A sunday Moment

A Sunday Moment

A large white butterfly with round markings,
like eyes, on its wings, will that be enough to
keep predatory sparrows at bay? It sat on
a rhododendron twig looking pretty amongst
wine red flowers. November, this butterfly
really has no business being here even though
the day is warm as a day in May; I ought to
catch it with my wife’s hairnet stick a needle
through it tiny heart and display it in a glass
on the mantelpiece where it will look sad, out
of place and remind me of my own mortality.
My, butterfly blessed you are not looking like
a common fly or worst of all a cockroach;
so fly off now before the sparrows see you

The autumnal

The Autumnal.

The trees, in the park, that bears lilac flowers and look
pretty in summers, are shedding their ochre leaves.
It is November but summer is still clinging on, a losing
battle, shakily pale in the morning, gather strength and
throw masculine heat about at noon, but pales after three
blending in with autumnal evensong.

I picked up a handful of leaves they felt soft and rich by
the touch, should I take some home, better not they will
end up on my bookshelf, curl up dry and die; reminding
me of years spent on iron decks in the company of men
who spoke of nothing but the last whore they had had in
some harbour hotel.

And I had stayed away from family and friends so long
that when I came home there was no one left, I was alone
walking in streets that resented my company.

Perpetual Question

The Perpetual Question.

I journeyed through the night wanted to go back to the past and ask my first love a question that had dwelled, if not festered, on my mind for forty years. She was in her sister’s house and looked at me as she didn’t remember, so I introduced myself. “I know who you are, she said,” “but aren’t you a bit old to be traveling so far?” “For you I will journey as long as it takes, I came to ask you a question did you once love me?” Before she could answer her father came in, looking like Prince Philip, and the pair of them left arm in arm. Her brother in law, who wrote about astrology- a friendly man- promised me a great future, this to assuage my distress.

I walked out of the town and came upon a agricultural landscape with fields after fields of carrots, salads, potatoes, broccoli and cabbage, the farmer, it belonged to, told me he once had a herd of 120 prime milking cows, but had turned vegetarian because of mans cruelty to animals, he had had them slaughtered and put in a mass grave where
a carpet of soft greenness grew, grazed by no one, but happy bunnies.

I met my beloved again, in a bar, she was in a better mood and alone; I was about to ask her my perennial question; when a small, blond woman came between us and said “I have loved you all my life, but you don’t even know where I live!” Ignored her turned to my first love again, but her face was in deep shadows, she was fading fast; I concentrated hard, but couldn’t bring her back, but I knew the answer and it saddened me greatly.

The bus driving back to my own time was leaving, the little blond woman came with me, but as we journeyed she got older and older, when we arrived she was so ancient and couldn’t get off the bus.
The driver, a man with kind eyes and philosophical beard, whom
I had seen in many disguises before, promised to drive her back wench she came. I had no ring to give her, gave her a shiny euro
coin. When she looks at the coin and wonder where it came from
she will realize that I never loved her. She will sigh deeply; perhaps even blubber into her hankie and marry someone else.

Inquisitive

Inquisitive Neighbour


The couple, who have moved into the yellow house by the river
that has been running dry for the last two year, are not young,
late middle age if you ask me, which you will not do as you
don’t know me, because I’m the man, hidden behind a great oak
at the edge of the forest, that is big as I have been relieving myself
up against it for over twenty years, but if they are married they
have not been so very long as the keep kissing
and cuddling a lot when painting the house inside,
I only know this because they have
no curtains yet. She, a widow and he a widower who met at
a dance (I’m guessing here) for lonely people, their love was met
with disapproval by their adult children who tend to think they
know what is best for their parents, so they left snow, frost and cold hearts, came to the Algarve. Yet they are prisoners of their past, in time their children will come, there will problem their offspring will be waiting for signs of weakness, forgetfulness a slurring of words any excuse to send them to an old folks home. But as for now they
are blissfully happy, but I do wish they will buy curtains, or paint the house’s façade ochre.

Trees on a hill

Trees on a hill

The pair of hugging trees
looks like lovers, but they resent
each others presence;

meager soil, not much nourishment
around, nature doesn’t take any
prisoners… (off with their heads)

lately though, one looks healthier
than the other, it is winning this battle
of survival,

but will hold a dead body in its
muscular embrace, till the man with
the chainsaw does his rounds;

usually in winter when trees are
shivering and the foul smell of log fire
drifts their way

mysterious is Love

Mysterious is Love.


At the supermarket today I fell in love again. I was standing
there, by the frozen fish, when I looked up and saw her by
the fruit section, weighing a bunch of bananas in her hands;
she sent me a brilliant smiled and I fell instantly in love with
my own image. I thought of Josephine Baker, the famous
dancer, and the mysterious triangle in the Caribbean where
ships and planes suddenly disappears and never seen again.

To be sure her smiled was meant for me, I turned and looked
behind me; a row of milks, on cooling shelves, strawberry,
banana, chocolate, vanilla, melon, apple, blueberry and,
ordinary white milk, a rainbow coalition of milks, all from
the same cud chewing ruminant. Looked back at her, she was
moving away from me, picking up a bottle of washing up liquid;
now an ordinary housewife in need of a perm.

thirsty cars

Thirsty Cars

Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.

Tanka

Tanka.

Painted the floor green
Sit in a corner and wait
Quick drying paint
Four hour it says on the can
Where I sit it’s a life time.

forgetfulness

Forgetfulness.

I have to remember the sentence that just came
floating into my head, I’ll write it down as soon
as I get home, I’ll repeat it a few times, that helps.
Look at that crazy driver! No wonder there are so
many accidents on the roads; I have forgotten
the shopping list. Damn, now I have forgotten that
sentence too. Must remember to have pen and
paper with me at all time, that’s no good you can’t
drive and write at the same time. Totally blank,
just gone, all I can recall is that was the first line
of a four line epigram

Senryu

Senryu (Valley)

But for the beach
My valley would have been
A deep inland sea

,,,,,,,,

But for the mountain
My valley would have been
A cacti landscape

……

But for the widow
My valley would have been
A place of bliss

,,,,,

But for the old king
I hide in a vale of shame
As his bastard son

The longest Fall

The Long Fall

This Indian summer keeps rolling along as
rivers run dry, nature licks morning dew and
asks: “What has happened to the rain of fall?

Autumn without precipitation, the old can
recall that it has occurred before, had it been
a first, we should rightly be deeply worried.

Rhododendron have red flowers, sky is blue
with fluffy, grazing lambs on, but I do ask:
“Where have the frogs in the dry pond gone?

Suave is the breeze that blows across the lane,
too urbane to play with dust; it effete strokes
my face, and tells me not to fear the morrow.

The Long farewell

The Long Farewell

We had only met a few days ago, and were in love, had
plans but first she had to go see her father who lived in
another town. At the railways station we kissed again,
she entered the carriage and found a window seat; and
we were waving farewells. Only the train didn’t leave
and our smiles became fixed, one cannot stay there all
day waving. Her eyes strayed to a magazine on her lap,
I took an interest in passers by, but every so often I had
to look up, smile and mouth; “I Love You.” Finally, to
our great relief, the whistle blew, steam engine hissed
and I waved till I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore

prince oskar

Prince Oskar


I sat in a smallish café, near the harbour, when two
flunkies came in followed by the queen of Denmark,
who headed straight for the loo; the pair in suits was
guarding the door. When her majesty came back out
she saw me and came over; I kissed her hand it smelt
of the soap for the masses, but when mingling with
her expensive perfume, gave it a brief exclusive air.

We had coffee and spoke of the old days, but a whisper
had blown through the street, people had become aware
of her presence, time for her to leave. When I had read
my papers and asked for the bill, the manager wouldn’t
hear of it, “a friend of the queen it was a great privilege
to have me.” I didn’t tell him I’m Denmark’s best kept
secret, a product of her father’s youthful indiscretion.

after the meeting

After the Meeting (resentment)


At the AA meeting, my dog, I had taken her with me as support.
looked around and went over to a tall, elegant man with a wave
of white hair and refined air (I’ve none) and sat there looking up
to him adorningly. On the way home I told her to sit in the back,
this confused her as she usually curls up on the seat beside me.
There was an awkward silence; her ears were up, knew something
was wrong: “So you think I’m bald; let me tell you this; that man
is a doctor and kill people when he’s drunk and perform heart
surgery ” Not addressing the dog directly, but I said no more as
I sounded ridiculous. Back home I drank vodka, with cola light
and ice, the dog had to sleep in outside, on the terrace.

Sernryu (ageing)

Senryu (ageing)

Over seventy seven
I count the days left of life
Forsaken by love.


Old men’s last boast
Telling all how old they are
Words of brave despair


They call me Tom here.
People used to call me Sir
Then I got old

Tanka (rejection

Tanka (Rejection)

Thanks for your poems,
Sorry, we cannot use them
Wish you luck elsewhere,
Even though we strongly doubt it
No one can be that crazy

Tanka

Tanka

The storm had abated
Dark night, no electricity
Heard rattle outside
Reached for my teeth and torch
By the door fall leaves huddled

another epigram

Existentialistic Epigram

On the kitchen table a yellow honey melon,
It struck me if I suddenly died, an elliptical
Fruit would be the last thing I saw; so I cut
It in half removed the pips and ate it.

the mind's landscape

The Mind’s Landscape

Collector of dry roses, that’s what you are,
in the mirror of tricks, your smile is of derision.
Seeker of the barren land where black goats
eat thorny roses.

Laughed they did when slewed the soil refused
to drink their life… a pool of darkening ruby
on yellow straws and angry glares of troll’s
blue eye.

Dweller, go back into your cave, contorted
you’re in the mirror of life, rimfrost on green grass
you’re breath’s an angst ridden screams of fear
as life passes you by.

Rendezvous

Rendezvous


Cloudy, with rain, New York in October; dusk I stood outside
Radio City Music Hall and waited for no one in particular.
Jack Dempsey was walking by he had a strong masculine face,
smiled to everyone, which made sense, as everybody knew him,
beside him walked Alan Ladd, a tiny man with a big man’s face.

I felt like an inhabited, lonely island in a stream, “Hemingway?”
“No, not at all, and let me finish. A sea of people parted in front of
me joined up again, as a mighty river behind me that flowed down
the sidewalk reaching a group of excited, people, clicking cameras and flashlight that lit up even the faces of the notorious.

And there was Marilyn walking towards me, but as she came so
near that I could touch her; I was pushed aside by rude journalists who shouted silly questions at her: “Are you getting married?
Who’s your latest boyfriend?” I was her boyfriend, we had a secret understanding. Marilyn didn’t see me that twilight moment, but her perfume dreamily swirled around me as I entered the cinema to see Casablanca

News Items

Rome News.

The Vatican is a landlord who wants to evict the poor
From their rented homes, so the church can re-rent its
Property to the middles class, at a higher prize; without
The poor, the church is a defunct, a fading irrelevance.



Berlin News.

In Germany each civil servants uses 8 sheets of toilet
Paper a day, with exception of the ministry of defense
There they use 8.8 sheets a day, we can grasp that, but
Why are we being fed this stream of irrelevant news?



Norwegian News.

To give Al Gore, a man who didn’t have the stomach
To fight for his presidency, the Nobel Peace Prize was
A populist certainty. But what else can one except of
A country that also gave the prize to Henry Kissinger?

Wildlife pleasure

Wildlife Pleasure.

Tonight they serve giraffe neck, at the long
table in the restaurant, for fifty invited guests,
left over will be given to the poor who have
brought tin plates and metal spoons they bang
together to get attention and to make music.

They chatter about last week’s big meal when
a grilled gorilla was served at the round table,
with small oblong potatoes, rich gravy and
French wines but only for the chosen fifty.

Those outside were offered wine labels of
empty bottles to take home and decorate their
walls. Hippo stuffed with lions heart will be
next week’s menu, for afters monkey brains
sweetened with sherry Amontillado.

Haiku

Senryu

To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen


Haiku

Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps


Haiku

Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.



Senryu

When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.

Motorway Driving

Motorway Driving

After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.
Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity

the witness

The Witness

Doorbell rang, a police officer was selling tickets for some
do, forgotten what, he wore a smile, but was also armed, so
I bought a ticket. I admired his gun, told me he practiced
every day and was a crack shot. “Can you hit the tomcat that
crosses the road?” (The cat belonged to the nasty woman in
the house opposite mine?) “No problem,” drew his gun, shot
once and the cat rolled in the dust.

The woman came out she had a shotgun, aimed it at the officer
who ran to his car calling for back ups, she missed and went
back into the house. Five minutes later 24 patrol car drove up,
sirens and screeching tires arrived first; every car drove over
the cat till there was but some loose fur flying in the wind and
48 shooters were pointing at the woman’s front door; local TV
was also present, this was a scoop.

“Come out lady, we know you are in there, you have tried to
kill one of our officers.” “He shot my cat, she said.“ “We can
see no cat in the road, there is a bit of a tail here but that can
belong to a raccoon, or we’ll throw a stun grenade through
the window, your hair will be a mess and we know you have
been to the hairdresser for a perm this morning, a grenade”
will mess it all up again”

The lady came out, saw me in the doorway and said:
“He is my witness, he saw it all.” 48 blue uniforms and 48
guns glared at me, I shook my head, in denial, made a shrug,
the woman is mad, and closed the door. The judge was lenient,
the lady is middleclass, her husband wear a suit and works in
a bank; he let her off with a caution, smiled and gave her tiny
a kitten, and everyone, in courthouse day, cried and applauded.

a Lament

A Lament


I have bought an air-condition unit for the kitchen,
It hangs there high up on the wall making me feel
Prosperous, the women in the village have been in
Seeing it, since I used to be a chef and do bake my
Own bread, the men think I’m a queer, don’t mind
Their wives swapping recipes with me…

It’s strange, is it not? Forever I was a chef in hotels
And posh restaurant, not well paid and cooks where
Not seen, the person sweating smelling of booze and
Being unappreciated; alas, now they are superstars
Their love life is reported in magazines. Yet, when
My women go they leave a scent of mimosa behind.

from here to eternity

From Here to Eternity

It was a very long road – straight- and ending in a haze,
no place to stop for a drink only one shop selling coffins
and religious stuff. Those who lived in the beginning of
the road had never walked to its misty end, God lived
there it was said, but a keep fit fanatic, confident and
careless, walked the whole length of the road twice a day
got so bored and he hung himself. People who lived at
the beginning of the road and also those in the middle,
looked at each other and made a Gallic shrug.

The widow, a tall lady who played guitar sang folksongs
about saving the rain forest, dyed her hair olive and, bought
a white coffin and painted it green to make her husband’s
dead a celebration to life fell in love with the undertaker,
he too played a musical instrument, accordion; now they
make a good living playing sad music at funerals. As for
the haze, it turned out to come from the public bath, now
closed down, as everybody has their own bathroom, to be
seen near a bathhouse is a mark of disgraceful poverty.

empty jerry cans

Empty Jerry Cans.

There had been a war; there is always a war someplace,
both the opposing armies ran out of petrol, so they used
animals that could carry supply and weapon on their
backs, donkeys, mules and horses were preferred, they
are more pliant and used to slavery.

Also reindeers were tried, but with limited success,
could only be used in the north, in the Middle East
they keeled over by heat exhaustion and the Zebras
were impossible to tame they refused to be a casualty
of a war they had nothing to do with them.

Now that the war was over, surviving leaders pledged:
No More Wars, horses, mules and donkeys had finally
seen the light, from now on they were only selling their
services for the best hay available; a 35 hours working
week and a good hosing down and rub after work.

Since many of them had perished, there was a worldwide
understanding of their plight, they got what they wanted.
When the Zebras complained that the grass on Savannah
was cut and exported as food for the new elite, there was
little pity, however, if they promised to behave more like
horses, some fodder might be available.

sea tide

Sea Tide

Drove for an hour to get to the coast, climbed sand-dunes
before reaching the sea; immense, calm and full it was,
slight heaves, breathing easily. Didn’t splash about making
noises, it could so easily turn into a monster, a tsunami,
a sudden surge and both the sandy coastline and I would be
history. I picked a few shiny, wet stones to take home,
but when they dried looked so ordinary that I left them behind.
Sea air made me hungry thought of deep fried sardines, sliced
cucumber in sour cream and baked potatoes;
but it wasn’t the right season; had a bacon butty instead and
watched an old western, with John Wayne and his mates.

october mood

October Mood.

Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.

As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims, on but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.

Senryu

Senryu

Poverty is a myth
Look at the poor they are fat
Live on sweet and crisp

ocean blue

Blue Ocean

When I awoke it was Sunday morning and the seashore
had disappeared, lie in the grass by a stream that has its
nascent where winter shawls cover the blue mountain.

A white owl, ogled me as tiny snakes slithered across my
belly, dived into the streams coolness, which hurt since it
was only two feet deep.

Bleeding from a head wound, but having got rid of
the serpents, I hung my clothes to dry on an oak's
inviting branch.

Sat on a boulder as morning sun warmed my nudeness,
when the maid who milks morning dew walked by,
she paused and asked: " Are you a satyr?'

“No dear, I'm a sailor rejected by the sea". She gave me
roses' dew to drink, intoxicated I embraced her ephemeral
body and was free of the ocean's pull.

the new poor

The New Poor

Many middleclass people are poor, I read,
when house and car are paid for there is no
money for food; they could sell the car and
move to a smaller house, but the indignity of
no longer being thought of as middleclass,
stops them from doing just that. Trapped in
a spiral of debt and their own insatiability,
they are stuck in semi poverty mitigated by
new the Volvo in the driveway

new beginning

A New Beginning

Her kisses tasted of iron railing a frosty morning,
tore skin off my lips, her eyes were frozen stars
set in a deadly sea of tranquillity, a beauty flawless
and free of guilt. Her body…unbending, unwilling,
an ice maiden in a winter forest, no warm May sun
could ever hope to thaw.

Her pale lips had spots of cardinal crystal residue
of my attempt of resurrection, my love for her I lay
at her feet struck a match in the vast night of silence.
Free, in the glade she stood my new smiling love,
surrounded by flowers of spring; hand in hand we
walked to where days begin.

the thrifty

The Thrifty


Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins

mystic island

A Voyage


The ship was loaded we were going to
an island in the Saragossa that cannot be
seen by radar as it is always surrounded by
a miasma of sadness, here daybreak is
only a five second glimmer in an endless
night and only expert navigators are able
to find this island…

Our cargo consisted of discarded dreams
the islanders had lived so long in peace
that they had lost the ability to think of
esoteric things, their word expanse was
of seaweed and monster cods; but they
needed this diversion if not they would
sink into apathy and die

When the ship blew its siren for the third
time and the gangway was lifted, I was
hiding behind a warehouse that was full
of dreams destined for another island,
I wouldn’t like to be a part of this, giving
people second hand dreams when the could
consisting of clichés and spent phrases.

I could have lived with this mild betrayal
if it hadn’t been for the rule that no crew
member were allowed to dream or read
or sing, but be, as often long time sailors
are, men who have lost their ability to
remember that once their were children
and not blinded by endless tediousness.

Worst of all, perhaps, it was said that ships
going there were crewed by the world
weary, men who are shadows of themselves
who drowned when crossing the vastest
expands, too far away from a priests soothing
words were love had lost its meaning and
the last thought was of a whore in Santiago.

war weary

The War Weary


When I think of war I think of Falluja, massive
firepower total obliteration till silence descends
and one can hear blood dripping from the cross.

No heroes here only scarred and scared soldiers
who will take this horror home and remember it;
and for whom the war will go on in nightmares.

Falluja, here a miasma of fear obscure the ruined
dwellings workers are rebuilding, but how do we
repair a heart that has seen too much blood shed?

on a day like this

On A Day Like This

Parked in a side-street, decided to walk into the town
centre to buy my newspaper; legs ached, so very tired,
and since it was July I wore shorts, my legs looked fine
calf-muscles still strong; had I been a woman I would
have said: “look at that man hasn’t he a pair of sex legs,
a masculine Marlene Dietrich.” Perhaps not, but as
I was thinking of her and Ernest Hemingway, they had
loved each other, but never got around to do anything
about it, I had walked out of the town wandering along
a lane, made of sea sand and crushed shells, till I came
to a crossing and at the left of it there was an enormous
carob tree and under it heavy low hanging branches
I found shade. Breeze filtered through the fleshy leaves
making it cool; I leaned on its solid trunk and felt at ease
with the world.

I was running up a very steep hill, light footed as an onyx,
the breeze…me, the act of running was a joy. At the top
I could see the glittering sea and to meet my love I raced
down hill faster than a stone could fall, and on the flatland
waved to farmers tilling their soil; and without pausing, at
the beach, I dived into the sea and began swimming till all
land disappeared.

I was at one with nature, around me circled happy dolphins,
but suddenly, flecks of dark shadows appeared on the surface
of the sea and it was cold despite the warm sun, I was utterly
alone, my arms were thin and belonging to someone very old;
as I throw my head back as not to drown my head hit the trunk
of the tree, I looked out the sun had just gone down, but was
still sending streaks of gold and orange across the sky. Back in
town I thought of the lovely story of Adam & Eve, a pity that
we’ll never know the name of the person, who wrote it;
at a grocer’s I bought an apple and went looking for my car

unlucky thief

Unlucky Thief

The man who stole so much copper that
the suspension on his van broke when
he tried to get away; instead of legging it
he was caught when calling a tow-truck
The judge made cheap jokes on the man’s
behalf, like thieves hasn’t got pride too.
Not only sent down he also lost, unfairly,
I thought; the automobile associations
membership card he had had for ten years.

a question

A Question

Does assimilation means
That the minority must
Become as the majority?

And if they refuse to be
As the majority, does that
Mean they are losers?

What the paper says.

What the Paper Says

There are no elephants on the shores of the Mosquito
coast, and that’s ok; only poor, red snapper catching,
people lives here. Lately, however, drugs meant for
the middle classes of Boston, drifts ashore, bales of
it, fallen off the back of a speed boat, it is sold back
to those who lost it, that only right and proper.

Money goes a long way when you’re poor, but only
as long as none of then inhale what’s in the bales.
If they do, phantom elephants, scared by buzzing of
angry, none existing bees, will stampede; and that’s
no good, red snappers will go uncaught and
the middle-classes of Boston will run amok as well.

Senryu

Senryu

A lottery ticket
The very old farmer bought
The dream never dies

the Twin towers

It is slowly raining in New York City today, big
drops lazy fall, roll along 42nd street pick up dust,
collide with other drops and become dirty water
that runs down a sewer hole with vertical bars.

Hudson River runs full too, much rain upland,
and New Jersey, where Tony lives, got a drenching
too, Mr. Soprano slouches in his pajamas feels
ancient at 47, and worries about the future

In the City, where the absence of the Twin Towers
is still seen, the Central Park need a good soaking;
a big rat put its snout through the vertical bars,
looks up at the mournful sky and sighs.

Get a Dog.

Get a Dog

There are not enough stars on the heavens to light up
the path you have chosen to walk, in the bleakness of
the night your name is but an echo, yet I feel if I call
your name out loud one time more, you might hear
me open your eyes and smile; this crocked little smile
of yours, kidding me you’re.

I’m driving home after the sermon, the others are
going to a restaurant, to eat, mourn and drink wine.
I didn’t know a house could be so empty it screams
in agony, I switch on TV and radio, bland voices
sooth. In a month time friends will say” why don’t
get a dog?” Thoughtless they are, but so it goes on.

Shangri La

Shangri La.

Tibet used to be a quaint place, full of monks and
poor people who didn’t often washed their faces.
Intrepid westerners liked the place, thought it was
a Paradise, even though no one stayed too long.
Then the Chinese came and, as occupiers often,
do destroyed works of art, the Lama, and his staff,
fled to India. Today modernity has arrived, there is
less poverty, roads have been built and it has been
said that there are dancehalls and painted ladies in
Lhasa. Life is better now chiefly for the poor, yet
people would, it’s been said, endure the hardship
of freedom and yak butter in their morning tea for
a taste of independence. The intrepid would be back
and write books about this authentic Shangri La.

november love

November Love.

He was around thirty, dressed in a grey suit, but he had
no arms, (accident) zip open, a man desperate and drunk,
came into my café wanted a beer with a straw, that’s
what I gave him. He needed a pee I had things to attend
to in the kitchen, a woman, his age, said she was a nurse,
helped him; back from the loo he looked respectable.
In her company he was more at ease and joked about his
plight, asked the time had to take a ferry home as he lived
on one of the islands. Ten to nine the nurse followed him
down to the docks, she didn’t return; but took the ferry
too, I think, and became his arms, lover and caring wife.
She had left a plastic bag behind it was full of crumbled
up bread and stale cakes meant for the ducks; I went to
the park next morning and fed them crumbs of love

epigram

Epigram.


Gold is a useless metal, shining bullions
In a bank vault, creates nothing but envy.
Human effluence is quite useful, enrich
The soil and fills the air with roses’ scent.

Senryu and Tanka

Senryu


Can haiku stop wars?
Yes, but only if written
On a projectile



Tanka

Those who wedge wars
Are not prone to read poetry
Those who read verses
Often die on the frontline
Or are shamed in prison


Senryu

To not wear uniform
When everyone else does
Takes great courage

The Reason

The Reason

The bells you hear, when busy voices briefly ceases,
are made of brass and polished, at dawn, by the spittle
of seven deeply religious monks in the far away Tibet;
where they use yak butter in their morning tea.

When first light strikes the bells there is and explosion
of the colours, blue and green, that lives inside the sun,
without these tones the seas would have been dull as
a rain puddle, outside Gare de Lyon, a fall afternoon.

Review of my latest collection "End of a Journey"

JAN OSKAR HANSEN:
UNABASHED REFLECTIONS ON THE HUMAN CONDITION.

Review of “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, a new collection of poetry by Jan Oskar Hansen, Copyright 2007, 100 pages, softcover price: US$17.00. Published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.

This latest collection of poetry and short prose by Jan Oskar Hansen exemplifies immense personal and artistic maturity. I have elsewhere written about Hansen’s genius as regards the art of storytelling, and this work is no exception. Hansen seems to re-set the bar with each book he writes – much like good whiskey .. improving with age and experience.

Having previously reviewed two other poetry collections by Hansen (Letters from Portugal and La Strada), I am somewhat familiar with both his writing style and his artistic progression. I am pleased to see that Hansen has (in this latest collection of poetry) successfully managed to combine poetic economy and succinctness with prosaic boundlessness; at the same time retaining his innate sense of literary rebelliousness, social and political commentary and overall evenness of quality.

Jan Oskar Hansen has what is referred to in Norwegian (the land of his birth and youth) as “bakkekontakt” (a sense of reality). Hansen’s work often leaves an almost bittersweet chocolate aftertaste, with the effect that the reader is invariably left with a craving for more. Perhaps the most striking and enticing aspect of these short stories in poetic prose form is also that which makes them somewhat “uncomfortable”: Hansen ingeniously presents contemporary issues and personal experience in a way that is immediately digestible, both honest and humorous in its portrayal of humanity; and which cleverly pulls the reader so easily into the reasoning of the stories told that one cannot help but to question one’s own personal values upon reflection. His experiences and his viewpoints suddenly become those of the reader, and in order to satisfy the yearning to learn more about oneself one simply has to continue slavishly from poem to poem .. and perhaps even to take a second read-through upon reading the last words in the book.

The quality and genius of Hansen’s writing speaks well enough for itself, but I will refer to a few examples from his book which I particularly like:

“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 says: “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.” (from “Harvest Moon”).


And


There is but one vast ocean
with an ever changing name,
so much sea, so little land.
It is rising, turquoise death
nibbling at tropical islands;
beaches are moving inland,
a new Noah’s Ark, a pair of
each, female/male and no gay
parade on her deck, drifting
on a clueless, windless ocean,
often called: “Nothing to see
but fucking water.”
(from “The Ocean”)


Hansen has also included several haiku in this collection. Two of the many fine examples follow:

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

And

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


In conclusion, I would heartily recommend End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay to all who are looking for a reading experience that goes far beyond the boundaries of traditional poetry; reaching into the psychology and the humour of the human condition.

About the author:
Jan Oskar Hansen, a Norwegian expatriate, has published a wealth of poems, including individual works published in various anthologies, on the internet, and three collections which previously have been published in book form: Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006).

See also Jan Oskar's website: http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html


- Literary criticism (2007) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.).

ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).

Statehood

Statehood


A shiny fly came, sat on the coffee pot lid, it wasn’t
big, but behaved in the manner of a son of, say,
a minor Hungarian aristocrat. I swatted it with a dish
cloth it fell into the sink, not dead opened the tap and
down the plughole it went. I was eating a slice of loaf
with blueberry jam, when it came out of the plughole,
clambered out of the sink, sat on saucer and began
cleaning its wings while buzzing loudly.

I was eating a slice of loaf with strawberry jam, as
a way of variation, when a small, grey faced fly came
flying in it settled on my cigarette lighter, I knew this
one came from a tower block estate hidden behind
a ring-road, a place with burnt out cars and grim silence;
where the “racaille” live, as the French president said.
I killed it twice to be sure to be sure it didn’t survive
long enough to try lit my lighter.

3 haiku

Haiku.


The day is at ease
After a fortnight of rain,
Sun warms my face

Cool is the sun
One needn’t be a mad dog
To be out at noon

Rain, sun and billows
The tenth month is befuddled
Thinks it is April

dogs in wars

Dogs In Wars

The big, white dog cowered in the shadows unseen
by soldiers marching by, there had been fighting and
many corpses lay rotting in streets, hungry dog had
been eating, first reluctantly, then with abandonment,
forgotten was ancient taboo about eating human flesh...

Soldiers, who could kill their enemies brutally and
without mercy, had an irrational fear against dogs that
ate humans. The white dog knew this, any dog seen
eating man could never again be mans best friend

When the war was over it would try to be adopted by
a nice family with small children it could look after;
but for now the dog was hungry it had to finish eating
an arm that appeared to have belonged to a soldier who
had been keen on weightlifting before joining the army
and be blown to bits by a wayside bomb.

the dryness

The Dryness

They used to keep their distance, but now that the moot
of wine has dried there is no defense against the blighters
that disturbs my night by opening doors and slamming
them shut. Whispers coming from nowhere, shadows
where they shouldn’t be hastily appear, frost roses on
bedroom window, shivered under two duvets made of
the tail feather’s hapless ducks, alas a quacking morning
chorus woke me up the ducks came demanded their
feathers back. A horse hair blanket keeps me warm if not
asleep, its too rough for my indoor skin. Imps and former
dark deeds keep their distance you will never find an evil
spirit in a stable where there is a horse, manger and hay.

Tanka (what not to do)

Tanka. (what not to do)

A tiny, fretful mouse,
in the cellar found spilt wine,
which it swiftly drank,
and rashly walked upstairs,
to seduce the feline cat

Marlilyn Monroe remembered

Marilyn Monroe Remembered.

Through Erno Laszlo’s windows, on the Fifth Avenue
New York, I saw her; bold I was in those days walked
straight in asked her to marry me. She smiled thought,
I was too young and, anyway, she was getting married
to a writer, forgotten his name now, but he was quite
famous back then. A flunky came over, asked Marilyn
if I was bothering her, not at all, she said, gave me kiss
that covered the whole of my face. Blindly fell out of
out of the shop, people smiled. Ambled past Laszlo’s,
the other day, they had a picture of her looking out, now
that I’m so much older than her, she looked unbearable
young and incredible beautiful

the understanding

The Understanding


A, rich man is going into a Parisian hospital to die,
thought he could have it all, now he clings to a red
blanket, given by a woman he loved and betrayed,
he loved her too, till wealth stole his heart.

Two lovers, young men, mere boys really, are being
hanged in Iran today, they have not committed any
crime, robbery or murder, they loved each other for
that they’ll twist, blindfolded, in the wind

In a Texas jail, a man wait his execution; everyone
knows he’s innocent, found guilty ten years ago
the verdict still stands; he’s been turned down by
the governor who’s tough on crime

That’s how it is; we are spectators in a drama we
have not written nor understand, yet we continue
to search for a meaning; there is little we can do
but light a torch of hope on mankind’s dark trail.

watering place

Watering Place

The stonewalled waterhole, amongst bushes on
the out mark is dry now, stones have been falling
to the bottom where there is rubbish, plastic bags
and empty paint tins, makes it a sad sight.

Until a few years ago, when local farmers had
sheep it was in regular use, I saw a fledgling once
learning to fly, miss the bush it aimed for landed
in the water, giving up on life without a struggle.

The young have better education, moved to big
towns, their children are scared of rabbits and what
crawls in the grass, often obese, they can’t wait to
be back to the city, after visiting grandparents.

The track leading to the waterhole is barely visible
I was the only one going there till I found a scented
silk hanky, the hankering for the old days has gone,
the mysterious lady is my new future.

SUPER COMPUTER

Super Computer.

It’s there in front of me a colossal
abstract mass that absorbs everything
it takes your life eat the soil the sky,
mountains, lakes, animals and
blue pigments,

in the end devour the world. all is archived
every second of your life is written down and
there is picture of you from child to old,
your laughter and your tears,
but it doesn’t know you.

The colossus exists in a vacuum;
it holds the key to life,
but its execution is death, and in the end
we shall not know
of the past, present and future

albanian proverb

Senryu

Graffiti on wall:
Chicken are friendly birds
Wish I were one


Tanka

Chopper rotors
Cutting air above my house
Searchlight shines
Kitchen is the new frontline
Dirty dishes everywhere




Albanian Proverb

In a just
society
no horse
walks
with a limp,
those that
do
will end up
as
salami

four alcoholics

Four Alcoholics

Saturday afternoon in a Nordic town, buses are neatly
parked and as diesel fume slowly dissipates, a few
snowflakes fall; streetlights are on soon it will be dark
the air is cold and damp; rats are up from sewers eating
left-overs. Four men sit on a park-bench they have
been sharing a bottle of booze, they have nowhere to go
but to their “Blue Cross” lodgings, get a bed, and a bit
to eat; Sunday, with everything shut, will be a long day.

They count the change between them not enough to
buy a bottle from the man who sells booze after hour
to double the price, they stop a lone, young man, ask
him for some money, he gives them what they need,
glad they didn’t ask for his wallet. They have a bottle,
the intention is to save it for tomorrow, but by the time
they reach their lodging the bottle is empty and they
are drunk, the receptionist will not let them in.

They blame each other, fight breaks out, police comes
Black Maria and the drunk cells. Sunday, the four are
booked, fingerprinted and let out. The church, across
the park is warm, there might even be a few pence to
be had from worshippers, they try to look middleclass,
but are stopped by the verger; told to come back next
day. Four men on a park-bench, they are thirsty, but not
lonely and that is a good thing to know.

old men in a park

Old Men in a Park.

Sunshine, they sit in the park, the old guys
I nod to them as I drive past on my scooter,
no doubt they are talking about old times.

Lately I have been remembering whence
I was a child, it’s very confusing a soldier
hangs from a hook in the basement, there
is a smell of shit, my aunt lift her skirt and
pees into the sink, aunt is my uncle, didn’t
know this and there is shrieking laughter.

Cold winters, lice in blankets, the animal
smell of unwashed bodies and the reek of
cheap alcohol. A fire behind a haze causes
shadows, a man’s voice, too sweet, entices
a child with chocolate, leading a lamb to
slaughter. There is nothing to remember
except the voice that used to read for me.

Tired, I know longer know the difference
between a nightmare and a memory, think
I’ll join the old men, in the park, and listen
to their tall tales of daring do whence they
were young.

liverpool days

Liverpool Days


Wavertree road used to have a café there called
“Tasty Toaster,” business was good till the formidable
M.T. came to power and low paid worker, my main
costumers, got the sack, and told to go on bikes they
couldn’t afford to buy in the first place.

Above the shop lived a lady teacher, she drank, at ten
in the evening, as I closed and cleaned up, I could hear
her sing, when filling her bathtub with water.
One night, it was raining; she must have had a stroke
or something, the water kept running, rotten floor she
and the bathtub ended up in my café.

Under the door the water ran and down the street, since
it was raining few has noticed. Called the police when
I got there, the landlord came, insisted that I had to pay.
I threaten to sue him; he called me a Polish shit and
blamed me for the holocaust I called him a Jewish shit
and blamed him for Palestine. I finally collected my
insurance money and retired from the catering business

a voyage to Caribbean

A Voyage to Caribbean

Europe was in the grip of winter,
ice on deck, frost smoke hung above
the sea clouds low and full of snow;
sun had been absent for weeks.

Bound for Jamaica, past the Azores
weather changed, warmer and the sun
shone on green sea and the great sea
current was on our side.

The crew, in good mood, the cook sits
on a capstan strumming his beat-up
guitar, old salts used to tropical climes,
Jamaica is home from home

failed mariner

Failed Mariner.

I spent time staring at
the ocean and sensing
its heave, at night too

I gazed at the sea, “night
and day, you’re my love,”
now wasn’t there a song?

sent ashore, bad reports,
unsociable, speaks to no one,
doesn’t play cards

Drizzle

Drizzle.

Raindrops in your hair, on your cheeks, teeth
sparkled, lips wide, moist and red, as your face
looked up to him in abandonment.

How could, you betray me, don’t you know
a fool, like me, is passionate, you sat my heart
afire, the gasp of youth has died on my breath

Have you forgotten, only yesterday you kissed
me, yet you have kissed him with rude passion
moments before seeing me.

I left the bar when you entered, walked down
an alleyway where life’s losers live in disgrace
I didn’t look back once.

a widow and a priest

A Widow and a Priest It was six in the morning I was on the roof terrace smoking an illicit cigarette when the ambulance came gliding into the hamlet, stopped outside Antonio’s house and carried him out on a stretcher, his wife came along too; Antonio saw me and feebly waved. In the forenoon his wife was a widow and she cried. The house was suddenly full of relatives, most of them women. Funeral at five that day, the widow had been astute enough to have everything arranged beforehand, his body was now in the church…waiting At the graveside the priest said the usual thing, shook hands with the widow and walked home alone, feeling friendless, he didn’t think of the funereal, had seen so many dead faces ravaged by age or sickness, immune he had become, not so when young laying awake at night thinking about it horror struck; he had served here for years now waiting for a new call or an advance within the hierarchy, feeling forsaken by the Vatican, hadn’t he written learned articles about the philosophy faiths and received a thank you note from the cardinal? Nothing more he could do, couldn’t very well ask god. At home his housekeeper served him a roast chicken and cellar cold red-wine; he sighed, tucked in, death always made him hungry. Female relatives stayed with the bereaved for a week, men are curiously absent on these occasions, then they went back to their own worries, the widow began her new life by going to the hairdresser

the long eared

The Long Eared.

Driving to town there was a donkey loose on
the road rescued and tied it under a carob tree.
Couldn’t leave it alone like that, parked
my car on a hard piece of ground and waited
for the farmer to come and collect his ass.
It began raining but both the donkey and I had
shelter. Fell asleep, when I awoke it was dark
and the hard ground mud; I mounted the beast
and rode to roadside tavern nearby.
Food and wine, it was late when riding home,
stabled the donkey in the garage. Next day
I rode back where my car was stuck in the mud,
the farmer and two police officers were there
no one asked if the car belonged to me

Losing It

Losing It.


Woke up in the night shivering hot and cold
at the same time, I had slipped through a hole
in time to a similar world where I met myself.
I waited for the other me to utter profundities;
“Fall begins at September 22,”he said, while
looking carefully down to the ground.

“Have you lost something?” “Yes, my sense
of humour” I helped him look, we didn’t find
it. His world was colder than mine, so I gave
him my red t. shirt and was back in my own
time again. It was chilly when I woke up at
dawn, looked for my t. shirt, but it was gone.

Refelction in a window

Reflection in a Window

From my window I can see morning haze, amongst
olive trees, I also see the outline of grazing sheep.
Metallic birdsong disturbs peace, not from outside,
but from my Chinese wall clock, must be eight, it
isn’t reliable, wonder if birds really sing like that in
China? I have seen this morning scene many times,
always think of it as biblical; shows how influenced
I’m by Christianity. If I were a Moslem, what I see,
the haze, trees and sheep will be the same; I would,
perhaps, think of Allah and how glad I’m to have
an unshakable creed. I was a Lutheran and think back
on times when I believed in god with blasé certainty.
Shells fall, I’m glad to be free of religious chains and
monolithic beliefs.

The mythical landscape

The Mythical Landscape


I know of a narrow dale so full of thorny bushes that
no one goes there and since it has no olive trees it’s
been left in peace. Those who are willing to get stung,
will find a clearing, near a small mere, where grass is
green all year and roses never lose their petals.

I cannot give you the location, promised the dwellers,
a dignified camel and a terrier, both escapees from
a Swedish circus, which once performed in Lisbon.

Now as days are getting shorter and my own dog has
died, and there are no one on the lane leading up to my
house, I have been thinking of going there; only they
might both be dead, or a roadway cleared down to
the mere; and I’m tired of getting stung by unfriendly
obstacles to get to the heart of the matter

a Musical instrument

A Musical Instrument

Hanover Street, Liverpool, there was a saxophone
in a shop window, not new mind, but well polished
I knew it was meant for me, knew I could play it,
just like that. Not enough money, back onboard,
I asked the captain for an advance, got it; how I ran
that day, yet came too late, it had been sold.

Later when the night was heavy with the smell of
“Park Lane” in Lime Street I heard my Sax
played badly, there weren’t harmony between
man and instrument; looked through the window,
too young to enter, the sax saw me and wonderful
music followed; the musician looked surprised,
the performance of his life.

In Livorno, Italy, I bought a mouth harmonica, it
had metallic taste and made my teeth ache, no love
lost when I threw it into the Mediterranean Sea.

Tanka

Tanka

Dali Lama is here
No heads of state will see him
China is vital.
Spiritual progress can wait
Trading is more important

The Noose

The Noose.

By the river, a big tree; on its strongest bough
there is still mark in the bark of a rope. They
hung people here, great spectacle the whole
town came to see: “Good riddance” they said
about the hanged, spat and felt like tough guys.

To be a tree is like being god things are done
in its name and is forever silent, except when
wind drizzles through its foliage there’s a faint
whisper, a moment’s hesitation, as the unsaid is
understood; and the river runs towards the sea.

No one is hanged from the tree now, the scar
of the past is almost healed, not since colour TV
came it offers more distraction, the condemned
is given a lethal injection, which offers no drama
of torchlight, lynching and the stench of fear.

a Relic

A Relic.

The big boulder in the field speaks, it’s a sandstone and
has many holes, made by million of years of rain drops.
A funny old stone looks like a molar, big people used to
live here and dinosaurs were their domestic animals, like
cows and sheep are today.

I digress it is a stone and it has an echo when the wind
blows, sounds quite eerie, but I don’t think it has anything
deep to say other than it has been at the bottom of an
ancient sea and now is a common boulder in a field, so what
advice could it possible give other than time erases
everything, even names on tombs; that nothing matters and
life is incidental, who wants to know that?

So it is quite useless as a stone of wisdom, but come spring
when roses grow through its holes you would say it looked
magic and that, by itself, was an important message to be
given away for free; if it hasn’t been bought and moved into
a theme park by then.

Haiku and Tanka

Haiku

Hear rain fall
On an old slate roof
Beautiful music



Tanka.

Timeless we are
The fertile green field and I
Entwined we’ll sleep
Till rain awakes us again
And winter is behind us



Senryu

A brittle glass star
Fell off a christmas tree
And night descended




Tanka

No electricity
Night’s fearful, has no street light
Wants to come in
I have lit many candles
I’m, the master of the world.

Lost Causes

Lost Causes.

The ridge, where the land I see ends, is black
today yet illuminated by flashes of lightning
It didn’t take long for the lightning to strike
our village, plus Homeric thunder and much
rain and the ridge disappear in a miasma of
whirling, dervish dancing clouds.

The ridge is a foal point it is from there first
light comes at dawn and the promises of
a new day begins, behind lies a place called
Spain, a massive country, it will take weeks
to cross its plain, not I’m going there; I haven’t
got a horse and there are no windmills left

After Rain

After Rain

There is no summer heat left, in the valley,
It rolled up its long skirt to the hips, fled
Just as dark clouds appeared at the ridge.

The soil opened up, to an almost unseemly
Display, and received the rain, not as a shy
Bride, but as a lusty wench of forty-five.

Passion spent, it was a thunderous night,
The vale is at ease, moist are leaves and
In the gentle air there is a hint of a smile;

Liverpool Mon Amour

Liverpool Mon Amour,

A couple from the social services are coming to asses my
need, I took out my teeth and hid poetry books and TLS
under my bed, wouldn’t like to intimidate them; gave my
bottles wine to my neighbour for safekeeping, he has been
a member of AA for 25 years; he also kept the book how
to have sex after 70. They will patronize me rotten, but all
the while look for hidden wealth, tell me to wear overcoat
when watching TV, till they see I haven’t got one. Dismay,
TV is invented to keep the poor, old and unemployed in
their place, without telly revolt would have spread from
a cake making factory in Knowsly till covering the world
now that we are a global economy, if it hadn’t been for
Coronation Street. Bet they are going to give me a new one
and “The Echo” will come take a picture. I have to sell it
all I wanted was help to pay my gas bill.

the great democracy

The Great Democracy.

Surge removes the sand, underneath though,
bare, stubborn, knife sharp rocks no surge can
remove; it’s here a nation bleed to death.

Hapless, the commander his reputation torn to
shreds, history will not remember him well,
golden stars fade in morning light.

He followed orders, issued by a dunce who is,
the product of 200 years of democracy based
on money and gross misinformation

Animal Imitator

Animal Imitator.

Finn, the Norwegian farm boy, was good at
Imitating the mooing of cows, did it so well
That the heavy uddered stopped grazing and
Mooed back.

Finn was a cleaver boy studied well became
A diploma engineer and moved into town.
At a party, years later, Finn, now a man with
Silver hair and Armani suit, mentioned his
Prowess as a cow mooing imitator and was
Asked to do it again; applause and laughter,
Yes he still had the gift, said those who had
Heard a cow moo, and those who hadn’t
Smiled and applauded too.

Towards dawn many taxis where called none
Came, the party walked outside to discover
Why, and found the street totally blocked by
Five hundred cows

Allegorical

Allegorical


They were there, in the street, my wife and her best
friend, an ugly woman of thirty five, she had one
big, red eye and one eye, small and dull, the red
one was lit up as a lantern that absorbed all sifting
and cataloguing the seen for further use.

She wore shorts her body was dough like and she
had no breasts, I didn’t want to kiss her, but since
she was my wife’s best friend and I live in a country
where people kiss a lot, I had to; but her eye had
seen my reluctance and it glowed malevolently

Lunch, I suggested her friend ought to wear a blouse,
but no, her friend had spent twenty years in a damp
dungeon and needed sun. Phone rang I had to leave,
as the red eye drilled holes of dishonour in my mind
I fell down a manhole I was unable to crawl out of.

Tanka

Tanka.

Easy days in September
Rabbits have had their off springs
Will they survive man?
Rabbits are on the menu
Shot gun pellet broke my tooth

the last kiss

The Last Kiss.

I sit here and do little, but I’m not a veterinary,
they have offered me a new body, but since
it is as old as my own, I said no; shuddering to
think were it has been with its hands.

They offered me a young brain, but I had to take
the whole head, to wake up in the morning with
with someone else’s memory and an unlived face
isn’t what an old man should suffer.

So I stumble about chew tobacco and spit brown
this so no one will notice that my phlegm is
bloody, no need to worry my wife and, anyway,
It’s over ten years since last we kissed.

familçiarity breeds contempt

Familiarity breeds contempt

They have lamplight here in this street were few people
walk after five, safe for the man who has to take his dog
for a walk, the dog knows the man has too and enjoys
this brief sense power, pull on its lead forcing the man
to walk faster then his heart likes.

A plastic seat under a lamp, I’m so very tired, have been
walking for forty years. I when my wife died, she didn’t
live long- no children- there weren’t anything to keep me
at home. After some time some I noticed a man following
me he had nothing else to do and latched on to me.

A plastic chair, you could think that after all this years I
deserve something better than a sweaty backside on
a chair made of oil shit. “I’ve nowhere to sit,” said the man
who made it his life worth to follow me around. I didn’t
answer for the simple reason, I couldn’t care less.

“For forty years I have been coming here and hoped
that something dramatic would happen like you would fall
under a bus.” “No such luck I’m your annoying brother
and I always do the right thing only crossing the road at
Zebra crossings.

There was a speeding truck noisy brakes, I didn’t look back.
I sit on a plastic chair under a street light and read lines from
a play I wrote forty years ago, my bum aches, have called
my brother cell phone there is no answer

Luciano pavarotti

Luciano Pavarotti

The twilight sun is white looks as torch with a faulty
battery; the late summer heat is passionless and tired,
the sun scares the old people a bad sign, they will say.
Pavarotti died at dawn, cancer. his heart too gregarious
for a coronary. To day my brother has been dead for
forty years, he liked to go fishing in his boat, took me
along when not out with his many mates. It is good to
wake up at dawn and be handed a clean sheet of white
paper to write on and with a pen dipped in the ink of
memories. Alzheimer is a terrible illness it erases all
what makes us human. I will write no more, but go into
the next room and listen to Pavarotti, I will have to go
to his birthplace Medina, Italy, one day.

Mother Teresa

Mother Teresa


When the nun prayed to god she got silence she wanted
a sign that her faith was not in vain; the stillness was
intolerable, she cast herself into work amongst the poor
and tired only slept four hours a night, and yet there was
a rumbling hush, and she knew there was no god, yet
continued her work as she could not leave the order and
denounce god, so she died waiting for his sign.

I do understand prayed once and silence dripped as tears
from the beams, was that a sign my baffled brain asked?
No reply. To believe in nothing is a creed, as nothing
rooms a world of denial and new possibilities, but to have
no faith is to invite melancholy into your home, you know,
as knife’s sharp slash in your heart, death is forever, there
is no memory of beauty and you will not hear the silence.

Baghdad isn't here

Baghdad, Isn’t Here.

The rhododendron loses its petal, it is September
the twilight is sepia soon it will be dark, sparrows
that live in the bush are flying in, and argue before
settling down. Dogs that have been sleeping all day
are alert now waiting to be fed, the night before they
worked as a team and chased a starving dog out of
the village, nothing a mere human can do about that
unless he wants another dog, but beware, before you
know it there are five hungry dogs fighting their way
to your door. Dogs that live amongst us may not love
us as much as we think, they will, however, defend
their food source to the end. It is dark now, the waning
moon casts a pale light, a mild breeze exhales easily
and it is a good time to be alive.

the sloop

The Sloop

In the bay a single-mast sailing vessel, a sloop, rigged
fore and aft, was anchored near the shore, I swam over
and was met by a couple in their forties who had spent
time and money doing the old ship up. The idea was to
sail along the coast delivering cargo, cheaper than by
trucks and her hold was quite roomy. I didn’t tell them
that most cargo now was in containers and that a sloop
needed her deck clear of clutter. They wanted one more
crew member, kindly offered me a job, knew they didn’t
mean it; I had gladdened them by admiring their ship.
“Too old to climb the rigs,” I said, but offered to cook,
they smiled at that. Restless night I was the captain of
a sloop bound for Buenos Aires, the great city looked
just as I remembered last time I was there… in 1964.

epigram

Epigram.

If we had a true, informative democracy and
Yet only the pretty faced and incompetent
Were elected; wouldn’t we think twice about
The soundness of plebian voters, capability?

the Losers

The Losers.

they have been silenced,
you no longer hear
the voices of Iraq’s women;

before the liberators came they were
free to get a good education and
wear modern dresses;

now, after freedom from
tyranny, it’s back to the burka,
headscarf and the veil.

Do not mention the war

Do Not Mention the War

I had promised myself not to write about the war
in Iraq, my voice is weak and goes unheard, but it
pleases me to read that 500 British troops have
left Basra and gone to the air station out of town;
soon they will have gone for good…Bon voyage.
Not the American troops though, they will have to
stay a little longer and bleed more. Let the parents
of dead soldiers believe their sons died defending
their country, they are poor and need this illusion.
Why should we insist on telling the truth that their
loved ones died for vainglorious men who thought
they could rule the world unopposed

the consequence

The consequance

A legionnaire,
in Chad,
is angry at
the sun
it has
followed
him
for weeks,
cocks his
rifle,
shoots
the burning
rock,
bits fall off
there are
forest
fires
in France...

amsterdam spring

Amsterdam Spring.

Morning in a bar, cleaned windows
New sets of curtains, shiny mirrors,
Cigarette smoke has dissipated.

Perfumed air, gleaming toilet, smells
Of bleach; jukebox is blissfully off
And the baseball bat is unemployed

sunryu

Senryu

Explosive silence
After the bomb has gone off
Before people scream


Senryu

Watery stillness
A lake mirror the dawn sky
As a lone man drowns


Senryu

Soundless dust settles
On a man who fell from sky
Broken wings of wax

The Tall Tree

It had been raining for weeks the track to my cabin muddy,
one day I sank down in it to the armpit, couldn’t get up too
slippery. Must have fallen asleep when I awoke my arms
were boughs, fingers twigs with leaves and I was covered in
a protective bark; in my crown birds sat and sang. I grew tall
and slender, people came from afar to look at me for once
I was noticed. One day to my alarm I saw they were building
a four lane motorway in the next valley, it was aiming straight
at me, unstoppable thousands of trees were brutally cut down
to give way to a river of concrete. Unbeknown to me,
I had been made into a national treasure so the road had to make a detour
Hundred yards from me it runs, very fast full of metallic junk,
bloody noise if you ask me, but in time the road will fall into
disuse and sink into the soil and I’ll get my peace.

sonnet to moonrays

Sonnet to Moon Rays

Dug a hole in unwilling soil to bury my
dog when I hit upon a round ten kilo stone.
It rolled around on the grass like a cow let
out of the shed in spring, then came to rest
in the sun. Free at last after a thousand year
in darkness. Too light for it size I thought,
and was right, when moon came, the stone
loosened into individual strands of silvery
rays that jubilantly flew up and joined their
mother… La Luna. Lost in a sudden storm
when time was new, before seasons became
a norm. Glad to have been of help I thought
of my dog she hadn’t died in vain, yet I had
a sleepless night fearing my own demise.

Senryu

Senryu

In the night
Snow flakes fell into the sea
How useless is that?

the happy ending

The Happy Ending

At the funereal, open casket, he noticed the dead man
had an expensive diamond ring on his middle finger;
the same night, before the earth had settled into hard
labour he, lets call him Harry, dug open the grave,
stole the ring, as he didn’t bother to fill in the grave
again the story was in the papers next day, apparently
the ring was fake. An unlucky man walked to the end
of the pier, where the sea is dark and shadows of fear
dance; flung the ring into its depth; plop, as a fleeting
hush cast a shroud of silver on the water. Harry, being
tall and bad on his feet, lost his balance fell in the sea
as well, since he couldn’t swim; screamed for help, as
drowning people do, and as always the echo of despair
made the sea cringe. The ring was swallowed by a cod
that was angled by an elderly fisherman, at dawn he sold
it at the fish-market? It was bought by a widow, who,
when gutting the cod, found a diamond ring, it wasn’t
a fake and happy, at last, retired to the Antibes