Flower Power
When I die, my body shall not be ashes and
strewn upon the sea, it’s polluted enough as it is.
No, dig it six foot deep under my almond tree,
let it absorb my flesh.
If it turns out that have I a soul too, I bequeath
it to the tree as well, it will then be more careful
in whose path it strews pink & white flowers on
cold winters days
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Heart transplant
Heart Transplant.
He was tired the cardiologist said his heart was so beat
that he needed a new one; he must have a suit case
ready packed and go to hospital as soon as a heart was
available, this wouldn’t be too long since the hospital
was near busy a intersection where two motorways
meet and fatal crashes appeared once or trice a month.
Soon there was one ready, a girl had lost control of her
her car, didn’t survive; so they took out his worn-out
heart placed it on a kidney shaped dish for later study,
but as the surgeon took the heart out of the box, it came
in, it slipped out of his hand and on to the stone floor,
where it bunched about before having a cardiac arrest;
the only heart on hand had belonged to a hundred and
ten year old man, it was kept in alcohol in a jar out of
curiosity, this was a desperate situation, so they gave
him that heart then. The patient wonders why is more
tired than before the surgery; he used to be teetotal now
he has taken to drink and his wife is suing for a divorce
He was tired the cardiologist said his heart was so beat
that he needed a new one; he must have a suit case
ready packed and go to hospital as soon as a heart was
available, this wouldn’t be too long since the hospital
was near busy a intersection where two motorways
meet and fatal crashes appeared once or trice a month.
Soon there was one ready, a girl had lost control of her
her car, didn’t survive; so they took out his worn-out
heart placed it on a kidney shaped dish for later study,
but as the surgeon took the heart out of the box, it came
in, it slipped out of his hand and on to the stone floor,
where it bunched about before having a cardiac arrest;
the only heart on hand had belonged to a hundred and
ten year old man, it was kept in alcohol in a jar out of
curiosity, this was a desperate situation, so they gave
him that heart then. The patient wonders why is more
tired than before the surgery; he used to be teetotal now
he has taken to drink and his wife is suing for a divorce
St Valentine's day
St. Valentine’s Day
A well groomed couple walks in front of me,
he wears a club blazer, mid thirty graying hair.
She’s twenty something and for her wrinkles
is a fun word and she has long blond hair that
clearly loves her. She slips her hand into his,
he looks around, I wonder why?
Later, in a café, she leans over and kisses him,
he looks around again, plays it cool.
What’s wrong with the man is he total fool,
doesn’t he know when loves comes around he
has to grab it with both hands; or could it be
that he is married and fear that someone who
knows his wife will tell. In that case there
will be tears and recriminations; wonder what
lies he has told her? She’ll call him a love rat
and speak nastily about him for years.
On the other hand he could be a chauffeur
for a rich man and she’s a maid, both wearing
cast offs on their day off; and he’s bewildered
usually he’s ignored. Perhaps they will get
married, he’s going to buy a limousine an be
self employed, while she will open a shop and
do ironing for people who have no time to do it
themselves. And look! He’s kissing her now.
A well groomed couple walks in front of me,
he wears a club blazer, mid thirty graying hair.
She’s twenty something and for her wrinkles
is a fun word and she has long blond hair that
clearly loves her. She slips her hand into his,
he looks around, I wonder why?
Later, in a café, she leans over and kisses him,
he looks around again, plays it cool.
What’s wrong with the man is he total fool,
doesn’t he know when loves comes around he
has to grab it with both hands; or could it be
that he is married and fear that someone who
knows his wife will tell. In that case there
will be tears and recriminations; wonder what
lies he has told her? She’ll call him a love rat
and speak nastily about him for years.
On the other hand he could be a chauffeur
for a rich man and she’s a maid, both wearing
cast offs on their day off; and he’s bewildered
usually he’s ignored. Perhaps they will get
married, he’s going to buy a limousine an be
self employed, while she will open a shop and
do ironing for people who have no time to do it
themselves. And look! He’s kissing her now.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Long Life
Long Life
Now that the hope for a metaphysical heaven has
Declined longevity is the new mantra, to live till
Ninety and beyond is the goal.
Every one over seventy must do exercises, go
Early to bed, eat very little, that’s easy now that
Food is getting expensive…and be booze free.
It doesn’t matter if the last decade is spent in bed,
It’s possible to do stretch exercises from there,
And to remember who you are is not important.
No one talks about quality of life, I rather die on
A glorious day when sea and sky are in harmony,
Than in an iron bed in a room that has white wall.
Now that the hope for a metaphysical heaven has
Declined longevity is the new mantra, to live till
Ninety and beyond is the goal.
Every one over seventy must do exercises, go
Early to bed, eat very little, that’s easy now that
Food is getting expensive…and be booze free.
It doesn’t matter if the last decade is spent in bed,
It’s possible to do stretch exercises from there,
And to remember who you are is not important.
No one talks about quality of life, I rather die on
A glorious day when sea and sky are in harmony,
Than in an iron bed in a room that has white wall.
Edward Hopper Painting
Edward Hopper Painting
Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on, while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.
Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.
Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on, while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.
Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.
The End of ==/
The end of ==/
My dog saw it first the log rolling gently
on the edge of the sea, only it was a man
in a dinner suit and he had a hole in his
forehead. His hands had been severed,
his dark/blond wig clung to grey neck hair
where tiny crabs had taken up residence
A handsome actor’s face, 007, I was sure
he should have taken that desk job offered
by M, now that he was middle aged and
slowing down, sad, but it happens to us
all we don’t see it before it’s too late and
we end up dead or even worse, laughed at.
As an agent he wasn’t useful to anyone,
I pushed him back to the sea the sharks or
failing that, shrimps, lobsters and crabs
could have him now; poetic justice, you
may say, he used to enjoy dear seafood
after shooting someone dead.
My dog saw it first the log rolling gently
on the edge of the sea, only it was a man
in a dinner suit and he had a hole in his
forehead. His hands had been severed,
his dark/blond wig clung to grey neck hair
where tiny crabs had taken up residence
A handsome actor’s face, 007, I was sure
he should have taken that desk job offered
by M, now that he was middle aged and
slowing down, sad, but it happens to us
all we don’t see it before it’s too late and
we end up dead or even worse, laughed at.
As an agent he wasn’t useful to anyone,
I pushed him back to the sea the sharks or
failing that, shrimps, lobsters and crabs
could have him now; poetic justice, you
may say, he used to enjoy dear seafood
after shooting someone dead.
January Seaside
January Seaside
The yellow sanded beach has been washed
by the sea, and is now free of human debris,
such as forgotten sunglasses, suntan oil and
empty bottles of noxious soft drinks.
It is just there reborn, drying in the winter
sun, yet to be stepped on by man; and above,
large, sanitary seagulls crossly shrieks, warn
us not to trespass on their domain
The yellow sanded beach has been washed
by the sea, and is now free of human debris,
such as forgotten sunglasses, suntan oil and
empty bottles of noxious soft drinks.
It is just there reborn, drying in the winter
sun, yet to be stepped on by man; and above,
large, sanitary seagulls crossly shrieks, warn
us not to trespass on their domain
Monday, February 11, 2008
Desember Forest
December Forest.
I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.
This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like gangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;
but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.
It isn’t easy to be a tree, if one happens to
be placed amongst siblings, and its roots
can’t touch a loved one, across the road,
the future must be bleak indeed
A tree can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written. And you call that solace?
I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.
This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like gangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;
but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.
It isn’t easy to be a tree, if one happens to
be placed amongst siblings, and its roots
can’t touch a loved one, across the road,
the future must be bleak indeed
A tree can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written. And you call that solace?
Tanka poems
Tanka
Open hands at rest
On the oak kitchen table
As an oft’ read book
Loose leaved and dog eared
A mother’s sad tale?
Tanka
Weary hands at rest
On the old woman’s lap
Ask you to see
Having giving all her life
She’s empty handed now
Open hands at rest
On the oak kitchen table
As an oft’ read book
Loose leaved and dog eared
A mother’s sad tale?
Tanka
Weary hands at rest
On the old woman’s lap
Ask you to see
Having giving all her life
She’s empty handed now
2 short poems
Nostalgia
This land of soft stones and olive trees
Welcomes me,
But I dream of Nordic earth with rim
Frost and obstinate granite.
And I ask myself, why is it so difficult
For me to forget you?
The childless
Fallow land the old homestead is
Falling into disrepair
The last cow sent to the knacker’s yard,
There are no calves.
No reminiscence, nor a photo album
The silence speaks of nothing
This land of soft stones and olive trees
Welcomes me,
But I dream of Nordic earth with rim
Frost and obstinate granite.
And I ask myself, why is it so difficult
For me to forget you?
The childless
Fallow land the old homestead is
Falling into disrepair
The last cow sent to the knacker’s yard,
There are no calves.
No reminiscence, nor a photo album
The silence speaks of nothing
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Myth
The Myth
Bashful almond tree
Proudly stands beside an oak
Jubilant today
Strews silky flowers about
To honour a fair princess
Born in the cold North
She missed snow and cried
A river of tears
Walls in her castle so damp
That everyone got the flu
Lived in Silves
Married to a Moslem prince
A tolerant man
Good to Christians and Jews
And he made swords into ploughs
(Silves is an ancient town in Portugal)
Bashful almond tree
Proudly stands beside an oak
Jubilant today
Strews silky flowers about
To honour a fair princess
Born in the cold North
She missed snow and cried
A river of tears
Walls in her castle so damp
That everyone got the flu
Lived in Silves
Married to a Moslem prince
A tolerant man
Good to Christians and Jews
And he made swords into ploughs
(Silves is an ancient town in Portugal)
Senryu
Senryu
Poor Gustave Le Bon
He discovered black light
And was vilified
10 quid she said
Beneath the night of a tree
The moon was absent
On dazzling days
When the sun cascades
Details go unseen.
Poor Gustave Le Bon
He discovered black light
And was vilified
10 quid she said
Beneath the night of a tree
The moon was absent
On dazzling days
When the sun cascades
Details go unseen.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Hesitation
Hesitation
How heavy is this lake, I ask myself, it
tastes of blandness, tepid too; dust on
its surface, like the glass of water -on
the kitchen table -that should have been
drunk with the forgotten pill…and now,
nine month later, I will not go into that.
I swim to the middle of the lake where
a stone sticks out of the water, had I been
in a dingy, a hazy day, I could have hit
the mini reef. Did she forget to take that
pill? Tired arms, a swift breeze cools
the water, too cold now to drown oneself.
How heavy is this lake, I ask myself, it
tastes of blandness, tepid too; dust on
its surface, like the glass of water -on
the kitchen table -that should have been
drunk with the forgotten pill…and now,
nine month later, I will not go into that.
I swim to the middle of the lake where
a stone sticks out of the water, had I been
in a dingy, a hazy day, I could have hit
the mini reef. Did she forget to take that
pill? Tired arms, a swift breeze cools
the water, too cold now to drown oneself.
Oscar's proverb
Oscar’s Proverb
When you are alone
There is no one around,
Who loves you enough,
To tell you when you
Are wrong
When you are alone
There is no one around,
Who loves you enough,
To tell you when you
Are wrong
Thursday, February 07, 2008
confession
Confession.
Winter storm 1974, a supply vessel gets motor stop near
the sandy shores of Denmark where spindrift makes it
hard to see it is like being snow blind. We are together on
the bridge with life jackets on, the skipper, a religious man
asks us to sing a psalm we reluctantly do. Gripped by
the moment the first officer shouts:” Forgive me God for
I have sinned.” We are spared the rest, as the old chief
gets the engine started again and the magic of the moment
evaporates leaving behind embarrassment as we head for
the open sea which is the best place to be in a storm, if not
safely anchored in a bay. That evening there was laughter
in the mess-hall, I knew why, as so does the first officer
who, for the rest of the voyage, eats in my galley, and tries
to be as unobserved as it is possible to be on a small ship.
Winter storm 1974, a supply vessel gets motor stop near
the sandy shores of Denmark where spindrift makes it
hard to see it is like being snow blind. We are together on
the bridge with life jackets on, the skipper, a religious man
asks us to sing a psalm we reluctantly do. Gripped by
the moment the first officer shouts:” Forgive me God for
I have sinned.” We are spared the rest, as the old chief
gets the engine started again and the magic of the moment
evaporates leaving behind embarrassment as we head for
the open sea which is the best place to be in a storm, if not
safely anchored in a bay. That evening there was laughter
in the mess-hall, I knew why, as so does the first officer
who, for the rest of the voyage, eats in my galley, and tries
to be as unobserved as it is possible to be on a small ship.
Heroes
Heroes?
The sky is azure
Except for easterly dust clouds
Bombed out dwellings?
Delightful whiffs of poppies
Fields of the sweetest fantasy
Guarded by blue caps
The biggest harvest for years
Drug lords are rich
Armour plated four wheels
But they will never be safe
Afghanistan
A place for those who like wars
An Eden for contract killers
The Taliban will be victors
When smoke rises above Kabul
So, how safe am I?
Sitting in the spring sun
In my backyard
Getting a deep rich man’s tan
Is it cordite I can smell?
The sky is azure
Except for easterly dust clouds
Bombed out dwellings?
Delightful whiffs of poppies
Fields of the sweetest fantasy
Guarded by blue caps
The biggest harvest for years
Drug lords are rich
Armour plated four wheels
But they will never be safe
Afghanistan
A place for those who like wars
An Eden for contract killers
The Taliban will be victors
When smoke rises above Kabul
So, how safe am I?
Sitting in the spring sun
In my backyard
Getting a deep rich man’s tan
Is it cordite I can smell?
Musical
Musical
Long time ago when Liverpool harbour side looked
like a Lawry painting, and not as now, posh homes
for the well to do, my ship docked and I was given
a half day off work. In a narrow street I found a shop
selling used musical instruments and I saw my dream,
a saxophone costing ten quid. I ran back onboard
asked the captain for a loan, luckily he was in a good
mood; but when I came back to the shop my dream
was gone. Later, when day ended and night began,
outside a jazz club- they wouldn’t let me in because
they said I was too young, I heard someone playing
beautiful music on my saxophone
Long time ago when Liverpool harbour side looked
like a Lawry painting, and not as now, posh homes
for the well to do, my ship docked and I was given
a half day off work. In a narrow street I found a shop
selling used musical instruments and I saw my dream,
a saxophone costing ten quid. I ran back onboard
asked the captain for a loan, luckily he was in a good
mood; but when I came back to the shop my dream
was gone. Later, when day ended and night began,
outside a jazz club- they wouldn’t let me in because
they said I was too young, I heard someone playing
beautiful music on my saxophone
an opld lover remembered
An Old Lover Remembered.
On my walks, in the part of town that is neglected, where
streetlamps are so few that they can’t link light, I met my
old lover; she has a kiosk, sells fried chicken and fries,
soft drinks and cigarettes, since there are no other outlets
for these kind of things the poor and homeless, come here
for a bit to eat and socialize on the pavement outside her
business Years hadn’t been kind, her beautiful lips that
could do tricks were now a pale scar across her ashen face,
with dried up spittle, the colour of meerschaum- only seen
in secret coves- in the corners of her mouth, short cut hair
and her Atlantic green eyes had lost their lustre. No, time
had not been kind to us, if I kissed her now and she saw
my toothless gums, she would recoil in horror. Our sexual
exploit remembered is a poorer diet than her broilers.
On my walks, in the part of town that is neglected, where
streetlamps are so few that they can’t link light, I met my
old lover; she has a kiosk, sells fried chicken and fries,
soft drinks and cigarettes, since there are no other outlets
for these kind of things the poor and homeless, come here
for a bit to eat and socialize on the pavement outside her
business Years hadn’t been kind, her beautiful lips that
could do tricks were now a pale scar across her ashen face,
with dried up spittle, the colour of meerschaum- only seen
in secret coves- in the corners of her mouth, short cut hair
and her Atlantic green eyes had lost their lustre. No, time
had not been kind to us, if I kissed her now and she saw
my toothless gums, she would recoil in horror. Our sexual
exploit remembered is a poorer diet than her broilers.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
The homestead
The Homestead
The door used to be sky blue, my father painted it
so because mother loved that colour; mind now it’s
cracked, weather bitten and pale as dead wood.
The door to the cabin, where I was born, used to be
Big and imposing it took years before I could reach
its handle, now I had to bend down to touch it.
My derelict legacy, not been here for years; as I
opened the door, air bothered the silence, a storm
of memories spun dust about, closed my eyes, had
a dizzy spell, and opened shutters to let daylight in.
I came here because I’m old and need something
that makes sense on my voyage across the oceans.
The door used to be sky blue, my father painted it
so because mother loved that colour; mind now it’s
cracked, weather bitten and pale as dead wood.
The door to the cabin, where I was born, used to be
Big and imposing it took years before I could reach
its handle, now I had to bend down to touch it.
My derelict legacy, not been here for years; as I
opened the door, air bothered the silence, a storm
of memories spun dust about, closed my eyes, had
a dizzy spell, and opened shutters to let daylight in.
I came here because I’m old and need something
that makes sense on my voyage across the oceans.
a painting
A Painting
I have a painting of a young pilot leaning against
his bi-plane smoking a cigarette, you can see,
from his natural confidence, he must have been
born rich and benefited from a first class education
Strange, but yore was a more equal time, the sons
the rich also died on foreign battle field, they did
so as a matter of honour; now they pull threads of
gold and keep their brood safely at home.
It is a beautiful painting it oozes peace, a green
field near a river that has tall trees that endlessly
look at themselves in slow running water, and
I wonder: did the young man survive his war?
I have a painting of a young pilot leaning against
his bi-plane smoking a cigarette, you can see,
from his natural confidence, he must have been
born rich and benefited from a first class education
Strange, but yore was a more equal time, the sons
the rich also died on foreign battle field, they did
so as a matter of honour; now they pull threads of
gold and keep their brood safely at home.
It is a beautiful painting it oozes peace, a green
field near a river that has tall trees that endlessly
look at themselves in slow running water, and
I wonder: did the young man survive his war?
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Bucolic Night
Bucolic Night
In the vale where I live, darkness is deeper than
anywhere else. No streetlights to ease the path
of a walker as trees and bushes on both side of
the road move and take threatening forms and,
there is no point to run the steps you here behind
you are sprinting as fast as you.
There is light afar, a lode star one can say, where
music is laud, voices boastful and wine runs
freely from the pewter tankard; home-road is easy
fear gone, but do not dance with a troll’s daughter
or you’ll end up in a mountain cave till you become
a one eyed troll that doesn’t like natural light.
In the vale where I live, darkness is deeper than
anywhere else. No streetlights to ease the path
of a walker as trees and bushes on both side of
the road move and take threatening forms and,
there is no point to run the steps you here behind
you are sprinting as fast as you.
There is light afar, a lode star one can say, where
music is laud, voices boastful and wine runs
freely from the pewter tankard; home-road is easy
fear gone, but do not dance with a troll’s daughter
or you’ll end up in a mountain cave till you become
a one eyed troll that doesn’t like natural light.
tanka
Tanka
To be a good goy
Accept Moslems and Jews
But remember this
When the forest is logged
Affiliation supercedes nation
To be a good goy
Accept Moslems and Jews
But remember this
When the forest is logged
Affiliation supercedes nation
Monday, February 04, 2008
Tanka
Tanka
He rode his brave steed
Up a steep mountain and down
To meet his beloved
Burst lungs; the mount, useless now
Was made into salami
Tanka
From a fair distance
I could see the house was empty
Deep melancholy
Etched in faces of the dead
Frozen on the window pane
On cold winter nights
When the past comes back to haunt
Both innocent and guilty
Of what they failed to do
To give time for those in need
He rode his brave steed
Up a steep mountain and down
To meet his beloved
Burst lungs; the mount, useless now
Was made into salami
Tanka
From a fair distance
I could see the house was empty
Deep melancholy
Etched in faces of the dead
Frozen on the window pane
On cold winter nights
When the past comes back to haunt
Both innocent and guilty
Of what they failed to do
To give time for those in need
Senryu
Senryu
On the mountain’s tarn
Sunlight skipped crazily
On tiny waves
In rustic silence
I hear a sparrow’s egg crack
And a life begins
On new fallen snow
Flighty thoughts quickly cross
Leaves no words behind
The last drop of rain
That fell on the small atoll
Submerged it
On the mountain’s tarn
Sunlight skipped crazily
On tiny waves
In rustic silence
I hear a sparrow’s egg crack
And a life begins
On new fallen snow
Flighty thoughts quickly cross
Leaves no words behind
The last drop of rain
That fell on the small atoll
Submerged it
the killing
The Killing
On the bare kitchen table a sugar lump, suitable in a cup of
coffee (two are too much) looking like a gleaming rock of
marble on a large, bare upland plain A few tiny scout house
ants had gathered around the rock sending chemical signals
to their tribe and before long they came marching, from all
four corners of the kitchen, an intense moving black mass
which collective goal was to get a holly lick, then go home
and tell about it. A few tiny house ants scars no one, but ten
millions do, so I the threw the sugar lump out of the window,
before they got the idea of turning on me. They all began
marching back to their respective cracks in the wall except
for a few that had decided to settle in a crack on the table,
that was not on so I killed them with my thumb, washed my
hands with vinegar and was absolved of my sin.
On the bare kitchen table a sugar lump, suitable in a cup of
coffee (two are too much) looking like a gleaming rock of
marble on a large, bare upland plain A few tiny scout house
ants had gathered around the rock sending chemical signals
to their tribe and before long they came marching, from all
four corners of the kitchen, an intense moving black mass
which collective goal was to get a holly lick, then go home
and tell about it. A few tiny house ants scars no one, but ten
millions do, so I the threw the sugar lump out of the window,
before they got the idea of turning on me. They all began
marching back to their respective cracks in the wall except
for a few that had decided to settle in a crack on the table,
that was not on so I killed them with my thumb, washed my
hands with vinegar and was absolved of my sin.
moody blue
Moody Blue
She rang said she was coming with the late train,
Since it was her birthday I had thought she would
Come early so we could go to a restaurant for
A meal and drink some good wine
The train arrived just before midnight, I was hungry
And tired of waiting, she was tired too, I had
Brought flowers, she thought they were nice and
Put them in the backseat of the car.
We drove home, both feeling wounded; at home
she made an omelet, I had a drink; later we watched
a TV show in aggrieved stillness. Next day we had
a big row and that cleared the air
She rang said she was coming with the late train,
Since it was her birthday I had thought she would
Come early so we could go to a restaurant for
A meal and drink some good wine
The train arrived just before midnight, I was hungry
And tired of waiting, she was tired too, I had
Brought flowers, she thought they were nice and
Put them in the backseat of the car.
We drove home, both feeling wounded; at home
she made an omelet, I had a drink; later we watched
a TV show in aggrieved stillness. Next day we had
a big row and that cleared the air
keeping fit
Keeping fit.
I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike was till there, in lashing autumn rain, rusty
now, no longer an object of envy, what’s the matter
with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?
I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike was till there, in lashing autumn rain, rusty
now, no longer an object of envy, what’s the matter
with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?
baker's dozen
The Baker’s Dozen
The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.
His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.
During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.
When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.
The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.
His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.
During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.
When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.
The good shepherd
The Good Shepherd.
As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.
The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.
Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.
As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.
The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.
Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Indian poem
Indian Poem
As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;
so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;
spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;
and from my old school’s window
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.
As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;
so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;
spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;
and from my old school’s window
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.
Tanka
I couldn’t find the street
Where my lover used to live
A morass of houses
Anyway it doesn’t matter
Hopeless, bringing back the past
Tanka
The festive street Tanka
Walked in blank streets
Bitter and confused cried:
Where is my home?
It’s very hard to understand
That the past has erased it
Tanka (Eyak, an Alaskan Indian Language)
A frisson of fear
The Eyak language died
Its speaker too
A minority language gone
Its silence is terrifying
Now that bars and clubs have shut
Looks disillusioned
But is a dark hunting ground
Where a rats, caught by cats, shrieks
I couldn’t find the street
Where my lover used to live
A morass of houses
Anyway it doesn’t matter
Hopeless, bringing back the past
Tanka
The festive street Tanka
Walked in blank streets
Bitter and confused cried:
Where is my home?
It’s very hard to understand
That the past has erased it
Tanka (Eyak, an Alaskan Indian Language)
A frisson of fear
The Eyak language died
Its speaker too
A minority language gone
Its silence is terrifying
Now that bars and clubs have shut
Looks disillusioned
But is a dark hunting ground
Where a rats, caught by cats, shrieks
valentine
Valentine is coming your way
“Good morning darling did you sleep well,
I heard you were up in the night, remember
to switch of the lights” “Morning sweetheart,
yes I was up had to pee, I do a lot with the pills
I’m taking Lasix 4 0, powerful stuff
Think I peed seven times.”“ Poor you,
I will get up and make the coffee and toast,
rest a bit longer, but don’t forget
that you are painting the hall this afternoon
while I go to the hairdresser”
“Good morning darling did you sleep well,
I heard you were up in the night, remember
to switch of the lights” “Morning sweetheart,
yes I was up had to pee, I do a lot with the pills
I’m taking Lasix 4 0, powerful stuff
Think I peed seven times.”“ Poor you,
I will get up and make the coffee and toast,
rest a bit longer, but don’t forget
that you are painting the hall this afternoon
while I go to the hairdresser”
an olive branch
An Olive Branch
A very old olive tree, owned by a Palestinian,
so aged that it might have given shade to
the carpenter Joseph when he was resting under
its shade a hot august lunch time and contemplating
his sons’ futures, was bulldozed this morning.
No big deal you may say and I agree, everything
must come to an end, even olive trees, only
the perennial was got rid of because the Israeli
army’s snipers needed a clear view to the village
where people, who didn’t like their regime, live.
A very old olive tree, owned by a Palestinian,
so aged that it might have given shade to
the carpenter Joseph when he was resting under
its shade a hot august lunch time and contemplating
his sons’ futures, was bulldozed this morning.
No big deal you may say and I agree, everything
must come to an end, even olive trees, only
the perennial was got rid of because the Israeli
army’s snipers needed a clear view to the village
where people, who didn’t like their regime, live.
Senryu
When day ends in night
Whatever we might think or say
Our deity is Dosh
Tanka
Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell
How much they love her dearly.
Epigram
An airline pilot who gets into trouble when flying
Must try to land safely, or he will be dead; if he’s
Victorious he’ll be celebrated and given a medalTanka
Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell Senryu
Valentine day
Hiding married boredom
Behind glowing words
How much they love her dearly.
For saving his own life
When day ends in night
Whatever we might think or say
Our deity is Dosh
Tanka
Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell
How much they love her dearly.
Epigram
An airline pilot who gets into trouble when flying
Must try to land safely, or he will be dead; if he’s
Victorious he’ll be celebrated and given a medalTanka
Madeline, the lost child
Her disappearance ain’t in vain
Her parents are paid
Millions of dollars to tell Senryu
Valentine day
Hiding married boredom
Behind glowing words
How much they love her dearly.
For saving his own life
Years to remember
Years To Remember.
The war years, she said, was a good time, people
were glad of heart and helped one another, pigs
and chickens in the back yard had many owners,
as had rabbits in hutches on the verandahs.
The man who had a rowing boat caught codfish for
the whole neighbourhood. The middle classes went
hungry too, in bigger houses; and unskilled lawyers
learned, from clients, how to steal carrots and beans
And as the war years came to an end the occupiers
soldiers starved, asked for fish to cook in exchanges
for cigarettes or a bottle of booze, no one gloated; till
peace came and each one of us had to struggle alone.
The war years, she said, was a good time, people
were glad of heart and helped one another, pigs
and chickens in the back yard had many owners,
as had rabbits in hutches on the verandahs.
The man who had a rowing boat caught codfish for
the whole neighbourhood. The middle classes went
hungry too, in bigger houses; and unskilled lawyers
learned, from clients, how to steal carrots and beans
And as the war years came to an end the occupiers
soldiers starved, asked for fish to cook in exchanges
for cigarettes or a bottle of booze, no one gloated; till
peace came and each one of us had to struggle alone.
a day when nothinhg happened
A Day When Nothing Happened.
A perfectly quiet day is coming to an end no breeze rustles
amongst green leaf that have got a shimmer on from
the pale sun. The almond trees that have been allocated
the best place in the sun have sprung flowers pink and white,
I can sense their boastful jubilation, and why not?
After being spindly and ugly for months they deserve
applause and, yes, a bit of envy from the less successful ones.
Rabbits on green run under stones I see more of them now
than my old dog lived, she was forever chasing rabbits, even
in her sleep. From my vantage point I can see the sun go down
behind, not the first sea but the seventh one, as this day is so
clear that I can see forever, but there are no clouds on the sky
for it to paint pink, but there is no need today.
And then it is night and dogs will bark from one village to
the next, perhaps they lament the burden of living in the shadow
of man, or they just like to gossip and have a good laugh on our
behalf. Should they stop barking one night I will wake up and
fear for my life
A perfectly quiet day is coming to an end no breeze rustles
amongst green leaf that have got a shimmer on from
the pale sun. The almond trees that have been allocated
the best place in the sun have sprung flowers pink and white,
I can sense their boastful jubilation, and why not?
After being spindly and ugly for months they deserve
applause and, yes, a bit of envy from the less successful ones.
Rabbits on green run under stones I see more of them now
than my old dog lived, she was forever chasing rabbits, even
in her sleep. From my vantage point I can see the sun go down
behind, not the first sea but the seventh one, as this day is so
clear that I can see forever, but there are no clouds on the sky
for it to paint pink, but there is no need today.
And then it is night and dogs will bark from one village to
the next, perhaps they lament the burden of living in the shadow
of man, or they just like to gossip and have a good laugh on our
behalf. Should they stop barking one night I will wake up and
fear for my life
January day
January Day.
This winter day I can see the ocean shine from
the coast of Portugal to the Saragossa Sea; and
in the shimmer, I dare not breath lest the spell
is broken, I see Ireland too.
The Atlantic is a beast let it slumber and enjoy
the stillness, at least till my ship reaches
Port of Spain where the sea is azure and scars,
made by rusty tank-ships, heal in seconds.
I’ll cast my anchor there, in a bay ringed by
palm trees, but not stay too long; I will not like
to miss the blossoming of the almond trees, in
my hidden valley, near the village of Benafim.
This winter day I can see the ocean shine from
the coast of Portugal to the Saragossa Sea; and
in the shimmer, I dare not breath lest the spell
is broken, I see Ireland too.
The Atlantic is a beast let it slumber and enjoy
the stillness, at least till my ship reaches
Port of Spain where the sea is azure and scars,
made by rusty tank-ships, heal in seconds.
I’ll cast my anchor there, in a bay ringed by
palm trees, but not stay too long; I will not like
to miss the blossoming of the almond trees, in
my hidden valley, near the village of Benafim.
let there be light
Let There Be Light.
The mad scientist spoke of black light,
to night, however, the darkness is
velvety sable, and reflects moonlight
in an enchanting way; erases unwanted
contours, and unfavorable details; good
for you skin too and puts gloss in your
hair, and that’s a bonus when you are
sixty-four.
The mad scientist spoke of black light,
to night, however, the darkness is
velvety sable, and reflects moonlight
in an enchanting way; erases unwanted
contours, and unfavorable details; good
for you skin too and puts gloss in your
hair, and that’s a bonus when you are
sixty-four.
keeping fit
Keeping fit.
I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike is till there, in lashing autumn rain, very
rusty now and no longer an object of envy, what’s
the matter with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?
I had an exercise bike with a computer telling me
how far and fast I was cycling. By turning a knob
left it was hard work as going up a hill, by turning
the knob left it got easy to pedal, and I pretended
cycling down a steep hill; I could also adjust it as
biking through a flat, Dutch landscape of canals,
tulips, Edam cheese and blond girls, wearing clogs
traditional dresses, sunny smiles and funny hats.
I took the bike outside, one nice spring day when
sun warmed my pale face; put it on the pavement,
near the bins, went for a long walk Months later,
the bike is till there, in lashing autumn rain, very
rusty now and no longer an object of envy, what’s
the matter with thieves don’t they want to keep fit?
the baker's dozen
The Baker’s Dozen
The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.
His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.
During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.
When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.
The baker, in our village, a man who loved his craft,
collaborated with the enemy in the war of 1940-45, as
it was the only way he could get fine flour and other
stuff to bake his delicious cakes and white bread.
Our baker was a pleasant, brown eyed, a short rotund
man who always had boiled sweet in his pocket for
the children when he went for his afternoon walk.
His wife was more of an administrative type, dressed
in black, starched blouse and ankle long skirt, and in
her blue eyes ice floes drifted; chased children, beggars
and dogs with her broom, but had been seen feeding
birds, bread crumbs on cold winter days.
During daylight the enemy and Nazi officials came and
bought the baker’s enticing products; in nights or early
mornings those who could afford it, but didn’t like to be
seen associating with a traitor, came and bought fresh
bread, aromatic Danish pastry and chocolate éclairs.
When the war ended, as wars must, the baker was sent
to jail as a collaborator, but he didn’t sit there long
I suspect - but cannot prove this- that his night visitors,
mostly lawyers, doctors and business men spoke well of
him into the right authorities. It is odd to think during
all this upheaval few, if any, knew that it was his wife
who wore an iron cross under her blouse.
The good sheperd
The Good Shepherd.
As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.
The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.
Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.
As the sun was setting the pastor got up from under
a carob tree, time to take his flock home; it had been
a good day leading his sheep through olive groves,
scrubland and fields; his dogs looked at him they were
hungry and eager to get home too.
The pastor bent down picked up a tiny lamb that had
been rejected by its mother, it began suckling his thumb;
he was going to give it to his wife who would fatten it
for a month or so. Lamb-stew’s tender meat, he liked
now that he had lost all his teeth.
Yes, life is good he must remember to light a candle
and say thanks at mass on Sunday.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Only and the Lonely
The Only and the Lonely
She’s old her eyes have the faded shade
of stone washed denim, dressed in black,
“since my husband died” she says, sits in
my café and drink a cup of hot chocolate
every afternoon.
Not married, she has been alone too long
has invented her children, sits and talk to
them on the mobile phone; awful children
her mobile never rings, tells me that one
daughter is a lawyer
She’s old her eyes have the faded shade
of stone washed denim, dressed in black,
“since my husband died” she says, sits in
my café and drink a cup of hot chocolate
every afternoon.
Not married, she has been alone too long
has invented her children, sits and talk to
them on the mobile phone; awful children
her mobile never rings, tells me that one
daughter is a lawyer
Filial affection
Filial Affection
I can hear her whimper in the night, I must get up
put my frogman suit on and go to her, she sits in
a cove dressed only in a sea weed jumper, there are
holes in her fishnet stocking; yes, you are right my
little daughter is a mermaid
It was July day long time ago when I met her mum,
the dolphin, a hopeless affair doomed to failure, but
did we try! The baby stayed in my swimming pool,
while her mother swam to the coast of Greenland
and feeding off the shrimps there
When my tiny girl became a teenager she went back
to her mother and they both swam to Greenland; and
I thought I should never see her again. Tired she sits
and waits for me. I must join her, in her world, now
that I sold my house with the swimming pool.
I can hear her whimper in the night, I must get up
put my frogman suit on and go to her, she sits in
a cove dressed only in a sea weed jumper, there are
holes in her fishnet stocking; yes, you are right my
little daughter is a mermaid
It was July day long time ago when I met her mum,
the dolphin, a hopeless affair doomed to failure, but
did we try! The baby stayed in my swimming pool,
while her mother swam to the coast of Greenland
and feeding off the shrimps there
When my tiny girl became a teenager she went back
to her mother and they both swam to Greenland; and
I thought I should never see her again. Tired she sits
and waits for me. I must join her, in her world, now
that I sold my house with the swimming pool.
the hostage
The Hostage.
A man, in a small town in Texas,
robbed a bank; then stuck a gun
into his mouth and took himself
hostage. Outside, when asked to
free the hostage he took the gun
out to answer and was shot dead
by the sheriff
A man, in a small town in Texas,
robbed a bank; then stuck a gun
into his mouth and took himself
hostage. Outside, when asked to
free the hostage he took the gun
out to answer and was shot dead
by the sheriff
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A War Hero
The big gull stood on its realm, ocean cleaned rocks
of the outer sea, snowy white chest, blue/grey wings
that spanned big as an osprey’s, yellow beak and
clear green eyes, but when a hint of red anger in them
gleamed other gulls flew clear.
When the ocean is irate and breaks over rocks it
take abode in a coastal town where it is well know
and famous, for once it shat on Adolf Hitler’s hat as
he strode from his yacht and a band of Quislings,
played Austrian oompah music
Domestic Nazis went to the shoals, tried to blow
them up, but sea was white topped, their boat
sprung a leak and they had to be rescued by local
fishermen, who were told not to speak of this affair;
an impossible request… of course.
The seagull became a symbol of resistance and
also showed how banal dictatorship can be, when
it puts a prize on a gull’s head, and hunts it with
flying machines. Vanity is silly as pride and fools
silver, fishermen and war heroes know that.
The big gull stood on its realm, ocean cleaned rocks
of the outer sea, snowy white chest, blue/grey wings
that spanned big as an osprey’s, yellow beak and
clear green eyes, but when a hint of red anger in them
gleamed other gulls flew clear.
When the ocean is irate and breaks over rocks it
take abode in a coastal town where it is well know
and famous, for once it shat on Adolf Hitler’s hat as
he strode from his yacht and a band of Quislings,
played Austrian oompah music
Domestic Nazis went to the shoals, tried to blow
them up, but sea was white topped, their boat
sprung a leak and they had to be rescued by local
fishermen, who were told not to speak of this affair;
an impossible request… of course.
The seagull became a symbol of resistance and
also showed how banal dictatorship can be, when
it puts a prize on a gull’s head, and hunts it with
flying machines. Vanity is silly as pride and fools
silver, fishermen and war heroes know that.
lemon love
Lemon Love.
On the hill where serious olive tree look
like an army of ancient generals, a lone
citrus tree stands and I, a yellow lemon,
longing for love.
The maiden, who milk the dawn, came
and picked and caressed me with her
strong hands and kissed me tenderly till
I almost blushed.
She tripped on an exposed olive root
I fell out of her hands and rolled down hill
came to rest between two rocks where
a snake swallowed me whole
She killed the snake freed and dried me
on her apron that had pretty bluebells on
forgave me for running away then she
cut me in half squishing me dry.
On the hill where serious olive tree look
like an army of ancient generals, a lone
citrus tree stands and I, a yellow lemon,
longing for love.
The maiden, who milk the dawn, came
and picked and caressed me with her
strong hands and kissed me tenderly till
I almost blushed.
She tripped on an exposed olive root
I fell out of her hands and rolled down hill
came to rest between two rocks where
a snake swallowed me whole
She killed the snake freed and dried me
on her apron that had pretty bluebells on
forgave me for running away then she
cut me in half squishing me dry.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The misfits
The Misfits.
Snow, powdered glass thawed became slush and
dejected rain fell, bored children sat in sheds hitting
the smaller ones over the head with wooden spoons.
No snowman with coal eyes and carrot nose was
made that year as dirty paws on clean kitchen floors
became a top issue; the ministry of health exiled dogs
and, mysteriously, also ducks, from suburban homes.
Then it was summer, a dry one, yellow lawns, dead
frogs, and dust on rubber plants.
Olga, the mother, took to drink kept her bottle of gin
under the sink, sobbed every day into her dry rubber
plant, it thrived and sprouted gum. Her neglected man
looked as a tramp till a mermaid took pity taught him
to swim, when they make love it takes time cause he
has to surface every so often. The mermaid doesn’t
mind at last she has found a man who’s not in a hurry
to watch sport on the TV. Of Olga’s two children one
became a diver and the other, an alcoholic petty thief.
Snow, powdered glass thawed became slush and
dejected rain fell, bored children sat in sheds hitting
the smaller ones over the head with wooden spoons.
No snowman with coal eyes and carrot nose was
made that year as dirty paws on clean kitchen floors
became a top issue; the ministry of health exiled dogs
and, mysteriously, also ducks, from suburban homes.
Then it was summer, a dry one, yellow lawns, dead
frogs, and dust on rubber plants.
Olga, the mother, took to drink kept her bottle of gin
under the sink, sobbed every day into her dry rubber
plant, it thrived and sprouted gum. Her neglected man
looked as a tramp till a mermaid took pity taught him
to swim, when they make love it takes time cause he
has to surface every so often. The mermaid doesn’t
mind at last she has found a man who’s not in a hurry
to watch sport on the TV. Of Olga’s two children one
became a diver and the other, an alcoholic petty thief.
Haiku and Tanka
Haiku
Languid winter came
Kissed my brow till I froze
Indoors now, I stay.
Haiku
Overcast, dull summer
Where are life, love and laughter?
Rain streaks my window.
Senryu
In an empty house
Silence is a sad prisoner
That sighs in the night.
Tanka
How lamentable it is
This broil to keep the belly
Inside the belt
Not swelling over as a dough
The baker forgot to knead.
Languid winter came
Kissed my brow till I froze
Indoors now, I stay.
Haiku
Overcast, dull summer
Where are life, love and laughter?
Rain streaks my window.
Senryu
In an empty house
Silence is a sad prisoner
That sighs in the night.
Tanka
How lamentable it is
This broil to keep the belly
Inside the belt
Not swelling over as a dough
The baker forgot to knead.
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Suit.
I had bought a suit at the sale it was striped and according to
the mirror in the hall I looked smart, as a successful business
man. At the newsagent’s the girl smiled and said my suit was
lovely, but as I turned to go out I sensed mockery in her grin,
and her suppressed laughter followed me down the street till
I turned a corner. Stopped at a big shop window looked hard
and honestly at myself and was shocked. I saw an elephant
trying to look as a zebra, worse, a doorman, at a seedy hotel;
a failed mobster who now procures girls for the guests.
Passersby were staring at me, some with a smile,
others with contempt, it was now I noticed the window displayed sexy
lingerie. Horrified, so they sought I was a pervert, pained I
took off my glasses and since faces were now indistinct it
didn’t matter so much what they thought, but I sensed their
hissing giggle. Found solitude in a park on a bench amongst
green bushes, falling leaves and birdsong I read my paper in
peace. Coming home my wife asked me where I had been,
since my suit was covered in bird droppings
I had bought a suit at the sale it was striped and according to
the mirror in the hall I looked smart, as a successful business
man. At the newsagent’s the girl smiled and said my suit was
lovely, but as I turned to go out I sensed mockery in her grin,
and her suppressed laughter followed me down the street till
I turned a corner. Stopped at a big shop window looked hard
and honestly at myself and was shocked. I saw an elephant
trying to look as a zebra, worse, a doorman, at a seedy hotel;
a failed mobster who now procures girls for the guests.
Passersby were staring at me, some with a smile,
others with contempt, it was now I noticed the window displayed sexy
lingerie. Horrified, so they sought I was a pervert, pained I
took off my glasses and since faces were now indistinct it
didn’t matter so much what they thought, but I sensed their
hissing giggle. Found solitude in a park on a bench amongst
green bushes, falling leaves and birdsong I read my paper in
peace. Coming home my wife asked me where I had been,
since my suit was covered in bird droppings
alms
Alms
Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.
Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador hound,
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all I was the one doing the giving.
Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.
Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador hound,
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all I was the one doing the giving.
the last farewell
The Last Farewell.
When I worked as an orderly at a clinic in New York,
(now shut) that used to look after celebs of the music
and theatre world, I met Marilyn for the very last time.
Dressed in a fur coat – and nothing else, hair untidy on
her breath the lingering smell of alcohol; behind her
a gelatinous, howling mob of reporters that wouldn’t
let go of their wounded prey they wanted to absorb
every little detail of her immense suffering, I showed
Marilyn to the lift, held my arm around her to shield
her from the cameras; pressed the button, it seemed to
take forever before its door opened, when it did and
she entered, I whispered: “I will always love you.”
She turned, and as the door closed, smiled and she was
beautiful again, just for me.
When I worked as an orderly at a clinic in New York,
(now shut) that used to look after celebs of the music
and theatre world, I met Marilyn for the very last time.
Dressed in a fur coat – and nothing else, hair untidy on
her breath the lingering smell of alcohol; behind her
a gelatinous, howling mob of reporters that wouldn’t
let go of their wounded prey they wanted to absorb
every little detail of her immense suffering, I showed
Marilyn to the lift, held my arm around her to shield
her from the cameras; pressed the button, it seemed to
take forever before its door opened, when it did and
she entered, I whispered: “I will always love you.”
She turned, and as the door closed, smiled and she was
beautiful again, just for me.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Tanka
Tanka
Hazy Sunday dawn
A man on a rimfrost field
Has shot five hares
He has tied them to his belt
Blood drips on his trousers’ legs
Hazy Sunday dawn
A man on a rimfrost field
Has shot five hares
He has tied them to his belt
Blood drips on his trousers’ legs
The old tree
The Old Tree
The olive tree I used to sit under when the sun
got too bothersome, was young when Jesus
walked on the earth, politically radical upsetting
the delicate balance between Jewish traders
and Roman administrators – for which he was
duly crucified- has been moved, only a hole in
the ground; sold to a rich Chinese trader in Peking.
A bit sadder now than last year, but not bitter,
but I do hope the trader will lose all his money,
and in despair hang himself in my olive tree.
The olive tree I used to sit under when the sun
got too bothersome, was young when Jesus
walked on the earth, politically radical upsetting
the delicate balance between Jewish traders
and Roman administrators – for which he was
duly crucified- has been moved, only a hole in
the ground; sold to a rich Chinese trader in Peking.
A bit sadder now than last year, but not bitter,
but I do hope the trader will lose all his money,
and in despair hang himself in my olive tree.
Betrayal
Betrayal
The red roses over there, yes those in the blue
ceramic vase on the mahogany table, are eying
me hungrily, they could so easily grow roots in
my belly and produce black and green roses.
Till I had no more nourishment left and was
a skeletal being drained of useful mineral, and
petals would fall off seed blow in the wind to
other hosts… and the last indignity is done.
The red roses over there, yes those in the blue
ceramic vase on the mahogany table, are eying
me hungrily, they could so easily grow roots in
my belly and produce black and green roses.
Till I had no more nourishment left and was
a skeletal being drained of useful mineral, and
petals would fall off seed blow in the wind to
other hosts… and the last indignity is done.
end of day
End of a Day
Ominous shadows knock on my window,
a dog barks fears the encroaching night;
car lights try to penetrate and abstraction,
tiny holes that disappear in seconds
I draw the curtain the night has a myriad
of tiny eyes that look into my soul, show
no emotion, as I should be a mere insect,
it makes feel vulnerable and mortal
Ominous shadows knock on my window,
a dog barks fears the encroaching night;
car lights try to penetrate and abstraction,
tiny holes that disappear in seconds
I draw the curtain the night has a myriad
of tiny eyes that look into my soul, show
no emotion, as I should be a mere insect,
it makes feel vulnerable and mortal
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Story tellers
The Story Tellers.
They found old Peter burnt by the sun
on the strand between sea and land;
sea stars covered his eyes and tiny crabs
had sought refuge in his open mouth.
There was a wake, no one asked why he
had drowned, but his friends took turn
in telling of his many exploit when he
sailed the seven seas. In death he was
Promoted from a sea cook to a master
mariner, but telling lies like that is what
friends are for; beside it pleased his
grandchildren to know that the drunken
old man the occasionally saw had been
a hero of the great oceans.
.......
Ode to Hillary
If plan A fails
Try plan B
And cry.
They found old Peter burnt by the sun
on the strand between sea and land;
sea stars covered his eyes and tiny crabs
had sought refuge in his open mouth.
There was a wake, no one asked why he
had drowned, but his friends took turn
in telling of his many exploit when he
sailed the seven seas. In death he was
Promoted from a sea cook to a master
mariner, but telling lies like that is what
friends are for; beside it pleased his
grandchildren to know that the drunken
old man the occasionally saw had been
a hero of the great oceans.
.......
Ode to Hillary
If plan A fails
Try plan B
And cry.
Verdant
Verdant
It really is cold; sea spray has painted the ship
ghostly white, light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clanking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face on thick glass of a frozen
porthole, in three hours we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire drink wine,
and give a damn about sailor’s miserable life.
Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls; look at
that sea, so deftly verdant, delicate brush stokes
too, the artist is famous and, they say, very rich.
It really is cold; sea spray has painted the ship
ghostly white, light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clanking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face on thick glass of a frozen
porthole, in three hours we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire drink wine,
and give a damn about sailor’s miserable life.
Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls; look at
that sea, so deftly verdant, delicate brush stokes
too, the artist is famous and, they say, very rich.
Economy
Economy
I may go to Armenia and look for gold or scrap iron
the country is full of hammer and sickle monuments
and Lenin on a pedestal; if I collected that stuff and
built a ship and ply the China trade, unemployed
they will be workers of Europe, but what’s the hell
as long as they can get cheap shoes who cares.
In the mountain region of Chile and Argentina there
is a fence made of barbed wire, why it’s there no one
cares to know, but these days lost plastic bags from
all over the world, come here to rest and most of them
are made in China, advertising supermarkets in Spain,
and Finland too that used to make mobile phones.
The global economy brings peace and brotherhood
if not democracy, exchange of goods between lands
what could be more peaceful? If you are a worker
and unemployed…tough luck, if you can’t even buy
cheap pair of Asian shoes, you’ll just have to wait
till wages in Europe are lower than those in China
I may go to Armenia and look for gold or scrap iron
the country is full of hammer and sickle monuments
and Lenin on a pedestal; if I collected that stuff and
built a ship and ply the China trade, unemployed
they will be workers of Europe, but what’s the hell
as long as they can get cheap shoes who cares.
In the mountain region of Chile and Argentina there
is a fence made of barbed wire, why it’s there no one
cares to know, but these days lost plastic bags from
all over the world, come here to rest and most of them
are made in China, advertising supermarkets in Spain,
and Finland too that used to make mobile phones.
The global economy brings peace and brotherhood
if not democracy, exchange of goods between lands
what could be more peaceful? If you are a worker
and unemployed…tough luck, if you can’t even buy
cheap pair of Asian shoes, you’ll just have to wait
till wages in Europe are lower than those in China
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
mathematic
Mathematic
Young Luis had something in his nose, stuck
his little finger up his nostril to remove the itch,
when withdrawing the left hand from his face
he was alarmed to notice it only had four digits;
went to hospital, doctors looked up the external
openings of his snout, even gave him a scan,
nothing, suggested he was born with only four
fingers, including the thumb, on that hand;
called his mother, she wasn’t of help, as a writer
she treated her children with gentle neglect; but
if it was true that her son only had nine fingers she
could understand why he was so terrible at math.
Young Luis had something in his nose, stuck
his little finger up his nostril to remove the itch,
when withdrawing the left hand from his face
he was alarmed to notice it only had four digits;
went to hospital, doctors looked up the external
openings of his snout, even gave him a scan,
nothing, suggested he was born with only four
fingers, including the thumb, on that hand;
called his mother, she wasn’t of help, as a writer
she treated her children with gentle neglect; but
if it was true that her son only had nine fingers she
could understand why he was so terrible at math.
drizzle for peace
Drizzle For Peace
Good rain falls today it’s not splashing violently
down filling gutters and causing flooding, it falls
softly and is welcomed by the soil, grass and leaves.
Peaceful and lazy I stand in the doorway looking out
and I hear guns rusting quietly in the rain, as damp
ammunition fizzes white smoke, but does no harm.
If I could bottle peace of this un-heroic landscape of
Algarve and send it to Palestine; will it be drunk? Or
will they claim it’s against their religion to do so?
I don’t know, and you don’t come calling me a seer,
it’s just that all the peace around here is a waste and
it ought to be exported to those who need it
Good rain falls today it’s not splashing violently
down filling gutters and causing flooding, it falls
softly and is welcomed by the soil, grass and leaves.
Peaceful and lazy I stand in the doorway looking out
and I hear guns rusting quietly in the rain, as damp
ammunition fizzes white smoke, but does no harm.
If I could bottle peace of this un-heroic landscape of
Algarve and send it to Palestine; will it be drunk? Or
will they claim it’s against their religion to do so?
I don’t know, and you don’t come calling me a seer,
it’s just that all the peace around here is a waste and
it ought to be exported to those who need it
Tuesday Rain
Tuesday Rain.
The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.
I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.
Now they are of all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.
During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.
In colours everything tend to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.
The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.
I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.
Now they are of all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.
During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.
In colours everything tend to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.
The Long walk
The Long Walk
I was walking along a long road in a 1950ish industrial
landscape, high walls and closed down factories; dark
brown, and no green weeds in pavement cracks.
Down at the docks all ships had left, cranes stood in
silence each one ensconced in the terrifying loneliness
of the soulless that knows of no existence.
I found the office I was looking for, needed someone to
stamp a document, it was empty I waited till light faded
from pictures of stern faced men on photos on walls.
This place had no real sunshine, a haze hung over here
making summers a pale affair, only in August did sun
penetrate drowning shadows in a white unpleasant light.
Outside, in the street going south, there were many me,
young ones, middle aged and some were even older than
I, which I thought was a good sign and secretly smiled.
For a moment I felt nostalgic wanted to look back, but
desisted we had, all of us, agreed that we must walk on
never look back as the past holds a fatal attraction.
Sooner or later the road must end and open up to a vista
of olive and almond trees, lemon coloured straw, faraway
blue mountains and pastel painted summers.
I was walking along a long road in a 1950ish industrial
landscape, high walls and closed down factories; dark
brown, and no green weeds in pavement cracks.
Down at the docks all ships had left, cranes stood in
silence each one ensconced in the terrifying loneliness
of the soulless that knows of no existence.
I found the office I was looking for, needed someone to
stamp a document, it was empty I waited till light faded
from pictures of stern faced men on photos on walls.
This place had no real sunshine, a haze hung over here
making summers a pale affair, only in August did sun
penetrate drowning shadows in a white unpleasant light.
Outside, in the street going south, there were many me,
young ones, middle aged and some were even older than
I, which I thought was a good sign and secretly smiled.
For a moment I felt nostalgic wanted to look back, but
desisted we had, all of us, agreed that we must walk on
never look back as the past holds a fatal attraction.
Sooner or later the road must end and open up to a vista
of olive and almond trees, lemon coloured straw, faraway
blue mountains and pastel painted summers.
Friday, January 04, 2008
vengeance
Vengeance
The third mate went ashore an early afternoon,
with the sole purpose to go to the bar and steal
the cook’s girlfriend; the cook had to work till
eight, and when he finally came to the bar his
girlfriend had gone with the mate to a hotel.
How they mocked him next day, but the cook
smiled showing even, wolfish teeth, not his
natural once mind, but nevertheless very white.
It should have worried the crew, it’s no good to
tease a man who can spit into their soup.
The third mate went ashore an early afternoon,
with the sole purpose to go to the bar and steal
the cook’s girlfriend; the cook had to work till
eight, and when he finally came to the bar his
girlfriend had gone with the mate to a hotel.
How they mocked him next day, but the cook
smiled showing even, wolfish teeth, not his
natural once mind, but nevertheless very white.
It should have worried the crew, it’s no good to
tease a man who can spit into their soup.
A Day of Reckoning
A Day of Reckoning
Forenoon, it had been raining during the night
the wizened winter landscape was now green
and amongst olive trees long legged sheep grazed;
their pastor and, on occasions, executioner, sat on
a boulder casting dreams into the future; man and
beast, rustic peace, pity I hadn’t a camera.
On my way to the village to buy the papers, a sheep
had been run over by a truck, with its stomach burst
open and its content glinting in the sun, it was still
alive. Ah, you dumb animal abandoned by everyone
and it looked at me without any hope of deliverance,
so I reversed my car and ran over its head.
As the skull was crushed its eyes popped out, landed
on the middle of the road that now had eyes to see
with, the shook of this made it shudder long rents in
the asphalt wench black tears trickled. Quickly
I threw the eyes into the thicket which was instantly
transformed into a field of tinkling blue bells.
From nowhere a road gang of small, denim clad men
with big hats appeared, they where badly paid lived
on road kills. Expertly strew soft sand on blood, filled
cracks with healing asphalt, and off they drove with
their dinner. Empty road it had no knowledge of what
had just occurred, it was up to me to remember.
Forenoon, it had been raining during the night
the wizened winter landscape was now green
and amongst olive trees long legged sheep grazed;
their pastor and, on occasions, executioner, sat on
a boulder casting dreams into the future; man and
beast, rustic peace, pity I hadn’t a camera.
On my way to the village to buy the papers, a sheep
had been run over by a truck, with its stomach burst
open and its content glinting in the sun, it was still
alive. Ah, you dumb animal abandoned by everyone
and it looked at me without any hope of deliverance,
so I reversed my car and ran over its head.
As the skull was crushed its eyes popped out, landed
on the middle of the road that now had eyes to see
with, the shook of this made it shudder long rents in
the asphalt wench black tears trickled. Quickly
I threw the eyes into the thicket which was instantly
transformed into a field of tinkling blue bells.
From nowhere a road gang of small, denim clad men
with big hats appeared, they where badly paid lived
on road kills. Expertly strew soft sand on blood, filled
cracks with healing asphalt, and off they drove with
their dinner. Empty road it had no knowledge of what
had just occurred, it was up to me to remember.
the eraser
The Eraser
As I came to a low stonewall
on my daily walk
I saw before me a landscape painting,
Eighteen sheep and twelve lambs I counted;
as I thought who the painter might be,
there was a sudden blur in the air,
and when the picture cleared there
was a Jenny and its foal;
five wooly backs had disappeared;
and yes the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger, I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture
As I came to a low stonewall
on my daily walk
I saw before me a landscape painting,
Eighteen sheep and twelve lambs I counted;
as I thought who the painter might be,
there was a sudden blur in the air,
and when the picture cleared there
was a Jenny and its foal;
five wooly backs had disappeared;
and yes the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger, I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture
negligence
Negligence
My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years
Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.
There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a will so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired
I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what
change have we got to find deliverance?
My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years
Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.
There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a will so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired
I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what
change have we got to find deliverance?
Sunday, December 30, 2007
sex for an old man
Sex for an old Man
They are coming nearer those dancing bony old women
who look nice in a Dior dress, but naked has skin that
wraps around them like an old stocking, they have no
tits and could be mistaken for skinny old men who have
had their penises removed. They are coming closer stale
perfume hides not their urinal smell, back against the wall
I have no where to run; “You are as old as us, we are your
only choice for sex, so come lick our cunts, fuck us you
can’t, not with your slack cock, they chant and laugh
loudly to the sound of their own vulgarity. I close my eyes
when I open them again they are transformed into some
obese women, fat as pregnant pigs, with buffalo hides and
udders bigger than prize cows; they too laugh and taunts
my lack of prowess and it strikes me that heroic is an old
man who can fuck an old woman or perhaps it is because
he’s blind and suffers from senility?
They are coming nearer those dancing bony old women
who look nice in a Dior dress, but naked has skin that
wraps around them like an old stocking, they have no
tits and could be mistaken for skinny old men who have
had their penises removed. They are coming closer stale
perfume hides not their urinal smell, back against the wall
I have no where to run; “You are as old as us, we are your
only choice for sex, so come lick our cunts, fuck us you
can’t, not with your slack cock, they chant and laugh
loudly to the sound of their own vulgarity. I close my eyes
when I open them again they are transformed into some
obese women, fat as pregnant pigs, with buffalo hides and
udders bigger than prize cows; they too laugh and taunts
my lack of prowess and it strikes me that heroic is an old
man who can fuck an old woman or perhaps it is because
he’s blind and suffers from senility?
the gorge
The Gorge
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; “I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; “I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
the gorge
The Gorge
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
I nearly met a poet once
I nearly met a poet once.
No I can’t swim, there are no swimming pools
where I live and the coast is so far away.
I’m watching a program about a Portuguese
poet, she came from a rich family, had homes
dotted about the landscape, she loved the sea and
wrote many poems about the oceans
I used to work on the seas, on ships, as a cook,
I write about the seas too, but from a different
perspective and they, my poems are naturally
less romantic; about seeking beauty where love
is a commodity, seeing pain in eyes of those who
must wear a smile while being degraded.
She wrote about Greece her language and Gods,
I wrote about Athens, whore houses, booze and
eternal shame, but I do know of the odd moment
when eyes met in a bar understanding each others
quest for truth and beauty and knew I would win
through, one day.
No I can’t swim, there are no swimming pools
where I live and the coast is so far away.
I’m watching a program about a Portuguese
poet, she came from a rich family, had homes
dotted about the landscape, she loved the sea and
wrote many poems about the oceans
I used to work on the seas, on ships, as a cook,
I write about the seas too, but from a different
perspective and they, my poems are naturally
less romantic; about seeking beauty where love
is a commodity, seeing pain in eyes of those who
must wear a smile while being degraded.
She wrote about Greece her language and Gods,
I wrote about Athens, whore houses, booze and
eternal shame, but I do know of the odd moment
when eyes met in a bar understanding each others
quest for truth and beauty and knew I would win
through, one day.
disheartened
Disheartened
The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms, and who says grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.
The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms, and who says grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The Eyes Have It
The “Eyes” Have It
There are many summers, but we only get one
to remember, the rest ends up in a blur.
This particular one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a nice little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom
the salt sea. Late September still summer though,
but the window in her cottage was shut, knocked
on her door, a neighbour came, said she had gone
to abroad with her old boyfriend who was Danish.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.
Daybreak brought a chill in the air, dark clouds
congregated and it rained. Many years later I was
served in a bar in Copenhagen by an old woman
carrying too much make up on her warn face, but
those eyes, a memory stirred. Her hand shook when
pouring beer into my glass, yes I know all those
long nights, she didn’t look at me and swiftly left
through the back door and a younger woman took
her place. I left soon after, outside I looked up and
saw the curtain on the first floor move; those eyes
I had seen them before, but refused to remember.
There are many summers, but we only get one
to remember, the rest ends up in a blur.
This particular one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a nice little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom
the salt sea. Late September still summer though,
but the window in her cottage was shut, knocked
on her door, a neighbour came, said she had gone
to abroad with her old boyfriend who was Danish.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.
Daybreak brought a chill in the air, dark clouds
congregated and it rained. Many years later I was
served in a bar in Copenhagen by an old woman
carrying too much make up on her warn face, but
those eyes, a memory stirred. Her hand shook when
pouring beer into my glass, yes I know all those
long nights, she didn’t look at me and swiftly left
through the back door and a younger woman took
her place. I left soon after, outside I looked up and
saw the curtain on the first floor move; those eyes
I had seen them before, but refused to remember.
tanka
Tanka
We’ve two TV’s
When we had one, we fought
Almost divorced
Now she watches the football
While I watch Brazilian soaps
We’ve two TV’s
When we had one, we fought
Almost divorced
Now she watches the football
While I watch Brazilian soaps
tanka
Tanka
I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery
I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
winter night
Winter Night
When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode
Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.
A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned
When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode
Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.
A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned
Monday, December 24, 2007
the future is a dream
The Future Is a Dream
I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.
The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.
I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.
A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.
In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.
Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea
I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.
The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.
I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.
A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.
In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.
Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea
Friday, December 21, 2007
fun wall
Fun-Wall.
It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.
I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left
It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.
I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
an old fool
An Old Fool
At fifty two he looked remarkable young; that, he told
everyone who asked, was because he had never been
in love and spared debilitating heartache…silly remark.
So he fell brutally in love with a woman half his age,
never knew that love making could be that wonderful,
but than he experience, in this matter, was limited to
massage parlours. He bought her costly sweets and frilly
knickers, diamonds too, she was his queen a slight tiff,
he couldn’t sleep called her in the middle of the night
and begged forgiveness.
Then suddenly her door was shut, he knocked and rang,
stood outside her house all night, in the rain, but she had
fallen in love with someone else; yes, it was October.
He thought of castles in the sky, blankets on the ground,
yes Willy Nelson understood his woos. Went to bed and
stayed there till spring came and a neighbour gave him
a puppy dog. Bad on his feet, gout, showing his age, yet
he walks for miles with his mute. If asked if he would
have wished not to have fallen in love; he will, I think,
shake his head, look soulful, and walk on
At fifty two he looked remarkable young; that, he told
everyone who asked, was because he had never been
in love and spared debilitating heartache…silly remark.
So he fell brutally in love with a woman half his age,
never knew that love making could be that wonderful,
but than he experience, in this matter, was limited to
massage parlours. He bought her costly sweets and frilly
knickers, diamonds too, she was his queen a slight tiff,
he couldn’t sleep called her in the middle of the night
and begged forgiveness.
Then suddenly her door was shut, he knocked and rang,
stood outside her house all night, in the rain, but she had
fallen in love with someone else; yes, it was October.
He thought of castles in the sky, blankets on the ground,
yes Willy Nelson understood his woos. Went to bed and
stayed there till spring came and a neighbour gave him
a puppy dog. Bad on his feet, gout, showing his age, yet
he walks for miles with his mute. If asked if he would
have wished not to have fallen in love; he will, I think,
shake his head, look soulful, and walk on
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tasers
The New Weapon
Taser him, taser everyone out there
who looks different from the norm
or answer back. Taser, them to they
wet themselves and taste dirt.
Taser all those who looks aggressive
and has an opinion unlike yours,
we, the men in blue, are in charge;
a taser leaves no mark
Taser him, taser everyone out there
who looks different from the norm
or answer back. Taser, them to they
wet themselves and taste dirt.
Taser all those who looks aggressive
and has an opinion unlike yours,
we, the men in blue, are in charge;
a taser leaves no mark
double Tanaka
Double Tanka
we train a canine
not to follow its instinct
and sink its teeth
a postman’s tempting behind
but wag a tail for peace
but we do train man
to follow his deep instinct
to fight and to kill
and he needs no excuse
if his foe has a long nose
we train a canine
not to follow its instinct
and sink its teeth
a postman’s tempting behind
but wag a tail for peace
but we do train man
to follow his deep instinct
to fight and to kill
and he needs no excuse
if his foe has a long nose
tanak Christmas thought
Tanka (Christmas Thought)
Poor little children
Mortality amongst them
In free Iraq
Is thirty percent higher now
Then under Saddam Hussein
Poor little children
Mortality amongst them
In free Iraq
Is thirty percent higher now
Then under Saddam Hussein
timewell
timeless
When sky and land parted and the sea became
their child, god created man, but since this
happened before time existed it is useless to
speculation whether it took a day, seven or
seventy million years; therefore, evolution is
creation, which must be good to know for
those of religious faith, if meaningless for those
who seek a logic explanation for everything
When sky and land parted and the sea became
their child, god created man, but since this
happened before time existed it is useless to
speculation whether it took a day, seven or
seventy million years; therefore, evolution is
creation, which must be good to know for
those of religious faith, if meaningless for those
who seek a logic explanation for everything
the slaughter
The Slaughter.
A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.
A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
women of Iraq
Women of Iraq
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
come dancing
Come Dancing
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
no lady
No Lady.
She, the hex with magic charms, stands in a forest’s
clearing and smiles brightly, rich and translucent
white is her body, rosebuds on her breasts; in scented
air, floats multi coloured moons and silver stars.
I’m drawn to her ethereally sensuality, she and I,
and it is much more what pedestrians call love,
a rabbit and a hare, nature’s cowards, warn me not
to approach; but I laugh at their comic alarm.
Just as I’m to touch her, a wild boar butts her bum,
in the air she flies lands on a bush full of religious
thorns; blue flames darts from her mouth, and foul
language stinks of phosphorous in the clearing.
So now we know, she ain’t no lady and heartily
we laugh, the rabbit, hare and I, but not the boar
it didn’t think it was a mirthful matter, humorless
and brave it knows not of fear
She, the hex with magic charms, stands in a forest’s
clearing and smiles brightly, rich and translucent
white is her body, rosebuds on her breasts; in scented
air, floats multi coloured moons and silver stars.
I’m drawn to her ethereally sensuality, she and I,
and it is much more what pedestrians call love,
a rabbit and a hare, nature’s cowards, warn me not
to approach; but I laugh at their comic alarm.
Just as I’m to touch her, a wild boar butts her bum,
in the air she flies lands on a bush full of religious
thorns; blue flames darts from her mouth, and foul
language stinks of phosphorous in the clearing.
So now we know, she ain’t no lady and heartily
we laugh, the rabbit, hare and I, but not the boar
it didn’t think it was a mirthful matter, humorless
and brave it knows not of fear
Thursday, December 13, 2007
tanka
Tanka
On a bail of straw
The newborn child soundly slept
When dawn brought light
To what now is Christmas Day
We had a Saviour.
On a bail of straw
The newborn child soundly slept
When dawn brought light
To what now is Christmas Day
We had a Saviour.
farwell Marilyn
Farewell Marilyn
Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination
Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination
a short visit
A Short Visit
Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s
funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his
place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen
engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer.
I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk,
the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still
my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles
three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him
the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to
remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him
in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see
the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving
harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us
all, never told my brother I loved him
Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s
funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his
place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen
engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer.
I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk,
the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still
my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles
three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him
the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to
remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him
in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see
the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving
harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us
all, never told my brother I loved him
come dancing
Come Dancing
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
women of Iraq
Women of Iraq
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
viva Cuba
Viva Cuba.
Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.
He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.
Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.
He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.
the theft
The Theft
I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.
Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should
I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .
Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.
I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.
Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should
I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .
Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.
tanka
Tanka
I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.
Tanka
Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous
Tanka (x-mass warning)
Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo
I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.
Tanka
Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous
Tanka (x-mass warning)
Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo
a cottage
A Cottage
I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;
no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;
unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;
I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.
I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;
no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;
unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;
I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.
peace6 quiet
Peace & Quiet.
Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.
Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.
There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?
Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.
Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.
There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?
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