manuscript 77

Document 7


Literature & Alcohol

Poor Edgar his world was dark, laughter was
a gasp on dying lips. He mined the deepest
ravine where not even the summer sun reaches
but he was able to, in moment of clarity that
lit up his tunnel, to give us great literature,
a look into his world of horror.

There are other Edgars who walk in our streets
or sit in lonely rooms wearing a cape of despair,
their laughter too is a shriek of agony, a bitter
smile set in a pale face of utter defeat, for they
cannot articulate and share with us or turn their
suffering into a readable literature.





























Paris Mon Amour


I’m going to Paris in the fall, last time I was there
it was a June, I feel into the Seine when I waved
to a girl who walked on its other side. Two days
I hung on a hook behind a door that led down to
a wine cellar, drying out; people were rude to me
because I didn’t speak French and ever since I get
easily offended when I hear Parisians laugh.

Paris in September, is melancholia, I’m a guest at
a white wedding to a couple I have never met; yet
I’m worried I sense a Sagan type tristesse as when
rain fall like gentle sorrow, trickling down a girl’s
soft cheek; blue twilight and the whisper of fallen
leaves. What do I know? Whatever, happens I must
be careful not to fall into the Seine





























Barn Dance Wyoming 1887


My dream was to be a cowboy I had seen
movies of big men in Stetson hats riding
into town from the vast plain ready to take
on the bad guys. Then I saw a picture of
men dancing with each other the caption
said they were cowboys a bunch of filthy
looking men and none of them wore guns.

I went to sea instead and it is bigger than
the plains of Texas combined, but it’s all
water and keep changing hue; and horses
were made of sea spray and harbour bars
had no swing doors. I do realize, sadly,
life is more complex than a boy’s dream
of celluloid heroes shooting holes in the sky



























Love’s Sorrow


The silent distance between us whispers,
A widening plateau of the unspoken as
Pale starlight shimmers on leafless trees.

The river of love ran dry it never met
The ocean, a twig snapped in the apple
Orchard as tears flow inwards.






































One Morning…


Dawns silence gives me comfort,
My night has been restless, showing
In sharp black& white, movies of
The bygone; till bitter regret awoke
Me and filled me with dread of
The future. A door opens and shuts,
Steps in the hall and a car starts,
Tells me I’m not alone, and as dark
Gives way to light, my past slowly
Regresses. To day I will not be sad.
































Ash & Victory


Father was coming home from the sea,
a long war had separated us and,
the excitement of seeing him was great.
when he finally arrived and entered he
was unsteady on his feet pointed at me
and said: “whose child is this.”

Jubilation died, mother cried as father
took another swig of the bottle swore,
left and slammed the door. I never spoke
to him again, got my revenge when he
was a flotsam by the shore of oblivion
and wanted to speak to me.

I looked at him with contempt, and
didn’t answer, he cried, my moment of
triumph turned to ashes. He was but
an old man who had wasted his time,
he deserved my compassion and not
my petty, adolescent hate.

























A Day in May




Pearl spangled gossamer across the ancient path
Caught my thoughts as I paused and waited for
A rabbit that pretended it wasn’t there to decide
Whether I was a tree or not to jump away and do
What a doe does on Sunday mornings.

The aroma of newness so filled my lungs that
I threw away my unlit cigarette, which I regretted
When coming home and finding I had none left.
Moss on rocks was greener than the Arctic sea
And bluebells pleased their colours.


And to think that I had reflected upon life’s
Futility on a day in May.























Time for Acceptance.


There is time for patience by the stream
of legends when fishing for a dream.
To see the reflection of undulating faces,
of those who can no longer cry, sad
eyes that wish to sit by the stream and
dream just once more.

Released from the shackles of their past
they are yesterdays leaves and from
the soil a dirge arises and the wind sighs
for those who can no longer feel its caress;
star dust of sorrow laments the passing
of sightless souls

From infancy and onwards remembered
faces are masks which never told their
stories and never had their wishes
fulfilled. So sit by the river of legends
fish for future dreams and let the breeze
whisper you a golden fable.






















The Miserable.

Morning came
and
flung a load of
sunlight on
the balcony,
shadows dripped
down to
the street
below
leaving tiny
white marks
on city asphalt,
unaffected by
the frozen silence
of the couple
indoors;
their summer
had long since
gone,
apathy keeps
them
chained together
even hate
needs heat
to fling abuse.



















Nite Life


Night took a long time coming, crept slowly
from the east and dumped its load of velvet
in my street, sleek, yellow wolves stood by
the doorway of dusky caves where
“I did it my way” is played again to losers
at the bar; the barmaid’s laughter is a shriek
of hate held up by a pink bra. Victims and
abusers are linked to a chain of nights; only
yellow wolves dance and see the moon.






































A Voice.


I left my father’s house in anger
never to return, he is a shadow,
a voice that appears in dreams,
and the house is windblown ashes.

Today I’m older than him and my
mirror tells me that we are twins,
I regret his passing and mourn my
father’s ageing face.


































Rendezvous with the Truth

I like this word it has a ring of intrigue and Romance;
to merely meet someone sounds like business, buying
and selling stuff, doing something for the world’s wealth;
make money and be looked at. It must be awful really to
be looked up at and given honour for being rich.
The rich know this that’s way they have such a cynical
glint in eyes when they hand over a fat check at a charity
ball and everyone applauds and they are showered with
the confetti of sycophancy.

There is no money in rendezvous nothing to offer except
friendship and love, lovers meeting in the park sitting
under an oak holding hands trying to stay afloat in a
world that are baying for their blood; for they are, oh yes,
make no mistake wrong, in their totality of love. Other
people will get hurt as love knows no middle way, a flying
bullet that hits the loser it can’t be helped for love is not
kind to those outside the ring. Yet on the alter of love
everything is forgiven and the journey is great.

























A Ghastly Day.


There wasn’t anything jolly about that day,
the sun was glued to a pale sky, just like
a Guantanamo torture room’s lamp that by
fault or (kindness) had a fifteen watt bulb.

A thin day, the only good thing about it
was that it wasn’t going to last forever; not
a freezing day but dripping humidity which
chilled the old bones

A mean day and faces which walked about,
on unwilling feet, wore no smile to brighten
a time when even traffic cops were too tired
or comatose to pursue a speeder

At home the telly told of a plane crash,
wallowed in details, showing us a blood
soaked pilot’s cap; depressed I went to bed
and hoped to be spared more nightmares.



























An Overcast Day

When my lover got up, at dawn, it
rained, she went into the kitchen
and wrote a poetic shopping list

Egg, milk, butter and a fresh loaf;
coffee, marmalade a bottle of wine
muesli and low fat yoghurt.

She came back into bed and read me
the list slowly, till we sated fell
asleep in each others arms.

When we awoke it was afternoon
the list was a crumbled piece of
paper at the foot of the bed.






















Tell a Stranger.


Midmorning, the sun was shoveling
aside clouds that threatened to shed
rain, clearing a path that got bigger
and bigger till it had the sky for itself;
that was ok as it was in the middle
of August, when I murmured to her:
“I love you”


Even though I meant it at the time
I managed to embarrass myself by
sounding insincere. Demoralized
when she laughed and hit me with
her handbag; I felt like a speck of
dust-more- a broken matchstick in
an ashtray full of masculine cigars


The last I saw of her was a proud
neck entering the bus going back
Beck Street. Walked into Rose&
Crown for a drink and to weigh up
my future. “I adore you” I said to
a woman sitting on her own, her
eyes lit up, she had a pretty smile.





















War Poems

War poetry is easy to write, it is about daring
do, death and bullets flying through the air
People like to read about wars, which is odd
after all it is a natural state of affair; there is
always a war going on… somewhere.

To write about peace, now that’s difficult
it is so illusive, momentarily not being afraid,
too good to last; man was made for war,
a price we have to pay for progress; peace
is a delusion, mans dream of Paradise.

































Disagreeable Day.


Rose petals and golden leaves on my terrace,
sparrows fly about, twitter insanely, fauns have
danced here, in the heat of the night. I look for
a broom must keep things tidy or neighbours
may think I’m slothful; can’t fine the broom.
My desk is full of shiny sheets of papers with
chaotic words, merrily free of grammar.
Must act now fling them into the bin and go
for a walk, I have to polish my shoes first or
people will think I’m a vagabond.
Order, there isn’t enough of it around; the day
is too young and unforgiving, chills my bones.
I’ll go to bed and only get up when the day
gets older and less demanding.






























A Portuguese Spring


Once again the almond petals snow their
silky abundance on the pebbled road in
the village, and the Nordic princess who
lives in a castle near a lake that houses
an old pike that has been here so long it
can tell tales of times, before the princess
came and made winters mild; when
the lake froze over and folks wore wooly
snakes as scarves around scrawny necks,
against the bitter child- dries her tears and
smiles again and remembers a childhood
up north were the snow was so pure that
god’s footsteps were seen by the devoted,
for the rest the silence hummed a lullaby




























The Way to Faith?


The horror is in the mirror it reflects
and reports the obscene that hides
behind human beauty.

Fear of death and stench of the crypt
for those who rely on mere physical
allure, and haven’t yet accepted time’s
way to rot and grind all down to finest
dust. Doomed to panic stricken roam
the world seeking a cure for old age
and loss of lust.

When a selfless act of prayer can
beautify our sad souls and set us free;
redeemed we can find Paradise.

























Talking Heads.

Going home from the bar I walked along a track that
would get me there quicker, but due to an exposed
olive root, I fell down a hole that was dug just for that
purpose; loose earth followed till only my head was
above ground. At dawn a bird sat on my stoned head
picking moss. Farmer, Juan, came along stubbed his
left toe on my head, angrily tore it off the ground and
tossed it on a pile of other stony heads destined to
become a nice, respectable wall. They started to talk at
once assuring me I would never again be thirsty or
hungry. When the sun had gone below the yardarm and
no gin was served; we rolled down hill to a meeting,
each one was given ten minutes to tell his/her story on
how they got to be so agreeably rounded stones.






























Child of War.


I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion


























The Fingerprinted.


On the highway stretching forever, beset by
dumped cars and weed that cracks up asphalt,
a gypsy family with their tough little horses
meanders slowly through a road that is a sad
testament to a civilization that lost its way.
War of resources, everyone lost, has ruined
the economy and social cohesion, the people
lack the will to start again after the fat years.
Begging, theft and robbery are the norm, and
as usual the itinerants are blamed by people
who still cling to their bankrupt dwellings.
For travelers this means nothing, they were
poor before, and feel no triumph. Nomads in
the landscape of shimmering time.




























Thank You Brother.


The grey bearded Russian who politely asks
if he can help load your groceries into the car
in the hope you may pay him a few cents, is
my twin brother. He too came here (Portugal)
to work, but wasn’t able to leave his tragic
burden behind in Moscow or St. Petersburg;
and wine is strong in the Algarve.
I give him enough money for a litre of wine
his watery blue eyes are downcast, a burning
shame; I prattle about the weather as my eyes
darts about I will not witness his disgrace and
I haven’t the courage to call him my brother,
knowing well that his sad fortune could easily
have been mine.






























Widow Facing Backyard. 1


I keep plastic flowers on the window sill,
they are spray painted in vivid colours;
I take them in once week and rinse them
under the tap; this morning they had tiny
snow flakes on, looked pretty and lit up
a room that only sees sunlight in June.

My lady friend thought them vulgar, ashamed
of my bad taste I let them fall down into
the dark yard and we went out for dinner.
Silent and angry I left early, walked home
picked up the flowers, rinsed them under
the tap and put them back on sill.































Window Facing backyard.2


From my window I can see the wall of
a factory where they used to make cigars.
On good days I can inhale the aroma of
bygone days that despite poverty were
in many ways, less judgmental than now

Eight month a year the wall is grey, but
come May when dry and lit by sunlight,
it is a map of the world. Lakes, rivers,
mountains, seas and arid regions where
an oily, black mass trickles down.

How nice it will be if someone comes
along scrapes off the old paint fills in
cracks and repainted the wall; pink this
time. I fear it’s too late, the wall will
soon fall drained by human disregards.























Window Facing Backyard.3



Snow had fallen into the yard, a boy
was making a snowman; no, not
a fat one, but a small and skinny one
much snow falls down a dark space
between tall buildings.

The boy, whose mother clean steps
and lives in the basement flat, gave
the snowman coal eyes, carrot nose
and personality, it also wore my old
baseball cap.

When April came and snowmen in
nice people’s gardens had melted,
ours was still there, minus eyes and
nose; I kept sensing his presence, as
a work of art, after his final demise.































Blue Light.

An ambulance, fear inducing alarm and
blue flashing light, came hurtling down
the highway; it slowed, and stopped on
the hard shoulder.

Ten minutes later it restarted and began
its journey to the hospital, this time,
however, there was no flashing light,
no haste and the alarm was off.































A Wake Up Call


Got up at dawn and was suddenly struck
blind and lost connection with my body.
This lasted only a few seconds, but it did
feel longer. When seeing again I clung to
the doorframe, swept by frothy waves of
panic that subsided till they gently shifted
pebbles of my many years. I was alone in
the house and regretted my solitude, it was
not meant to be that way, and the morning
had the desolate stillness of a crypt. A song
came to my mind and I hummed it softly:
“Every time you say good by I die a little….”





































The Initiation

Last night I could not sleep, closed my eyes
and journeyed to a galaxy not yet seen by
the gazers of the universe. Green, yellow, red
and blue planets in perfect accord; yet this
beauty had a vast inhumanity, overwhelming
its perfection. From the centre of my being an
intense fear of the unknown spread through
my body, a dread that led me to snap for air,
if I didn’t open my eyes I would explode and
become a cosmic mist. I stood on the terrace
when dawn came walking up the lane, hesitant
at first, but since night didn’t offer resistance it
emboldened occupied the village. Cosseted by
light I went back to bed for a morning nap.























Tanka


Ingrid Betancourt
Got the French Legion of honour,
Well deserved indeed.
Will the captives of Gitmo
One day get a medal too?


Tanka

A wood burner
Ignored eight month a year
May seek revenge
By burning down your homestead
Or dumping soot on your floor



Tanka


I danced in the vale
Running horses, flying manes
In a coppice they stopped,
And grazed on green clover.
A hammock of horse hair I made






















Senryu

Notes fell from the sky
Sank to the bottom of a lake;
Made water music


Senryu

I had to haste home
But left my eyes on a stone
To enjoy, sundown


Senryu

In the square’s corner
A fallen woman danced
With dust and leaves


Senryu

A denuded phellem
Suffers in noble silence
Birds do not titter.


















The Lone Parent

Active silence stalks my house, when it gets
too noisy I walk into the kitchen make a cup
of coffee and bang cooking pots lid together.
in the day my bedroom is light an airy softly
moving curtains let in the light and sound of
the street, come night it falls into melancholy
so deep I need a diver’s suit to go to bed.

I sit by the fireplace and it doesn’t roar, blue
flames move to a sound that is composed, for
them alone, by logs that do not even sigh
when made into ash; and there on the rug my
black cat is dead as a lost bedroom slipper.
my only daughter has gone to seek her fortune,
works in a Taco Bell and wears a uniform.


























A Father’s Lament.

I now of a bad dad, he tried rob his daughters
place of work and was humiliatingly knocked
down by an office clerk; all on tape, never
erased, showed at office parties and laughed at.
My daughter has robbed my heart and left me
to fend for myself now that I’m old, she used
to work in a restaurant nearby where I ate my
lunch everyday, it saved her cooking for me.

Then she got this boyfriend, she’s only
twenty-eight, he spoke to her about a higher
education, like that should make people glad ,
and she’s gone back to university for a degree.
I know she will fail, I have told her often so,
and her fancy boyfriend will leave her; I’ve
spoken to the owner of the restaurant, the job
is still open for her when she returns.













Question.

Explain to me
What derivatives are
I want to get rich












The Doubt

Snow fell between us, more and more,
I couldn’t see you, blizzard in my hearts;
when the weather cleared the landscape
was white with hares and fox tracks.
This mass of snow didn’t know where to
dig and I had no snow-spade. Waited till
April when snow thawed and hares had
been hunted to extinction and fox fur
adorned and gave warm comfort to old
ladies. You looked fine, just as before,
but there was a hole in your head, and
now they think I have had a hand in your
demise…. Preposterous!



































The Compensation Racket


Two elderly homeless men were befriended
by a wicked pair of old ladies, who had them
killed for their insurance money. Brutally run
over by a car driven by the impious pair, too
wicked to even appear in a fairy tale.

Both men had been abandoned by their own
daughters whose tears, in court, looked glacial,
soon they’ll seek redress for the loss they have
suffered now that they are fatherless and their
children have no granddad.




























The Hunted


Be careful old man when you go out to night,
since you haven’t died of cancer yet there is
a prize on your head, old hags are watching
you ready to strike. Avoid unlit roads where
hexes sit in cars and wait for you.

Do not look at the young blond at the bar, she
wears a mask and is really very old, waits to
lure you out where her friend sits in her classic
Chevrolet ready to run you down, rip out your
heart and wear it as trophy.

Read the sport pages in the local paper, don’t
look up, and walk home before midnight;
when there it is worth asking the question: who
is that old gal who sits on the sofa and looks let
down because you made it home?


























Tanka

Yesterdays many tears
Are dry spots on times window
Easy to remove
With vinegar made of red wine.
Shiny as child’s morning smile



Tanka

Poor Obama
Few smiles play on his lips
Make not fun of him,
His fans will not allow it,
They will call you a racist.





































The Nuisance


Norway is a rich nation in Oslo’s streets
well-fed beggars sit and scoffs at coins
only paper money will do; dark skinned,
not a proper local born drunk amongst
them. This must end they upsets our way
of life, why can’t they go back home or
find a job? They should be fingerprinted
and sent to a camp, were they can learn
to work, we don’t want them in our street.

But before your ire flows into a lake of
hate, remember this: “Beggars of Bath,
Oslo or Toronto, can be an unsavoury lot,
living on societies breadcrumbs, (why, is
mystery poverty isn’t always to blame)
but they do not start nuclear wars and are
too lazy to occupy your olive grove, kill
your sheep and mule, drive you into exile
and paint your house blue.
















Saying

Irony
Is to be discourteous
With charisma




Saying

Comedy
Is to be flippant
With a smile


Saying


A cynic
Is a melancholic
Optimist






















Wedding in Paris



September is a good month to get wed
…in Paris
the sun is golden as are leaves on trees;
nature is mature and at ease with self,
unlike spontaneous July or hotheaded
August, with its tantrums and noisy heat.

September is a good month to get wed
…in Paris
not like gloomy October when light is blue
over Gare de Lyon. So here’s looking at
you Stephanie et Jean Gabriel for choosing
the cardinal “nine” for your nuptials.





























The Breath.


Easily in and out you breathe, with lungs
unsullied by cigarette smoke, siesta nap
a lazy Sunday on afternoon when flowers
wilt and sky is recklessly nude

Breathtaking, the silence, if you should
stop; I would fall down a chasm of pale
rainbows, stillborn moons, rusty stars
where words of love are unheard of.

Inhale and exhale my dear, snore too if
you must, but don’t leave me alone in
city parks where old men sit spit and tell
passersby how old they are.


































Harmony.

The painter and poet are out walking
The artist is friendly talks about his,
Work and his inner landscape of colour.

The poet listens and knits a long chain
Of words that have little to so what
The painter says… and silence sings.








































Addiction

Looking out of the window, in the doctor’s
waiting room, I saw his receptionist who
had gone outside for a smoke, she wore
black underwear under a white nylon dress
which is a faux pas, but I couldn’t give
a damn it was the way she inhaled filling
her lungs with aromatic tobacco that filled
me with uncontrollable lust, mouth open
I swooned. The receptionist, a woman of
forty-five who- in her attempt not to look
middle aged- had slimmed herself bony,
turned, saw my carnality, shuddered, and
quickly she killed her cigarette and my
desire with a heel of steal.





























Brides.

Silk worms spewed me a suit fit for a king
Wore it at a wedding where I coveted
Another man’s bride

The worms came, ate my fine suit, they
Had found me unworthy; naked walked
through the park of autumnal leaves.

By daybreak I sat on a stone by the sea
And didn’t hear the cockerel crew, a mermaid
Beckoned for me to join her.

We swam to an island not marked by maps
In the bay I saw my old schooner called May,
De-rigged now and unable to sail


Cured of my vanity, worms spewed me
Another fine suit; by not looking back I walked
On water to a wedding in Paris.




















The Room


The room on the attic had a bed, a commode,
bare floorboards on which dust danced as on
command, light came from a loft window.

The murmur I had stopped, the room waited
for my next move, I looked around nothing
here to bother about and closed the door.

My uncle lived here, he only left his room and
came down for his meals, when he didn’t
vanish for weeks “The Drink, mother said.

One day he didn’t return, after a year mother
went to the police and reported him missing,
after that no one mentioned him again.

I only remembered him now that I was selling
the house and looked around for something
of worth to take with me.

I opened the door again, and dust danced, on
the commode a small book, poetry written by
himself, odd no one had told me that.

A man, had written of the wonders he had seen,
landscape and seascape coloured by his mind,
the forgotten had sprung back to life.

I sat on his bed and read, till daylight faded and
it was night, looked out of the window and saw
what he had seen, the beauty and his loneliness.

The room was silent now it didn’t need to sing,
or whisper its sorrow. I had heard his song and
will carry his voice into the future.











Old Friends.


I’m older this the day now as the last one
of my few friends has gone. I’m older than
the overrun mule track, only visible from
the air, leads up to the top of a hill where
a mill once stood; the mill is now a pile of
stones only seen if you should happen to
over fly one day. I think you never will.
I’m older than clouds on the sky and mold
on a castle’s walls. Indifferent as time I’m
and draw its conclusion, all is forgotten.
There is no room for dreams in eternity.
































The Promotion

Five hundred years I had waited for recognition, when
my bones were found in grave on the windy coast.
A tall man, the archeologist waxed lyrical, an admiral
with a blond mane, it most have looked splendid when
he stood on his bridge commanding his fleet.
How glad I was that day, this kind academic, with dirty
finger nails, had made me glad. I was a cook, the nearest
I got to a bridge was when serving the captain breakfast
at eight sharp. By then I had been up since five baking
bread, the old man liked warm slices of bread with blue
berry jam on. When in a good mood he let me look through
his binoculars, pointing out things for me to see, but not
for long a cooks place is in his galley, to make a lunch for
happy sailors who sang shanties at five when tea was served
on the poop deck and the captain came down socializing
with his crew telling jokes and since everyone laughed he
thought he was a great wit. For you, who are still alive, five hundred years seem like a long time but when you’re dead
time doesn’t mean a thing.





















Breaking Point.

I had just poured a glass of red wine and
switched on the TV, when my wife rang,
from her mother’s home were she had
gone to stay; god, how she talked she went
on and on and I had promised myself not
to shout or lose my temper. One hour past
before she hung up and I could sit down.

My straw moment came when I lifted up
the glass and saw dust on the wine’s surface
So much wine in a glass, on me, the carpet
and the opposite wall, luckily I has white
paint in the shed; and as I painted the phone
rang twice didn’t bother to answer through,
good wine is too expensive to waste.































Summer Paradise.


It was a beautiful Sunday at the beach, sea and sand
everyone wanted a deep tan, not many swam water
still restless after yesterday’s storm. A pair of ten
years old gypsy girls whose parents live in a camp
nearby, braved the waves but soon got into trouble
and as many looked on the girls were swept away.
When life guards brought them back ashore they had
both drowned. In the midst of life they lay covered
by a beach towel, arms and legs sticking out just like
rag dolls. What could we do, the beach was crowded,
this people’s day off, and no one knew the dead girls.
Four men came, carrying one coffin, the girls so tiny
space, even for one more child. A tawny looking ice-
cream seller came hobbling along I saw his tears, if he
was related to the girls he shouldn’t go about selling
stuff and thinking of making money (no one is that
poor) but go home and grief with the family
























Sex and the older man


As an illness settles in my body, things I took
for granted have now disappeared, say, like
a proper morning erection.
Slack and shriveled I have to sit down to pee,
less I soil the front of my trousers.
Sex for the aged is up (pardon the pun) and
running, many aged have sex trice a week,
I read in the paper. Old men bragging, ask their
wives, who will giggle, say their men are
dreaming. Sex isn’t that important a celibate
once said, (how would he know?) yet, I agree
on the scale, of interesting things to do I rate
sex only at nine and a half… the tenth used to
be a smoke after it is done.































No Love for Grand-dads

I was lusting after this woman, see, I thought she was
sexy, her twenty five year old grandson came into
the room, were we sat drinking tea, just as I was feeling
in the mood, he called her nan, which is natural, but it
put me off I don’t want to make love to a man’s Nan.
How can I sustain the illusion of newness when making
love to a woman of sixty five. I know you think; what
a callous man, but sex doesn’t care for old bodies, for
an old man to get erection he needs to believe that
the nubile young are willing to love his wrinkled body.
For those who are not so naïve there are prostitutes, they
are ok, but if your pension low as a workingman’s you
are stuck with what’s on offer at the old folk’s home.































The Past’s Burden

Holocaust, this tragic word, millions of life lost
in its name, and it has not ended. This time it is
the Palestinians who are victims of a people who
has learned only one lesson, to survive one has to
be a shit and be able to tell lies and cynically play
on Europe’s common guilt. Hitler wasn’t able to
remove the Jews, we, the Christian, wouldn’t
let him. The people of Israel, who has taken upon
themselves to emulate their former tormentors,
will not be able to eradicate the Palestinians, we,
the despised and cowardly Christians, will not let
them. The brutal disregard the Jews show against
their Semitic brothers, borders to self hate; it will
corrupt them, they will sink into nihilism. Dust upon
dust the story could have been so different hadn’t
they decided that kindness was a hindrance when
creating their tribal paradise.





























Tanka (The Power)


Foreign politicians
Used to travel to US
To seek approval
Now they go to Jerusalem
To get the endorsement.


Tanka (humility)

Americans too
Running for president
Must go to Haifa
Eat bitter oranges
And extol their sweetness































From The Song “We’re family”


The people in the big room was all related to each other,
mixed races and the atmosphere was of the gladness
of meeting up again after long time apart; children here
too they were not cast into another room, and noise,
yes everyone spoke at once. I was here too and my
cold heart, not used to familiarities, was thawing it was
good to be amongst so people who enjoyed the occasion.
Hugs, kisses and slaps on shoulders; music and food
distinctly African. I looked into the mirror, wished my
Nordic family, darker and less dysfunctional; we always
bicker, recall slights, ready to take offence, the dead are remembered with hate and not with love. Yet we cling
together in a chain of melancholy; we’re family, follow
each others progress through life with envy and take
a gossiping delights when a member of the clan suffers
a misfortune: “He forgot where he came from,” we say
and feel smug in our own cowardice.



















An Actor’s Cook



I met a tall man in a bar he spoke like john Wayne,
although he clearly wasn’t him; the suit he wore I had
seen before so here’s an ordinary man’s story:

I was John Wayne’s cook he liked Mexican food,
pot roast and hamburgers too; when he drank Tequila
with his friends he enjoyed pickled pig trotters.

Believed in the roles he played, frontier morality that
never was you may say, the white hats win against
black hats, and his country could do no wrong

Once, when he played a bad sea captain he was sad
couldn’t believe an American could behave like that;
miss cast he was, a cowboy without his horse.

John sat out world war in Hollywood, his toughness
was an act, deep down a pussycat, didn’t like guns
with real bullets in, they made him extremely nervy.

My boss was a kind man, since I was tall as him he
always gave me his cast offs, when he died his
widow gave me his saddle and horse…I cried.

When leaving my quarters I had no money, but was
smartly dressed, sold the horse and saddle, opened
a cantina serving TexMex food and pickled trotters.















Stavanger Mon Amour


Yesterday I saw him play billiard, my hometown’s,
most famous man… there aren’t many celebrities
in my town. A boxer for many years in USA, did
well on the lower level, never made it to the top, so
he packed it in and came home, the local liberal paper
normally against the sport of boxing set that aside and
interview the famous son. A friendly man his sense of
failure not having made it really big, he hides behind
a smile; another beer? But here in my hometown his
fame is secure for years to come someone will say:
“See that man over there? “Yeah, lovely mover, what
about him? “He used to be a famous boxer in America
once knocked down Sonny Liston in the third round,
but Sonny got up and won the match”






























Diet Business


Chocolate that slims, on bar substitute a snack
between meals, and it will not make you fat.
Ninety calories a bar; the wrapper has a silhouette
of a slim person stretching upwards… to heaven?

And she is slim as an angel, for seraphs it is easy
they don’t eat, never hungry, no need for food
which must make their days with only harp music?
to break the tedium of gossiping about the boss.

Snacked five times to day it hasn’t made me thin
my greed is for all to see. From my window I can
see into a café people there drink cold beer, they
are not fat so beer is a dieters dream… lots of it.

































The Heat Before The Rain.

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings that
cast shadows in the olive grove, the docile mule bolted
kicked over the bucket of water, I had carried from
the well, it jumped over a stone fence. Didn’t make it fell
broke a leg. I called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something unresolved, I gather, from his sad childhood.
All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched
ground, where autumnal flowers sprung up and hid
the dead body in an orgy of colours, that got brighter and
brighter when feasting on decay till they exploded into
a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and it
rained; huge drops- bigger then a crocodile’s- tears.
Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had happened, but under an olive tree I found a knife with dry
blood on, and my neighbour was yonder trimming almond
trees that now have brown leaves and are full of nuts.



























Tanka

A poet’s trial in Haag
The Serb Radovan Karadzic
Also called a murderer
Newspapers say he is guilty
Losers are always at fault





































Farm Life 1950


Quick as a summer shadow
I ran across the yard and into
the barn where cows were
waiting to be milked.
Home knitted wooly socks
in wooden clogs, warm feet,
important. Got the pail sat
on a three legged stool, spat
on my hands, began milking
tried not to fall asleep when
resting my head on the warm
flank of a cow; and shy winter
light shone thro’ cobwebbed
windows.



























Birthday


In the doorway of
a restaurant
music plays behind me,
dancers move to
a Finnish tango.

Glitter on the ceiling,
happy faces,
a few drinks more and
wrong words uttered,
steel blades glint in
the knuckled hands of my
dysfunctional relatives.


Stars so near
this unholy night,
a lungful of
cigarette smoke,
it is getting cold, must
go in and join
the throng, after all it
is my seventieth
birthday

























A Norwegian Folktale

The berg had been here forever long before settlers came
and built their huts near the berg to shelter them from
the northerly they lived of the sea the first people who
came here and many still do, they worshiped the berg and
on summer days climbed to its top and awed they could
see the whole world. Religion came to the land, an abstract
god that lived in the sky, the berg ceased being of great importance, just a big stone, hadn’t it been there, the town
could have been so much bigger.

Too near the berg people built homes, chopped large
pieces off to get more space, just like brutal settlers on
the West Bank, occupying a land not theirs, showing no
concern. Big fissures had weakened it big chunks fell off
smashed into houses and many small people were killed.
The invaders are plucky; they will not give up, unless
stopped, before the berg has disappeared, and crocked
academics will say the berg is a myth it didn’t exist, it’s
just an ancient folktale.




















Vanity Seeks
Concord


If I had a mane
like a lion
or the flying mane
of a stallion
galloping across
the Pampas
of Argentine,
would you love me
more?
And not make fun
of me
because I’m bald
and lack
a few frontal teeth.
I know you will
say it doesn’t
matter, that you
love me anyway.
But I’m quite
sure you would
love me a bit
more if
I had a full
head of hair,
ignored adoring
glances from
other women
and
reserved my
a pearly white smile
just for you














Inspired by a poem
In Dagbladet


Varicose
Veins
Down
Her thighs
Are like
A satellite
Map
Of world’s
Great
Rivers
Which
Disappears
Into her
Swollen
Knees
And reappear
On her legs
As blue
Stockings.


















State Funereal?

My wife thought M. Thatcher was a politician who
knew the cost of food at the shops. To my café
“Tasty Toaster” Wavertree women, who worked at
a factory nearby, often came for lunch, till it closed
and they were told to get on their bikes

Police officers came, drank their tea, a jolly crowd
made a lot of overtime killing the mining community.
I disliked them, but couldn’t do much, my wife found
them heroic, good for business; my daughter partied
with them, till she found they tended to be racists.

Shell fell from eyes, the slayer was hated; but along
came the Falkland war and the cowed working class
went jingoistic. (the idiotic Argentinean junta has a lot
to answer for) War won great jubilation; yes, I know
we, the working class are, stupid.

Scorched earth, the class I loved, destroyed, mostly due
to our feudal mindsets, labour leaders long played that
“lord of the manor” game? Yet the fight wasn’t over,
she had to leave when she went a tax too far, it wasn’t
us, but the middle class that sent her packing.

Joy when Tony Blair came to power, Kinnock had tried,
but was found too be a windbag, how he charmed us,
until we realized he hated us and tried his best to kill
NHS…This vain war criminal, this toxic inheritor of
Margaret Thatcher’s obnoxious ideology of insatiability.

Before MT came to power I lived in Liverpool, ok so it
wasn’t perfect, but streets were safe, there was a society,
friendly locals, till the “Sun” sowed discord writing
spurious stories about workers who wouldn’t take jobs
offered and good old England became a colder place.

Am I a dreamer? Societies rise and fall, civil wars are
sometimes needed or we morphs and decline, human
instinct is not to be overly friendly, but to survive and
win. Once I touched Utopia but a storm came, blew it
off course, what’s left is a hope that one day….?




Television


My sister’s was the first in our street to buy TV,
an ugly, shiny mahogany box in the corner, and
since it was early afternoon and no program on,
stood there blinking as having dust in its eye.

Monday, film night on TV, the whole family
was there and neighbours too. Curtains drawn,
even though it was summer and still daylight, we
sat in darkness, in silence caused by our awe.

A Bergman movie, early TV in Norway tended
to take itself serious. I remember the whiteness
of the screen and how it reflected on the faces of
an enchanted audience.

Glistening cars in the rain, where her house once
stood there is now a parking lot; I’m the only one
alive, but every face, that evening, is etched on my
mind. Glass clear in black & white

























Drowning


I drifted out too far, turquoise water, tried to swim
on my back, water in my mouth, agonizing panic.
That’s how they torture prisoners in Guantanamo, only
it isn’t called it torture. The Nazis did the same, those
found guilty were hanged. So tired, pain in chest and
throat I’m giving up. A boat comes, mariners help me
onboard. “You shouldn’t swim out that far, you’re too
old.” Yes, quite, but I was dreaming.

The tortured have little to confess, say to whatever you
like them too, I admit it was me who painted the moon
blue. From a drug to keep him quite an alcoholic awoke,
shocked to see what had been done in his name and set
about to correct it, alas a lame duck they won’t let him
out of the office, the world will not know that once he
gave ten dollars to a obscure charity that helps orphaned
children of the catastrophe that befell Palestine.



























Lemon Tree…very pretty…


When I came to Portugal I wanted to
plant an orange tree in my tiny garden.
Went for a walk and got lost in a forest
of citrus trees, green dressed soldiers
in perfect formation and I was a pygmy
walking amongst them.

Overcome by great boredom I fell
asleep under one of the trees, only woke
up when a ripe fruit fell on my head,
I didn’t shout Eureka! But got out of there;
planted a lemon tree, it bears fruit as
painted by Gunter Grass





























October


Woke up with a start, the night was cold
a dream had disturbed my peace;
a black hole in the ground loose soil from
its edges kept falling into its endlessness.

Got up looked out of the window into a street
of pale light, my breath fogged up the glass
I saw a distorted image of my youth;
“How old you are,” it mocked.

I pressed my head against the glass, tried
to make friend with my tormentor; and
behind stillness I heard the hum of
the long sea rippling on nirvana’s strand






























The Dancers


Went to a dancing competition, but little did
I know it was naked dancing by grotesque
old people, the audience, all young, laughed
violently, great fun this, till their faces
became a mask of horror, when realizing they
were looking at their own future.

Someone pointed a finger at me and shouted
“he is old.” and hundred hands began pushing
me to the dance floor and tearing off my suit,
but I was able to jump out of an open window
were I landed in a stream five fathom deep, of
tears that had forgotten why they had cried,
and crocodile tears shed at gravesides;

I drank it all went back to the window spewed
it over the shameless old people who had let go
of their dignity in pursuit of eternal youth, and
fled into the woods. Torchlight, barking dogs
and angry voices: Get him, he isn’t a democrat
wants to stop us having innocent fun, would
have been a good nazi, string him up.”

Pale sunrise, still- life- forest- a deer grazes
in the clearing, suddenly it jumps in the air,
a red rose is born on its chest, and as a single
rifle shot echoes amongst trees, a day begins.















The Invader

August night, air condition off no electricity, dying in my
own “sweat,” a word I wasn’t going to use again. A sudden
gush of hot air makes the curtain move, in a surprised way
like an English castle ghost caught unaware in the armory.
The gush is full of crematorium ashes, cling to my face
won’t come off; I’m tired have no strength, when I finally
get to the bathroom, my face is clean, ash has gone through
my skin followed the blood stream to my heart and brain.
I know share my body with someone else; a soul that didn’t
want to leave, but demanded more time. There have been
subtle changes I have a hankering for tea, no milk and two
lumps of sugar, I leave the loo lid down and keep bathroom
clean. The feminine side of me keeps my coarse ego at bay;
I do not sweat anymore but transpire.
































Tanka

Pity Bin Laded,
They couldn’t find him anywhere
Got his chauffeur though;
No more limos for BL
Hope he has got solid boots




Tanka (Los Angeles Times)

Bin Laden, driver
Convicted at Guantanamo
Bush urges China,
End detentions, ensure freedom.
LAT, doesn’t do irony




Senryu

Eerie Israelis
Behave like racist thugs
Is it contagious?





















The Survivors

In the street where I lived, in Chester, there was
a small shop with bars on the window; never saw
anyone going in there and thought it was closed,
till I peered through its grimy window and saw it
was a tuck shop. Opened the door and walked in.
The couple seated behind the counter, paled and
looked scared like a bad past was coming back to
life again. I knew at once, pointed at myself. said:
“Me Norwegian.” The man smiled and said: “Me
Polish.” We chuckled like a joke had been told.
On shelves boxes of confections that had layers
of dust on, bought a chocolate bar, they had no
change, gave me boiled sweets instead. The bar
was moldy. Didn’t see them again except for old
lady, she had bought a pint of milk, hasting back
she looked like a shadow of an unspeakable past.

























The Trap.

In the town of Faro there was an ancient grocer’s
went in there one day it was a dark place, fifteen
watts bare lamp on the ceiling, nothing much to
sell tinned stuff, bags of potatoes and onions.
The shop was owned by a woman of eighty five
she hobbled about on crutches; when my eyes had
adjusted the darkness the shop was bigger then it
looked, deep in there, were the daylight didn’t dare
intrude, a group of old drunks sat drinking wine.
I found a place amongst them the woman brought
me a jug of cellar cold white wine and soon I sank
into reveries, and like them dreamt about a golden
past; ah, memory tell me a fable, but not the truth
my exploits where few. No, this is no good, got up
said farewell to the woman, the men didn’t notice
me leaving. Blessed light and noisy life, my time is
now, the past is peopled by the dead.



























The Long Haul


Endless road, in flat landscape of shrubs and sand, no elevations
no distant ridge of a mountain, no coast and sunlight gleaming on
a calm ocean. Trapped, I drove slower and slower, doomed to drive on this road forever; thought of getting out and start running, when I saw a few trees at the distance, soon some houses too and a petrol station, I needed to fill up the tank, the attendant wasn’t there so I walked over to a café, an old man sat reading his paper, didn’t look up when the swing door slammed shut. A fat black woman, behind the counter, was watching daytime soap on a TV on the wall, she turned and looked at me, I said “coffee please.” She gave me a cup and said “fifty cent,” turned her massive back on me, continued watching TV. I looked and out saw the attendant, hurried out, wanted to be sure he didn’t take off again; I never drank my coffee, not that anyone took any notice. The man looked foreign, I said: “must be lonely living out here?” “Yeah, but it sure beats living in Baghdad, the man murmured.”





























Her.

The moist
smile
that dances
on you lips,
the amazing
brown eyes
that crosses
the room
and
looks
my way,
are they
inviting
my smile
to join yours
for a slow
waltz?

























Inescapable

The oak coffin in
the dark corner
of the shed,
reminds me of
my mortality.

Its rightful owner
feared for his,
sold his house and
fled to Canada.

Gave way to time
he did, dreamless
sleep on foreign soil
in a cheap coffin
made of pine.



























Tanka

White foam on blue sea,
Spindrift, brother of the cloud,
Spun a magic carpet
On which we can forever fly
Till fairy tales come true



Tanka

When the al-Nakba,
The stain Israel’s sad soul,
Has been forgiven
Semitic tribes will unite
And the people will rejoice





























Terminal as Love

It was the time, when the rhododendron in
my garden was small - now it is a big tree
knocks on the kitchen window- when wind
blows, that I loved her. Jubilant times, my
prime, I could fly yet crashed, I realized she
didn’t love me alone but had another lover,
her whispered words of affection became
obscene clichés. Fatally offended, love died
as fall leaves blew on an empty asphalt road.
Time healed nothing only drew a curtain of
distance between us and left me with a heart
weakened by melancholy. Her arrow of love
made me a cynical; I shall never love anyone
as much as I loved her, again.