Liquid Tanka

The Holly Liquid (Tanka)

I’m a diviner
And will find for Chad water,
But not oil riches,
A liquid that brings nothing,
But greed, wars, strife and hunger

Irrigate the land
And goats will graze upon green
Need is history;
Water brings children happiness
Clean hands and superior health

Epigram

The safe place, in wars, is the armed
Forces; in cities car bomb blasts, kill
Your aunt; from the air, rockets turn
Your house to dust and broken bricks

flags

Flags.

The money tree, at the bottom of the municipal park,
the one my father showed me that dripped coins, is
inside a bank cathedral now, the park too has been
privatized the corporation’s flag snaps, with clout in
the wind, people working there wear nametags and
are proud to belong to such a splendid organization,
that can tell small states how to run their affairs.

Flags are vital everyone must march under one, even
if it’s a rowing clubs banner; without one you’re alone.
Take the woman, who was married to a famous man,
he had left her for a younger one, she didn’t sink into
oblivion, but hoisted her own colors, told the world he
had a small dick and a piscine air hung about him; her
banner is green, for fury, and has a £ sign printed on.

senryu

Senryu

Drive on bio fuel
And you deprive someone
Of his bread

epigram

Epigram.

In Afghanistan we defend warlords
Right to grow as much poppies as
They like, making millions addicted,
Just to keep sober Taliban at bay.

Serryu, tanka and zen

Senryu

No moon tonight
Stars are dull without Luna
Wonder where she is?



Senryu

Full moon tonight
I walk on air of romance
Thinking of lost love



Tanka

In the glade tonight
Under the glare of moonlight
Women are burned
For making love in the hay
And enjoying it




Zen

Full moon
The ocean is high
So am I

As The Summer Ends.

We sat by the communal outdoor swimming pool,
thin legs splashing in its, dull, safe water, cooler
now than last week, a summer was ending and
pensiveness hung as gossamer on evergreen bushes.

A hawk flew overhead and accidentally dropped its
prey, a sparrow, that with broken wings spiraled into
the pool; the bird bleed, we had to move our legs out
of the pool as it quickly turned burgundy.

A young couple who had frolicked in the water got
out and liquid rubies dripped off their sleek bodies.
In the changing room we avoided looking at each
other to see what time had done to us,

Epigram.

When God decided to show us his face
he did so through the defiant Jew, Jesus.
Two thousand years later, and it appears
that God is a practical joker.


,,,,,,,,,

Epigram (entertainment)

A Spanish Toreador slaughter the bull
In public; a Portuguese toreador, kills
The beast out of sight; not wishing to
Hurt your tender feelings

the crime

The Crime

In a hidden cove where the sand is white in moonlight
and lovers go to get away from the throng, they found,
after winter storm, rolled in a red beach towel- half
buried in the sand- the skeleton of the three years girl
who disappeared from her hotel room when her parents
were out dining, a summer night, the year before.
The back of her skull was broken and the coroner said
she had been murdered by persons unknown.

The child was buried in a Portuguese cemetery, they
are always so beautiful, pictures and white marble,
many people came, her parents too; a swell of flowers,
there were tears and a local celebrity sang; good she
was found, “closure” the papers called it, a word oft
used these days. Mourners said it was like Princess
Diana’s funereal, smaller scale of course. Murder case
filed, the police could do little, till someone confessed.

to think the unthinkable

To Think the Unthinkable (Madelaine story)

The little girl, everyone loved, had turned bothersome
and tired, her mum and dad was going out dining with
friends, she cried refused to sleep; clung to her mother,
who, brushing her hair, irritated pushed her baby off.
The child fell backwards hit her head on a window
ledge and that was fatal. Dad wrapped his daughter’s
body in a large towel and drove to the a deserted beach,
and made a deep grave in the sand. Met their friends at
a restaurant, and during the evening the mum went to
check on her baby, came back, said child was missing.
The lie took on its own life; they just had to hold on it
too late to tell the truth now. Found out or not it doesn’t
really matter much as the secret of their deed will be
their cross to carry through a lifetime of regrets.

seen and not forgotten

Seen and Never Forgotten

Nine o’clock an autumnal evening I had been playing
monopoly at a friend’s house and lost, my friend,
who also was the banker, won. To save time going
home I jumped over fences, ran through other people’s
gardens when I saw it; through a French window,
a huge female body, white as snow, enormous breasts
with big carmine tits, and further down a shimmering
blond triangle. She stood near the fireplace warming
her delectable body after a bath, flames danced, hissed,
stretched and tried, in vain to embrace this Rubenesque
painting of enticing womanhood. I say that now, but
then I was awestruck, feared I might go blind; told my
brother, he feigned deep disinterest, but asked in which
house the Valkyrian lived.

senryu

Senryu

The day is just hot
Thirsty soil and cruel sun
Breeze hides in a cave


Zephyr blows on sea
Cools sun-glittering surface
Beach is in agony,


Galloping sea mares
Haste towards the shore
And bathers retreat


Sparrows fall off twigs
Leafless trees have no shadows
Underneath snakes wait


Frothing stallions
Thunderous gallop to shore
Ridden by surfers

Human behaviour

Human Behaviour

Cut a cockroach’s head off, I read with
amazement, and it can live for days, as
its brain is in its stomach. Great so it can
stumble about wondering why it can’t see
or feed. I dislike cockroaches too, but…?

I kill them if they walk over my food or
float in my coffee, but I do not chop their
heads off as this used to be an execution
reserved for Scottish Royals and the odd
engineer caught, in Iraq, by madmen. .

bar evening

Bar Evening

When the music,
in the bar stopped,
the cascade of voices
ceased too,
people could hear
themselves, their
own craven insincerity,
that wasn’t the intension.

Laughter that lingered
before silence dripped,
was contrived,
the jokes weren’t that good.

Relief as
music began again,
the cackle would go
on till dawn came creeping,
in through
the heavy red curtains,
and the fear of
loneliness abated.

harvest moon

Harvest Moon.

The street lamp is off tonight, but it doesn’t matter,
the moon is nearly full and shines enough for me to
see across the street where she lives above her café;
tall and slender she sweeps her part of the pavement
twice a day, and is resolutely right winged, believes
in publics flogging and hanging, have contempt for
her costumers who are workers at the lower end of
the social scale, shop girls and office cleaners.

I used to be in love with her until a day when a rare,
silent moment occurred, in our busy street, so sudden
it made people look up and wonder, I heard her voice;
unpleasant and hectoring shouting at the simple girl
who does the dishes, called her stupid for breaking
a teacup. I think love the simple girl she’s soft spoken
and has no pretension, smiles when she sees me, been
thinking of offering her a job in my bar,

Mother does the washing up at my place, only she has
arthritis in her hands breaks a lot of glasses and plates,
has backache too standing for hours bent over the sink;
and anyway, as mother say: “It’s time you get married,
I can’t go on forever, and you are not young anymore.”
So that’s what I will do, when the moon is really full,
ask the simple girl to marry me, and I’ll send mother to
a home for the infirm.

old salt and teeth

Old salt And Teeth


My dentist rang, mind she isn’t mine alone, bit of
a girl has many happy, grinning male costumers,
my six new teeth are ready they are almost free.
I have no qualms about that, served my country
well, years of drudgery on ships, in the merchant
fleet, hot and with little comfort; in the days when
seafarers where needed for the development of
the nation. Now there is oil. We were sent ashore
doing menial work, we who were trained for a life
at sea, reduced status; it isn’t easy, but I’ve got six
new teeth for my work and remember, with faked
nostalgia, that once, upon a time, a sailed the seas;
and can tell you stories of romance made up when
walking alone on deck and stars were touchable near

unfullfilled

Unfulfilled.

Give me
a lake
of red wine
so I can
drink until
full, or
till I see
if it’s true
that
blind, yet
edible
fishes
swim near
the bottom,
which is
made slushy
by unfermented
grapes

windy road

Windy Road.

A ball of wind came
tried to knock
me off my bike,
but it wasn’t strong
enough:

“You’re only a zephyr”
I jubilantly shouted,
one fist in the air like
a regular
Black Panther.

The wind, gently
slapped my face,
such human cheek,
but it let me go on
my way today.

Tanka

A man in boat
On the blue, deep ocean
Is a daydreamer
Reluctant to be rescued
Before his vision ends.

..........

Exile2

There is a party up the road, a sort of local
celebration, songs I hear are not those we
used to sing. Lost albatross, on the foreign
shore, fly me back to the world I knew, to
the unreachable land of saga and one-eyed
trolls.

,,,,,,,,,,

The exile 3

Aloneness
numbs
the brain
It freezes
it to
banalities,
“what’s for
dinner?”
Becomes
the most
important
questionUnfulfilled.

Give me
a lake
of red wine
so I can
drink until
full, or
till I see
if it’s true
that
blind, yet
edible
fishes
swim near
the bottom,
which is
made slushy
by unfermented
grapes

of the day
,,,,,,,

help line

Help Line.

My friend rang he sounded old and tired,
He was undergoing treatment for an illness
And could no longer reproduce, didn’t quite
Understand, when I did, thought his worry
Strange, he is seventy and his wife’s sixty,
I made kind noises and avoided flippancy.
For an hour he spoke of our schooldays,
And of episodes in our adolescence, things
I had forgotten; and there were confessions,
Yes, he had stolen my tennis ball; and now,
Childless, feared he would be forgotten.
I wondered if any life is worth remembering,
it is mostly banal and only of fascination to
ourselves and a few friends.

the invasion

The Invasion

Dry river, alligators invade the village and
settle in swimming-pools, I have a pond for my
ducks, the beasts ate them and now lurks in
brown water watching me. We can’t flee on
foot, those who tried became their supper; we
have to stay indoors and wait for rain many
are already hungry, so I had an idea, told people
to go on their terraces or on the roof, look up
to the air; keep looking, and think of downpour
(They do that in Peru) It worked, dark clouds
came and rain was lashing down, the alligators
crawled back to the river, unmarried men were
free to go to the supermarket, buy a loaf, a tin
of tuna fish and a bottle of wine each.

another sunday

Another Sunday.

We sat by the swimming pool in the public park,
Not many people about, most had gone to the beach;
She doesn’t like sand and I don’t like sea creatures
Such as sharks and possible crocodiles, I saw one
Once it was said it was a log, I’m not so sure.

The pool water, clear as drops from thawing snow
On a roof a day in early April; pool’s bottom, blue
Tiled, sunlight sent arrows of golden rays into it.
Green grass, free of bird droppings, yet Sunday
Hung like a theatre curtain covering a dull last act.

Pool and sun, have as, a pleasure, a limitation, one
Gets bored, so we didn’t stay too long; agreed it
Had been a great days and went home for a meal.
She sat on a sofa watching a soap; I just sat there,
World wearily Leafing through, T L S.

Daft Questions (Tanka)


If we’re ten foot tall
Would we invent the tractor
To pull a plough?
Or use donkeys and mules
Fifty of them on each plough?
The Exile. 1

I’ve lived
so long
abroad
that I’m
a stranger
everywhere,
except
in my
verses
the only place
where
I feel at
home and
fear not
the long knives
night.

..........



,,,,,,,

not guilty

I’m Not Guilty


I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn’t
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn’t want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I’m blameless.
If you say I didn’t have to obey such an order it’s
because you have never been unemployed you
don’t know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes

The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: “Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?” “Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don’t care about your diet.” “How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?” “Look it’s about my pain, not yours”

so farewell then

So, Farewell Then

She’s in her basket in the hall, where she
always likes to be keeping an eye on things.
I have given her the injection the vet gave
me, she isn’t in pain anymore and looks at
me with brown eyes full of love.

She’s so very tired, can’t keep her eyes
open, head rests on her paws, as she sinks
into the deepest sleep till she can’t hear me
anymore; and in the stillness between us,
I hear time’s engine revving up.

Familiarity

To day faces interact, my mother, 94, is angry with me
and God, she didn’t want to live that long. A whole clan
has died; I’ve no siblings, no families other than her, but
she doesn’t care to talk about the old days, I think she
fears dead more than. I do. My dog has died at fifteen,
spoilt she was, thought a train would stop for her; she
was my daughter, and how pathetic is that? It was said
my mother laughed when told of my loss. Tears for my
dog included all my losses through the ages.


“Your mother never loved you,” whose voice is this?
“She lives in a nursing home and resent you because
her first son, the love child, was too weak to survive
in our harsh world.” 94 years she is and I’ve been
looking after her, a woman who refuses to accept my
love; treats me with contempt, comparing my failings
with my brother’s perfection. All this I’ve endured;
and I will survive her dislike too, go on and live to be
the oldest man on earth.

familiarity

Familiarity

This day faces interact, my mother, 94 is angry with me
and God, she didn’t want to live that long. A whole clan
has died; I’ve no siblings, no families other than her, but
she doesn’t care to talk about the old days, I think she
fears dead more than. I do. My dog has died at fifteen,
spoilt she was, thought a train would stop for her, she
was my daughter, tears for her included all my losses
through years. Get a new dog, your mother never loved
you she lives in a nursing home and is resentful towards
you cause her first son, the love child, was too weak to
survive our tough world. 94 years old you are and I’ve
been looking after you, old woman, who refuses to see
my love for you and treat me as a slave, comparing my
failings with my brother’s perfection, for all this I’ve
endured; and will survive your ill will for me too and
I shall live to be the oldest man that ever lived on earth.

harest time

Harvest Time

The fall landscape, in my valley, is olive drab,
soil’s rusty, where ploughed, pale as sun bleached
straw where earth is left untilled. Carob beans, Olive
and Almonds are ripe, it’s time to pick them now.

New roads snakes across the vale as black mambas,
older roads look like shed skin of serpents left to
shrivel, since few care to drive on unkempt roads
leading to a forsaken group of homeless houses.

The heat is empty hangs around, with nowhere to
go till a cooling northerly blows it back to Africa.
We wait for tanker clouds of rain to come unload
their cargo and make the land fertile once again

auroras light

Aurora’s light


As morning light came through the curtain I saw the face
of Christ, white eyebrows and grey bearded; his nose,
though was still strong, long and Semitic. An elderly man
not a firebrand chasing money lender out the temple; mind
the lenders have their own temples now, call them banks.
Knows he can’t change the world alone, but he hasn’t gone
cynical only wiser, he doesn’t draw attention to himself,
showing off, doing marvels as making the crippled walk.
It only upsets the pharmaceutical industry and other interest
groups, last time he took on the powerful he was crucified,
still has problem with his left lung where a roman soldier
speared him, bears nail marks on hands and feet. He works
in mysterious silence, cures a cancer here and there; smiles,
he does, when doctors call his work a miracle.

shorts

Senryu

Lone tree on prairie
Looks up to the limitless sky
Sees its twin brother




Tanka

Icing sugar land
Dulcet mist on frozen lake
Frosted flakes fall
Not fit for Bengal tigers
Or people with diabetes.




Senryu

The grove’s olive trees
Look like a vanquished army
Slowly marching home.

the scream

The Scream

The spider’s web and the spider, in the corner of my
living room, I had ignored; it was high up on the wall
and I didn’t have a step ladder. Something startled me
in the night, it felt as tiny fingers were touching my ear,
switched the bedside lamp and there it was, big as my
hand, the spider, on the pillow next to me, where my
wife’s head used to be, before she moved into the big
town to live next door to a hairdresser’s. A scream cut
the night into Julienne, lights in the village came on,
the spider took fright, ran into the living room and up
the wall. A knock on my door: “Are you Ok, we heard
a scream?” “So did I, wonder where it came from?”

miracles

Miracles

The church, in my town, is the only
building made of stones, the rest are
made of perishable timber

The statue of Jesus by the alter, is of
a blond, young man dressed in gold,
as are his mates, angles on the walls.

Once I found a coin on the church’s
floor I had gone in since it was cold
outside and I had little money.

I closed my eyes, asked God what to
do, pocket or collection box? There
was, I tell you, only a solemn silence

Put the coin in my pocket, together
with fluff and loose change, I had
enough for a big glass of foamy beer.

poetry reading

Poetry Reading

Tom rang he had been invited to read
poetry at a do, “would I come along?”
There were many poets in the room
each one was allotted five minutes to
read his/her stuff and receive applause.

I felt ignored and resentful why hadn’t
they invited me? I am a poet too!
As the evening wore on, we had wine,
I stood up and demanded to be heard,
scuffle and broken wine glasses

Began reading, but was interrupted by
two security guards, who escorted me
out of the building. What were they
thinking of, since when did they begin
employing guards at a poetry reading?

new world order

The New Superpower

“Let China sleep,”
My grandmother said,
“If awaken
She will take over
The whole world.”
Too late now to heed
Her words
I wear shoes and
Shirt made in China
And not to forget,
As I often,
Do my reading glasses
On the loo,
They are made in
China too

a very scandinavian war

A Very Scandinavian War.


The tide was out when the occupiers left,
the land was dry when allied soldiers
waded ashore, with booze cigarettes and
the sweetest of candy bars.

Women, who had slept with the foe and,
had had their hair shorn, wore shawl and
were ready to welcome the allies, they
looked lovely and shorn hair was in.

The virtuous could do nothing, but mutter
into their grimy pillows. And as the seas
turned, schools of sardines came back to
the rugged coast and the country was rich.

As years past the story had it that it was
the people themselves who, had, with
courage, risen up, as one, and routed
the enemy across borders and into the sea

a very scandinavian nazi

A Very Scandinavian Nazi.

He was a mundane man, a slightly stooped cobbler,
mild mannered and quiet, not given to easy patter.
he had great dreams though, of clicking heels, nazi
salute and a smart uniform, believed that some
people were chosen to rule over others and that he
was one of them; and listening to loose talk he knew
who were the enemies of the new order.

He welcomed the occupier who gave him a uniform
corporal, not too high a rank, he had to earn his
stripes. The occupiers knew that type of man they
treated him well and thanks to his diligence many
terrorists were arrested and some were shot; and he
strutted through town, for once feared by everyone,
even, it was said, by some of the occupiers.

Occupiers never win, (Israel take notes,) they always
lose, (USA take notes,) retreat, capitulation and our
cobbler was arrested wearing the enemy’s uniform;
spent years in prison where he quietly mended boots
as was his métier. Upon release, he was an elderly,
man, since there weren’t that many cobblers around
he was quietly welcomed to open up his shop again

Japan 1958

Japan 1958

In Nagasaki once, between two factories, and behind
a tall ugly fence and a half open gate, I saw an ancient
Portuguese cemetery. Most of the headstones had
fallen over, perhaps the shock when the A. bomb fell.

Names of navigators and traders who came here, not to
wage war, but to sell and buy, get wealthy, buy a large
house in Lisbon and a big ranch in Alentejo, wear silk
everyday and have harpsichord playing daughters.

Some didn’t make it though, and that’s the way it is,
life isn’t fair. What surprised me, the most, was that
no one had cleared the stones and built a housing
estate, or a big factory, producing car batteries...

the dread

The Dread


When my mother got old she changed from
an eagle into a sparrow, her false teeth kept
falling out; porridge and soup her diet.
When on the loo, she called nurse and said:
“I’ve crapped, come, dry my bum.”

In ten years time, I’ll be as old as she was
when she died; time isn’t slowing down, will
not stop, for a minute, so I can catch my breath.
It is painful to think that I may end up as her.
There will be no one who will love me then.

Intolerable homecoming

Intolerable Homecoming

I’m home, been away for years, walk, near houses,
in back-streets, to avoid friends I used to know, who
have been living here so long, they only walk one
way to town, the shortest one. They’ll be wearing
green arm bands with “We used to be your friends”
printed in black. They’ll talk of old times, days that
means nothing to me, I was born with an old soul
and a melancholic heart.

I recall a girl though, who used to walk streets, near
the docks, she had time for me, a good arrangement,
until she forgot her calling and spoke of marriage;
did she think I would wed a whore? I’m here to put
flowers on graves, there are many, rows upon rows
of gold lettered marble; they lived in poverty but are
dead in style. Two more days and I’m off; the grief
of being here is unbearable

a holiday accident

A Holiday Accident

I’m a seer I should have stopped this tragedy,
it was an accident; the couple was going out,
the baby clung to her mother’s legs and cried,
she pushed her away, too hard, girl’s head hit
the wall, they couldn’t bring her back to life.
The father wrapped his daughter in a towel,
drove to the woods, got rid of the tiny body.

Charade, that evening, they sat in a bodega
nearby, often one them walked back to their
hotel room, pretended to see to the child, till
the mother came running, said their baby was
missing. Too late for a life of predictability,
ruled by deceit and an unspeakable secret
they will live to hate one another.

haiku

Haiku

As August heat wafts
Wayside weeds collect dust
For a rainy day

egg timer

Egg-Timer

There are days when I’m filled with
The glow of living, there is no hurry
I can loaf about or sit in the sun; time
Smiles and it’s endless

There are day when I’m filled with
The floodlight of fear; must hurry,
Not sit in the sun, there is little time
Left, this day may be my last

Haiku

Haiku

Frozen effluence
Fell from the April sky
Killed a postman


Carbon footprints
Grimy boots across the sky
Cause summer flooding


Those who sneeze in May
Like cold October squalls
Clear the sinuses

the farewell

The Farewell

When I came
down to
the docks
she was
just sailing,
they saw me
on her
bridge,
grins of loathing.

By a bollard,
a suitcase,
mine,
they were
not to know
that
I had
timed
my lateness.

I saluted
the ship,
those
uncivilized
ones on
the bridge
stuck
two fingers.
in the air.

totally useless

Totally Useless.

The tiger that can
Run as fast as an arrow
Is a Persian fleche

liv love and i

Liv love and I

The truth about Liv and I is not easy to tell, as I cannot put
myself in a heroic light. When I saw her I sat at another
table admiring her laughter. She was already a well know
actress, her friends were the smart set, spoke posh, dressed
expensively and had a confidence I could only dream of;
yet one day she did smile my way, whether this was caused
by someone telling her a joke and she just happen to smile
with her enchanting face looking my way I don’t care to
know, but I fell in love with her a worship that lasted for years,
I traveled long to see her appear in a theatre, every move she
made I saw many time; distressingly I also saw grow old and
somehow she disappeared from my life. I’m old and she is
no longer young, she means nothing to me anymore, but I do
remember her well; Liv Ullman is her unforgettable name.

the rescue

The Rescue

“Yes, halloo.” “It’s me I have been ringing many
times, where are you?” “I’m on a train carriage, just
waking up there has been a crash, I’m surrounded by
unmoving humanity, I think they are all dead and
I hear voices as from a fading conversation.

A light shines from the inside of my head, if my leg
had not been trapped under a seat where a huge dead
lady lies sprawled, I could have collected wallets,
from people who will not need them anymore and
gone to the Greek islands, they are splendid in April.

My leg is clear, the fat lady smiles she ain’t going to
sue as she is an seraph now, My inner light has lit up
the carriage, souls arise from inert bodies, look like
newborn babies; do not leave me I say, but they must.
I’m alone now, in the dark, and wait for my rescuers“

in his shadow

In His Shadow


We’re both 18 when we met, she was a promising
actress I, a trainee cook, we loved each other with
youthful if naive intensity, when her name appeared
in the papers, a shadow came between us. She had
many new friends whom, I sensed, looked down on
me, like I was too pedestrian for their arty world.

When her break came, as a leading lady in a movie,
the shadow deepened to a chasm, I was losing her
to the world of cinema. She promised to come back,
what else to say? I lied too said I would wait for my
famous Liv. Her face is coming into focus again now
since the great man, Ingmar Bergman has died.

Ingmar Bergman

Ingmar Bergman.

On the island of Faro, Sweden,
the rabbits that frolic
by the shore, stop and listen
when the old man play Mahler
on his gramophone

Why they gather by this summer
shore no one knows;

perhaps they, like us, came from
the sea and found ease here on
the calm strand between restless
seas and darksome forest.

The old maestro is
dead, perhaps he lived longer
than he wanted to.

There is silence on the island,
as rabbits wait for Mahler’s
music to begin and ease their
ancient fears.

a portuguese toreador

A Portuguese Toreador

Portuguese bullfighting is about hypocrisy,
elegant riders, men, and women too, dressed
in silk, and of good families…of course.

Blue blood and titles, demonstrate for us
superb horsemanship, bait the bull and stick
sharp stakes into its muscular neck.

Dark blood flows down its sorry flanks, this
goes on till the bull is exhausted, pants and
loses interest in the rider.

It’s led out of the arena, sharp stakes are
removed, then it’s killed, and its meat is given
to the poor, or to the people in the business.

The Portuguese can know wash their hands
and say: “We do not kill the bull in the arena
like the cruel Spaniards do.”

pampelona

Pamplona

In the last five years 1000 bulls have been killed
in Spain, to the obnoxious sport called…well,
bullfighting, by men, dressed in tight trousers
showing lots of ball. It is said that the beef of
the bulls is given to the poor and old which often
works out to be about the same

In Iraq, the last five years have seen the death of
650000 civilians in an illegal war; the aggressors
soldiers killed is of no interest to me, they came,
saw and died. Defiantly, we march and try to stop
the ancient sport of bullfighting; it’s easier to love
a dumb bull, it has fewer demands.

an engeneering feat

An Engineering Feat

A day he walked, the illiterate farmer,
from a valley in Ecuador, into a town
to visit his doctor.

In the waiting room he leafed through
a car magazine, a picture of a car engine
gave him an idea.

The farmer walked home and with bits
of metal, rubber, petrol and wood, he
made his own transport,

Five miles an hour, what a hoot, his
silly neighbour giggled and completely
missed the point

mythological religions

Mythical Religions

When the king’s son died,
Not by the sword but by physical humiliation,
Every living being cried
A sea so clear one could not know
If it was one foot or one hundred feet deep
Many drowned.
A sea to set sail on,
A calm mirror of knowledge,
And dock in Asgard’s natural harbour,
But if you have to fight your way there,
Valhalla is a better place for you.

green hills of home

Green Hills of Home?

Vast grassland rolling hills and a river that has trout
that taste of mud, and one only fry and eat when
hungry. Only one tree here, it’s petrified and white
as a skeleton left out in the rain, (it was an apple tree)
yet this place used to be a forest, in the days when
a horse was no bigger than a poodle, but we don’t
how big a poodle was; maybe the size of a mastodon,
in that case horses were of the same size then as now.

There are more animals here, white fleeced sheep
occupying hilltops, safer that way. There are people
too here, but they live underground there has been
a war on and survivors suffer from trench syndrome;
they do come out at night and tend to their animals.
There is something sad about a landscape without
cottages, chimney smoke, a smithy’s anvil clank and
the hiss of a horse shoe dipped in cooling in water

vaqueros

Vaqueros

On the pampas of Argentine, everyone has
got a horse, they are not posh people playing
at being farmers, talk about self-sufficiency,
keep ducks, miniature goats, wear cool jeans
and a cute, little donkey as a pet

Here they are all gauchos, riding a horse is
no big deal, like riding a bike is for us; and
they are not above eating horseflesh. They
work for a rancher who has a trillion cattle
destined for the hamburger market.

the field cook

The Field Cook

The battle had been bloody, they had been told
to hold the hilltop at all cost, but now as it was
lunchtime, the fighting ceased and the defenders’
cook rang his bell food’s ready come, get it.

He had made lunch for 5oo soldiers, but only
4oo turned up, he could afford to give them
bigger portions not skimp and save as he often
had to do, they would be grateful for that

The cook had been a sergeant for a week now
and he wondered if the cook on the enemy side
was a sergeant too, it would have been nice to
meet him and talk about catering under fire.

Tonight, when the field had been cleared of
dead bodies, he was going to cook a pot roast
with mashed potatoes and peas. As his major
said: “soldiers can’t fight on an empty belly.”

native loam

Native Loam

He has sold his house in Ibiza, lived
here forty years, time to go home,
something about burial in the right soil.

He hasn’t bought a ticket yet, sits on
the verandah of a hotel soaking up
the sun it makes him look prosperous

He’s old but not that ancient, I think
he’s a bit down; tomorrow he’ll be
his old self and have a glass of wine.

At least I hope so; he’s a good bloke,
it’s a fact though, that many expats want
to be entered in their own native soil

Even the sanest people have this urge,
strange, come to think of it, death has
no memory and mud turns to dust.

cabin fever

Cabin Fever.

It had been raining for a week, to think it was
August; from the window in the cabin I had
view of the fjord, a man, in a boat, sat fishing
shielded by a yellow parasol. You can only do
so much with a view, gave up trying to change it.
Picked up a book, from a corner where it had
been flung and began reading. Heard someone,
guessed it was the angler, coming up the track,
quickly locked the door, then hid behind the sofa.
Long knocking, finally the visitor gave up, but
the room darkened for a long time, as he looked
through the window. Saw him climb back into
his boat, protected from the rain by his yellow
parasol, too late now to ask him what he wanted.

cabin fever

Cabin Fever.

It had been raining for a week, to think it was
August; from the window in the cabin I had
view of the fjord, a man, in a boat, sat fishing
shielded by a yellow parasol. You can only do
so much with a view, gave up trying to change it.
Picked up a book, from a corner where it had
been flung and began reading. Heard someone,
guessed it was the angler, coming up the track,
quickly locked the door, then hid behind the sofa.
Long knocking, finally the visitor gave up, but
the room darkened for a long time, as he looked
through the window. Saw him climb back into
his boat, protected from the rain by his yellow
parasol, too late now to ask him what he wanted.

the consquence

The Consequence

The old man, leaning over a bridge’s railing,
spat, the idea was to try, hit the bald head
of a man sitting in his rowing-boat, fishing
mackerel and red snappers.

A silly prank, yes indeed, the old one only
did this because he remembered doing that
when a boy, sitting on top of a tree, spitting
down at passers by.

Unbelievable, the spittle landed on the bald
head, as the angler looked up a seagull flew
across his view; baldy grabbed his rifle took
aim and shot the seabird dead

radio voices

Radio Voices.

How kind they are the pair on the radio,
both in their thirties talking about literature,
the nice, safe kind and how to raise children.
However, they do disagree, slightly, as one
of them has a bigger garden than the other.

Not for one moment do they discuss, how
those with no or little money are going to
raise their children, say, in a small flat on
the fifth floor of a tenement building

If asked they would look incredulous at you
and change the subject, if pressed they would
tell you that the point is to have a nice talk
on the radio, not to change the world or be
a sweaty, rabble rousing socialist.

Her Song

On the shores of Bengal there is a place where they
slaughter ships, tearing them up, almost by hand, into
scraps of iron, you will have no knowledge of that
once they rode the many seas and where home for
lonely men who referred to the ship as “she”; was glad
to be onboard after a stormy night ashore. Who, when
finally leaving her, were moist eyed and silent for once.

On the shores of Bengal stories go untold, bits of iron
in a heap nothing much to get sentimental about; except
there was a ship named “Grace” she plied the coast of
America central, and was resident of Costa Rica, but
alas she was sold to unfeeling Canadians; I jumped ship
then and shamefully left her to fend for herself amongst
heathen on the icy, desolate coast of Labrador.

the two armies

The Two Armies


Two American armies in Iraq one is military,
the other consist of thugs, mercenaries who
kill for money, let them be dragged headless
through the streets of Baghdad, they fight for
no one but themselves.

But bring the uniformed soldiers; home they
don’t deserve the ignominy to be there, they
are defenders of USA and her people, but not
of greedy, unsavoury oil spivs and the ugly
face of the arms industry.

senryu

Senryu

The sun never sets
on a land of old people
and childish offspring

the martyrs

The Martyrs.

A bullet in his head, dumped in a ditch
the poor misguided youngster who came to
Afghanistan to christianize the Taliban.

Those who came with him on this journey
sit in a mud hut and await their turn, if they
are freed prayers have been answered.

God is great, the executed are martyrs
in the service of his magnitude and thus
the great illusion marches on.

I still would like to know who they are,
those who sent the young ones on this insane
mission; I think they are guilty of murder.

the butterfly

The Butterfly

In Livorno, Italy, a place few tourists care
to visit, they spoke of the American girl;
I saw her once, she was tall and walked as
not quite there; in the evening her shadow
climbed up and over houses and the citizens
were saddened by her cosmic loneliness

It was a September afternoon, when light
has a sepia sheen, a butterfly came and sat
on the rim of my beer glass, must have
been tired, it fell into the brew, I picked it
out with a match stick, her soggy wings
I had damaged with my clumsy fingers.

When dry it could no longer fly, sat there
as living fluff; shivering in its colossal
solitude; I could not bring it any comfort.
A sigh walked by, the American girl’s
shadow climbed up walls, a zephyr blew
when I looked down the butterfly was gone

The Surgical procedure

The Surgical procedure


The surgeon had been to my hospital bed, explaining
the procedure, a small elegant man with quick hand
movements and a shock of wavy hair; yet none of
the nurses surrounding him looked impressed, perhaps
they knew something I didn’t, a thought that gave me
a perverse delight. Perhaps his wore a wig too?

I was reading poetry, when they gave me a blue pill,
continued to read, but when I awoke twelve hours had
gone, the surgeon, in his Armani suit, looked down,
smiled satisfied and left. I hated him. It worried me
that the hours away had been dreamless and had I not
awoken I would not know I ever lived.

Faces from the hall of un-famous people, so modest
they had only appeared briefly in their death notices,
arose; made it clear there is no heaven, it’s childish
illusion best done away with; except for my old dog,
she follows me around, even in old dreams dreamt
before she was born. Her brown eyes, beg me not
to leave without her; together and unafraid we shall
walk into the borderless land of nonexistence

night walk in Amsterdam

Night Walk in Amsterdam

When I walked ashore in Amsterdam, with my
leather suitcase, no less, bought in a shop in
Hanover street, Liverpool, it was raining; fine,
persistent, precipitation, (isn’t that a nice word,)
the sort that dampens even the high spirited, at
a party, and makes him go to sleep in a corner.

I had been cook on a ship that was perpetually
sailing under a rain cloud; docked at every port
in Europe, even in Stockholm where they sell
the world’s worst beer, it’s not even cold: Do
not for a minute think you’re going to enjoy
yourself while drinking an alcoholic beverage

Tired and wet I booked into a BB hotel, found
a quiet bar drank cold beer and saw rain stop.
When I followed the barmaid home, but not in,
streets where dry and I enjoyed my solitude.

the disappearance

The Disappearance.


Where the road dips there is a puddle, but
Don’t think you can put you wellies on
And splash about; it’s bottomless. I’ve seen
Many children disappear.

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

It’s the rain you see, unstoppable, as is purity
Of evil; take the dip, in the road, away and
The puddle will appear somewhere else. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

In the garden’s ornamental pool lilies float
Tiny steps, that led there, are erased by rain
and a young life is a bitter memory. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness

senryu

Senryu

If I were a duck
I would try not to waddle
And avoid China


Senryu

If I were a lamb
I would wear an Armani suit
And avoid mint sauce


Senryu

My red toy elephant
Trumpet so melancholic
That leaves rust in May

The Wall.

I was involved in a fatal car crash but my soul took refuge
in a nearby stonewall, not any old wall, but one built by
the time Jesus was a toddler and roman soldiers walked
around in leather skirts. I’m now a wall and have absorbed
every stones’ memory, we are one. It’s ok to be wall, in
the tourist season, people come from afar to take pictures
of me, the Chinese Charge de Affairs was here, said our
wall building style is the same as in his great country, we
smiled, he’s a bit of a flatterer and is looking for trade.

My days of guarding settlements and roman forts are long
since over there is a disused field behind me, it hasn’t been
ploughed for years, they are going to turn it into a housing
estate, it’s said; can’t say I like it children with spray cans
painting me into a kaleidoscope of garish colours; there is
talk of putting me indoors, that’s ok when it rains, but it
will be a bit lonely I’m, after all, part of nature, guess I will
have to take my chances with the kids, see them grow up
fall in love, kiss and cuddle on the lee of my solid flank.

The mystic Veil

The Mystic Veil

When a child, in Norway many, women wore veils
they were usually classily dressed and wore a dead
fox with glass eyes around their necks, mother said
they were rich bitches, scared me though, faces in
deep shadows they could tongue me and I wouldn’t
know, or perhaps they were witches with festering
sores and a third eye planted on the forehead

For the opposite reason I feared nuns, they covered
everything but their stern, unadorned faces, eyes not
mild, but judgmental, when seeing one I was quick
to walk on the other side of the street. Yesterday
I saw a Moslem woman wearing a full veil, but her
burka was too snug around her bum- an impostor-?
Other women stopped and stared, it won’t be long
now before it is the latest fashion.

I'm not guilty

I’m Not Guilty


I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn’t
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn’t want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I’m blameless.
If you say I didn’t have to obey such an order it’s
because you have never been unemployed you
don’t know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes

The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: “Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?” “Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don’t care about your diet.” “How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?” “Look it’s about my pain, not yours”

Tanka reflections

Tanka Reflections


11.37 pm,
What of the morrow?
Yesterday is still on my mind
It’s a riddle
It hasn’t been re-invented yet
Can’t solve the unknown


11.38 pm.
Dawn’s a mystery
Yesterday is still on my mind
I can’t solve it
If morning abstains
I won’t know the difference

11.39pm

“What of the morrow”
I wrote that, two minutes ago
Nothing has changed
A dog on the road barked
Didn’t know that two minutes ago


11.40
Dog’s gone quiet
Silence breathes down my neck
Soon it’s midnight
“One” is knocking on the door
Is he coming to get me?

love story

Love Story

The woman who couldn’t
get warm tore the wood
paneling off her walls,
bright was the fire, but she
was still chilled to the bones.
Tore up floor boards,
she did, and terrified mice
silly, a lively fire, but her
heart was arctic.
In desperation she lit a bonfire,
made of oak furniture,
in her living room,
delicious flames,
but she was a lump of ice;
only thawed when
fireman Peterson came
and kissed her blue lips warm

the compensation

The Compensation

The town council has sent me a form to fill
It’s about seeking compensation for ills
Suffered at a home many years ago, but it’s
So long time ago I don’t want to remember.
It means I have to go back to being a child
Again, the bewilderment, brutality and abuse
By those who called themselves Christians.
I know well, when I must, that most of my
Failings, a deep rooted inferiority complex,
Uncontrollable anger, and in younger days,
Massive drinking, are caused by scars my
Childhood gave me; no money in the world
Will make them go away. I have learned to
Live with myself, it has taken time, so why
Must I remember?

bauxite

Bauxite

I opened a café once
in Liverpool eight
it was located next door
to a café that
was always full;
spillover?
No such luck.
my resentment grew
three weeks
not a soul,
only gathering of
dust on tables;
by the time a couple came
I told them to get lost,
closed my café
and joined a ship bound
for Trinidad
the bauxite trade,
now there is dust
for you.

Tommy Steele and Parkgate

Tommy Steele and Parkgate


Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer?

Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?

Politically Correct

It wasn’t really my dream, but my wife’s, she was waxing
the living room floor, had told her many time not to do that,
makes the floor slippery; I think she’s after my money.
A knock on the door, a woman with 8 children said she was
my wife and her children mine; denied all knowledge; she
called me a racist, I took my sunglasses off, yes they were
black. Feeling guilty I was about to offer them shelter when
my wife came, said with my navy pension I couldn’t even
keep a duck in a pond, slammed the door shut in the face of
the ebony lady. “Don’t be a sap; she said, there is no need
to believe people because they are black.” And that’s coming
from a woman born in Kinshasa.

Later that day driving to a masked ball in Haifa, I saw
the poor mother and her children, thought of stopping, but
desisted, 80 sticky fingers in my car...No! In Haifa I drank
fresh orange juice, and tried not to ask impertinent questions
about the plight of Palestine, wore an outsized nose the idea
was to look like roman senator. “Anti Semite” a waiter called
Olmert, thundered and tore it off, refused to serve me until
I repented and said I was deeply sorry for what had happened
to his people. Complied, who says I’m a hero? Looked out of
the window; saw a Gypsy family making slow progress across
the landscape, these victimized and neglected people,
no holocaust shrine for them

what difference a car makes

What Difference a Car Makes


Where antique moonlight is swathed around
ancient olive trees, she sat, the haunted old
woman, so gripped by a vast melancholy that
dogs howled when she came near.

She had been so proud and beautiful, but not,
perhaps, attractive enough; never took the bus to
town, only private cars would do, gave herself
for ride in shiny black Mercedes.

The cruelty of old age, it’s been ten years now
since anyone gave her a lift, a Honda van, and
when she refused to kiss the overall clad driver,
he had told her to get out

These regrets burdening her sad heart, it was her
mother who had said she was too good for yokel.
Chilly night, she was so tired; her last ride, days
later, was in a shiny black Mercedes.

autumn leaf

Autumn Leaf.

The fall leaves dance weren’t celebrating life,
but utter despair, they whirled around in
the plaza like furious dervishes, faster and
faster till they ended up, exhausted, in a heap
in the corner, near the bin, for empty bottles.

A thunder rumble, warning of rain to come,
gutters will be rivers and leaves rafts, steering
around boulders down foamy waterfalls and
into the sewers, where the outcast rat lives and
witness our gaseous effluence.

Turning into mulch, mixed with human waste;
perfect nourishment free of chemicals, perhaps
a gardeners dream? A golden oak leaf survived,
the tumult, though, drifted to the Saragossa Sea
where it became a king amongst the seaweed.

the slave trade

The Slave Trade

The African tribal chief was worried, too
many idle warrior hands in his kraal, too
few women, and no wars to fight, causing
words of bitter sedition; till an Arab trader
came along offered the chief costly Persian
carpets and a bracelet of gold in exchange
for fifty of his thumb twiddling men.

The chief told the men, before they were
marched down to the coast, that he now
released them of their bondage to him and
must now obey their new Arab master;
equilibrium restored, and ground lain for
future trade; a glad despot sat happily on
his carpets and twiddled with his bracelet.

senryu

Senryu

Depression…is
When curtains of truth opens
And the stage is bare.

Tanka

Senryu

Harvest moon
Ghosts in apple trees smile
Man! What a hoot.




Tanka (yearly migration)

Iberian village
The old till the soil
The young have gone to France
Doing menial tasks
Take Holiday here in August
Being rude, in French, to everyone

yesteryears summer

Yesteryear’s Summer

Rusty, padlocked gate, trees in the big garden need
trimming, on a swing, two rusty chains, it lacks
a seat. Autumn and there are apples unpicked on
the ground, fine rain has fallen, drops drips from
trees and glint on tall grass. Soon winter storms
will come rattle the gate and the derelict house-
unlit- will have to shoulder nature’s irate violence.

If you close your eyes and listen, can you not hear
laughter and see a child sitting on the swing?
Ice-tea and lemonade anyone? July 1956, no one
knew this was their last, a family was about to be
overtaken by life; ruin and scandals, “got what they
deserved,” the hateful said. The child, on the swing
disappears in the mist, rolling in from the sea. .

the swimmers

The Swimmers.

The two rotund, none smoking, healthy middle aged
ladies sit in their splashing pool get suntanned and wet
during the heat of the day; only venture to the beach
when the sun sets and body fascists and sand kickers
go home Far out they swim, gleaming seals that glide
with ease in the water, on their way to mate and meet
other seals frolic and play to dawn. Early bathers may
see the pair making slow progress in the sand and
there are those who will say:” Look, how fat they are.”
Not seeing they are tired, well fed seals on their way
home after a feast of fish and love on the outer rocks.

intermezzo

Intermezzo.

Night in the city, streetlamps too far apart, shadows
between them hinder contact. A cat, is it black,
crosses the street and disappear into a yard,
it’s seen by a sewer rat that waits for thrown away
food to eat outside the burger bar. A lackluster
breeze blows waste paper about, then stops rolls
itself into a ball and goes to sleep under the span of
a bridge. Two hours sleep, and it will be a morning
breeze. The cat, is it black, has fooled the long tailed,
it only to feigned disappearance to lure the rodent
into the open; short struggle, a shudder oscillate
between shadow and light, come to rest as a sight;
motherless rats will be food for bigger ones now, as
night continues its travel towards a new day.

her song

Her Song

On the shores of Bengal there is a place where they
slaughter ships, tearing them up, almost by hand, into
scraps of iron, you will have no knowledge of that
once they rode the many seas and where home for
lonely men who referred to the ship as “she”; was glad
to be onboard after a stormy night ashore. Who, when
finally leaving her, were moist eyed and silent for once.

On the shores of Bengal stories go untold, bits of iron
in a heap nothing much to get sentimental about; except
there was a ship named “Grace” she plied the coast of
America central, and was resident of Costa Rica, but
alas she was sold to unfeeling Canadians; I jumped ship
then and shamefully left her to fend for herself amongst
heathen on the icy, desolate coast of Labrador.

the blues

Melancholy.


It had taken forty years to find back to the house
where I was born, a two storey timber framed
home, smaller than I remembered it to be; painted
now it looked rather smug and middleclass, bet
the owners were lawyers with pale children.

Although the windows were the same, the house
didn’t recognize nor like me, staring at me with
glassy contempt; “So, friend, a lick of paint and
educated owners and you think you’re posh, it’s
the people who lived here I miss, not you, I know
every rotten plank you’re made of it only takes
a can of petrol and you are history.”

Harsh words it needed to be said, my memories
of a happy childhood is self invented, the reality
was of poverty and indignity; I hastily left, don’t
belong here - never did. Nostalgia! Who needs it?

hangover sonnet

Hangover Sonnet

Lucifer came, brought chocolate and sweet
Drambui. My bedroom reeks of self inflicted
pain and my uncritical dog licks vomit off
the bathroom floor. I sang opera last night till
neighbours knocked on ceilings and walls,
threatened to call the police; silly fools, they
have to get up in the morning for boring work.
No beer, the dog needs a pee, but how do I get
out unseen? Endless regrets, humiliation and
shaky hands, can’t even roll my own cigarettes
anymore; this really has to stop diet coke and
well living, starting tomorrow. As for now,
hadn’t it been for the poor dog’s needs I would
not have gone out for a cold pint of lager.

Melancholy.


It had taken forty years to find back to the house
where I was born, a two storey timber framed
home, smaller than I remembered it to be; painted
now it looked rather smug and middleclass, bet
the owners were lawyers with pale children.

Although the windows were the same, the house
didn’t recognize nor like me, staring at me with
glassy contempt; “So, friend, a lick of paint and
educated owners and you think you’re posh, it’s
the people who lived here I miss, not you, I know
every rotten plank you’re made of it only takes
a can of petrol and you are history.”

Harsh words it needed to be said, my memories
of a happy childhood is self invented, the reality
was of poverty and indignity; I hastily left, don’t
belong here - never did. Nostalgia! Who needs it?

crumbs of love

Crumbs of Love.


Cold, dark night ice on the pond, a duck walks on
unsure ice, it’s still dark when my brother starts
baking at four. I’ll have be at his bakery forenoon
and he’ll have a bag of crumbs ready for the ducks
in the park. I will feign disinterest but feel my way
to the sweet flakes, I don’t think, concerning all
the unpaid work I do for my brother, I should feel
guilty for enjoying the intense aroma of freshly
baked Danish pastry. She, who hands me the bag,
is ignorant, yet wise and there is scent of mystery
about her, the word love interrupts my thoughts.
My brother has it off with her on soft bags of flour,
I think their activity is un-elegant and sinful, a pity
really, for her this affair cannot end happily.

occupation of norway 1940-1945

Occupation of Norway 1940-1945


Early April when they came, snow still on
the ground, green uniforms, the enemy buying
cakes in bakeries, people still shocked,
soldiers offer children chocolate

Uneasy truce, it isn’t going to last, even though
the enemy is baby faced. Shots in the night on
of them is ambushed, sent home in a body bag;
civilian men are rounded up, some are executed.

It’s going to get worse, hunger and darkness,
but the people know the scores, they have got
invaders and odious traitors to deal with, and
refuse to be vanquished: Occupiers Go Home!

buried memories

Buried Memories.

I was tired when I came to a clearing in the forest,
Gravestones, some had fallen over, overgrown by
Weeds, this place of neglected memories, in the end
Nothing is left behind but the black earth.

There is a silence here I see my brother’s name,
Almost erased by the wind, but I can’t conjure up
His face, this saddens me, this canyon of years;
The face I see is of a child who casts no shadow

So much debris, someone ought to clean up this
Place , collect stones remembrance and use them
As building blocks for new memories, when laughter
Is still innocent and bears no hint of cynic despair.

shipwrecked

Shipwrecked

Sat on a raft in the Bay of Bengal, my ship had sunk
I was the only survivor. Had a carton of cigarettes,
But no matches; to pass the time I threw the ciggies,
One by one, into the sea, kept sharks away, thought
Of the poor Bengal tiger hunted to almost extinction.

Next day there was another raft slowly drifting near,
The man onboard, a lone survivor of a sunken ship,
Asked if I had cigarettes, because he had a lighter
But nothing to smoke; a screech flayed the skin of
The sea, luckily monsoon rain fell and eased the pain.

Love's a bamboo raft

Love’s a Bamboo Raft.



Puerto Lemon, Costa Rica, how can I forget!
Warm sand I was building a raft when she
walked by, and was the first esoteric woman
I have ever seen she floated through air.
The one I was building the raft for, (she had
sent me a letter of regrets,) my plan was to
sail across the ocean, a new Kon Tiki man,
ask her to reconsider; but now - on the spot-
I forgot her name.

Maria, my new desire, and the object of my
lovelorn devotion, took me by the hand, led
me to her diffident house on long stilts
Dawn in Costa Rica, isn’t a lingering affair
lasting till noon, instant sun warming green
bananas. My raft had drifted out to sea, it’s
only cargo, a six pack of lukewarm beer, yet
I hoped a thirsty fisherman would find them
before the sea got frisky.

the guest

The Guest.

When I came to the house it reminded me
of “Mary Celeste” no one there, but warm
dinner on the table. In their big garden
the swimming pool glinted like sunlight on
the Pacific Ocean; no one swam in it though.
I sat down and waited; an hour passed, my
brother came from the garden, grunted
halloo and lit a cigarette, later his wife too
came in from the garden, she ignored me,
yet looked embarrassed, took the food back
into the kitchen to re- heat it; last came their
awful twins, sniggering and whispering as
always. We ate in silence, but I had the weird
feeling that they had tried to avoid me.

recorded

Recorded.

Sunday,
the long
day,
perfect for
the beach,
but the vista
of scarlet
bodies
and
the smell
of sun
lotion
put me off;
instead I
replaced
the word
“song”
with
“tune”
in a poem
written
on
Saturday.

recorded

Recorded.

Sunday,
the long
day,
perfect for
the beach,
but the vista
of scarlet
bodies
and
the smell
of sun
lotion
put me off;
instead I
replaced
the word
“song”
with
“tune”
in a poem
written
on
Saturday.

look back in sadness

Look Back In Sadness.

I had been thinking a lot about her lately,
remembered, as one too often does, only
the good times. Drove to the street where
she lives, sat in a café in case she should
walk by. When she did I could see the hint
of laughter in her eyes had been replaced
by the glare of chronic bitterness; mascara
and lipstick on her ashen face looked like
flotsam on an autumnal beach… I looked
down on the table in front me, cake crumbs,
and my coffee was cold