to a ham-cam, a tunnel vision
that doesn’t see the tramp who rummages for food
in bins outside restaurants; they don’t see the ship,
in the blue enchanting bay and the men on her deck
looking dreamily towards shore, for a seafarer costal
Towns look like a paradise of the unobtainable.

Hey seaman don’t think of going ashore here, no
amount of life-buoy soap, cleans shirt and jeans can
hide your rolling gait, this is a place is for the elite,
who live in big apartments with balconies facing
the bay; they see your ship and think it is romantic,
but they don’t want you near. Have another beer
play canasta, you will always have Rio de Janeiro.

two smaller poems

No Smoking


Since it’s cold outside
And I can’t smoke in the bar
I drink another beer

The air so wholesome
When beer glasses are lifted
Armpits tell of night


,,,,,,,,

The Cost of Living


I never go to restaurants anymore
the price of petrol is so high, when
I get to one I can’t afford to enter.

I look at the menu outside, but go
and sit in my automobile, munch
a sandwich and drink warm beer.

My "Brother."

My “Brother”


In the side-room where I put things I’m going to
use one day but never will, there is an old “brother”
typewriter gathering dust, bought it for a fiver
a day I felt like Mike Spillane, and saw myself
drinking whisky smoking cigarettes while writing
rapidly, about the low life world in Liverpool, only
I never found any criminals, went into pubs they
were supposed to hang out, but was met by people
buying me pints and telling great jokes.

Then, the word processor came along and spelling
was not such a burden. Yes, I know I sold out for
a better life; and yes, I miss the clicking of my
“brother.” Pure nostalgia! I wrote my first poem on
it, about lost love, and it is all I write about, going
around in circles asking: “where is my love?” how
am I supposed to know where you mislaid her?
One day I’ll blow the dust of my “brother” and write
till the lady comes back into my dreams again.