Paradise Lost


The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program

I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.

Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.

So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.

Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti

The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.

The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.

A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.

Paradise Lost


The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program

I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.

Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.

So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.

Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti

The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.

The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.

A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.

the drowning

The Drowning

The island was close to shore when sea was
low we waded over, high tide we swam, dogs
too swam in the shallow and happily barked.

The sea was very clear but further out it had
under-currents I often saw things there of scary
nature, bodies floating by and I knew them.

I liked the shoreline for what I could find, but
didn’t like to be in the sea, I felt it was trying
to drag me down and away from what I knew.

Father said I had hydrophobia I fine word didn’t
understand it though, but hoped it was an illness
so I didn’t have to swim into its dark depths.

I was me who found father washed up on shore,
he had been missed for days, but I had seen him
floating by long time ago and wasn’t surprised.

Mother never came back to our summer house
On the island, when I returned there was a bridge
Across, but the sea was now dark and polluted.

on the sunny side of life

On The Sunny Side Of Life

An almond tree and an olive tree stand close together touching
leaves, olive is a reluctant groom waiting for things to get
normal so he can go out with his mates again; the almond is
a blushing bride and she has got other plans for him.
I do not care about them today; there is an electric line over
this domestic forest, it goes all the way to Spain which is
suffering from recession. In my valley life is the same as before
farmers till the soil and prune trees and eat. On a felled tree
a shepherd sits smokes a cigarette, by his feet three obedient
dogs wait for their orders bring the sheep home; miles from his
mind is the Spanish recession.
In a field of yellow flowers a lone red poppy stands, begs me
to pick it so it can get away from this foreign soil, to be put in
a vase and admired for a day or two, which is a far as a flower
can see into the future.
I can smell the redolence of horse manure, if they could bottle
this scent as an after shave lotion I will gladly splash it on and
people would think I was a cowboy. I always wanted to be but
never got to Texas. Mind I wanted to a general too, but hate wars,
I think it was the uniform that pulled me. I became a short order
cook till someone shot me and robbed the till. When my wounds
were healed I got a job as a taxi drier and saw people doing
unspeakable things in the back of my cab.
Work and I never got along it ended in a bitter divorce,
so I’m back in my valley again and will not get involved
with work again.

tanka and Haiku

Tanka

Trees have long shadows
Their Shadows don’t cast shadows
But they have a tree each
And since nothing is equal
They feel quite cool about it.



Haiku


It is fairly ok
To be old in November
In May it is hell.

The vice

Lasten

Regnet har gitt seg, mann under paraply
står og teller regndråper som faller fra ett
tak, han har lite annet å gjøre nå siden han
sluttet å røke igår kveld.

Han har en lighter i lommen som han
tvinner rundt og rundt, så flirer han
til seg selv sparker in ruten til en godteri
butikk og stjeler en boks med drops

Busy Spring

Cute little tractors, blue and green, everywhere,
fill the vale with distinctive smell of diesel fume.
It’s easy to be a farmer now up and down hillsides
no big deal, ploughing nice little field turning over
red rusty soil; but there is no horse manure for
the roses anymore, but what the heck, the nature
is green and flowers are red, sheep bleats and cows
are blue, well not around here, but on milk cartons.
But when the farmers have parked their tractors in
the barn and gone indoors for their evening meal
and the sun is setting; I can see a caravan of Gipsies,
horses and carts, leaving the road they have spotted
a flat piece of land where to camp for the night; so
there will be manure for the roses and all is well.

my lost brother

My Lost Brother

Cloudy October day I was walking home from
yet another funeral, my clan was dying out,
when told I had another brother, my father’s son;
he no longer lived in our town but in the woods,
near the sea, where the north westerly blows.

The woods, trees that had been planted to protect
the upland from the wind, looked like an army
of defeated soldiers slowly marching home,
but in the woods, where his cabin was, I sensed
an eerie stillness and no birds flew or sat in trees.

Knocked on his door- it opened- yes, he was my
brother ok, a bit weedy I thought and it was long
time since he had smiled and he wasn’t going to
now. Told him who I was and if there was anything
he needed. No, he was fine needed nothing.

Since he wasn’t going to invite me in I invited him
out for lunch, No, he wasn’t well. Gave him a slip
of paper with my address and phone number, told
him to call me at anytime, I was getting annoyed
too his dog never stopped growling at me.

Walked to my car turned and looked he had gone
in, but the curtains moved he was standing there
watching me drive off. Poor man, my brother,
immense his animosity. On soft ground, amongst
fallen leaves, a piece of paper soaked up his tears.

the visitor

The Visitor

When I woke up in the night I saw him standing
in the doorway giggling devilishly at me, I got
out of bed and screamed: ”Not Now!” Grabbed
a picture from the wall, ( a painting of Jesus on
the cross) and threw it after him.

The frame hit him square on his forehead, blood
oozed down his hairy body, a pool on the floor,
slimy liquid full of worms, wriggling maggots and
venomous snakes that swayed and hissed to their
master’s horrid laughter.

A stir in the air the fiend became a grey dissipating
mist and the echo of his giggles faded into silence.
In the morning I found the broken frame and glass,
softly picked the saviour up and rinsed him under
the kitchen sink.

The Indian Dream

The Indian Dream

I saw an Indian princess coming out of a limousine, not

an actress, pretending to be royal. She was dressed in

a sari made of the finest silk that ad been spun eight times

was airy and light as a zephyr. She wore diamond earrings

and necklace of black pearls on her swan like neck,

she looked so aromatic and esoteric had I seen her coming

out of the loo I would have been quite flummoxed.

Eyes downcast, a demure mien she didn’t see me waving

at her, when crossing the street a guard shaded her with

a green parasol. I’m going to India before the monsoon,

I’ll find the princess drive her home to Portugal in

a low-cost Indian car, I will have to install an air condition,

one cannot have a princess transpire, mind, if she did it

would be pearls of sweet honey on her brow.

the travel

The travel

The landscape I remember is a place from a dream

and has no time or distance, although I have not

been here for a long time it’s easy to get to, it only

takes the blink of an eye. No one gets old here where

now is always present, mother is there shakes her

head thinks I have gone old and grey, my brother on

the other hand, smiles he used to be the oldest one;

and my sister is, as always, beautiful. I don’t stay here

long it is place so perfect that there is no dust about,

the sky is always blue, sun is noon; an overwhelming,

peace rest and hums like a phone line gone silent,

not welome today

Not Welcome Today

The police car came to the supermarket
to day a stubborn gipsy on his rusty bike
refused to leave when told by the guard,
claimed the guard was a lacy for the rich.
Police has guns and handcuffs, the gipsy
left, head held high, carrying his bike, this
since it only had one wheel. One simply
cannot have that sort of scruffy people at
the supermarket’s parking lot.

the african bee

The African Bee.

Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,

the famous and the dead

The famous and the Dead

So she died then the famous young woman who lived her
life in front of the cameras naked glare. I knew little of her,
but could not avoid seeing her on the news and unthinkingly
thought her vulgar and cheap, forgetting that she and I came
from the same class which makes the middle class feel good
about themselves, until she became ill and died before my
eyes. I had done the mistake of thinking that because she had
no general knowledge she must be dumb, like knowing names
of kings and presidents should make anyone superior. Yet she
was able to, despite her didactic handicap, to make money for
her sons’ future, their legacy is not squandered before they get
their schooling. They will have little but their mothers dream
for them to keep them from falling into the underclass’s´ illness
of despair. She died with courage, yes, a true a people’s princess,
and I must say that after hearing about her death I feel humbled
and hope she will be remembered well.

ulucky

The Unlucky

The gipsy woman who sits by the supermarket’s door is feather light,
looks like a wing damaged canary bird sun and outdoor life has not
been kind to her face. I gave her some change, avoided looking at her
when doing so didn’t want her to be thankful, but noticed she had
bruising at the corner of her lips, another beating from her drunken man.
A low aid security guard came out tried to look tough in his starched
uniform, told her to leave, but there was something hesitant about him
and he had kind eyes, he looked around slipped her some change.
“Bad move security man, this will be noticed and someone will write
down in a black book that you are unreliable, you have not what it takes
to wear this fine uniform, you better find a new job before they fire you.
” The woman will be back again, she has no other choice, she would rather
be chased by a guard then take a beating from her man; and so her life goes
on till someone asks her up to dance.

daybreak song

Daybreak Song

Soon it will be morning and I can’t have drink
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like; “face the truth,” but not saying what that
truth is. And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood and you can see
they are not being honest. Now I have a watch
on my arm, I never had a wrist watch before but
the woman I live with bought me one as it would be
good for my self respect, like I should go around
hating myself. On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break, I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it I will simply postpone my
dreams and sleep till sunlight hits my face and
I know it will be ten in the morning and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.

the reptile

The Reptile

The small lake in the vale is muddy brown and
I see what looks like an uprooted tree floating
in the middle, the tree disappears and the water
ripples like it suddenly feels cold. There has
been rumours about sheep disappearing when
grazing near the lake but since there is a good
road nearby, rustlers have been blamed; mind,
dogs too have vanished and no self-respecting
thieve can possible be interested in our motley
canines. The breeze that made the water ripple
has died out and in sharp spring sunlight I can
see the tree again, but it seems to be lower in
the water. The lake gets smaller and browner
every year less rain falls now then in the past,
a few years hence it will be a piece of dry land,
with, perhaps, a crocodile skeleton on.

old news

Old News

As the clock struck seven, a summer evening, outside
the town hall, a horse pulling a cart bolted. The driver
fell off and broke a leg, a policeman on duty was able
to stop the horse and calm it down. In our small inland
town this was a big event and many people took their
evening walk down to the town hall and stood in groups
listening to what the witnesses, two elderly men who
spent their time there sometimes doing odd jobs but
mostly hung around doing nothing; now for once they
had an audience and were treated as equals. News get
old and little is as stale as yesterdays´ the driver’s leg
mended, the horse was made into glue and tasty salami,
no one was interested in what a pair of layabouts had
to say, not now that a circus was coming to town.

rainy day

Rainy Day

It was eight in the morning when I heard
a car door slam and a car drive off.
It rained all day and it soothed my nerves
to hear water trickle down old roof tiles;
stuck indoors, I didn’t have an umbrella.

Five o’clock, afternoon, the car returned
and the same door slammed shut,
the rain continued, the water trickling
was a Geneva Convention offence; utterly
bored now and still without an umbrella.

Zoo Gorilla

Zoo Gorilla

There was a big, bright ape at a zoo in Sweden who
disliked being looked at when walking about in his
enclosure minding its own business. To get visitors
to move on he threw stones at them. Bad ape, bad
for business the wise zoo administration concluded.
A tranquilizer dart flew through the air and the ape
was rendered emasculated; one cannot have hostile
apes at a zoo, they should behave like cuddly giants.
Visitors who go to the big ape’s enclosure, a at zoo
in an arctic town not too far from of Stockholm, do
not stay long; nothing much to see other than a fat
primate that only sits there and eats bananas.

Corrida de Touros em Portugal

Corrida de Touros em Portugal

The bull, led into the arena knows no fear, its
rage is against the man and horse it sees as one.
Elegantly the Pegasus evades the bull’s horn,
the beast snorts, has no sense, bleeds dark blood
from wounds inflicted on the neck by its taunting
nemesis’ banderilhas. The bull, blood on muzzle
takes a break, Pegasus takes a bow, what a great
show. A group of men, dressed as cowherds of
yore, jumps into the arena, the unwilling beast is
provoked into attacking them, but weakened by
blood loss it is soon subdued, and much praise is
heaped on the bold group. Cows are brought in
to the ring, the bull meekly follows them out, later
it is butchered, its meat given to the poor its ears,
I presume, is nailed on the wall of the cowshed.

Sunday roast

Sunday Dinner

It was on an impulse I went to visit
my brothers’ at noon a fine Sunday.
No answer, but the door was open
I walked in food on the table, still
warm. Mary Celeste, I thought and
served myself.

Their garden looked enchanting
bushes full of red berries, I turned
on the water sprinklers and left;
heard a scream, thought it came
from their neighbour’s garden and
took no notice.

a way

A Way

I saw a narrow side road unused now but
scars from cartwheels are still visible. On
both sides’ walls have partly fallen down,
no longer protecting or guarding anything,
obvious except, perhaps, memories; yet
the walls, with yellows spring flowers on
looked graceful as the easterly softly blew.

I followed the road, half an hour or so, till
it ended on a field of cardinal poppies and
Spanish bluebells. The road, pointless but
lucidly romantic, tells of a time gone by,
but whether it was a good or hard time it
stays quiet, leaves it up to me to make
sense of the past and remember it gently.

The vengance

The Vengeance
There is no war it is all happening on TV, for our
entertainment, I look out of the window and see
no dead bodies, no blood or bombed buildings,
or soldiers prancing about, except Pedro coming
back after hunting rabbits. He hates rabbits since
one chased him and bit his bum, he was twelve
at the time but the indignity made him malicious.

He hunts rabbits in the morning, they hear him
come and hide in burrows, except for the unwise
that think they can make play hide and seek with
him. Pedro is a crack shot and at times bag one,
which is good for us, had he always missed his
hatred may have grown to include us and the war
would move from the TV screen on to our street.

Recession

Recession

“To stimulate the economy one has to spend,”
the economist on TV, said looking directly at
me. Contemplating this I went for a walk, and
found on the road side a tiny mouse, on its
back pink feet in the air, pointed snout, mouth
open showing cute little teeth; thought it was
dead picked it up, in my hand it came alive it
had only been stunned by rain. Roman soldiers
used to eat deep fried mice as snacks- must
have been lots of mice back then- This scene
that could have brought tears to the eyes of
harp playing angels, had been observed by
a craven raven in a carob tree, as I walked off
it swooped. Later that day I drove into town
moved the economy and bought a copy pen.

the spectres

The Spectres

In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts,
stumps of amputated boughs painted white;
I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears,
to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces.
I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage’s
wall, it’s from my merchant-navy college days,
the group of smiling youths are all dead now
except for two, we’re old timers spit and wait.
How young we were, “here we are, life,” smile,
bitter regrets hadn’t yet clouded our features;
suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our
heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover.
It is almost unbearable to see them like this,
I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time,
redraw their faces and bring them back to life.

reptiles

Reptiles

Dead lizards on the road,
grey leathery
backs and milk white bellies.

Eyes closed as not to see
oncoming death.
I think they drowned.

In a child’s mind they can
become monsters and
grow building tall.

They’re baby dragons
that shouldn’t have gone out
playing in the rain.

the aristocratic war

The Aristocratic War.

A lone burgundy poppy amongst the weed on
verge of the lane remembers World War 1,
few wars, this so romantic English war, are as
well recorded. Verdun and stinking mud, many
poems written ( not that verses ever stopped
the juggernaut of war.) Plinths and cenotaph,
statues of generals -covered in bird dropping-
astride bronze horses, in every town. Lest we
forget that this is the only war where the upper
classes died, on the battlefield, in equal numbers
as the common soldier… and that, I suspect, is
why it is so well documented.

the town's buffoon

The Town’s Buffoon

He sat fishing in the town’s small lake too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water, and fish had chocked to death, mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes!”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.

the truant

The Truant

Trying to flee Christmas I opened a wrong door and
fell from sky into a glossy stygian lagoon, swam to
its northern shore and saw trees dismal graveyard,
petrified and silent trunks lit up by hazy moonlight.
I walked to the lake’s eastern shore and witnessed
the easy birth of a day; a deer chastely drank blue
water when a brown bear came out of the forest
attacking me. I jumped into the lake the bear too
jumped in, a better swimmer, but as it was going to
catch me, I ducked, swam up behind it, mounted
the beast- like a cowboy- and gripped my fingers on
the liberal skin folds of its fat neck. Howling angry
the bear swam in circles but couldn’t shake me off,
when it beat swam for shore I let go, the poor brute
crawled ashore and tired scuttled into the woods.
I followed a barely visible track and came to a town
where kind people gave me food ( hotcakes, honey
and bacon,) a bath and a bed in a green room. I slept
for days , but when asked where I came from, could
only tell of a deer and a bear as my only memory.
To be an embryo inside a celestial dream feels fine
while I plan the newness of my life.