pig farming

Pig Farming

British farmers treat their pigs better
than their European counterparts,
straw strewn floors to walk on and
toys (usually footballs) to kick around
in the pen while they wait…

Alas, like their European brethrens
they will be slaughtered roasted, boiled
or smoked, usually when very young;
straw and toys are for you and I so we
can say we’re kind to animals we eat.

the hex

The Hex.

 

 

Where the village lane meets the main road there was

an ugly olive tree that looked like two crippled old men

trying helping each across the road, petrified by cars,

I used to stop and talk to the tree old but still bore fruit;

now it has been chopped down and will end up as winter

wood. No. I’m not a tree hugger but it annoyed me that

it was cut down as it was not in any ones way.

An old woman came down the lane she had a long nose

with a big hairy wart on and a sack of wood slung on her

crocked back. “Tell me dear woman, why was this tree

executed? “Because it was ugly looked like two old men

trying to help each other across the road”, she said and           

toothlessly laughed.

 

the psychopath

The Psychopath

 

The lane is siesta empty, meanders forever amongst

olive trees and budding almond trees, but afar I see

a black clad man, an ominous shadow, marching

towards me. He has got one hand in his pocket, a knife?

Bet he is a psychopath out to see if he can kill someone

without being caught. Nowhere to run fields are soggy

and he’s younger than me; he will catch up and plunge

a knife in me when I’m exhausted. When he stops and

looks around to be sure there are no witnesses, I quickly

bend down and pick up a big stone I can hit him over

the head with it, I think I’m stronger than him. He looks

tense as he passes me on the opposite side of the lane,

I stop pretend to look at the sky, can’t let him thrust his

knife in my back. He’s running now, see him disappear

around a sharp bend but I wait till sure he ain’t coming

back, I better arm myself with a kitchen knife next time

I go out the world is full of bad people.   

   

the death of an author

The Death of an Author

 

John Updike is dead, can’t say I know much about him

I may have read one or two of his books but he didn’t

leave a lasting impression as Hemingway did.

 

One of my neighbours has died too, I saw him every

day walking past my house with his old dog and a basket

in his left arm, with wine and a bit to eat.

 

He was going to his little field, doing some weeding but

mostly just drinking looking at the way birds flew, patting

his dog’s head and snoring gently under of a tree.

 

There was something about his eyes, like some inner

suffering had made him look holy, say, as an idealized

picture of Jesus on the cross.

 

I’m going to his funeral tomorrow morning, at 67 he was

bit young for death I thought, a new face will come and

take his place; but who is going to look after his old dog?  

 

 

transformation (Tanka)

Transformation (Tanka)

It can’t be denied
the almond tree is ugly
weak looking branches
its bark is grey and scabby
not a future beauty queen.


it can’t be denied
the almond tree is pretty
when covered in pink flowers
its bark is brown and healthy
a favoured bride of spring.

the lovely couple

The Lovely Couple

In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.

thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.

COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT

Collective Punishment

A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.

The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.

winter algarve

Winter Algarve.


The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009,” a tourist guide will say.

The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again

The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.

The vines in black soil look like dead soldiers held up
by wire, not a hint of jollity to come. My wintery vale,
winds gets cold my face is as frozen as a newscaster’s
botoxed face, but since I need not look young I hurry
home to thaw it into familiar wrinkles.

tango for two

Tango for Two.

On internet I looked up dancing in Algarve, got ballet
dance and dance schools, those were out, and lap
dancing which is even more embarrassing, a girl on
your lap jumping up and if you don’t get an erection
due to your knees hurting the girl will feel offended
and tell the audience that you are impotent; and it
beats me why she should want to humiliate the poor
punter who has paid. Maybe it has to do with pride,
professional honour, the woman might feel that she
has failed not getting you exited, so why do I care?
I just want to go to a place and sway to the music,
remember a hot night in Buenos Aires, 1961 and at
the same time get some exercise, is that too much
to ask a Saturday night?

siblings

The Siblings

Twin, one strong, the other naïve and pale, nature
is merciless the strong threw the weak out of
the nest that fell to the brushwood and had to seek
shelter where it could a temporary shelter, but it
learned how to survive and trust no one, frail yes,
but sensitively strong it had time on it side watching
how fear and hate consumed its brother how, with
its phosphorous bombs, had lost the plot and could
not kill a wish the losers’ absurd idea of equality.
So it came to pass when the strong saw it could not
win and subjugate its twin to its whim it choose to
destroy itself and its insignificant brother. Toxic sand
more lethal than Wall Street’s bad debt, cover land,
yet in caves survivors still dream of nationhood.

hail to the chief

Hail to the Chief

Saw his shadow walk across
the river I heard the roar, as
the people called his name;

I also heard cracks as ice split,
saw his shadow drown alone
in floes of driftwood rhetoric;

Saw the disappointed masses,
turned their back on a leader
they said could walk on water.

the strenght

The Strength

I awoke as green, frothy sea angrily washed over
The terrace robbing it of four white plastic chairs
And ditto table. When a new bottle green and
White topped wave came I grabbed it by its waist
Squeezed and kissed hard on its wet lips.

Shocked the wave surged back to sea and threw
Back my garden furniture, the sea now tamed and
Mediterranean blue retreated, as the sun broke
Through a steel band of resentment sent friendly
Rays upon us and the morning sailed to noon.

the harvesting

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1074649230181







The Harvesting.

The sons of holocaust
use white phosphorous
against Palestinians,
their parents’ calamity
have made them monstrous.

The sons of Gaza
seeing their parents heartbreak
will be gruesome too.
hungry for settling scores
and erase their catastrophe.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the prophecy

The Prophecy


The horses that drink water in the shallow river
on the grassland look up spooked by a low flying
plane its enormous wingspan is a shadow of ill
omen, frightened the horses gallop till they are
are tired then begin grazing again.

The far mountain is Canadian blue and hazy, like
there should be a forest fire or another war on its
other side. A lotus swarm of helicopter gunships
appear, cross the flatland and jolt the horses into
gallop again; and the sky darkens.

Then on the far mountain appears a new sun, it
shines bright for a while then dies like a comet,
a storm blows the grass withers and when silence
comes the river is empty, the horses are dead;
and the mountain top is a cold diamond.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

The rock I used to climb was my mountain,
I had an unlimited view of fields, hedges,
trees and grazing animals;

Mice moved my mountain, too dangerous
for children, the field is full of little houses
and back yards with swimming pools;

Blue uniforms drive slowly around to see
If all is well, in nice streets cars are parked
but where are the kids on bikes?

This is twaddle, I give a shit where they
are as long as they keep off my lawn and
don’t steal my car.

summer concert

Summer Concert.


Early June that year had turned very hot
the evening concert at the old church was
packed with moist humanity, perspiration
from the public and musicians ran with
equal pace, a river ankle deep, seeped
down cracks in the stone floor down to
the crypt where bones of bishops rested.

Dormant souls awoke, arose and floated up
amongst us as an unseen miasma, a sharp
observer, say, a cat would have sensed them
and alarmed run off. When Handel’s Messiah
last note hung over us, the air stirred candle
lights blew themselves out, a breeze from
the open door? Mystified and silent we left.

Their souls had woken too early from slumber
and loath returning to the crypt where they
were supposed to stay for ten generations,
before taken abode in a newborn child. Lost
now they drifted about but found a maternity
hospital. That year more unsmiling babies than
normal was born in our town.

officious Ethics

Officious Ethics

It was a cold winter day with persistent rain
I was broke and walked past cafés where
people smoked and drank beer; warm indoor
faces and eyes that sparkled with hilarity.
The door of the town’s cathedral was open
I went in there found a secluded place and
a church circular from a corner table sat and
pretended to read about churchly affairs.

On the floor, by my feet, a folded green fifty
Kroner’s note, enough for four pints of beer
and a packet of cigarettes. Despondency over
I could now join the happy society again, but
inborn integrity reared its head; “You have no
right to the money put it in the collection-box.”
It was cold I had no sense of moral victory as
I walked past cafes, cursing my Achilles' heel.

poets tree

The Poet’s Tree

 

On the plateau, at a distance, I saw a large tree

with multi coloured leaves, on each one was

printed a commercial poem, a verse for every

occasion and written as not to hurt any one’s

feelings.  I asked for a poem about unjust wars

in the Middle East, the tree had none but I was

offered a few about World War One. All wars

are just and the winner gets to write the rules.

 

The tree, stood inside rolls of barbed wire, no

copy pens allowed within a radius of fifty yards.

A storm came, blew the wire around like tumble

weed, leaves- torn from the tree- flew in the air

and transformed into grooming tropical birds

cooing about love. I did find a pale green leaf,

almost transparent, on it was written in blood;

“Gaza is my name let me not die in vain”       

 

the travel

The travel

 

Where the road curves there might be

an inn, a bit to eat and a drink, or just

a water-well. After the curve the road

might continue in a straight line till it

ends in a void.

 

No point to speculate about it before

I get past the curve (and then it is too

late) as I can only see what is in front

of me; a road exist in itself whether

I travel on it or not.

  

senryu

Senryu

 

A plane going north

Left a vapour trail of tears

On lucid blue sky

 

 

 

 

winter storm

Winter Storm 

 

 

The north-westerly wind that blows

arctic down to Portugal and around

corners and deposit waste papers and

yesteryears, leaves in my yard, is no

good for my bones;

 

I feel no enmity though, because it

also carries the faint aroma of Nordic

summer evenings when darkness

is but a passing frown on the face

of the golden sun.

 

 

 

 

The Street

 

 

The street I walked was very long,

had shops on both sides, but it was

empty of people.

 

A hearse drove past stopped outside

a florist, driver picked up a couple of

wreaths, drove off.

 

Across the sky a lone plane flew

the echo of its motor sounded mute

and full of melancholy.

 

I turned around a woman stared at

me, eyes, blue as a day in May; then

she was erased by mist from the sea.

 

The street too had vanished, the world

had no colours, but I heard cowed feet

walk reluctantly eastward. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

winter dream

Winter Dream

 

 

The evening has a pale moon that shines

on a cold landscape, on the western sky

there is a shimmer of erasing red; the sun

was glad to leave and reappear in Rio de

Janeiro where palm trees and female hips

sway languidly

 

Frosty blue with rimfrost on ground, that’s 

what the moon get to watch over, for stars,

the whole lot on the milky- way, have gone

to Rio too, to see the young, sometimes

the old as well, dance and make love on

the Copacabana beach.  

 

saying

Saying

 

Alzheimer is a disease

that causes sufferers

to outlive themselves   

the hope eternal

The Hope Eternal

 

Today I saw the moon on ashen sky

it was incredible white like a ghost

haunted by its, own death.

eyes gone, dark sockets that could

no longer cry.

 

The real moon will not light up my

path as uniformed snipers lurk behind

old olive trees ready to reclaim

an ancient promise steeped in blood

by the dispossessed.       

 

Today I also saw the first flower on

the almond tree that get the first

and the last sunlight of the day,

a mere bud shivering in the breeze;

I gave it to my heart and walked on. 

 

 

winter of discontent

Winter of Discontent

 

The air over Europe is clear and cold

on my terrace the parasol is down flaps

slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.

 

The pond near, the houses, is frozen solid,

the sun has no power, but makes nature

look like a pretty postcard

 

As the pond compassion is hard packed 

too, the ground I walk on is unyielding;

this is the face of bitter unhappiness.

 

Amongst the voiceless olive trees a bird

shrieks a warning and in the stillness

that follows I hear drums of war.   

 

 

 

 

 

heehaw

Heehaw.

 

The steep incline up to the village is too hilly

Today, the north westerly blows cold, I must

Stop turn and admire the valley for a while.

 

I used to run up hear with my father’s elderly

Dog, prince, past shocked sheep grazing on

The verge, proud I was of winning every race.

 

Back then the villagers kept chicken, pigs,

Sheep and mules that wandered about, cosy

You may say, but very muddy when it rained.

 

Every house is painted white, roads asphalted,

A rural museum tourist buses, dogs on lead

Not a heehawing beast to be seen or heard.

 

Couldn’t wait to take the bus to a bigger town,

A large world and the endless ocean, it was

Only when looking back I saw my happiness.          

 

My childhood has become a picture Post-card,

An old face amongst new ones, like the donkey

Unseen and I have ceased braying long ago. 

 

human condition

The Human Condition

 

 

The paleness of the screen ogles me waits

to be written on like woman waiting for me

to make the first move, but I’m too timid fear

her rejection, shall I murmur a little jovial, say

she has lovely hair? Or is that too forward?

 

Can’t very well mention the massacre in Gaza,

and that it is the victims of Israel’s foul act

who get blamed? Or shall I say, the display of

fireworks on the night and buildings on fire

has its own awe-inspiring beauty?      

 

In 1959 I sat in a park, New Year’s Eve, holding

hands with a gipsy girl in Huelva, Spain, but for

Maria was a boring town, she had brown legs,

dark eyes and dusty feet, her grim father came

took my lighter and chased me away. 

 

Now isn’t that a better story to tell, than tales

of the tediousness, the human tragedy named

Gaza, where the sky rains fire and children are

covered in the dust of war, unable to escape,

but will she listen to such a sad story? 

   

pretender

Great Pretender

 

I now they were laughing behind my back

and mother was ashamed of me when

I tried to speak like a book, I took evening

classes to be able to speak as the fine

people did, I was an imposter and laughed

 at in the street. But poverty of birth clings

to me like dirt under finger nails and I will

always be damned for denying my class.

At last I speak as we did in our street, had

they heard me now they would have been

proud of me, nodded sagely and said:

“the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

 

 

nordic april

Nordic April  

 

A sigh as unseen wings, flew

thro the room, a mild breeze,

a flutter; sign, perhaps that

he has been here too long,

 

Go home? No one left, only

cold head-stones in a land

that has long winters; but

he can still remember April. 

 

When nature jubilantly sings,

free of winter’s shackles as

fields greens, bird nests and

night is forever expelled. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu

 

Hot air over Gaza

Makes roses bloom early

Or is it blood I see?

 

 

Senryu

 

This tragic struggle 

Semite Murders Semite

While we sing Carols     

 

 

the wolf

The Wolf.

 

 

We sat on a boulder high up on a plateau

the soul of the slain wolf and I, we saw

mountains and deep dales as far as our eyes

could reach and since it was winter there

were spirals of smoke coming from hunting

lodges; we didn’t see any towns as they

were in the deepest gorges, but could hear

the distant clamour of industrious humanity.

 

I stroked the wolves head slightly, it had

not succumbed, like its cousin to, mans whims

and craved no approval. A heavy mist came

from the sea filled the valleys with a white

blanket of silence. Slowly the mist dissipated

and I sensed the wolf’s soul had gone, but

could hear the bay of wolves far away where

my eyes could not reach.           

NEw year eve 2009

New Year Eve 2009

 

Midnight, New Year, fireworks explodes on

velvety sky. Gaza has fireworks too every day,

but they aren’t enjoying it the way we do,

standing here on the terrace of a five star hotel,

perhaps it is only three stars, drinks in hand

and idle chat. I feel wretched, wish I was drunk

but this place only severs wine and that is not

enough to drown my lack of shame.

Palestine, Europe doesn’t cry for you tonight.

 

winter in the vale

Winter in the Vale

 

Rain had lasted for days now it was clearing

up and the road leading to the village, where

I buy food, was drying under a mild winter

sun; the nature breathed with an ease as

coming to an end of a long, vigorous sorrow.

 

By the roadside a big grey wolf, it had been

run over by a fast car only a few minutes ago

half of its body flattened, but over it the air

stirred, a shimmer I thought it was it soul that

was now homeless and at a loss what to do.

 

I blessed the dog opened the car-door and let

in the soul, it sat beside me till we came to

a plateau on top of mountain, I spoke softly

and let it out, saw it fly up and up, a shimmer

in the air that become a fluffy lamb on blue.