final Reckoning

Final Reckoning

Murky day in my valley the mountain which
Is a gigantic, petrified dry wave of earth and
boulders, is obscured today should it liquefy
the vale will be a plateau with a story to tell
but no one around to tell it too, except for
mustangs that only cares about the quality
of the grass. Perhaps some of us would live
on in air pockets underground turning into
earth worms while looking for a light switch
we knew used to be on a wall while gulping
stale air, not grasping that we are doomed;
and a battery radio plays a dirge because
the king is dead like that should be our chief
concern on a day the valley disappeared.

angels too..

Angels Too…

I didn’t believe it was possible, mind I had been away
for some time, angles growing old? In the fair Faro,
an old city in Algarve, Portugal she lives and used to
be as blond and pure as the ones one sees in fairytale
books, here where people are olive skinned and look
Arabic- which make them kinder than peoples who
live up north-. When she floated through my town in
the afternoon, people lined streets in the hope that
her smile would fall on them for luck, alas, no more.
Grey haired now, wearing slippers, bunions give her
great pain, she looks inwards which is a good thing
as no one recognizes her anymore. Smiled to her and
said halloo, that woke her up, she smiled back at me,
yes, the same angle is still in there just harder to see;
thus fortified by her glow I did my newspaper round.

the constant battle

The Constant Battle

Dawn, the silence is a dying breath here in
the village on the grassland, stealthily in
the night they had taken their cattle, dogs
and mules and headed for the hills, there
is no defends against helicopter gunships;
I hear them now, a swarm of bees from hell.

But as the bullets hit red roofs sun light rose
over the mountain and sent rays of energy
on the silvery death machines and singed
them out of the air, once again a new day
had begun; relieved villagers returned as life’s
echo rippled through the meadowland.

cultivated is my valley

Cultivated Is My Valley



Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.

Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?

winter travel

Winter Travel.

Star cold night frost on ground, ice floes
on the lake; glittering moon too does its
best, to make a landscape magic, as seen
from an express train hastening through
the night, to a town that sell coffee, hot
buns with butter that melts on the tongue.

a sudden realiization

A Sudden Realization

In the clarity of darkness I often felt
a presence, in the old cottage’s living
room, I often paused and willed it to
take a form, a human shape, but no,
till a figure stood before me, darker
then the night, dressed in a cape and
veil, an epiphany had taken outline;

slowly the figure took its veil off and
I looked into a humbling nothingness
where all matters, are absorbed and
melted as no entity had ever existed.
The form too vanished and blended
with the night; linking me to life was
dawn’s light seeping down the skylight.

the primeval

 The Primeval  

 

Was it a distant cry of a child I heard?

it evoked an equally remote memory

of another child’s wail.

The body in, the bay is your dad’s.

 

The school yards is empty and cold as

the sea. The bullies have gone home and

the afternoon sun paints unyielding

windows reddish-purple.

 

Don’t go home yet. Your mother cry,

relatives eat shop bought sandwiches,

whispers, I will stay here for a while

and listen to the silence.

   

 

 

 

sparkle

Sparkle

 

Diamond dust on the tarmac road I travelled

shone brightly in the afternoon sun, but I hadn’t

brought a dustpan, and was hungry it had been

a long day. It rained in the nigh in the morning

the day scented fresh and the dust glittered on

a sea that smiled and tried seduce me into joining

the navy.   

 

 

 

 

to be or not....

To Be or…

 

 

The swan on the lake doesn’t know it is a swan,

they say. How do they know? A swan may look

at us and say to another swan “Darling humans

don’t who they are.”  Quite right my lovely, they

are daft that way” (swans have lot in common

with actors, the lake is their stage and we are

their adoring audience) I know that because Tom,

the only actor I have met in the flesh, called me

darling, well, not only me but everyone he spoke

to. Tom died no one calls me darling anymore.

We only think we know ourselves, if we really did

it would be too scary to know that inside us lurks

a monster.         

 

migration

Migration  

 

In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to

travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was

a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for

houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen

so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden

crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried

their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of

them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.  

 

Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and

ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now

a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest

even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided

to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of

the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,

not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys

and musical instruments.

 

Two tribes had lived here till one tribe had decided to seek

their fortunes on the mountain’s other side, an early mass

exodus; they had vanished into a void, no one could find  

the smallest trace; a mystery no more. “My granddad didn’t

know this or his granddad and before that history is a blur,

someone else must be responsible for this mass murder”

the people who live here say. But I wonder who invented

the fine tale about burying of the stones?

 

cabin fever

Cabin Fever.

 

The firewood in the hearth hiss and smoke

refuse to burn bright, these limbs of a giant

will not heat my cabin this winter evening.

I must have done something wrong, don’t

know what. I have doused the flaccid limbs

with alcohol, drank some too, now the fire

is burning bright with an inner ice blue tint.

From the floor looking up I see the roof is

on fire. Someone knocks on my door, I’m

a pirate burning my ship, there is rum for

everyone; for the dreary I’ve diet coke and

for the loony there is low fat yogurt.      

 

 

forgivness

Forgiveness.

 

It was dawn in Calcutta; I had spent the night in

a bar with no name, when I came upon a hospital

in a side street, a place for the dying. Two nurses

in white uniforms with blue borders - they were

nuns- twins, poke marked, elderly, had prominent

noses and dark penetrating eyes. They led me to

a room were an ancient woman lie dying on a mat,

she smiled held out her hand and asked me what

had taken me so long? I told her of my endless

journeying, all the obstacles in my way and how

I regretted my lateness. She smiled glad that she

could see me a last time; then she died. Twilight,

long shadows a day was ending and I had been

forgiven for not knowing I was loved and missed.

   

 

the assessment

The Assessment


My copy pen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now I feel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
to write, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do not write with a pen but use a word processor,
a pen is a crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
of paper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waiting to write something sensible on the processor;
a mad publisher has shown interest in them.
Twenty years feels a very long time, twenty more and
I’ll be ninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
the floor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
hum tells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
of scribble how is that for an epitaph?

epigram

Epigram

All dolls are equal, but some are
better dressed than others; yet
they all end up- utterly forlorn-
in a cardboard box, on the attic.

man eater

Man-Eater

A great sight, a flock of flying fishes,
hunted by dolphins, sailing through
the air, almost like birds, side fins
outspread soaring, alas, they landed
on the deck of my ship;

fried they taste as mackerel which
I don’t like since I found an oxidised
wedding ring in the belly of a giant
nasty looking mackerel bought at
a fishmonger’s in Bergen. (Norway)


(flock since they flew like birds)

a nice middle class family

A Nice Middle-Class Family

I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.

Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.

a nice middle class family

A Nice Middle-Class Family

I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.

Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.

Winter Journey to Lisbon

Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.

The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people?” Yes, why not?

It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.

senryu

Senryu

God created life,
Darwin came, explained it
No big deal

Lisbon winter night

Lisbon Winter Night

From my hotel window I see, deep down
in the city’s canyon, a cobble stone river
cars are moored to its banks; from under
one a cat runs across to the bins, a squeal
as it catches its wretched prey.

From he opposite edifice a few shards
of light give succour to the dying and to
those who cannot sleep that radiance too
fades as night progresses towards dawn,
what’s left is the hum of enduring silence.

fighting fit

Fighting fit

Walking home from the bar,
yes it was late, the asphalted
road rose up to fight me,
I fought back with both arms,
but suffered a knock out.

When I awoke, we were both
flat out, I had sore knuckles
and a bloody nose, the road,
however, had deep watery
scratch mark in the asphalt

the face

The Face

On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.

epigram

Epigram

If there were absence of wars we
wouldn’t know the meaning of
peace, but go on being hostile to
each other.

february afternoon

February afternoon


Flecks of sunlight and shadows
are stretched out on a green mat
in harmony;

clouds have broken up and in
the stillness there is place
for everyone;

but accord doesn’t last
in the late day shadows will be longer
and sun specks will vanish;

there will the morrow though, when
sun is relentless, chases and obliterates
lingering murk;

gloom and light it seems to me
that we can’t have the one
without the other.

lament

Lament

I have the desire but
Can’t finish the race
Should I use, performance
Enhancing drug
Or will that disqualify me?

winter wish

Winter Wish


I’m tired of this winter valley the sky has seven
hues of grey, there are no donkeys left only blue
tractors reeking of diesel fume, no echo of happy
hee-haw anymore.

I will go to Congo where nature is both beautiful
and scary with roaring lions, snapping crocodiles,
ear flapping, cantankerous elephants and chest
beating mountain gorillas.

I will break in a river-horse and bare back gallop
across the Serengeti followed by crashing rhinos
flanked by laughing hyenas; arrive in Cape Town
as the biggest show on earth.

Welcomed by Desmond Tutu, he’s such a nice
all forgiving man, stable my horse near a river,
take the plane back to Portugal just as the sun
breaks through and sky is blue again.

fruit rats

Fruit Rats

Nature in the vale sleeps today last
night a storm raced through it, twigs
and almond petals litter lanes, birds
sit with heads under wings, wide open
Algarvian sky a few clouds sails slowly
about and the sun warms my face.

This is a tilled landscape, like a stroll
in a city park only less noisy, wolves,
foxes, brown bears and boars have
gone, I stand near a sign that warns
of cattle crossing, but I haven’t seen
a ruminant around here for years.

Flocks of dumb sheep usually graze
under the olive trees, if not now, and
I’ll not tread on wet grass; it saddens
me to see oranges fall unpicked to
the ground, but rats eat them and in
time of need I can eat a healthy rat.

after a gale

After the Gale

Now that the storm has past and the tall grass
that bent with the wind has straitened up and
stands deep green ready for the sheep in pens
to come out and graze on succulence, nature
is infused with a new energy that strengthens
man and beast. Liquid silver that hangs from
from tiny leaves on prickly bushes by the road
dries for there is no place for sorrow now that
a battle has been won and yesterday is gone
and it only gets a brief mentioning in histories
many footnotes. Without tumult, life will dry
on the vine and produce ill will instead of wine.

green eyes

Green Eyes

I didn’t know that life had set the stage for me
on that day as I walked on with open heart
and innocent mind. I met green eyes she had
auburn hair and smooth white skin that only
angels get to wear; she smiled, I touched her
hand to be sure she was real.

When we made love I was fearful of crushing
her delicate body with my clumsy embrace,
but here eyes smiled and I boldly conquered.
This was glory the world was mine love had
made me powerful, I could be a master builder
if I wanted to, or president of USA.

I glanced away for an instant and she was gone,
looked everywhere in other women’s smile or
eyes, but no. Time passes, now I know that it
was a moment of wonder it had lit up a path
that other ways would have been dull, I accept
that and savour the memory of green eyes.