various poems 2

Tanka

Because of love
I became a bottle of rum
Mixed with cola
I can make you dance tango
And dream of Argentina



Tanka

In Buenos Aires
I bought an old circus horse
Pampas here we come
Large circles getting smaller
Cantinas and guitar music










Father...Dear!

When my children were small I played with them, I was
a good father, carried them on my shoulders, but when
they became teen agers and truculent I lost all interest in
their silly arguments, paid for their education and went
abroad to live in our second home in Spain.

My children never write or ring, their mother, who didn’t
come to live with me, says it is because I had forsaken
them. I paid for their university used my influence to get
them well paid jobs, yet they feel I should have done more
I think they should be ashamed of themselves.

It was me and my actions that made them independent
beings who can look after themselves; and I know after
I`m gone they will understand, I’m not the cuddling type,
but I made them whole; and yes, I think of them often,
love them very much, but will not seek their approval.

And if anyone of them read this and think the old man
has gone soft and send me letters of love I will, without
a second thought, tell them to piss off, my money will go
to my second family in Spain, I have young children here
and I carry them on my shoulders every day.














Our World Unseen


Late August it is getting a cooler I can sit outside now and
enjoy the afternoon sun. The night is calm the hot wind that
blew turning leaves into nasty daggers has ceased, the moon
is four days old, makes tired straw look golden and vital, like
they should be fodder for donkeys, but, alas, they have left
the Algarvian landscape; straw is for the wind to play with.
I once slept on a mattress filled with straw, yellow beautiful
and crinkly; mouse liked them too when April came around
the mattress was wafer thin and eleven mice had died, from
starvation. Man, whether he swats an insect or walks across
a field will always kill a life he didn’t know existed.






















The Theft



A big black bike, with frugal rubber tires
and an old fashioned handlebar,
is leaning against a whitewashed wall,
this morning.
Someone had nicked it on the way from
the bar last night:
so the thief lives in one of the stone cottages
around here.
The bike, it looks catholic,
isn’t telling,
made of hollow steel tubes, chains and rubber
it really doesn’t care who rides it.
It didn’t used to be like this, years ago
I often found a donkey grazing outside
the houses it seemed to be a normal thing,
friendly animals didn’t care who rode them;
nowadays if a tractor goes missing
...police and questions asked.
Me? I rather walk home from the bar.



















The Last One

Tall building afire, no exit
he fell and fell it only takes a few second
but also lasts forever.
The asphalt street became a river
of clear water he remembered from times past,
the woman in the car looked up and smiled
she had forgiven him.































The Mistress.

Mary Jo where are you know? Dusty bones in a cemetery?
A dashing man drove you through the night, over a bridge
that wasn’t there, into the water and then you were alone
breathing through pockets of air in the car, waiting for him
to come rescue you. Didn’t you hear his steps, on pebbly road,
as he was ran away? And your tears became the sea`s

Mary Jo I have not forgotten you, the man who betrayed
you is dead, they gave him a great send off, a president and
the great came to his wake, wonder if anyone thought of you?
Even your parents were paid off, not to talk of you in public.
Yet I do remember and think of you now the charming man,
the brother of brothers, has gone

















Bus 8

On the bus 8, to Garston I met my future wife I was going
to meet someone at the British Legion there, something
about a job on a ship. At an outdoor we bought cans of
coke and also bottle of rum, the job thing was forgotten
I thought she was the most understanding woman I had
ever met. A fortnight later we got married, people I didn’t
like much, brothers in laws, came to our reception.

Dreams never last, like a worker’s money, woke up one
morning; no smell of coffee from downstairs she had gone
out and left a note: “Get a Job!” Took a bus to Albert Dock,
a ship there, going to Murmansk, needed a cook I didn’t
hesitate, signed on, every morning made my own coffee
and everyone else’s. I would still like to know if she, when
coming back from Garston’s shopping centre, missed me.


















Working class poet


I feel I lack gravitas ought to write about the sorry state
of the world, wars, famine and so much killings.
When I read, say, how the Palestinians are treated, by, are
they Israelis or Jews? A primitive rage, mainly from injustices
of my own childhood, stirs but I will not let it come to the for lest
they will call me an anti Semite. I know about loss I’m the only
left standing, all my siblings died young. When you want to
be an artist and the teacher laughs, and say, go mend shoes
as your father did. I know how it feels like when a posh lady,
at a meeting, said when told I play golf; “Does He Play Golf?”

Well, actually no. I only played so I could piss into their
manmade lakes and pretend I was a lawyer. Yet, when
I remember the past I also recall sitting in a workman’s bus
when jokes had number so we didn’t have tell them, when
a bleak industrial landscape had a haunting, hazy beauty,
far removed from the bucolic one. Tired men going home
from their shift, sleep, but little else in the offing, and I see
survivors tucked into their elderliness with nothing else to
be proud of, they offer harsh critic of the young and make
their own passivity into a heroic struggle for justice













Mass Funeral


There had been so many deaths and funerals, when my
dog died they congregated and became one. Mother had
died the year before at Christmas, and since I could get
there before after the funeral I didn´t go.

My old dog had gotten on the railway tracks and when
the train came she was too old and slow to jump clear.
She was suddenly so heavy and there was blood dripping
in the back seat of the car. “Why didn’t you put her on
a blanket” People can be so smart. Heavy rainfall it was
a damp night, the vet didn’t do funereal, so I drove up to
the village where she was born got a spade from a farmer,
tried to dig a hole in hard soil; on my knees remembered
mother sister and brother and cried my heart out.

The farmer came, dug a hole put Bambi in it and covered
the hole with stones. On my way home the rain stopped,
moon was nearly full lit up the dirt road and I thought of
all the good times we had shared

















The Son

When I sit down to write I needn’t think if I`m
better then my father or, to torture myself, try
equalling him. My old man was a cobbler soling
old shoes and never wrote a thing, but he did
say funny things, over his lest. Customers laughed
but often failed to pay him.

His friends came, after five, “closed” sign hung
on the shop`s front door. Laughter and stories
told, often for many day. I can write without
the fear of being a lesser writer then him, yet it
nags me that I shall not be as good at telling
a story the way he could.
























A Sigh (Tanka)



A cape made of wool
Not for elegance but warmth
Oscar Wilde frowns
Woolly socks and winter boots
I`m a jobbing poet



The economy (Tanka)

As markets pick up
Petrol prizes are going up
Many cars are sold
New and bigger airports built
Global warming, be damned.















Senryu

As quiet rain fell.
In a pond ringed by quartz,
A modest swan swam


Senryu

A pale human swan,
Love poems and vitamin pills,
Sighs under eiderdown


Senryu

A moody cygnet,
In the calm river Avon,
Wants to be a tern.


Senryu

Like a wingless tern
A becalmed a schooner sways
In the bay of Bombay

(Ps. Tern is also a three masted schooner)













Tanka

My virtual friends
Clamour for my attention
Their unripe fondness
Turns my thoughts into triteness
Fit for facebook tedium.









Tanka

Up from deep thoughts,
What has been buried for years,
Comes stinking manure
But the forward thinking
Knows it is good for the roses.


























The Ageless Beauty

There is a mannequin,
in the dark corner of
the hall, showing off
a swimsuit 1950 style.

She is beautiful, in her
own eyes, which are
made of coloured glass
...sea green.

Dust on lips she doesn’t
care, not of the sultry
type, show no interest,
in sexual matters.

Spooks guests, when
they have gone she
smiles at her image
that is forever 1950.


















A Country Road

I sat on the milk-ramp by a road that had
yet to be covered in black, weird asphalt.
Sunday, the sky was eternally blue, could
when I stood up just, see the ocean it was
azure too. Fed up now, but I didn’t want
to leave before I had seen a drifting cloud
across the immaculate sky.

Saw a tall-ship cross the sea; for a time
it balanced on the horizon, sailed upside
down till it sank into a void. Fell asleep,
awoke just as the sun disappeared too;
a car stopped, driver offered me a lift,
but I imperially waved him off, wanted
to keep my reveries a little longer.





















Travel with Bambi

I was going to Seville, it’s not far an hour`s drive- I live
in the south of Portugal- had no one to look after my dog
she came along too. It was winter she sat inside the car
resting when I walked into galleries looking at paintings
visiting churches, yet keenly aware of her left in the car.

Guiltily bought a roasted chicken with chips, she ate it all
but what she really wanted was to go for a long walk.
Walked we did through roads no one knew existed, empty
houses broken down walls what history they held; the dog
was quiet but her little tail wagged.

We saw rats, cats and stray dogs which she quickly put
in their places; finely she was tired, I had lost my way let
her lead the way back to the car, where she curled up in
the back and snored. It was late I was hungry but could
only find a grotty pizza parlour still open.










Algarvian September (Tanka)

From the tallest tree
With pale bark and lucid leaves,
Dripped pure sunlight;
Birds bathed, streaks of sunbeams
Flew west as the day ebbed.




























Summer Sea.

A blue rowboat lies on its side, as a beached,
weak whale, its bottom has just been tarred
the aroma mingles with the ozone of the sea,
but when the tide comes the boat will float
and look refreshed.

Seen from the wooden pier the sea is emerald
yet crystal clear, small crabs and tiny fish feed
in the shallow, and as the sea calmly inhale and
exhale pebbles softly fizz.

The sky is the sea’s lover, they are doomed to
never embrace; no one around this morning,
the sea pulls me closer, captivating, it is hard to
resist -not to be absorbed by its beauty- and
become its prey.


















Snowman

I’m going to Sapporo next year to build a snowman
and win a prize, get my picture on the news and
be interviewed by David Frost.

I will not be arrogant and look down on ordinary
people, but everyone will notice that inner glow and
say: Truly there walks a famous, yet humble man.”

For I know, as you do, come spring my snowman will
melt, and only you admiration for the famous will
prevail, until someone builds a bigger snowman.




























The shyster

He was a charming young man I lent him money,
he never paid them back...disappeared.
Too smart and arrogant for his own good he ended
up in prison. When he came out he was bald and
obese I hardly recognized him. He walked past me
at the super market, I put my foot out he fell and
had nose bleed, staff came he said it was an accident
and he limped out. Never mind the money doesn’t
matter anymore, we are even now and will l leave him
In peace. He has a shop that sells handmade soap.
How do you test handmade a soap by washing your
face and if it foams it is ok? His father, a famous
musician, had spawned a futile son, in a way I’m glad
my dad was a common drunk.




















Leavings

On the railway platform, trains leaving, white
steam, suitcases and a throng of thousand eyes.
Worried humanity and relieved ones too; to be
free of oppression he is leaving to seek work far
from here. Men in uniform looking important
carrying green and red little flag, waving one of
them and blowing a whistle: All onboard!”

I dislike departures there is a change, nothing
will ever be the same. People walking home in
silence, words have lost meanings. lies have
been told dignity and pride have been sacrificed
in the quest to look happy; the night is endless
full of unanswered questions that streaks through
the night avoiding answers

























Melancholy

On an impulse I went to see my daughter, who lives in a hilly town
with bad roads. My ex girlfriend walked in, she is an unfinished love
story, sun tanned and beautiful, but she had been drinking, and
didn’t see me. She wanted to drink some more, people tried to stop,
her, she shrugged them off unsteadily walked out to find a tavern or
two. Later that evening I booked into a hotel and could hear her tipsy
laughter in the bar didn’t join the set, but went up to my room.
It turned out she had a room next to mine and later I endured her
having sex with a man she had picked up somewhere. Met her in
the breakfast room next morning, her casual lover had long since gone
and she appeared glad to see me. We chatted about the old days,
held hands and her eyes were sea green. We made love in my bed,
she was warm and giving as always; tremor in her hands she had
a whisky and fell asleep in my arms.



















Norwegian Poem

Stormy night lesser stars were torn off
their heavenly anchorage and splashed
into the ocean, spindrift, ships ran on to
reefs and in the Ragnarock human voices
went unheard and sailor died in silence.
Black sky stars retreated into the safety
of the galaxy, the moon and sun too and
the winter night was endless, and a hush
fell on earth that looked like a snowball
on a slag heap till spring came and sheep
fearlessly grazed on steep hills fazing
the western seas on grass fertilized by
the futile hollering of bodies slashed to
fodder for crabs that grew big that year.

Ragnarock. “Doomsday”
























Vanishing Islands


Classic sea, almost antique, slow swinging oars
rowing towards a balmy island with lazy palm trees.
Everything could have been so perfect, hadn’t been
for the rising sea and the diminishing shoreline.
There is a smoking mountain in the middle of
the island, soon fishermen will sit on cliffs and be
anglers, sing song remembering times when their
island had a sandy beach; but for now oscillating oar
blade dips into liquid happiness, disturbing briefly
the azure sky that preens itself on an ocean it regards
as a mere mirror.






















Senryu

Perfect rose shivers
Fears being picked at dawn
And fade in a vase

Senryu

Perfect attraction
Breathless, ravenous sex
Some call it love


Senryu

Perfect marriage
One is fondly remembered
The other wears black