The Friendship
Sven and I were best friends sailed on the same ship together.
he as a third officer and I as a cook. We were both interested
in reading, cinema and politics, and we liked go dancing when
our ship docked. One night in Kingston, Jamaica, we met two
girls at a beach cafe, I liked my girl there was an easy repartee
between us and we laughed a lot. Back onboard Sven said my
the girl was not suitable for me, I smiled, thought it a joke.
Next day was Sunday Sven went ashore after breakfast, going
to the beach, he said, I had to stay onboard and cook dinner.
He came back in the evening, when I was ready to go ashore
and meet my new girlfriend; Sven said he was very tired and
wanted to stay onboard for the night. When I met my girl at
the cafe, she appeared startled looked around and behind me
but said nothing; told she had been to the beach all day and
was quite exhausted, the easy talk between us was gone and
the silence was awkward, so I wordlessly just got up and left.
Back onboard, Sven sat in the mess-hall drinking coffee and
reading, he looked up said halloo but continued to read;
In my darkened room I looked out, full moon and the lights
of Jamaica looked alluring; I also saw Sven go ashore again and
it was well after midnight.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
a seafarer's life
A seafarer’s life
I didn’t want to work in a factory and get my hands dirty,
be locked inside grey walls six days a week, as everyone
else in my street was, so I got a job selling books from
house to house; only I was so terrible shy.
The first doorbell I rang was also my last, the woman who
opened the door was kind enough but she didn’t want to
buy anything, I nearly cried, and didn’t have the courage
to press my finger on another doorbell.
Selling pictures of farms, taken from a helicopter, was
my next job, out all day taking the bus to the countryside
only the day I got there it was raining I had no umbrella
and the first farm I came to was also my last.
I took a course training to be a waiter, in white jacket
and golden epaulet I looked handsome, so my sister said.
I did well at the course and got a job at a posh restaurant;
but my hands shook I dropped plates and was fired
Finally I got a job on a tank-ship, in her galley hidden from
view, washing pots and pan, and hid from the world for
thirty years. Now, I write poetry about a sea I hardly saw
stuck inside a ship’s quarter seven days a week.
I didn’t want to work in a factory and get my hands dirty,
be locked inside grey walls six days a week, as everyone
else in my street was, so I got a job selling books from
house to house; only I was so terrible shy.
The first doorbell I rang was also my last, the woman who
opened the door was kind enough but she didn’t want to
buy anything, I nearly cried, and didn’t have the courage
to press my finger on another doorbell.
Selling pictures of farms, taken from a helicopter, was
my next job, out all day taking the bus to the countryside
only the day I got there it was raining I had no umbrella
and the first farm I came to was also my last.
I took a course training to be a waiter, in white jacket
and golden epaulet I looked handsome, so my sister said.
I did well at the course and got a job at a posh restaurant;
but my hands shook I dropped plates and was fired
Finally I got a job on a tank-ship, in her galley hidden from
view, washing pots and pan, and hid from the world for
thirty years. Now, I write poetry about a sea I hardly saw
stuck inside a ship’s quarter seven days a week.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
shining light
Shining Light
Sometimes light in Algarve is too sharp I can see
the lot at once, the future, past and the landscape.
All is white, have I been where I’m going, or I’m
coming back from where I have not been?
I sit in the shade under a carob tree and watch ants
going down a hole with bits of twigs preparing
for a nuclear holocaust, and the catastrophe that
befalls all groups of people sooner or later.
Light is no longer white but amber and a magazine
editor says I’m Danish, yet published my poem; it
doesn’t matter that I have lost my old identity, he
could have called me a Palestinian for all I care.
Sometimes light in Algarve is too sharp I can see
the lot at once, the future, past and the landscape.
All is white, have I been where I’m going, or I’m
coming back from where I have not been?
I sit in the shade under a carob tree and watch ants
going down a hole with bits of twigs preparing
for a nuclear holocaust, and the catastrophe that
befalls all groups of people sooner or later.
Light is no longer white but amber and a magazine
editor says I’m Danish, yet published my poem; it
doesn’t matter that I have lost my old identity, he
could have called me a Palestinian for all I care.
worker ants
Worker Ants
Parallel along the path I followed an ant track.
I joined the ants, there were many all carrying
bits of straw so I picked up a piece of dry straw,
and man was it heavy. The other ants laughed
said will get the hang of it in time, soon you’ll
be able to carry two. Maybe four too, I rashly
said. No, that will break your back.
I kept falling behind as I timidly scanned the air
for predatory sparrows and wondered if rabbits
eat ants. Where their track ends by a hole, their
home, I threw my burden to the ground and
jumped back on to my own path. Hard work kills
the soul, and all you get at the end of it is cheap
pocket watch.
Parallel along the path I followed an ant track.
I joined the ants, there were many all carrying
bits of straw so I picked up a piece of dry straw,
and man was it heavy. The other ants laughed
said will get the hang of it in time, soon you’ll
be able to carry two. Maybe four too, I rashly
said. No, that will break your back.
I kept falling behind as I timidly scanned the air
for predatory sparrows and wondered if rabbits
eat ants. Where their track ends by a hole, their
home, I threw my burden to the ground and
jumped back on to my own path. Hard work kills
the soul, and all you get at the end of it is cheap
pocket watch.
writing folks
Writing folks
It took three hours to drive up to Lisbon to meet
a group of poets and writers, I had wanted to take
the train, but my wife wanted me to drive since my
car has got air condition. Splendid lunch and much
wine was drunk, eager talk, if a bit unsteady, about
world literature and so on. It also took three hours
to drive home, not that I’m complaining, it is nice to
meet people who write, but doing so sober is a bit
of a strain; I think I’ll take the train next time.
It took three hours to drive up to Lisbon to meet
a group of poets and writers, I had wanted to take
the train, but my wife wanted me to drive since my
car has got air condition. Splendid lunch and much
wine was drunk, eager talk, if a bit unsteady, about
world literature and so on. It also took three hours
to drive home, not that I’m complaining, it is nice to
meet people who write, but doing so sober is a bit
of a strain; I think I’ll take the train next time.
Monday, June 22, 2009
the scent of love
The scent of Love.
The tank-ship’s deck was glistering red,
the sea was a translucent, marine blue
mirror which only function that day, was
to mirror the sky; existential love made
the ocean’s ozone, sweet to inhale.
The tankers empty tanks had not been
aired, a build up of gas that had nowhere
to go. Boom! The ship split open like a tin
of tuna, and the sea foamed as she sank
to where darkness is constant.
Soon the sea settled, as champagne in
a glass not drunk, the sea mirrored
the sky again as witness by an albatross,
and the Pacific Ocean’s love for the sky
was as always so sweet to inhale.
The tank-ship’s deck was glistering red,
the sea was a translucent, marine blue
mirror which only function that day, was
to mirror the sky; existential love made
the ocean’s ozone, sweet to inhale.
The tankers empty tanks had not been
aired, a build up of gas that had nowhere
to go. Boom! The ship split open like a tin
of tuna, and the sea foamed as she sank
to where darkness is constant.
Soon the sea settled, as champagne in
a glass not drunk, the sea mirrored
the sky again as witness by an albatross,
and the Pacific Ocean’s love for the sky
was as always so sweet to inhale.
uprising
The Uprising
My shoes were made in China and therefore have no heels
and that is ok, when the Chinese take over the world I’ll
not be taller than anyone of them and be “inconspicuous,”
I misspelt that word seven times before I got it right.
the Iranian middle and upper class youths do not accept
the result of a recent election, mainly because their man
didn’t win, and since they are the sons and daughters of
the elite, they just might get their way...and yes, it doesn’t
make much different for the poor they are a minority in
a middle class world. Me, I find this happening a bit sinister,
planned, I would have said, now that the western world
should concentrate on giving statehood to the Palestinians.
It may be some time to wait before the Chinese Mao’s
children are here to save us from our sham democracy, and
that’s why I find it difficult to believe that the children of
the 1979 revolution want to sell their country for western dross.
My shoes were made in China and therefore have no heels
and that is ok, when the Chinese take over the world I’ll
not be taller than anyone of them and be “inconspicuous,”
I misspelt that word seven times before I got it right.
the Iranian middle and upper class youths do not accept
the result of a recent election, mainly because their man
didn’t win, and since they are the sons and daughters of
the elite, they just might get their way...and yes, it doesn’t
make much different for the poor they are a minority in
a middle class world. Me, I find this happening a bit sinister,
planned, I would have said, now that the western world
should concentrate on giving statehood to the Palestinians.
It may be some time to wait before the Chinese Mao’s
children are here to save us from our sham democracy, and
that’s why I find it difficult to believe that the children of
the 1979 revolution want to sell their country for western dross.
old repentances
Old Repentances
The track I follow, in the landscape of bushes with
leaves sharp as shaving blades, mainly because it’s
void of people and only used by sheep their guardian
and executioner didn’t give me peace today.
The lock, on the box where unwanted memories are
stored, sprung open and before I could stuff it all in
again and repair the lock they were all over my mind
producing thoughts and regrets that made me suffer.
I’m my worst critic, merciless, give no quarter, whip
myself till I admit I’m the scum of the earth. But with
the unwanted back in the box I giggled, I sometimes
sound like a pompous old head teacher.
The track I follow, in the landscape of bushes with
leaves sharp as shaving blades, mainly because it’s
void of people and only used by sheep their guardian
and executioner didn’t give me peace today.
The lock, on the box where unwanted memories are
stored, sprung open and before I could stuff it all in
again and repair the lock they were all over my mind
producing thoughts and regrets that made me suffer.
I’m my worst critic, merciless, give no quarter, whip
myself till I admit I’m the scum of the earth. But with
the unwanted back in the box I giggled, I sometimes
sound like a pompous old head teacher.
paris poetry
bonjour
votre beau poème est sur le site http://www.poetesaparis.fr
rubrique ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT
YOUR POEM IS ON TE SITE
PLEASE LOOK AT : ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT
votre beau poème est sur le site http://www.poetesaparis.fr
rubrique ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT
YOUR POEM IS ON TE SITE
PLEASE LOOK AT : ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT
Thursday, June 18, 2009
once an ocean
Once an Ocean
Ernest, the marine biologist, is walking with me
today my old friend died many ago, but he is in
my thoughts I listen as he tells how this place,
where we walk, used to be the floor of a sea.
Algarve blue sky, evergreen bushes and dry clay
soil and I try to think of myself as a lobster walking
in the seaweed, and the circling eagle a shark, but
a fleeing rabbit breaks the illusion.
So everything disappears, our passing lasts a cosmic
second, all that has been written will be forgotten
new religions will appear they will tell of love, yet
ban or kill those who disagree.
That knowledge is not an excuse to roll over and
do nothing, we have to do our best speak for those
can’t, defend those who have lost their homeland
and try free ourselves of bigotry.
Ernest has gone back to Saragossa to study drifting
seaweeds, and where old track ends my dog sits and
wait for me, she had no heaven to go to, so we both
drift along on my dreams.
Ernest, the marine biologist, is walking with me
today my old friend died many ago, but he is in
my thoughts I listen as he tells how this place,
where we walk, used to be the floor of a sea.
Algarve blue sky, evergreen bushes and dry clay
soil and I try to think of myself as a lobster walking
in the seaweed, and the circling eagle a shark, but
a fleeing rabbit breaks the illusion.
So everything disappears, our passing lasts a cosmic
second, all that has been written will be forgotten
new religions will appear they will tell of love, yet
ban or kill those who disagree.
That knowledge is not an excuse to roll over and
do nothing, we have to do our best speak for those
can’t, defend those who have lost their homeland
and try free ourselves of bigotry.
Ernest has gone back to Saragossa to study drifting
seaweeds, and where old track ends my dog sits and
wait for me, she had no heaven to go to, so we both
drift along on my dreams.
end of the line
End of the Line
Old man, yes, you who walk near the houses on the pavement
down the street using a cane is there something wrong with
your hips? Hey! Old man when you see a group of youngsters
standing by the corner you feel fear, and if they make fun of
the way you walk you pretend not to hear only try to walk faster.
It didn’t used to be like this you looked the world in the eye as
you broad shouldered swaggered down the street of life, no one
dared to challenge you then; you didn’t know it was going to end
like this. Hey! Old man your life is behind you and your future is
the grave, and your walk often takes you to the cemetery where
you often go and read the names of people you used to know.
You live in pain- tell me way- most of the time, watch irrelevant
news TV, while drinking a little whisky. Every Saturday you go
the café and drink beer with other old men, only there are so few
of them now. Hey! Old man with a foot in the grave, in your dream
you are still virile and when you wake up you feel young until you
see the cane or your face in the unforgiving mirror. Yet you go on
living your loveless life in the hope of seeing another spring and
see the blossoming of the almond tree.
Old man, yes, you who walk near the houses on the pavement
down the street using a cane is there something wrong with
your hips? Hey! Old man when you see a group of youngsters
standing by the corner you feel fear, and if they make fun of
the way you walk you pretend not to hear only try to walk faster.
It didn’t used to be like this you looked the world in the eye as
you broad shouldered swaggered down the street of life, no one
dared to challenge you then; you didn’t know it was going to end
like this. Hey! Old man your life is behind you and your future is
the grave, and your walk often takes you to the cemetery where
you often go and read the names of people you used to know.
You live in pain- tell me way- most of the time, watch irrelevant
news TV, while drinking a little whisky. Every Saturday you go
the café and drink beer with other old men, only there are so few
of them now. Hey! Old man with a foot in the grave, in your dream
you are still virile and when you wake up you feel young until you
see the cane or your face in the unforgiving mirror. Yet you go on
living your loveless life in the hope of seeing another spring and
see the blossoming of the almond tree.
Monday, June 15, 2009
summer precipitation
Summer Precipitation
The cup of old sadness is full; there is little I want to
know, the banal pilfering of politicians stirs me not
into moral ire, they did what people try doing daily
if they can, small time thieving we understand and
therefore can be virtuous about it, while big banks
crimes are too complex and are quickly forgotten.
Summer rain the earth smells of freshly dug graves,
don’t pick the flowers in the glade though, they are
for June weddings and not to be wasted on old men’s
graves. Spill not, drink your hemlock; get up walk in
the rain listen how nature sings and greet s you, all
while you remember a June bride gone. The nymph
had blond hair and green eyes, red lips that tasted of
rose’s dew, till bad magic turned her into a housewife.
The cup of old sadness is full; there is little I want to
know, the banal pilfering of politicians stirs me not
into moral ire, they did what people try doing daily
if they can, small time thieving we understand and
therefore can be virtuous about it, while big banks
crimes are too complex and are quickly forgotten.
Summer rain the earth smells of freshly dug graves,
don’t pick the flowers in the glade though, they are
for June weddings and not to be wasted on old men’s
graves. Spill not, drink your hemlock; get up walk in
the rain listen how nature sings and greet s you, all
while you remember a June bride gone. The nymph
had blond hair and green eyes, red lips that tasted of
rose’s dew, till bad magic turned her into a housewife.
failed coup
Failed Coup
The rabbit, a man scared off the glade on his morning walk,
attacked and tickled him to death. Their leader shouted:
”Today, the forest tomorrow the world, we are not scared
by man or beast anymore. Flushed by success the leader
ordered a morning raid on the nearest village, he wouldn’t
listen to wiser rabbits that didn’t think it was a good idea.
It was a bloodbath, dogs are not ticklish nor cars or sturdy
farmers with shotguns, the rabbits’ leader ordered retreat
left his fallen comrades behind and the village feasted.
Deflated the rabbits met in the glade where a noble rabbit
of the famed Leporidae family explained that being scared is
not cowardice but survival technique it allows them to live
and breed. “We are not cowards, but gregarious burrowing
mammals” became a new slogan; soon the forest was full of
happy rabbits and sweet bunnies that quickly run off when
hearing man or barking dog, and live to breed another day
The rabbit, a man scared off the glade on his morning walk,
attacked and tickled him to death. Their leader shouted:
”Today, the forest tomorrow the world, we are not scared
by man or beast anymore. Flushed by success the leader
ordered a morning raid on the nearest village, he wouldn’t
listen to wiser rabbits that didn’t think it was a good idea.
It was a bloodbath, dogs are not ticklish nor cars or sturdy
farmers with shotguns, the rabbits’ leader ordered retreat
left his fallen comrades behind and the village feasted.
Deflated the rabbits met in the glade where a noble rabbit
of the famed Leporidae family explained that being scared is
not cowardice but survival technique it allows them to live
and breed. “We are not cowards, but gregarious burrowing
mammals” became a new slogan; soon the forest was full of
happy rabbits and sweet bunnies that quickly run off when
hearing man or barking dog, and live to breed another day
june picture
June Picture
In the enchanted dell, where grass is forever green,
I saw a carpet of summer birds, yellow as real butter
before it was made low fat to suit a slimming fad.
They took off, dispersed flew slowly on silent wings;
amongst thorny bushes that are seven hued green,
waiting for a lumbering troll to pass.
Last time I saw a yellow summer bird, it was sallow,
late September it had lived too long, sat on the sill
rain fell and it as soaked; opened the window to let
it in, could sit by the fire till spring. Too late, in my
hand it turned into fluff, blew dust off my hand and
I saw each particle disperse and fly on silent wings.
Butterfly (summer bird.)
In the enchanted dell, where grass is forever green,
I saw a carpet of summer birds, yellow as real butter
before it was made low fat to suit a slimming fad.
They took off, dispersed flew slowly on silent wings;
amongst thorny bushes that are seven hued green,
waiting for a lumbering troll to pass.
Last time I saw a yellow summer bird, it was sallow,
late September it had lived too long, sat on the sill
rain fell and it as soaked; opened the window to let
it in, could sit by the fire till spring. Too late, in my
hand it turned into fluff, blew dust off my hand and
I saw each particle disperse and fly on silent wings.
Butterfly (summer bird.)
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
stygian rhapsody
Stygian Rhapsody
It struck me late at night that I could not remember
how my house looked like inside, and if I didn’t, how
could I find my way to the loo? But I could recall
the inside of every other house I had lived in, opened
doors and was met with intimacy, but the last door
I opened led nowhere; saw a blank screen that had
yet to be written on. I opened my eyes the darkness
undulated with a tiny ball of light, residue of the day
gone by. I tried to get up, but my lethargy was so
immense I could not move, feared I had had a stroke.
Sweat ran down my forehead across my mouth I felt
as I was going to drown and was ready to confess to
anything. Yes, sir I killed them all. Finally I was able to
move an arm; flex my fingers, and life seeped back
into my body. I got out of bed, but since I didn’t know
the inside of my house I collided with the wall and fell
back into bed again. I didn’t want to open my eyes but
had to if I was going to conquer my fear of darkness;
reluctantly I opened them again dawn had crept in and
I heard bird song there had been a stay of execution.
It struck me late at night that I could not remember
how my house looked like inside, and if I didn’t, how
could I find my way to the loo? But I could recall
the inside of every other house I had lived in, opened
doors and was met with intimacy, but the last door
I opened led nowhere; saw a blank screen that had
yet to be written on. I opened my eyes the darkness
undulated with a tiny ball of light, residue of the day
gone by. I tried to get up, but my lethargy was so
immense I could not move, feared I had had a stroke.
Sweat ran down my forehead across my mouth I felt
as I was going to drown and was ready to confess to
anything. Yes, sir I killed them all. Finally I was able to
move an arm; flex my fingers, and life seeped back
into my body. I got out of bed, but since I didn’t know
the inside of my house I collided with the wall and fell
back into bed again. I didn’t want to open my eyes but
had to if I was going to conquer my fear of darkness;
reluctantly I opened them again dawn had crept in and
I heard bird song there had been a stay of execution.
Monday, June 08, 2009
the amazement
The Amazement
The track I walked, in the thorny landscape, was full of loose
stones that kept coming up from ground trying to trip me up,
where the track narrowed amongst unkempt trees, boughs
tried to push me over, and in the undergrowth I heard snarls
of animals too vicious and hideous too appear in the flesh.
Overcast day and the wind that blew had ice on its breaths,
I shivered alone in the enmity of a landscape gone feral.
But I staggered on unwilling to give into phobias and fear,
suddenly stones went subversive and the path was soft as
a carpet, unseen animals disappeared and trees welcomed
me with fluttering leaves; even a love hungry zephyr
whispered sweet words. In a shimmering glade- smooth as
a rich man’s lawn- a plum tree, full of juicy fruit, I picked and
ate some; they tasted of magic and sweet marvel.
Dizzy with pleasure I sat on a stone, formed by ten million
years of rain, like a throne, saw fauns dance to Pan’s flute and
swim with sunrays and moon waves that hadn’t made it home
and had to wait for night, and mother moon to come pick them
up. Fell asleep when I woke up a boar, with her seven piglets,
drank water by the lake’s far shore. White clouds on blue, time
to go home and remember not speak of this to anyone.
The track I walked, in the thorny landscape, was full of loose
stones that kept coming up from ground trying to trip me up,
where the track narrowed amongst unkempt trees, boughs
tried to push me over, and in the undergrowth I heard snarls
of animals too vicious and hideous too appear in the flesh.
Overcast day and the wind that blew had ice on its breaths,
I shivered alone in the enmity of a landscape gone feral.
But I staggered on unwilling to give into phobias and fear,
suddenly stones went subversive and the path was soft as
a carpet, unseen animals disappeared and trees welcomed
me with fluttering leaves; even a love hungry zephyr
whispered sweet words. In a shimmering glade- smooth as
a rich man’s lawn- a plum tree, full of juicy fruit, I picked and
ate some; they tasted of magic and sweet marvel.
Dizzy with pleasure I sat on a stone, formed by ten million
years of rain, like a throne, saw fauns dance to Pan’s flute and
swim with sunrays and moon waves that hadn’t made it home
and had to wait for night, and mother moon to come pick them
up. Fell asleep when I woke up a boar, with her seven piglets,
drank water by the lake’s far shore. White clouds on blue, time
to go home and remember not speak of this to anyone.
a democratically elected dictator
A democratically elected dictator
He’s a modern democratic dictator he quells dissent
not by sending in the army but by dispensing cash
and corrupting his adversaries to death.
He is a seducer of men, who wish they were like him,
money to spend, facelift and an orgy of women,
adolescent they dream and let him corrupt them.
I see his face a clowns grinning mask, his eyes partly
hidden in excess skin the surgeon’s knife has yet to
remove, and behind the mask there is another one.
and another, a Russian doll of masks than ends in nothing.
This man has no soul and he thinks he is going to
live forever with his new hair, but his heart is seventy
and more years. This great Mediterranean country has
lapsed into utter vulgarity, this country of elegance and
style, pasta and parmesan, how could it come to this?
He’s a modern democratic dictator he quells dissent
not by sending in the army but by dispensing cash
and corrupting his adversaries to death.
He is a seducer of men, who wish they were like him,
money to spend, facelift and an orgy of women,
adolescent they dream and let him corrupt them.
I see his face a clowns grinning mask, his eyes partly
hidden in excess skin the surgeon’s knife has yet to
remove, and behind the mask there is another one.
and another, a Russian doll of masks than ends in nothing.
This man has no soul and he thinks he is going to
live forever with his new hair, but his heart is seventy
and more years. This great Mediterranean country has
lapsed into utter vulgarity, this country of elegance and
style, pasta and parmesan, how could it come to this?
Saturday, June 06, 2009
real art
Real Art
I woke up a blue neon light outside my hotel room
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
whose clientele are lost soul like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, I drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
I woke up a blue neon light outside my hotel room
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
whose clientele are lost soul like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, I drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
Friday, June 05, 2009
The Obama Speech
The Obama Speech
The great orator spoke in Cairo, told those
who had lost their land to stop warring and
seek a peaceful solution.
He told those who had done all the stealing,
from the bereft, to stop taking more and be
a bit more helpful.
Yes, our Obama knows how to do the talking,
but I don’t think the land grabbers give any of
it back to those they took if from.
The great orator spoke in Cairo, told those
who had lost their land to stop warring and
seek a peaceful solution.
He told those who had done all the stealing,
from the bereft, to stop taking more and be
a bit more helpful.
Yes, our Obama knows how to do the talking,
but I don’t think the land grabbers give any of
it back to those they took if from.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
transformation
The Transformation
She used to brush natural curls out of her hair
wanted it to be straight and in a pony tail,
stayed out of the midday sun, bad for the skin,
she said fighting an impossible and tiring battle
against nature.
But all this has changed now, her hair is curly
she goes with me to the beach, my tan is envious
of hers. Obama is a hero, because she no longer
has to hide in the shadow of white pretence and
can be her lovely self.
She used to brush natural curls out of her hair
wanted it to be straight and in a pony tail,
stayed out of the midday sun, bad for the skin,
she said fighting an impossible and tiring battle
against nature.
But all this has changed now, her hair is curly
she goes with me to the beach, my tan is envious
of hers. Obama is a hero, because she no longer
has to hide in the shadow of white pretence and
can be her lovely self.
make-believe
Make-believe
The olive tree had three trunks Siamese triplets?
It was old and gnarled, some of its branches had
no leaves and it was lost in an abstract cosmic
dream and not aware of its surround; I touched
the perennial and thus gave it soul.
A mild breeze blew, a fluttering of leaves and
the three could see the blue sky where a silvery
bird flew northward glinting in the sun. It could
also see how cute other trees looked, aware how
plain it was dawn dew dripped from leaves.
wished it could be a cosmic dream again and
no sense of time and place. But look, its tears
had fertilised the ground and around its trunk
flowers so rare they had still to get a Latin name,
sprung up from red/rusty soil.
They are my creation I have created beauty out
of my distress, the plant whispered as in awe.
My children, must shade them from the hot sun
and bitter winter rain. Vanity be gone, and see,
on its naked branches green leaves grew,
The olive tree had three trunks Siamese triplets?
It was old and gnarled, some of its branches had
no leaves and it was lost in an abstract cosmic
dream and not aware of its surround; I touched
the perennial and thus gave it soul.
A mild breeze blew, a fluttering of leaves and
the three could see the blue sky where a silvery
bird flew northward glinting in the sun. It could
also see how cute other trees looked, aware how
plain it was dawn dew dripped from leaves.
wished it could be a cosmic dream again and
no sense of time and place. But look, its tears
had fertilised the ground and around its trunk
flowers so rare they had still to get a Latin name,
sprung up from red/rusty soil.
They are my creation I have created beauty out
of my distress, the plant whispered as in awe.
My children, must shade them from the hot sun
and bitter winter rain. Vanity be gone, and see,
on its naked branches green leaves grew,
Eternal screen
Eternal Screen
It`s too hot to go for a walk, I stare at a blank screen
Its afternoon, in my cabin and silence is intrusive,
a low one toned hum of doom.
Intense white screen, but when looking closer I see
myriads of tiny black squares, a mask that will not
let go of its dark secret.
I try to rip it open with a volley of words, but they
bunch back, and reduced to banality of what have
been overstated a million times.
Exhausted I erase words send them into the bleak
world of Delete, a place where surplus words and
emails are sent to shuffle in obliquity.
I read the news 228 people have fallen into the sea,
hasty words fell out of them too and into silence.
Cooling breeze, must get out and hear the day sing.
It`s too hot to go for a walk, I stare at a blank screen
Its afternoon, in my cabin and silence is intrusive,
a low one toned hum of doom.
Intense white screen, but when looking closer I see
myriads of tiny black squares, a mask that will not
let go of its dark secret.
I try to rip it open with a volley of words, but they
bunch back, and reduced to banality of what have
been overstated a million times.
Exhausted I erase words send them into the bleak
world of Delete, a place where surplus words and
emails are sent to shuffle in obliquity.
I read the news 228 people have fallen into the sea,
hasty words fell out of them too and into silence.
Cooling breeze, must get out and hear the day sing.
nice guy
Mr. Nice Guy
Saw her stacking shelves at the supermarket, my instinct
was to take her in my arms, away from all this, and ask
her marry me. But I remembered we had been married
before, how she had wanted a divorce because I had no
ambition, a mere short order cook, and how the court
secretly had sided with her, and treated me with dislike,
and yes, I had to leave out flat. Later she married a man
who sold Mercedes cars, he wore a suit to work and had
shiny fingernails, but he used too much au de cologne of
the type who doesn’t bath often and rarely changes his
underwear. He stole money from a the till and ended up
in prison, and me? I’m a manager now of a burger bar,
perhaps I should offer her a job for all time sake?
No, that would be rubbing it in, so let her stack shelves.
Saw her stacking shelves at the supermarket, my instinct
was to take her in my arms, away from all this, and ask
her marry me. But I remembered we had been married
before, how she had wanted a divorce because I had no
ambition, a mere short order cook, and how the court
secretly had sided with her, and treated me with dislike,
and yes, I had to leave out flat. Later she married a man
who sold Mercedes cars, he wore a suit to work and had
shiny fingernails, but he used too much au de cologne of
the type who doesn’t bath often and rarely changes his
underwear. He stole money from a the till and ended up
in prison, and me? I’m a manager now of a burger bar,
perhaps I should offer her a job for all time sake?
No, that would be rubbing it in, so let her stack shelves.
haiku
Haiku
Sunset
Empty asphalt road
Black mamba
Haiku
Lyrical silence
In our domestic landscape
Rabbits don’t cry.
Haiku (after a painting)
Brown city puddle
Mirrors an abject Sunday sky
Stray dog sees itself
Sunset
Empty asphalt road
Black mamba
Haiku
Lyrical silence
In our domestic landscape
Rabbits don’t cry.
Haiku (after a painting)
Brown city puddle
Mirrors an abject Sunday sky
Stray dog sees itself
too late
Too Late For Love
Knock on my door, she stood there, the woman
who had caused me untold sorrow, to tell me of
her love for me.
After all this years, lone night and despair, now
that love is a tiresome cliché, how pathetic she
looked in her red raincoat.
I closed the door, walked into my enchanted
garden, where yesterday appears in soft focus,
and played Sibelius for my pet rabbits.
Knock on my door, she stood there, the woman
who had caused me untold sorrow, to tell me of
her love for me.
After all this years, lone night and despair, now
that love is a tiresome cliché, how pathetic she
looked in her red raincoat.
I closed the door, walked into my enchanted
garden, where yesterday appears in soft focus,
and played Sibelius for my pet rabbits.
poet laureate
Poet Laureate
I’m back on a trail I used to walk thirty years ago,
now I use a cane and have no dog to keep me company.
The trail is still used by sheep, droppings on ground and
wool on bushes, and I’m not a pathfinder. So Ann Duffy is
a poet laureate, and she also has a living room full of pillows,
I read; I sent her a poem once, so now I can boast that
I have been rejected by a poet laureate.
Thirty years of refutations, and now I’m as old as
the great, still living Irish poet, I ought to be more
humble and take up golf, tried it once it was so boring
that I undressed, it was a hot day, and I swam in a lake
near hole nine and was banned for life, which was
meaningless since I wasn’t a member, too expensive,
but had climbed over a fence to get in.
A tiny rabbit on the track, it looks confused I pick it
up it is incredible beautiful, can’t take it home though,
put it under a bush and hope it finds its own lair.
I look up to the sky the noon sun is glaring at me
as poetic carrions circle low looking for a chair, in
the academic glade, to sit on. Time for lunch so I leave
this thorny landscape to its own lyrical silence.
I’m back on a trail I used to walk thirty years ago,
now I use a cane and have no dog to keep me company.
The trail is still used by sheep, droppings on ground and
wool on bushes, and I’m not a pathfinder. So Ann Duffy is
a poet laureate, and she also has a living room full of pillows,
I read; I sent her a poem once, so now I can boast that
I have been rejected by a poet laureate.
Thirty years of refutations, and now I’m as old as
the great, still living Irish poet, I ought to be more
humble and take up golf, tried it once it was so boring
that I undressed, it was a hot day, and I swam in a lake
near hole nine and was banned for life, which was
meaningless since I wasn’t a member, too expensive,
but had climbed over a fence to get in.
A tiny rabbit on the track, it looks confused I pick it
up it is incredible beautiful, can’t take it home though,
put it under a bush and hope it finds its own lair.
I look up to the sky the noon sun is glaring at me
as poetic carrions circle low looking for a chair, in
the academic glade, to sit on. Time for lunch so I leave
this thorny landscape to its own lyrical silence.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)