the occupiers

The Occupiers


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

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

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

here we go again

Here we go again

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

Harold Pinter RIP

Harold Pinter RIP.

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

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

good to know

Good to Know

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

Yule tide

Yule Tide

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

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

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

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

the path

The Path

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

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

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

the prodigy

The Child Prodigy


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

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

miracles

Miracle



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

the tidy bachelor

The Tidy Bachelor

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

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

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

The child Prodigy

The Child Prodigy


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

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

the clairvoyant

The Clairvoyant

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

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

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

poetry carrousel

Poetry Carrousel


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bleak coast

Bleak Coast

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

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

a night to remember

A Night to Remember.


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

a christmas tale

Meat is Meat (a christmas tale)

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

the comedy

The Comedy

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

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

cloud nine

Cloud Nine


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

a belly full

A Belly Full

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

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

accident

Accident

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

Lusitania

Lusitania

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

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

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

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

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

haiku

Haiku (dance)


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


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


Nihilistic
The Latin dance of rumba
Passion ends in death


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

festive time

Festive Time for Some

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

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

broken window

Broken Window


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

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

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

Portuguese Blues

Portuguese Blues.

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

broken window

Broken Window


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

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

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

winter afternoon

Winter Afternoon

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

tanka

Tanka.


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

the Unspoken

The Unspoken

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

epigram

Epigram

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

the importance of newspaper

The Importance of Newspapers


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

epigram

Epigram

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

The fisherman/poem-story


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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

joh

the hope

The Hope


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