and sweet was my love

….And Sweet was My Love

I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.

A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.

I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.

We awoke early I took her town to the railway
station so she could use its facilities, we also
breakfasted there, in silence, I had realised how
poor I was, she was shocked and wanted to go
home, and thus, forlornly a love affair ended.
.

the Asidic sea

The Acidic Sea

All those nice villas along the coast are empty safe for stray cats
and those too poor to live inlands, because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out
too much acidity caused by industrial man, and now it is too late
to clean up the mess. Fish in tanks are guarded well and so dear
that only the very rich can afford to eat, say, bacalao; we have to
eat fishcakes that consists of ninety eight percent mashed potatoes,
the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure all medicine, it’s very
expensive and only the well off can afford to buy it, and they,
the rich live years longer than the poor. This has raised concern
and social unrest, politicians on the left, insist the poor too has
the right to be given a teaspoon full every morning; mind there is
synthetic cod liver oil on the market, but it tastes awful. Seagulls
and terns have adopted well have earth hued feathers, sit in carob
trees, sharp eyed keep and eye for scarps of food and scare tiny
tots with their inane pirate shrieks. From safe distant, when wind
is calm, and on romantic, moonlit nights, the sea looks as beautiful
as described by marine biologists in fairytale books.

vanishing future

The Vanishing Future

The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight

I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.

killing field

Killing Field .

The mass grave of ivory hued sandstones,
each one of the same size and just the thing
as headstones, has been filled in.

Chocolate brown soil covers them and that’s
a pity, not touched by a stonemason’s hand
they will forever be nameless and lack soul.

Grass and weed will cover the soil sheep
will graze rabbits frolic, as the shepherd
smokes a cigarette and look at the blue sky.

no love for Jonny

No Love For Jonny?

Was doing the dishes when I felt an odd rousing
below the belt, thought of calling my girlfriend,
haven’t seen her for ages, but she probably would
want dinner, with wine, before succumbing to my
charms, and by then I would be drunk and tired;
so just forget it. Dried the dishes and staked them
neatly, I’m you, see housetrained and divorced,
went into the bathroom and shared my vanishing
ardour with the pink, blasé bathroom sink.

...and it was Her Summer

…And It Was Her Summer


“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to se me.

her summer

a sunny day

A Sunny Day

This morning she remembered my name repeated

it many times:” Sunny and bright,” a voice on TV

said. I helped her having a shower, the hot and

cold water knobs a problem, I made her breakfast.

We spoke about the old days she could remember

everything clearly, we laughed and it was a good

day for us both. She wanted to go for a drive and

today she dressed herself, she stood in front of

the mirror I said she looked beautiful and went to

put my suit on. When I came back she was still

standing there not recognizing the woman she saw.

I sat her down in an armchair, the room was heavy

with her absence, as she stared into her vanishing

world: “Sunny and bright” the voice on TV said.

matricide

Matricide

He stood in the kitchen ironing his shirt,

suit cases packed his mother sat on her

wheelchair in the hall, he could not

afford to pay the rent, they had to leave,

but had nowhere to go.

He looked out of the window the land

was greening now, sparrows sat on

sills waited to be fed breadcrumbs, he was

filled by a pain of unbearable longings

bit his lips not to cry out loud

His mother was ailing, she often said

she wished to be dead, she had asked

god to release her now. Like a zombie

he picked up the iron went into the hall

and bashed his mother’s head in.

Washing his hands in the bathroom his

image looked back at him and said: “you

didn’t do that for your mother, but to

set yourself free.” His image was right

he deserved to be punished severely.

He put his ironed shirt on, looked out

of the window, calm now he knew that

spring had always giving him a miss,

and for the rest of his life he would

always see April though prison bars.

matricide

Matricide

He stood in the kitchen ironing his shirt,

suit cases packed his mother sat on her

wheelchair in the hall, he could not

afford to pay the rent, they had to leave,

but had nowhere to go.

He looked out of the window the land

was greening now, sparrows sat on

sills waited to be fed breadcrumbs, he was

filled by a pain of unbearable longings

bit his lips not to cry out loud

His mother was ailing, she often said

she wished to be dead, she had asked

god to release her now. Like a zombie

he picked up the iron went into the hall

and bashed his mother’s head in.

Washing his hands in the bathroom his

image looked back at him and said: “you

didn’t do that for your mother, but to

set yourself free.” His image was right

he deserved to be punished severely.

He put his ironed shirt on, looked out

of the window, calm now he knew that

spring had always giving him a miss,

and for the rest of his life he would

always see April though prison bars.

hearing silence

Hearing Silence

The woods are full of natural silence,

I hear bird songs and the murmur

of growing plants and an afar my dog barks.

Total silence is a ravine where all the unheard and

unsaid fall like autumnal leaf, damp dank and loveless,

dust of sorrows and layers of notes never played.

Those who fall into this abyss of silence

will never be able to survive and hear the cockerel crow

or a horse gently neighs in the meadow.

Total silence is cruel it has no vibration for

the unhearing to hear the whisper of nature that tells

of endless renewal that is spring’s true promise.

a poets leaf

A Poem’s Falling Leaf

Millions of tiny insects

Fluffy and light as dust

Fly in afternoon sunrays

Amongst olive trees

And the stillness is full

Of euphonic sounds.

assassination?

Assassination?


The country lane I walked on twisted and turned I didn’t
know what next to see after a new bend, I like it so a straight
road, one I see till it disappears into blue yonder, is scary
fear I will not reach its end. People came walking up behind
me, I stood aside and took my cap off; it was the lady, I had
seen jogging on this road, strolling along with a tall, dark man,
in his shadow she looked timid and insignificant, with a smile
glued firmly on her red lips, this gave a hint of deep sadness,
that of one who had lost the highest office in modern time.
A step or so behind them, ambled another man, with a fun sign
on his back that read:” We have suffered now it is our turn to
dish it out, kick me if you dare.” I heard the cough of a colt
forty-five, and the tall shadow fell to the ground, the fixed
smile stood motionless in the baffling glare of the midday sun,
the man, with amusing sign, had run into the bushes; smoke
spiralled from his hand, a cigar? Sky darkened, thousands of
war planes loaded with smart, cluster, bunker busting, stupid
and sweet, looking bombs for any surviving children of
the catastrophe that was about to befall their country.

th war victim

The War Victim

The death of a dashing young officer, flags on half mast
in the town he hailed from, yes it is so sad, of course,
blown up in a foreign field, so far from home, dying, not
in defence of his country, but in Afghanistan where western
nations have no business being; a political war and doomed
to utter failure. Yet, for a military man, a good way to gain
experience and promotion. On the day of the young officers
met his demise other people died, caught up in an unavoidable
situation not being able to escape and they sought no glory
and no advancement in the art of war, in bleak soil they were
buried and no minister of defence cried for them, so let us
mourn them as we grieve for the debonair, young officer.

the love of wars

The Love of Wars


For all time you have killed my children,
they know when they grow up they will
have to come slay yours; mine have lost
the ability to feel empathy. And you will
cry, as I did, tie yellow ribbons to trees,
swear vengeance and kiss your banners.
We’ll have in common our mutual hatred,
which is a bond of blood longer lasting?
than mere love.

it is in the showing

It’s in the Showing

In poetry one is not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in van Gogh nature, and I know of field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention, as a beauty
show where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know, but will ~
not tell you, by end of May it will all be gone, straws will be ~
pale and dry, shriek in pain when trod on. That is why I have
a cistern and collect every drop of water that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself, lift up the cistern lid look
down and the tiny fishes that swims there will think you are
angles. I’m their God, I have told them so, sometimes I shout
down flick a lighter, just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m not
sure if it works anymore last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water, fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish may have said: “If he’s God why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
him, we are the ones who keep the water clean. You see, I have
told you nothing only shown you a world where fledglings jump
out of their nests, to test their flying skills, and never make it back
home again.

So, Good bye..then

So, Goodbye… then

Whatever happened in life I always had a home where
they would take me in. Then, one day, it was not a home;
family members came got what they thought they needed,
and rooms where bare with pale squares on walls where
pictures had hung. My last act was to give the key to those
who were coming to paint and decorate the apartment.

When driving past, I saw new curtains, open windows
and voices of people I didn’t know, living in my home.
I sat in the car for some time unable to drive. I had lost my
childhood’s abode it had been thrown into the skip with
useless stuff, like rusty nails and childish keepsakes.
Whatever happens next, the road ahead looks loveless.

global warming

Global Warming


Gentle rain falls, in the night, on the roof tiles
keeps the cottage awake, it inhales and exhales
until the darkness in my room sways; yet less
rain falls now than before and the lake, where
the landscape dips, has long since gone.

On my night wandering I walk through a room
that used to be a stable for a mule, and when
rain falls I can smell hay and the lovely aroma
of animal that has worked the field all day and
through soft nostrils contented snorts.

The mule is still there and I have to be careful
it doesn’t know it has passed on waits to be
harnessed for a new day of work; come morning
I will let it out to graze, but if it still rains I’ll
tethered under the big carob tree.

Gentle rain one day it will be gone, the wind
will blow scour the landscape white, till it is
only fit for scorpions and snakes, the mule
and I will have to ride for days to find a place
where rain softly falls on old roof tiles.

the totality of loss

The Totality of Loss

Whatever happened in life I always had a home where
they would take me in. Then, one day, it was not a home;
family members came got what they thought they needed,
and rooms where bare with pale squares on walls where
pictures had hung. My last act was to give the key to those
who were coming to paint and decorate the apartment.
Later, when driving past, I saw new curtains, open windows
and voices of people I didn’t know living in my home.
I sat in the car for some time unable to drive. I had lost my
home and, whatever came next, nothing would ever be
the same again.

downward spiral

Downward Spiral


The leaf fell easy from the tree landed gently
on other leaves bunched a bit and came to calm
rest on a carpet of memory of summer past.
But often a leaf is torn from its tree by impetuous
storm flung far away and dumped down in streets
of despair where the light has gone and only old
people live boarded up shops and faded plastic
roses forever stand on the sill in behind grimy,
tearstained windows. And as it turns from green
to curled up brown and parched, there is no
golden age; let it be known that the song it had
was of a half remembered lullaby that hummed of
hope of love that ended in life’s inequality and
the poetry of sadness.

meeting equals

Meeting Equals


White haired, the queen skin as bee wax, she
had a honeyed smile when shaking hands with
the president and his wife; how far they have
come she had said to her husband only this
morning. The presidents, the most powerful
family in the world, wonder if the children are
aware of that, and first lady, from a street wise
lawyer, to a wife whose job was to look pretty.
There was a great glow in the air, new time
meets old time and the past was hidden behind
a smile; however there was a question rumbling
in the first lady’s mind, but she pushed it back
for now: “why, it asked, are all the white folks so
exceedingly nice to us?

Meeting Equals


White haired, the queen skin as bee wax, she
had a honeyed smile when shaking hands with
the president and his wife; how far they have
come she had said to her husband only this
morning. The presidents, the most powerful
family in the world, wonder if the children are
aware of that, and first lady, from a street wise
lawyer, to a wife whose job was to look pretty.
There was a great glow in the air, new time
meets old time and the past was hidden behind
a smile; however there was a question rumbling
in the first lady’s mind, but she pushed it back
for now: “why, it asked, are all the white folks so
exceedingly nice to us?

girl in the park

Girl in the Park


In the park I saw my dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café , it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.

girl in park

orchids

Orchids

On the narrow lane I walk a woman fair has taken
to jog, she has red fingernails, a slender bum and
her tits don’t move under her t. shirt, I’m sure it
was her who took the rare orchids that grew on
the verge. In a shop I saw orchids made of some
stuff unknown to me, they looked beautiful and
were infused with a pleasant aroma, wouldn’t you
think she could have bought one of those?

If you throw artificial flowers on a compost heap
they refuse to be mulch, hang around year after
looking new after rain but everyone knows they
are ancient and thinking you ought to rinse them
under the tap and put them in the back window sill.
The woman who runs on my lane has had a face-
lift forever she will look middle aged while we all
know she is really very old

en liter vin

En Flaske Vin

Vinen i glasset er breddfull, den minste lille forstyrrelse
og den røde væsken vil renne over, som blod fra ett
bajonett stikk i magen, og nedover en forskrekket legg.
Jeg bøyde meg for å inhalere vinen ikke en dråpe tapt og
lurte på hvorfor mere og flere nå drikker øl som ikke
lenger er natrulig brygget; er det fordi vi har fjernet oss
fra naturen og føler oss tryggere med ”man-made”
produkter? Snart vill vi ha ett kosthold som passet til det
arbeidet vi har, om du vil ha en hamburger med smelted
ost må du først være fyrbøter i tolv til femten timer.
Om du bare vill skrive ett dikt om naturen som omgir
deg den du kan se om du står på en gardintrapp, ja da er
det er det yugurt uten sukker til deg. Har du skrevet
ett dikt etter søndag steik, blir du sensurert og dømt til
enn spasertur i parken mens du forteller alle at du er
en krukke, tom av gullkorn; så dum at du vet ikke engang
hva”networking” er menes, ja det og andre banaliteter
som får folk til å kjøpe hva de ikke trenger, det der pengene
ligger og medaljer med ekeløv og slike nyttige ting.
Hva bryr jeg meg, men det irriterer meg når jeg kjøper
den samme såpen som alle andre, men jeg bør vell være
glad over en slik sammhørighet.

the loss of passion

The Loss of Passion

There is a haze over the sun, sky looks like
daylight coming down into a hole in the sooty
top of a wigwam as used by the Algonquian
speaking natives in the North eastern part of
United States. Roasted buffalo meat is tough to
chew, old Indians have no teeth, they live on
maize gruel and suckle milk from young mother’
breasts they are proud and tell no one, yet we
all know and young warriors hope the will die
bravely on the battle field rather than having to
eat maize gruel and suckle on a full juicy breast.
I’m not a warrior wear my cowardice as a shield
it protects me against the vanity of pride, beside
the milk part can’t be all that bad.

the escapee

The Escapee


When the uniformed arrested him they used “Taser “
because he didn’t stop when called to do so, but it
appeared to have done him no harm told them he had
forgiven them, an easy prisoner they thought he was
a religious nut, but there was something about him that
made them wary. They placed him in a lone cell
brought him coffee and he told his keeper he had been
away for a long time. The officer who brought him
coffee was in no doubt it was the lord savour who had
returned, he said so to and was quickly relieved of his
duty. There was an odd silence at the station that night,
the officers on duty didn’t feel like banter and making
crude they looked inwards Thinking of the meaning of
life; and in the morning when they came to take to court
he had disappeared. The case was not brought to public
attention it would make the police look ridiculous that
one of them had let the prisoner go because he thought
the man was Christ. Case forgotten it was Easter with lots
religious processions to guard and peace to keep

indemnity

The Indemnity


I had bought a plot of land years ago and forgotten about it,
went to have a look smaller than I thought. A carpenter came
and built me a coffin with two floors, and as I sat on the top
floor watching TV the echo of an Italian, earthquake struck
and I fell down a hole. Felt wretched I had done everything
right in life always paid my bills but now I had forgotten to
insure my coffin. I came to the rescue centre and met a friend
he wore a gold chain around his neck its in inscription read:
“One Day At a time” He had been sober for twenty years paid
all bills but never laughed, so I gave him a bottle of whisky in
return for his chain…and he laughed and laughed, collapsed
and died. I felt desolate and cried, but a doctor came he was
trained to help people who grieved, told me it wasn’t my fault
and that my friend was responsible for his own demise.
Relieved and absolved for my sin by a man from the medical
profession, (priests are so yesterday) I sold the gold chain and
built a small log cabin in a forest but near a lake in case of fire.

short poem

Short Poem

Saw on the lane verge
An orchid rare, as a dove
On Greenland’s cold shores

I have told no one
Rare can be made extinct
By red fingernails.

A Shanty

A Shanty.


I will walk to where the open mass grave of
bleached sandstones is, the grave is flanked
by sober olive trees, which have silvery leaves
and in the breeze remind me of the Black Sea.

I was on tank-ships walked on iron decks and
dreamt of sandy beaches, when ship docked
miles of pipes and oil refineries was on offer,
and lights of cities were always too far away.

Badly paid and far from home this was not
a song of a “Youngman Jansen’s life; a loss
of time if you ask me. The slam of an engine
door a watch over, the sea was isolation.

Ashore together fearful of wolves that circled
us looking for the weakest in the flock, drink
up it’s midnight the last launch back to our ship
in the bay is leaving now, yes, lost was time.

Deep shadows in the vale trees are green again
as breeze dies, I’ll leave my past where it belongs
in the cupboard of the forgettable, I’m free now
and no longer a prisoner of the sea.

as time passes

As Time Passes.

This place used to be a farm landscape, then the farms
took to disappearing and houses were built, with nice
roads, shops, petrol station, school and church.
The traffic was slow, children played in the street and
it was a good place to live for young families.

Hard time struck, mortgages could not be paid, some
houses were boarded up people disappeared and was
never seen again; more people left, everyone in fact, no
one bothered to board up houses and empty houses had
broken windows, for a rule unwritten.

Packs of dogs roamed for a while, but drifted away to
find human settlements, and cats were eaten by foxes.
Plants broke up the asphalt in nice streets and dwellings
lost roofs; what could fall down fell, rain, snow and sun,
the wind blew and there was silence.

Then a fine spring day a man was ploughing what used
to be the sport fields and in the old school yard cows
mooed as it was milking time; and there were plenty of
bricks for many farmsteads to be built, soon they dotted
a farmland that once had been a townscape