Benazir Bhutto
You looked so impossible beautiful and your voice was
so erudite words danced on your sensuous lips, never
had there been a prime minister as you; alas, there were
there were accusations of corruption and you hastily
fled your beloved country, I choose, perhaps wrongly,
not to believe your accusers and you faded from view.
When turmoil enveloped your country again, you were
back seeking power and I knew you’re doomed.
I saw you standing up in the jeep carrying you out of
the park were you had spoken to your supporters, still
striking, in a matronly ways, but your smile dazzled
and, once again, I believed you could be the saviour of
your troubled country. An explosion, Mayhem, billows
of death surrounded you and you were gone forever
Friday, June 06, 2008
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Seventy today
Seventy Years Old
I used to think that when seventy I would feel
Burst with gravitas and tell people how to live
Their life; alas, I still feel like an adolescent who
Feel shy when meeting older people.
Yes, I have had my share of grief and illnesses,
And often, drunk or sober, I have fallen flat on
My face, disgrace I have often know, but next
Day when I saw the sun the surge of live returned
There are nights, however, the small hours when
Awake and fearful, knowing as I do that death is
Not afar, and my weak heart nervously misses
A beat… then I do feel tired and old.
My terrace faces the east, and I can see when
Dawn begins and I hear the sparrows under the roof
Tiles beginning their day they make me feel whole
Again, as the sun warms my ancient face.
I used to think that when seventy I would feel
Burst with gravitas and tell people how to live
Their life; alas, I still feel like an adolescent who
Feel shy when meeting older people.
Yes, I have had my share of grief and illnesses,
And often, drunk or sober, I have fallen flat on
My face, disgrace I have often know, but next
Day when I saw the sun the surge of live returned
There are nights, however, the small hours when
Awake and fearful, knowing as I do that death is
Not afar, and my weak heart nervously misses
A beat… then I do feel tired and old.
My terrace faces the east, and I can see when
Dawn begins and I hear the sparrows under the roof
Tiles beginning their day they make me feel whole
Again, as the sun warms my ancient face.
The great survivior
The Great Survivor
One is never more than five yards from a rat
I read in my local paper, there are non in my
Cottage and it has no basement as it is build
Straight on solid rocks which makes it very
Cold in the winter.
There are mice under the roof tiles, cute little
Ones smaller than my thumb, they are very
Quite unlike the sparrow that make a hell of
A racket at dawn, not to forget the cats that
Use my roof as a hunting ground, but no rats.
At the supermarket I saw a rat coming up from
A storm drain, it looked at me, decided I was
A coward and began picking up bread crumbs,
It looked like a bruiser had boxer’s ears and
A menacing, slowly rotating whiplash tail.
A woman, carrying a bag of groceries, came
“Look” I croaked, “a rat.” Hysterical screams.
The rat disappeared, a guard came running and
looked almost like a police officer, “we will get
that rat, he said” and spoke into his mobile.
A kind man was helping the woman to pick up
The groceries she had dropped, I heard someone
Say he had seen rats here before. “shouldn’t be
Allowed, rats near a supermarket,” a woman said.
Never more than five years…it’s spooky.
One is never more than five yards from a rat
I read in my local paper, there are non in my
Cottage and it has no basement as it is build
Straight on solid rocks which makes it very
Cold in the winter.
There are mice under the roof tiles, cute little
Ones smaller than my thumb, they are very
Quite unlike the sparrow that make a hell of
A racket at dawn, not to forget the cats that
Use my roof as a hunting ground, but no rats.
At the supermarket I saw a rat coming up from
A storm drain, it looked at me, decided I was
A coward and began picking up bread crumbs,
It looked like a bruiser had boxer’s ears and
A menacing, slowly rotating whiplash tail.
A woman, carrying a bag of groceries, came
“Look” I croaked, “a rat.” Hysterical screams.
The rat disappeared, a guard came running and
looked almost like a police officer, “we will get
that rat, he said” and spoke into his mobile.
A kind man was helping the woman to pick up
The groceries she had dropped, I heard someone
Say he had seen rats here before. “shouldn’t be
Allowed, rats near a supermarket,” a woman said.
Never more than five years…it’s spooky.
The right Language
The Right Language.
Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.
Reading a poem about Jehovah’s witnesses
I remembered meeting two of them once,
they rang on mother’s front door, I opened
and they began asking me questions about
religion, I was young and too polite to slam
the door shut, I would do now as I’m old
and rude, I stood there hoping they would
go away. Mother, who worked at a canning
factory with hundred other women came to
my rescue; there were gasps, the witnesses
shrunk and vanished, never saw them again.
Diesel
Expensive Diesel
The donkey walked in the middle of the country lane
not the smartest thing to do, they drive recklessly here
about, it was trailing along rope, which I used to tie it
up under an olive tree away from the sun, the beast was
docile and glad it didn’t have to be in charge.
And I though now that diesel for tractors is dear, and
farmer tend to use them for the smallest things, like
picking up twigs from almond groves, a mule and cart
will do the work for free and the brave farmer will not
have an early heart attack do to lack of exercise.
Life isn’t perfect, as I stood there stroking the donkey
dreamily making the bush the landscape beautiful with
imaginary horses and mules, there was a hard shriek of
oil neglected brakes; a farmer, on his tractor, hit my car;
a pity he wasn’t riding on a mule, a horse or a donkey
The donkey walked in the middle of the country lane
not the smartest thing to do, they drive recklessly here
about, it was trailing along rope, which I used to tie it
up under an olive tree away from the sun, the beast was
docile and glad it didn’t have to be in charge.
And I though now that diesel for tractors is dear, and
farmer tend to use them for the smallest things, like
picking up twigs from almond groves, a mule and cart
will do the work for free and the brave farmer will not
have an early heart attack do to lack of exercise.
Life isn’t perfect, as I stood there stroking the donkey
dreamily making the bush the landscape beautiful with
imaginary horses and mules, there was a hard shriek of
oil neglected brakes; a farmer, on his tractor, hit my car;
a pity he wasn’t riding on a mule, a horse or a donkey
Cascais, Mon Amour
Cascais, Mon Amour
The old part of Cascais, Portugal where fishermen
used to live is now a place of culture and restored
expensive houses, not even the ghosts of fishermen
past can afford to walk around here where narrow
streets are packed with layers of cars, which are
Portugal’s holy cows, and must be allowed to rest
wherever they please, often on pavements.
Along the coast of Cascais there are many grand
houses with big gardens we can’t see because so
many rich people choose to imprison themselves
Behind tall walls to deter the nosy plebes from
looking in; minor royals used live here, perhaps,
they still do, now hateful old people live here and
sourly resent the world outside their reformatories.
Many tourists come here and with one eye closed,
and the other glued to a ham-cam, a tunnel vision
that doesn’t see the tramp who rummages for food
in bins outside restaurants; they don’t see the ship,
in the blue enchanting bay and the men on her deck
looking dreamily towards shore, for a seafarer costal
Towns look like a paradise of the unobtainable.
Hey seaman don’t think of going ashore here, no
amount of life-buoy soap, cleans shirt and jeans can
hide your rolling gait, this is a place is for the elite,
who live in big apartments with balconies facing
the bay; they see your ship and think it is romantic,
but they don’t want you near. Have another beer
play canasta, you will always have Rio de Janeiro.
The old part of Cascais, Portugal where fishermen
used to live is now a place of culture and restored
expensive houses, not even the ghosts of fishermen
past can afford to walk around here where narrow
streets are packed with layers of cars, which are
Portugal’s holy cows, and must be allowed to rest
wherever they please, often on pavements.
Along the coast of Cascais there are many grand
houses with big gardens we can’t see because so
many rich people choose to imprison themselves
Behind tall walls to deter the nosy plebes from
looking in; minor royals used live here, perhaps,
they still do, now hateful old people live here and
sourly resent the world outside their reformatories.
Many tourists come here and with one eye closed,
and the other glued to a ham-cam, a tunnel vision
that doesn’t see the tramp who rummages for food
in bins outside restaurants; they don’t see the ship,
in the blue enchanting bay and the men on her deck
looking dreamily towards shore, for a seafarer costal
Towns look like a paradise of the unobtainable.
Hey seaman don’t think of going ashore here, no
amount of life-buoy soap, cleans shirt and jeans can
hide your rolling gait, this is a place is for the elite,
who live in big apartments with balconies facing
the bay; they see your ship and think it is romantic,
but they don’t want you near. Have another beer
play canasta, you will always have Rio de Janeiro.
two smaller poems
No Smoking
Since it’s cold outside
And I can’t smoke in the bar
I drink another beer
The air so wholesome
When beer glasses are lifted
Armpits tell of night
,,,,,,,,
The Cost of Living
I never go to restaurants anymore
the price of petrol is so high, when
I get to one I can’t afford to enter.
I look at the menu outside, but go
and sit in my automobile, munch
a sandwich and drink warm beer.
Since it’s cold outside
And I can’t smoke in the bar
I drink another beer
The air so wholesome
When beer glasses are lifted
Armpits tell of night
,,,,,,,,
The Cost of Living
I never go to restaurants anymore
the price of petrol is so high, when
I get to one I can’t afford to enter.
I look at the menu outside, but go
and sit in my automobile, munch
a sandwich and drink warm beer.
My "Brother."
My “Brother”
In the side-room where I put things I’m going to
use one day but never will, there is an old “brother”
typewriter gathering dust, bought it for a fiver
a day I felt like Mike Spillane, and saw myself
drinking whisky smoking cigarettes while writing
rapidly, about the low life world in Liverpool, only
I never found any criminals, went into pubs they
were supposed to hang out, but was met by people
buying me pints and telling great jokes.
Then, the word processor came along and spelling
was not such a burden. Yes, I know I sold out for
a better life; and yes, I miss the clicking of my
“brother.” Pure nostalgia! I wrote my first poem on
it, about lost love, and it is all I write about, going
around in circles asking: “where is my love?” how
am I supposed to know where you mislaid her?
One day I’ll blow the dust of my “brother” and write
till the lady comes back into my dreams again.
In the side-room where I put things I’m going to
use one day but never will, there is an old “brother”
typewriter gathering dust, bought it for a fiver
a day I felt like Mike Spillane, and saw myself
drinking whisky smoking cigarettes while writing
rapidly, about the low life world in Liverpool, only
I never found any criminals, went into pubs they
were supposed to hang out, but was met by people
buying me pints and telling great jokes.
Then, the word processor came along and spelling
was not such a burden. Yes, I know I sold out for
a better life; and yes, I miss the clicking of my
“brother.” Pure nostalgia! I wrote my first poem on
it, about lost love, and it is all I write about, going
around in circles asking: “where is my love?” how
am I supposed to know where you mislaid her?
One day I’ll blow the dust of my “brother” and write
till the lady comes back into my dreams again.
Friday, May 30, 2008
golden pond
The Golden Pond
On the pond of good memories
a duckling swam, undulated like
an unwanted thought of demise,
on a spring wedding in Brussels.
Flat stones skipped on the pond,
in the night it surfaced, quacked,
refused to be spit out like a half
chewed toothpick and forgotten.
Expelled the duck, sent it aboard
a ship that sails for the Saragossa
Sea, to a shadowy, barren island
where the monster Amnesia lives
But I warn you keep away from
there if the ogre gets hold of you
it will not only eat the unwanted,
But all you ever knew and loved.
On the pond of good memories
a duckling swam, undulated like
an unwanted thought of demise,
on a spring wedding in Brussels.
Flat stones skipped on the pond,
in the night it surfaced, quacked,
refused to be spit out like a half
chewed toothpick and forgotten.
Expelled the duck, sent it aboard
a ship that sails for the Saragossa
Sea, to a shadowy, barren island
where the monster Amnesia lives
But I warn you keep away from
there if the ogre gets hold of you
it will not only eat the unwanted,
But all you ever knew and loved.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Animal Sentimentality
Animal Sentimentality
If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?
On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.
An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.
I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
is dear in Sweden; mind, I never visited him again.
If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?
On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.
An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.
I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
is dear in Sweden; mind, I never visited him again.
wordless today
Wordless Today.
Pink and blue billows, on the poetic sky,
dripping of eager words. Alas, towards dawn
a westerly wind blew, cleared the sky and in
the morning it was as blank as a screen, that
lit up when the sun came through the skylight.
But the sun passes, as it must, and the screen
grays while, in vain, it waits to be written on.
To be dreamless is a curse, slow death, listless
looking at sky and finding only blandness, but
also words by other poets that I cannot steal.
If I sigh and say: “wish I had written this” and
my friend says: “you will Oscar, you will,” then
I will not fret, and cry in my absinth- laugh, say:
“You’re a droll fellow,” go on dreaming and wait
for a versifier cumulous on the morning sky
Pink and blue billows, on the poetic sky,
dripping of eager words. Alas, towards dawn
a westerly wind blew, cleared the sky and in
the morning it was as blank as a screen, that
lit up when the sun came through the skylight.
But the sun passes, as it must, and the screen
grays while, in vain, it waits to be written on.
To be dreamless is a curse, slow death, listless
looking at sky and finding only blandness, but
also words by other poets that I cannot steal.
If I sigh and say: “wish I had written this” and
my friend says: “you will Oscar, you will,” then
I will not fret, and cry in my absinth- laugh, say:
“You’re a droll fellow,” go on dreaming and wait
for a versifier cumulous on the morning sky
tanka
To be Food
Fell asleep under an olive tree,
woke up as a lettuce in a wood
salad bowl; in bed with diced
tomatoes and blushing radishes;
drenched in virgin extra and red
wine vinegar, I felt good about
myself; but as no one came for
lunch I got up and walked home.
Tanka (News Item)
Rhino butts camera
And I say, quite rightly so
Intrusive humans
Following a rhino around
When it’s about, romancing
Fell asleep under an olive tree,
woke up as a lettuce in a wood
salad bowl; in bed with diced
tomatoes and blushing radishes;
drenched in virgin extra and red
wine vinegar, I felt good about
myself; but as no one came for
lunch I got up and walked home.
Tanka (News Item)
Rhino butts camera
And I say, quite rightly so
Intrusive humans
Following a rhino around
When it’s about, romancing
Monday, May 26, 2008
...As the doctor ordered
…As the Doctor Ordered.
I used to drink burgundy wine
every evening when watching
the TV, till, is my doctor
said a glass or two of wine was
good for my health.
After that wine tasted like
a tincture that is good for me.
I drink whisky now, but I ain’t
telling my doctor, can’t have him
say it is good my complexion
I used to drink burgundy wine
every evening when watching
the TV, till, is my doctor
said a glass or two of wine was
good for my health.
After that wine tasted like
a tincture that is good for me.
I drink whisky now, but I ain’t
telling my doctor, can’t have him
say it is good my complexion
the mask
The Mask
The mask near the window in the museum, of ancient
mostly stolen art, was asleep in the dark of the night,
its new director, an efficient man, doesn’t like waste
of energy. The mask shouldn’t be so near daylight as
it hurts its old eyes and, also, the mask had seen it all.
Tribal wars to mass hangings as seen from a camp SS
commandant’s window; the officer had worshipped it
as evil, a mask that had been carved by an artisan and
thus given soul. Himmel! An allied soldier had taken
the mask as a trophy, in the following years it was sold,
bought and stolen again till ended it up in a museum.
Yes, the mask should be left alone in a corner away
from prying eyes. It had seen enough. Also, gentle light
was good for the mask’s perennial complexion.
The mask near the window in the museum, of ancient
mostly stolen art, was asleep in the dark of the night,
its new director, an efficient man, doesn’t like waste
of energy. The mask shouldn’t be so near daylight as
it hurts its old eyes and, also, the mask had seen it all.
Tribal wars to mass hangings as seen from a camp SS
commandant’s window; the officer had worshipped it
as evil, a mask that had been carved by an artisan and
thus given soul. Himmel! An allied soldier had taken
the mask as a trophy, in the following years it was sold,
bought and stolen again till ended it up in a museum.
Yes, the mask should be left alone in a corner away
from prying eyes. It had seen enough. Also, gentle light
was good for the mask’s perennial complexion.
The Party
The Party
I had invited friends to a café where the desert begins
and you can see the blinking lights of Spain at night.
The food took long time coming, but there was wine
served in pitchers, didn’t think the wine was any good
so I went to the main bar to get bottled wine; they had
none. But I got two one litre jugs of cold wine, (cheap
wine should always be served iced it is tasteless then.)
When I came back my friends had eaten, nothing left
for me, they where in an vivacious mood drank my
chilled wine sang, laughed and talking loudly.
I walked to the kitchen, a big tent in the back, asked
for food, but they only had meatballs left, I don’t like
meatballs. My friend had now gone into the wasteland
walking to Spain, it was dawn before they came back,
they had had a great time. I was now so hungry that
I went back to the tent and asked for the meatballs, but
they had given them to abandoned dogs that live around
here. Drove my friends to the bus stop it was just about
to leave and it struck me that they had not spoken to me
once, which made me think I had entertained strangers.
I had invited friends to a café where the desert begins
and you can see the blinking lights of Spain at night.
The food took long time coming, but there was wine
served in pitchers, didn’t think the wine was any good
so I went to the main bar to get bottled wine; they had
none. But I got two one litre jugs of cold wine, (cheap
wine should always be served iced it is tasteless then.)
When I came back my friends had eaten, nothing left
for me, they where in an vivacious mood drank my
chilled wine sang, laughed and talking loudly.
I walked to the kitchen, a big tent in the back, asked
for food, but they only had meatballs left, I don’t like
meatballs. My friend had now gone into the wasteland
walking to Spain, it was dawn before they came back,
they had had a great time. I was now so hungry that
I went back to the tent and asked for the meatballs, but
they had given them to abandoned dogs that live around
here. Drove my friends to the bus stop it was just about
to leave and it struck me that they had not spoken to me
once, which made me think I had entertained strangers.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
democracy "song contest"
Democracy (song contest)
Having suffered watching euro-vision song
contest I do not longer believe in democracy.
Russia won and that’s ok, they had skaters
and acrobats, so what has that to do with
a song? Don’t ask me, their neighbours liked
their song; the Danes liked the Norwegian’s
tune, who in turn voted for the Swedish song
I sit here and can’t remember the wining song
nor can anyone else. I’m glad Russia won
they believe in managed democracy, as I do,
because the stupidity of people make it clear
they are not yet fit for running anything more
important that a song contest, and giving first
prize to a sweet heifer at an agricultural show.
Having suffered watching euro-vision song
contest I do not longer believe in democracy.
Russia won and that’s ok, they had skaters
and acrobats, so what has that to do with
a song? Don’t ask me, their neighbours liked
their song; the Danes liked the Norwegian’s
tune, who in turn voted for the Swedish song
I sit here and can’t remember the wining song
nor can anyone else. I’m glad Russia won
they believe in managed democracy, as I do,
because the stupidity of people make it clear
they are not yet fit for running anything more
important that a song contest, and giving first
prize to a sweet heifer at an agricultural show.
eternal love
Eternal Love.
Memory, thinking of you hurts, you stayed with me
Said you loved me, while waiting for Him to be free;
when he was, you left me coldly ignoring my feelings.
Love conquers all it is also lies, hate and subversion.
Love starts wars, so when I killed him your scream of
Utter hopelessness reverberated, tore large chunks of sky
Into mist and woke god from his slumber. Too late now
For me to understand that your love for him was timeless.
Memory, thinking of you hurts, you stayed with me
Said you loved me, while waiting for Him to be free;
when he was, you left me coldly ignoring my feelings.
Love conquers all it is also lies, hate and subversion.
Love starts wars, so when I killed him your scream of
Utter hopelessness reverberated, tore large chunks of sky
Into mist and woke god from his slumber. Too late now
For me to understand that your love for him was timeless.
the tree
The Tree
I’m the lone tree you see on top of a hill, you
can’t avoid seeing me when you are scanning
the horizon. Yet many claim not to have seen me,
like I should be an anonymous tree in the forest;
I have no defense against the cold wind of change,
but my trunk is solid my leaves still green, a hawk
has its nest in my crown and in a hollow in my
trunk a red fox smile to no one in particular.
I have time wait for the wind to blows itself into
a zephyr that whispers soft words of appreciation,
preferable on a day when the air is so clear that
you can see forever and fly should you wish to.
I’m the lone tree you see on top of a hill, you
can’t avoid seeing me when you are scanning
the horizon. Yet many claim not to have seen me,
like I should be an anonymous tree in the forest;
I have no defense against the cold wind of change,
but my trunk is solid my leaves still green, a hawk
has its nest in my crown and in a hollow in my
trunk a red fox smile to no one in particular.
I have time wait for the wind to blows itself into
a zephyr that whispers soft words of appreciation,
preferable on a day when the air is so clear that
you can see forever and fly should you wish to.
the lone walk
The Lone Walk
I had been walking for hours in the bush landscape
around where I live, teeming wildlife this year I even
caught the sight of a boar, she had had her brood with
her good, she didn’t see me. Tired I sat on a boulder
and lifted my feet off the ground, this was great, but
only for a while a stone was hard and my back began
to ache, so I got up and began walking towards home.
My wife had gone away for a few days but now my
aloneness was beginning to hurt; mind the first night
was great, bed all for myself, slept well and got up late
and ate what wasn’t good for me. It was darkening,
soon it will rain, May has been very wet this year, and
it began just as I reached the front door, only I had no
key; must have lost it when I sat on that stone.
I had been walking for hours in the bush landscape
around where I live, teeming wildlife this year I even
caught the sight of a boar, she had had her brood with
her good, she didn’t see me. Tired I sat on a boulder
and lifted my feet off the ground, this was great, but
only for a while a stone was hard and my back began
to ache, so I got up and began walking towards home.
My wife had gone away for a few days but now my
aloneness was beginning to hurt; mind the first night
was great, bed all for myself, slept well and got up late
and ate what wasn’t good for me. It was darkening,
soon it will rain, May has been very wet this year, and
it began just as I reached the front door, only I had no
key; must have lost it when I sat on that stone.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Fado on my Mind
Fado on my Mind
The night is hot and window is open
the street is empty, streetlamps have
only each other for company.
The radio sings Fado of lost love and
of times gone by; dulcet melancholy
this night is for remembering.
The night is breaking up, dawn, soon
a new day will begin and that’s fine
melancholy can be addictive.
The night is hot and window is open
the street is empty, streetlamps have
only each other for company.
The radio sings Fado of lost love and
of times gone by; dulcet melancholy
this night is for remembering.
The night is breaking up, dawn, soon
a new day will begin and that’s fine
melancholy can be addictive.
Nirvana and all that
Nirvana and all that.
Since I don’t believe in heaven or the place stokers
go too- called hell- include me in your dreams when
I go, so I can dwell in your memories, till you too join
the non returnable. And since we both are tired of being
reborn, remember the time on the African savannah
when I was the proud lion king and you an elegant
lioness I used called “baby,” or was it the other way
around? I can’t quite remember. We’re warthogs once,
but let’s not dwell on that it made you so sad not being
able to have bath; we can then fly to Nirvana and find
everlasting peace in blessed oblivion. Failing that we
can always go to Iceland, it is said to be the most
peaceful place on earth; but I can’t help wondering if,
this treeless island is not too dreary for us?
Since I don’t believe in heaven or the place stokers
go too- called hell- include me in your dreams when
I go, so I can dwell in your memories, till you too join
the non returnable. And since we both are tired of being
reborn, remember the time on the African savannah
when I was the proud lion king and you an elegant
lioness I used called “baby,” or was it the other way
around? I can’t quite remember. We’re warthogs once,
but let’s not dwell on that it made you so sad not being
able to have bath; we can then fly to Nirvana and find
everlasting peace in blessed oblivion. Failing that we
can always go to Iceland, it is said to be the most
peaceful place on earth; but I can’t help wondering if,
this treeless island is not too dreary for us?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Tanka. (Triptych)
The Pompous
Those who would be kings
Must serve the people they rule
Or they will fall
Down the abyss of hubris
And condemned by history
The Middleclass
It’s not my concern
But those who seek the power
To lead the masses
Must have an enormous ego
Disregarding lesser minds
The Cynical
I really give a damn
But isn’t a bit dense to think
A leader is like us
Who use modesty as shields
To conceal our cowardice.
The Pompous
Those who would be kings
Must serve the people they rule
Or they will fall
Down the abyss of hubris
And condemned by history
The Middleclass
It’s not my concern
But those who seek the power
To lead the masses
Must have an enormous ego
Disregarding lesser minds
The Cynical
I really give a damn
But isn’t a bit dense to think
A leader is like us
Who use modesty as shields
To conceal our cowardice.
Cheese And Hunger
Cheese and Hunger
175 types of cheese, the new supermarket boasted,
confused I bought the same old Gauda I can’t stay
there spending a whole day just for a bit of cheese.
I like milk in my coffee bought a litre, only to see
when coming home, that it was banana flavoured.
So many choices, the food industry is obscene and
consumers are zombies to let them play with food
that way. Banana flavoured long -life milk laced
with vitamins would be fine for the poor children of
Burma; the cruelly incompetent generals there ought
to be propped up against a pagoda wall and shot.
Since Britain and USA are so keen on interfering in
eastern affairs, why don’t they invade could it be
because Burma has no oil and is too close to China?
175 types of cheese, the new supermarket boasted,
confused I bought the same old Gauda I can’t stay
there spending a whole day just for a bit of cheese.
I like milk in my coffee bought a litre, only to see
when coming home, that it was banana flavoured.
So many choices, the food industry is obscene and
consumers are zombies to let them play with food
that way. Banana flavoured long -life milk laced
with vitamins would be fine for the poor children of
Burma; the cruelly incompetent generals there ought
to be propped up against a pagoda wall and shot.
Since Britain and USA are so keen on interfering in
eastern affairs, why don’t they invade could it be
because Burma has no oil and is too close to China?
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Cleaner
The Cleaner
My cleaner is here, she’s from Angola has many
children and is abandoned by her husband; she is
very efficient cleans very well, but she smell and
I often wish she would remember to scrub herself.
I sit on the terrace it’s covered so it doesn’t matter
if it rains, and I feel wretched and middle class and
wonder if I’m a despicable racist for thinking this
way she’s a good mother and work very hard.
She knocks tells me she’s ready to go, I pay, open
the front door, smile and say: “till next time then.”
scold myself for not being more friendly; perhaps
I ought; let her go and hire one I don’t feel sorry for.
My cleaner is here, she’s from Angola has many
children and is abandoned by her husband; she is
very efficient cleans very well, but she smell and
I often wish she would remember to scrub herself.
I sit on the terrace it’s covered so it doesn’t matter
if it rains, and I feel wretched and middle class and
wonder if I’m a despicable racist for thinking this
way she’s a good mother and work very hard.
She knocks tells me she’s ready to go, I pay, open
the front door, smile and say: “till next time then.”
scold myself for not being more friendly; perhaps
I ought; let her go and hire one I don’t feel sorry for.
Who's afraid of a ghost?
Who’s afraid of ghosts?
There they are driving in my almost new car,
sleeping in my bed and using my computer,
they have no shame. I’m angry but can do nothing,
I’m dead and so pathetic that they don’t even see
me when I walk through the house as a ghost.
I have met other ghosts around here they are
a wretched lot, can’t let go of things they had before
and can’t take with them wherever they are going;
so they hang around full of envy hoping the world
will collapse around the ears of the living
There they are driving in my almost new car,
sleeping in my bed and using my computer,
they have no shame. I’m angry but can do nothing,
I’m dead and so pathetic that they don’t even see
me when I walk through the house as a ghost.
I have met other ghosts around here they are
a wretched lot, can’t let go of things they had before
and can’t take with them wherever they are going;
so they hang around full of envy hoping the world
will collapse around the ears of the living
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
sunday reflections 2
Sunday Reflections 2
Having turned my back to the home town I followed
the coast road, till it veered left and I lost sight of
the sea and drove into a 1950th rural landscape where
horses still pulled the plough.
Stopped across from the small farm where I had
worked as child labourer, healthy life, milking cows
at six in the morning, but I wished they would have
let me be a child a little longer.
Remembering the child was as watching a Bergman
movie, long shots of a flat landscape, little dialogue,
a white church against a rain dark sky, a pitiless god
and preachers of doom.
On my way back to the airport I stopped by the sea, it
was so beautiful that day, and I cried for the lost child,
but I was now free to write my own and better version
of my childhood and in time believe it to be true.
Having turned my back to the home town I followed
the coast road, till it veered left and I lost sight of
the sea and drove into a 1950th rural landscape where
horses still pulled the plough.
Stopped across from the small farm where I had
worked as child labourer, healthy life, milking cows
at six in the morning, but I wished they would have
let me be a child a little longer.
Remembering the child was as watching a Bergman
movie, long shots of a flat landscape, little dialogue,
a white church against a rain dark sky, a pitiless god
and preachers of doom.
On my way back to the airport I stopped by the sea, it
was so beautiful that day, and I cried for the lost child,
but I was now free to write my own and better version
of my childhood and in time believe it to be true.
sunday reflections 1
Sunday Reflections 1
I’m back but there are no fanfares, tanned by years
in a warmer clime I look as… I feel, foreign.
But all this fade I’m back in the streets of 1948
black and white the only colour was the green grass
of spring, it was a time when everyone looked old
at twenty five and interviewed by the local paper for
reaching the grand old age of sixty five.
Too bleak for words, nothing here but silenced
screams, the smell of poverty, that clings to the skin,
and empty bottles of booze. I’ll unload my memories
here on the pavement leave them for others to find;
bleached bones, no, I cannot free myself the shackles
too strong , but I can trim it at the ages and make it
pretty by adding a sun and a lamb on a hill.
I’m back but there are no fanfares, tanned by years
in a warmer clime I look as… I feel, foreign.
But all this fade I’m back in the streets of 1948
black and white the only colour was the green grass
of spring, it was a time when everyone looked old
at twenty five and interviewed by the local paper for
reaching the grand old age of sixty five.
Too bleak for words, nothing here but silenced
screams, the smell of poverty, that clings to the skin,
and empty bottles of booze. I’ll unload my memories
here on the pavement leave them for others to find;
bleached bones, no, I cannot free myself the shackles
too strong , but I can trim it at the ages and make it
pretty by adding a sun and a lamb on a hill.
the white feather
The White Feather.
I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.
The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.
I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.
The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.
the white feather
The White Feather.
I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.
The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.
I found a peacock’s tail feather in the yard
it was brilliantly blue, but it had tiny insects
on a type of nit, I used insect spray and
rinsed it under the kitchen tap.
The feather lost its brilliance, is now matt
and white, but I can explain; lacking nerve
isn’t cowardice, but lack of self confidence,
a blight that often strikes the poor.
ship ghost
Ghost Onboard.
When our elderly English deckhand Jimmy slipped
on iron deck, bumped his head on the railing and died,
his demise shocked the young who didn’t know that
the claw of death could strike that fast.
We rolled Jimmy in a blue sheet (white beddings for
the officers and blue for the crew) and put him in
the ship’s meat freezer so small that his body was
rubbing up against carcasses of New Zealand lamb.
The cook next day came up from the storeroom, white
in face, claiming Jimmy sat there with a blanket over
his shoulders complaining that he was cold; and yes,
he had been seen on deck too just wandering about.
Twenty two, mostly young, men were now thoroughly
spooked by an elderly dead deckhand and we still had
a three weeks voyage before reaching port, where we
may not be allowed to bury him ashore.
Burial at sea, to everyone’s relief, bits of iron fastened
to his body, the captain read something from the bible,
Jimmy’s body lowered into the water, a splash and
horror struck we saw it sink very slowly
When our elderly English deckhand Jimmy slipped
on iron deck, bumped his head on the railing and died,
his demise shocked the young who didn’t know that
the claw of death could strike that fast.
We rolled Jimmy in a blue sheet (white beddings for
the officers and blue for the crew) and put him in
the ship’s meat freezer so small that his body was
rubbing up against carcasses of New Zealand lamb.
The cook next day came up from the storeroom, white
in face, claiming Jimmy sat there with a blanket over
his shoulders complaining that he was cold; and yes,
he had been seen on deck too just wandering about.
Twenty two, mostly young, men were now thoroughly
spooked by an elderly dead deckhand and we still had
a three weeks voyage before reaching port, where we
may not be allowed to bury him ashore.
Burial at sea, to everyone’s relief, bits of iron fastened
to his body, the captain read something from the bible,
Jimmy’s body lowered into the water, a splash and
horror struck we saw it sink very slowly
Friday, May 09, 2008
the grand illusion
The Grand Illusion
Happiness is all about pretence
I used to be cynical and bitter
looking for my youth, laughed
at by young girls who found me
so utterly absurd. Now that I’ve
decided to be a crusty old man,
slightly cynical, yet wise I feel
so good about myself that a trite
word like happiness is quite apt.
Happiness is all about pretence
I used to be cynical and bitter
looking for my youth, laughed
at by young girls who found me
so utterly absurd. Now that I’ve
decided to be a crusty old man,
slightly cynical, yet wise I feel
so good about myself that a trite
word like happiness is quite apt.
the ghost
The Ghost.
My dog had been knocked down by a car,
still she lay, blood on her snout, thought
she was dead, put her in a large bin liner
drove through the night into the highland
where she was born and I thought of Edith
Piaf, dead in the back of a van, and driven
from Marseille to Paris in the night.
In the corner of a potato field I dug a hole
while the dog got out of the sack and sat
watching me wandering what I was up to.
When I saw her I thought she was a ghost
shocked fell into the hole and bumped my
head on a stone, woke up when the dog
licked my face trying to save my life.
I was a tired first- world- war soldiers sat
on the edge of a Flanders’ trench listening to
the silence, Christmas Eve, cannons boulder
had ceased only their ominous echo rang in
my ears, men from both side of the war zone
sang carols into the cold unforgiving night.
“War’s over Bambi let’s go home and eat. . .
My dog had been knocked down by a car,
still she lay, blood on her snout, thought
she was dead, put her in a large bin liner
drove through the night into the highland
where she was born and I thought of Edith
Piaf, dead in the back of a van, and driven
from Marseille to Paris in the night.
In the corner of a potato field I dug a hole
while the dog got out of the sack and sat
watching me wandering what I was up to.
When I saw her I thought she was a ghost
shocked fell into the hole and bumped my
head on a stone, woke up when the dog
licked my face trying to save my life.
I was a tired first- world- war soldiers sat
on the edge of a Flanders’ trench listening to
the silence, Christmas Eve, cannons boulder
had ceased only their ominous echo rang in
my ears, men from both side of the war zone
sang carols into the cold unforgiving night.
“War’s over Bambi let’s go home and eat. . .
the scream
The Scream
We now know why
the sky in
Edward Munk’s
painting
was so oddly red
and frightening,
there had been
a volcanic eruption in
the East,
pity the man on
the bridge, who had
his anguish
painted on
the afternoon sky
We now know why
the sky in
Edward Munk’s
painting
was so oddly red
and frightening,
there had been
a volcanic eruption in
the East,
pity the man on
the bridge, who had
his anguish
painted on
the afternoon sky
the wedding
The Wedding
I’m going to a wedding in June; in the part of
Brussels where even street cleaners speaks
French, all be it, with a working class accent.
The bride and groom have lived together for
twenty years and have grown up children,
they will look ancient walking down the aisle.
Their children, both a university, are slightly
embarrassed they had hoped, as had the groom
hoped for a modest registrar office affair.
But the bride wants her day, a wedding as big
as the one her younger sister had ten years
ago in the splendid city of Paris; so there.
I’m not a party animal, if sober I’m ill at ease,
if I drink I talk a lot till peoples’ eyes glaze
over, or I fall asleep on the nearest couch.
I have promised to be on my best behaviour
this means diet coke on ice and tries not to
look at my wrist watch every five minutes.
I’m going to a wedding in June; in the part of
Brussels where even street cleaners speaks
French, all be it, with a working class accent.
The bride and groom have lived together for
twenty years and have grown up children,
they will look ancient walking down the aisle.
Their children, both a university, are slightly
embarrassed they had hoped, as had the groom
hoped for a modest registrar office affair.
But the bride wants her day, a wedding as big
as the one her younger sister had ten years
ago in the splendid city of Paris; so there.
I’m not a party animal, if sober I’m ill at ease,
if I drink I talk a lot till peoples’ eyes glaze
over, or I fall asleep on the nearest couch.
I have promised to be on my best behaviour
this means diet coke on ice and tries not to
look at my wrist watch every five minutes.
Tanka
Tanka.
Time is a vacuum
Through its enormity we walk
On paths unseen,
Yet each one is made for us
And leads to where sky meets sea.
Time is a vacuum
Through its enormity we walk
On paths unseen,
Yet each one is made for us
And leads to where sky meets sea.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
a burial
A Burial
My dog lay on the backseat dripping blood
my wife worried about the seat, I screamed
to her to “fuck off”; rain obscure my mind
I have known my dog for fifteen years.
Stopped at a supermarket, bought a black bin
liner, to get the dog into it was hard work, she
was unyielding and suddenly so very heavy
and I had her blood on my hands.
I borrowed a spade from a farmer, dug a hole,
ground stony, it took time and I couldn’t see
for rain; when the hole was big enough it was
also full of mud as First World War trench
I put her into the grave anyway and filled it
with stones wouldn’t like other animals to
find and eat her. Sappy crap you may say, but
we had been together for fifteen years.
My dog lay on the backseat dripping blood
my wife worried about the seat, I screamed
to her to “fuck off”; rain obscure my mind
I have known my dog for fifteen years.
Stopped at a supermarket, bought a black bin
liner, to get the dog into it was hard work, she
was unyielding and suddenly so very heavy
and I had her blood on my hands.
I borrowed a spade from a farmer, dug a hole,
ground stony, it took time and I couldn’t see
for rain; when the hole was big enough it was
also full of mud as First World War trench
I put her into the grave anyway and filled it
with stones wouldn’t like other animals to
find and eat her. Sappy crap you may say, but
we had been together for fifteen years.
4 senryu
Senryu (Food for Thought)
The moral base
For consuming human flesh
Is a green answer
Senryu
Is cannibalism
The practical green way
To save our planet?
Senryu
Let the old feel useful
Make them into hamburgers
And feed for cattle.
Senryu
Everybody can,
Not just Italians,
Be made into salami
The moral base
For consuming human flesh
Is a green answer
Senryu
Is cannibalism
The practical green way
To save our planet?
Senryu
Let the old feel useful
Make them into hamburgers
And feed for cattle.
Senryu
Everybody can,
Not just Italians,
Be made into salami
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
tanka and senryu
Tanka
Pornography films
Freedom of ones expression
Embarrassing I think
Private acts made public
Do make love cynical
,,,,,,,,
Senryu
Sixty years today
Army parade and arrogance
While Gaza burns
......
Senryu
Pity the Eskimo
With the vanishing ice cap
He can’t build a home
Pornography films
Freedom of ones expression
Embarrassing I think
Private acts made public
Do make love cynical
,,,,,,,,
Senryu
Sixty years today
Army parade and arrogance
While Gaza burns
......
Senryu
Pity the Eskimo
With the vanishing ice cap
He can’t build a home
porno on the mind
Porno of the Mind
If you go into the woods tonight, I murmured
a song, but it isn’t needed for I saw a ghost at
the supermarket, it hovered above the head of
of a hog that had an apple in its gob and saw
my ex girlfriend, lift the head up and kiss it
square on its leering lips and the fruit fall out
revealing a brown tongue; all the while she
whispered a name that had a familiar echo.
from an poisonous fairy specializing in weird,
semen drinking sex to a hag with teeth that
could chop a trunk in half. I will not go into
the woods to night, but she has such intense
eyes boring into my soul and seeing my secret
desires drawing me into her netherworld.
If you go into the woods tonight, I murmured
a song, but it isn’t needed for I saw a ghost at
the supermarket, it hovered above the head of
of a hog that had an apple in its gob and saw
my ex girlfriend, lift the head up and kiss it
square on its leering lips and the fruit fall out
revealing a brown tongue; all the while she
whispered a name that had a familiar echo.
from an poisonous fairy specializing in weird,
semen drinking sex to a hag with teeth that
could chop a trunk in half. I will not go into
the woods to night, but she has such intense
eyes boring into my soul and seeing my secret
desires drawing me into her netherworld.
to be a stead
To be a Stead.
On the pampas of Argentine I rode when surprised
by a blizzard, to survive I killed my horse split its
stomach open and crept inside, this saved my life
But when the blizzard stopped and I got out of my
shelter I looked for my rider and galloped home to
the ranch and ran around in the coral with the other
Horses that seemed surprised to see me.
Eventually I was lassoed and brought into a room
where I group of concerned friends tried to persuade
me that I was not a horse but just like them. Yes, in
a way they were right, I had noticed that they other
ran on four legs, I accepted my shortcomings and
stopped eating steppe grass; but I sold my ranch and
became a long distance runner.
On the pampas of Argentine I rode when surprised
by a blizzard, to survive I killed my horse split its
stomach open and crept inside, this saved my life
But when the blizzard stopped and I got out of my
shelter I looked for my rider and galloped home to
the ranch and ran around in the coral with the other
Horses that seemed surprised to see me.
Eventually I was lassoed and brought into a room
where I group of concerned friends tried to persuade
me that I was not a horse but just like them. Yes, in
a way they were right, I had noticed that they other
ran on four legs, I accepted my shortcomings and
stopped eating steppe grass; but I sold my ranch and
became a long distance runner.
in the woods
In the woods at night
Noticed when walking past the woods in the centre of this
town I had come to live many years ago was getting thinner,
rather like Castro’s beard that used to be so lush; I used to
walk here with my girlfriend, loved her and believed in true
love, alas, she though I was eccentric and used to regal her
shrieking friends in the bar with what I had said during our
trysts, and the woodland lost its enchantment.
Looked inside and discovered a wasteland of trees pulled
up by their roots and waiting for the chainsaw, nature had
lost another battle against bricks and mortar, only a necklace
of trees to give the illusion of forest. They were going to
build luxury bungalows here, protected from the glare of
the plebs by a ring of trees, houses advertised as investment
and not homes where one can find shelter from the storm.
Noticed when walking past the woods in the centre of this
town I had come to live many years ago was getting thinner,
rather like Castro’s beard that used to be so lush; I used to
walk here with my girlfriend, loved her and believed in true
love, alas, she though I was eccentric and used to regal her
shrieking friends in the bar with what I had said during our
trysts, and the woodland lost its enchantment.
Looked inside and discovered a wasteland of trees pulled
up by their roots and waiting for the chainsaw, nature had
lost another battle against bricks and mortar, only a necklace
of trees to give the illusion of forest. They were going to
build luxury bungalows here, protected from the glare of
the plebs by a ring of trees, houses advertised as investment
and not homes where one can find shelter from the storm.
Monday, May 05, 2008
the transplant
The Transplant
I have a bus on which I drive tourists from the coast
to the inland and show them roman ruins and a bit an
ancient road that used to lead to Rome.
But I have been losing business to the competition,
when I tout for business it is that I look too gloomy,
like I don’t really want anyone on my bus.
I told this to my dentist Jerry, he’s an American and
as such eternally optimistic, he is also a part time
cosmetic surgeon and a planter of hair on bare heads
He was only going to whiten my front teeth but when
waking up I had blond nylon hair sewed into my scalp
a permanent smile and Hollywood teeth.
Now I look as Berluscone, the Italian prime minister,
passengers think I’m a comic; when I say: “we leave
at four, you silly people” tourists laugh think I’m funny.
I have a bus on which I drive tourists from the coast
to the inland and show them roman ruins and a bit an
ancient road that used to lead to Rome.
But I have been losing business to the competition,
when I tout for business it is that I look too gloomy,
like I don’t really want anyone on my bus.
I told this to my dentist Jerry, he’s an American and
as such eternally optimistic, he is also a part time
cosmetic surgeon and a planter of hair on bare heads
He was only going to whiten my front teeth but when
waking up I had blond nylon hair sewed into my scalp
a permanent smile and Hollywood teeth.
Now I look as Berluscone, the Italian prime minister,
passengers think I’m a comic; when I say: “we leave
at four, you silly people” tourists laugh think I’m funny.
the smiling lady
The Smiling Lady
We sat holding hands I was seduced by her smile,
yes, no doubt in my mind the fair lady loved me.
I did vaguely remember having seen her, not long
ago, looking up to another man just like that but
this wasn’t the time to think pettily. Since she had
rented out her flat she moved into mine, two bags
four suitcases and a wine cooler made of silver.
New love exiting time we had, she was so full
of life, not for us to sit in front of the TV to have
an easy night at home, life was too short for that.
I tried my best to keep the newness of our love
fresh, but I felt as she was drifting away from me
and quietly despaired, she was getting restless and
one day she left me for another man.
I do miss her smile, but feel a sense of relived
sleep well I do, enjoy sitting on my sofa seeing
a western movie and I remember the man she was
with before me, he looked happy to now. Lovely
lady not for her to eat yesterdays cake, wonder
what she will do when her flat is free, and music
is a dripping tap in her joyless flat.
We sat holding hands I was seduced by her smile,
yes, no doubt in my mind the fair lady loved me.
I did vaguely remember having seen her, not long
ago, looking up to another man just like that but
this wasn’t the time to think pettily. Since she had
rented out her flat she moved into mine, two bags
four suitcases and a wine cooler made of silver.
New love exiting time we had, she was so full
of life, not for us to sit in front of the TV to have
an easy night at home, life was too short for that.
I tried my best to keep the newness of our love
fresh, but I felt as she was drifting away from me
and quietly despaired, she was getting restless and
one day she left me for another man.
I do miss her smile, but feel a sense of relived
sleep well I do, enjoy sitting on my sofa seeing
a western movie and I remember the man she was
with before me, he looked happy to now. Lovely
lady not for her to eat yesterdays cake, wonder
what she will do when her flat is free, and music
is a dripping tap in her joyless flat.
the video
The Video
They sent me a video from a time gone,
a family gathering, wine glasses held aloft
happy faces, what a grand illusion,
Moving pictures only mirrors a surface,
of something passing, it is not like the sea
mirroring the sky and telling a story
These moving pictures tell a big lie, nothing
about the anguish and betrayal anger and
clenched fist, voices shouting obscenities.
I knew those people once a Nordic year is
so short only lasts from April till September,
the rest is gloom and drunken melancholy.
They sent me a video from a time gone,
a family gathering, wine glasses held aloft
happy faces, what a grand illusion,
Moving pictures only mirrors a surface,
of something passing, it is not like the sea
mirroring the sky and telling a story
These moving pictures tell a big lie, nothing
about the anguish and betrayal anger and
clenched fist, voices shouting obscenities.
I knew those people once a Nordic year is
so short only lasts from April till September,
the rest is gloom and drunken melancholy.
the winter coat
The winter Coat
Cold day in March, mother wore a coat at least three
generations old; in the centre of town we’re stopped
by a lady highborn with a noble nose, a very distant
relation, she gave mother a 5 crown note, ( I remember
it was blue) mother was glad for that now that the fish
factory had closed and she was out of work. The fine
lady made a mistake she told mother what to buy, like
potatoes and milk, but noblesse oblige, we walked into
a very classy café where the waitresses wore uniforms
and looked down their noses; mother put the note on
the table and ordered hot chocolate and gateau, we sat
by the window in the hope the highborn should see us,
mother smoked and held the cigarette aloft the way film
stars did, but for the coat she could have pulled it off.
Cold day in March, mother wore a coat at least three
generations old; in the centre of town we’re stopped
by a lady highborn with a noble nose, a very distant
relation, she gave mother a 5 crown note, ( I remember
it was blue) mother was glad for that now that the fish
factory had closed and she was out of work. The fine
lady made a mistake she told mother what to buy, like
potatoes and milk, but noblesse oblige, we walked into
a very classy café where the waitresses wore uniforms
and looked down their noses; mother put the note on
the table and ordered hot chocolate and gateau, we sat
by the window in the hope the highborn should see us,
mother smoked and held the cigarette aloft the way film
stars did, but for the coat she could have pulled it off.
Friday, May 02, 2008
haiku and tanka
Haiku
On October street
Pale leaves on silver birches
Fall slowly at dusk
The heat of August
Carries a hue of sadness
Of coming decay
Tanka
Suicide bombers
Lack understanding of
Their total demise
Think they are to live forever
In the mind of the awed
On October street
Pale leaves on silver birches
Fall slowly at dusk
The heat of August
Carries a hue of sadness
Of coming decay
Tanka
Suicide bombers
Lack understanding of
Their total demise
Think they are to live forever
In the mind of the awed
summer night in Rome
Summer night in Rome
In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food
In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food
summer night in Rome
Summer night in Rome
In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food
In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave of
a slight chill after my douse. I sat there eyes half closed
listening the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was talking to a prostitute, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, widow open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food
wings
Wings.
Once I could fly, celebrating my return from the sea
My wife wouldn’t let me in, standing there in the yard
I stretched out my arm like a large phoenix bird and
Flew high above the roofs in the close where I lived
And could see I didn’t belong and could clearly see
That I didn’t belong amongst tax inspectors, office
Managers and police Sergeants.
My arms got tired I landed on the roof of my house
Where I tired fell asleep, when I awoke a fireman was
There insisted on helping me down, and days later,
When found guilty of disturbing the peace, the magistrate
Asked me how I got up on to the roof. I flew…sir
And there was talk of psychiatric valuation, but luckily
My ship came in and off I sailed never to return
Once I could fly, celebrating my return from the sea
My wife wouldn’t let me in, standing there in the yard
I stretched out my arm like a large phoenix bird and
Flew high above the roofs in the close where I lived
And could see I didn’t belong and could clearly see
That I didn’t belong amongst tax inspectors, office
Managers and police Sergeants.
My arms got tired I landed on the roof of my house
Where I tired fell asleep, when I awoke a fireman was
There insisted on helping me down, and days later,
When found guilty of disturbing the peace, the magistrate
Asked me how I got up on to the roof. I flew…sir
And there was talk of psychiatric valuation, but luckily
My ship came in and off I sailed never to return
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The destiny (www)
The Destiny (www)
The memory of her is like a beautiful diamond
cut by the expert Time that doesn’t wear black
and lives in Rotterdam. On world wide waters
I sailed her but had to rely on fair weather to
get safely to port; but I couldn’t stop her for
being beached on the coast of Bay of Bengal and
reduced from a dignified she, to scarp iron
Yes, the loves of my life, I remember the first
one the best she has been made flawless
by time; a dignified old woman now dressed in
black, attending mass; she had dreams of
domestic bliss and a big family. My vision was
different, it ended on a foreign strand, but my
ship keeps sailing on across the deep www.
The memory of her is like a beautiful diamond
cut by the expert Time that doesn’t wear black
and lives in Rotterdam. On world wide waters
I sailed her but had to rely on fair weather to
get safely to port; but I couldn’t stop her for
being beached on the coast of Bay of Bengal and
reduced from a dignified she, to scarp iron
Yes, the loves of my life, I remember the first
one the best she has been made flawless
by time; a dignified old woman now dressed in
black, attending mass; she had dreams of
domestic bliss and a big family. My vision was
different, it ended on a foreign strand, but my
ship keeps sailing on across the deep www.
pictogram
Pictogram
When an old lion
accept defeat
and leaves its pride
it does so
with dignity
Seeks not revenge,
but walk with
neck unbowed
to a lesser
hunting ground.
When an old lion
accept defeat
and leaves its pride
it does so
with dignity
Seeks not revenge,
but walk with
neck unbowed
to a lesser
hunting ground.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
epigram and Tanka
Epigram
Only in our world of unrestrained freedom
And middle class lunacy, do we let farmers
Plant sugar cane fields to make fuel for our
Costly cars, instead feeding the starving
Tanka
With high cost of rice
The poor face great hardship
But it’s not all gloom
A pair of solid Chinese boots
Is still within their budget.
Only in our world of unrestrained freedom
And middle class lunacy, do we let farmers
Plant sugar cane fields to make fuel for our
Costly cars, instead feeding the starving
Tanka
With high cost of rice
The poor face great hardship
But it’s not all gloom
A pair of solid Chinese boots
Is still within their budget.
What happened to Elmer?
In our dreary costal town, Elmer, the boy with a wooden leg;
was the beacon in a townscape uniformly grey. Irreverent he
was singing and joking his way through the town he seemed
to be everywhere at once. We loved Elmer:” Did you hear
what Elmer did and what he said to the chief of the police?”
Then one day he wasn’t there: “Where’s Elmer?” his urchin
face was greatly missed especially by us kids. But time was
moving forward, or is it us that walk forward till we find, on
the desert of time, our individual exit sign? My uncle had
bought a car and even mother looked up from the book she
was reading and came to the window
Years, later when station in a garrison town, I saw Elmer in
the street, he had a proper artificial leg now, so good that he
only had a slight limp, but his gamin face was almost the same.
“Hi Elmer, do you remember me? He did, we shook hands.
He told me he had a good job here and he had also found Jesus
who had saved him from the wicked life he had lived.
I looked into his eyes; they were filled with blandness, Elmer,
the boy had left ok, in front of me stood a thin little man in hat.
I never spoke to him again but saw him often sauntering along
evening empty streets always at a distant walking away from
me, disappearing back to my childhood.
In our dreary costal town, Elmer, the boy with a wooden leg;
was the beacon in a townscape uniformly grey. Irreverent he
was singing and joking his way through the town he seemed
to be everywhere at once. We loved Elmer:” Did you hear
what Elmer did and what he said to the chief of the police?”
Then one day he wasn’t there: “Where’s Elmer?” his urchin
face was greatly missed especially by us kids. But time was
moving forward, or is it us that walk forward till we find, on
the desert of time, our individual exit sign? My uncle had
bought a car and even mother looked up from the book she
was reading and came to the window
Years, later when station in a garrison town, I saw Elmer in
the street, he had a proper artificial leg now, so good that he
only had a slight limp, but his gamin face was almost the same.
“Hi Elmer, do you remember me? He did, we shook hands.
He told me he had a good job here and he had also found Jesus
who had saved him from the wicked life he had lived.
I looked into his eyes; they were filled with blandness, Elmer,
the boy had left ok, in front of me stood a thin little man in hat.
I never spoke to him again but saw him often sauntering along
evening empty streets always at a distant walking away from
me, disappearing back to my childhood.
What Happened to Elmer
What happened to Elmer?
In our dreary costal town, Elmer, the boy with a wooden leg;
was the beacon in a townscape uniformly grey. Irreverent he
was singing and joking his way through the town he seemed
to be everywhere at once. We loved Elmer:” Did you hear
what Elmer did and what he said to the chief of the police?”
Then one day he wasn’t there: “Where’s Elmer?” his urchin
face was greatly missed especially by us kids. But time was
moving forward, or is it us that walk forward till we find, on
the desert of time, our individual exit sign? My uncle had
bought a car and even mother looked up from the book she
was reading and came to the window
Years, later when station in a garrison town, I saw Elmer in
the street, he had a proper artificial leg now, so good that he
only had a slight limp, but his gamin face was almost the same.
“Hi Elmer, do you remember me? He did, we shook hands.
He told me he had a good job here and he had also found Jesus
who had saved him from the wicked life he had lived.
I looked into his eyes; they were filled with blandness, Elmer,
the boy had left ok, in front of me stood a thin little man in hat.
I never spoke to him again but saw him often sauntering along
evening empty streets always at a distant walking away from
me, disappearing back to my childhood.
In our dreary costal town, Elmer, the boy with a wooden leg;
was the beacon in a townscape uniformly grey. Irreverent he
was singing and joking his way through the town he seemed
to be everywhere at once. We loved Elmer:” Did you hear
what Elmer did and what he said to the chief of the police?”
Then one day he wasn’t there: “Where’s Elmer?” his urchin
face was greatly missed especially by us kids. But time was
moving forward, or is it us that walk forward till we find, on
the desert of time, our individual exit sign? My uncle had
bought a car and even mother looked up from the book she
was reading and came to the window
Years, later when station in a garrison town, I saw Elmer in
the street, he had a proper artificial leg now, so good that he
only had a slight limp, but his gamin face was almost the same.
“Hi Elmer, do you remember me? He did, we shook hands.
He told me he had a good job here and he had also found Jesus
who had saved him from the wicked life he had lived.
I looked into his eyes; they were filled with blandness, Elmer,
the boy had left ok, in front of me stood a thin little man in hat.
I never spoke to him again but saw him often sauntering along
evening empty streets always at a distant walking away from
me, disappearing back to my childhood.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
battery failure
Battery Failure.
The owner of a bottle green jaguar had chest pain,
after dinning on Irish stew, bravely drove himself
to hospital, parked, locked his car but forgot to
switch of its light; at the reception hall he collapsed
and the experts in medical emergency went into
action. Later the hospital’s sentinel noticed this, but
could do nothing only watch as the light got dimmer
and finally at five the battery was so weak that
the lights ceased; at the same time as its owner died.
this greatly disturbed the sentinel who thought there
must be a sort of connection even though he lacked
words to express his concern. But he learned a lesson
that morning now he keeps his battery on his own car
topped up and never forget to switch off the lights
The owner of a bottle green jaguar had chest pain,
after dinning on Irish stew, bravely drove himself
to hospital, parked, locked his car but forgot to
switch of its light; at the reception hall he collapsed
and the experts in medical emergency went into
action. Later the hospital’s sentinel noticed this, but
could do nothing only watch as the light got dimmer
and finally at five the battery was so weak that
the lights ceased; at the same time as its owner died.
this greatly disturbed the sentinel who thought there
must be a sort of connection even though he lacked
words to express his concern. But he learned a lesson
that morning now he keeps his battery on his own car
topped up and never forget to switch off the lights
the great potato voyage
The Great Potato Voyage
The ship was so old that she had wooden deck, great to
walk barefoot on when it’s hot; try that on an iron deck
and you get blisters. I was peeling potatoes across
Bay of Biscay, down the coast of Portugal and into
the Mediterranean Sea. The Suez Canal I saw in its early
morning glory while holding on to the peeler, the red sea
and the Persian Gulf I took in sitting down, just had to
take care that the tubers had no eyes, the cook lost his
temper then and shouted all the way across the Indian
Ocean till we docked in Nagasaki, Japan.
Sometimes the ship stopped in the middle of this vastness,
for a rest, and everything went a bit spooky, we whispered
as not to upset unseen forces, like being in a church, no one
swore and our hands were ready to be folded into the act
of preying should a bishop come along. The roaring forties,
only it was a calm day, the captain came told me not to
whistle, laugh aloud or sing, and keep my fingers crossed.
“Will we ever reach the shore”, I said. “You will young man,
but remember this: when you’re old what you will miss
the most is the sea”
The ship was so old that she had wooden deck, great to
walk barefoot on when it’s hot; try that on an iron deck
and you get blisters. I was peeling potatoes across
Bay of Biscay, down the coast of Portugal and into
the Mediterranean Sea. The Suez Canal I saw in its early
morning glory while holding on to the peeler, the red sea
and the Persian Gulf I took in sitting down, just had to
take care that the tubers had no eyes, the cook lost his
temper then and shouted all the way across the Indian
Ocean till we docked in Nagasaki, Japan.
Sometimes the ship stopped in the middle of this vastness,
for a rest, and everything went a bit spooky, we whispered
as not to upset unseen forces, like being in a church, no one
swore and our hands were ready to be folded into the act
of preying should a bishop come along. The roaring forties,
only it was a calm day, the captain came told me not to
whistle, laugh aloud or sing, and keep my fingers crossed.
“Will we ever reach the shore”, I said. “You will young man,
but remember this: when you’re old what you will miss
the most is the sea”
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Let the night commence
Let The Night Commence.
The drops that fall from a leak on the roof
down into a bucket on the floor, are not equal,
because each one has a different ping and
vibrating echo, but each drop harmonizes and
together make enchanting water music.
No concert should last longer than two hours,
more and the mind numbs, this ignominy can
be avoided by putting a towel in the bucket,
(sotto voce) and the business of sleep can begin,
because that is what nights are for.
But before going under, not knowing whether
I’ll wake up or not, I think of the loves of my
life: Edith Piaf and Marilyn Monroe, both
unobtainable, both tragic heroines; so should
I not ask myself why I love famous losers?
Perhaps I should but not tonight, beside I’m
not a psychiatrist with a diploma on the wall,
only a tired, elderly man who has to go to
work painting other peoples houses at dawn,
to pay doctors big bills for my longevity.
The drops that fall from a leak on the roof
down into a bucket on the floor, are not equal,
because each one has a different ping and
vibrating echo, but each drop harmonizes and
together make enchanting water music.
No concert should last longer than two hours,
more and the mind numbs, this ignominy can
be avoided by putting a towel in the bucket,
(sotto voce) and the business of sleep can begin,
because that is what nights are for.
But before going under, not knowing whether
I’ll wake up or not, I think of the loves of my
life: Edith Piaf and Marilyn Monroe, both
unobtainable, both tragic heroines; so should
I not ask myself why I love famous losers?
Perhaps I should but not tonight, beside I’m
not a psychiatrist with a diploma on the wall,
only a tired, elderly man who has to go to
work painting other peoples houses at dawn,
to pay doctors big bills for my longevity.
So bring the light then
So Bring Light Then
My body had been interred in the prairie
landscape, I stuck a steel rod down soft
soil till it met the lid of the coffin; so it was
true then, yet it was eerie that I was here
above ground while my body was slowly
absorbed by the earth.
There are many red Indians about, they all
have droplet horses and one, small as a pony,
nodded friendly, yes, I had seen it before in
western movies it had been especially good
at falling, so I mounted it and of we trotted
away unseen by the indigenous people.
Further on men in jeans and big hats, called
cowboys, were fencing in a watering hole,
they were men with secret desires that were
biologically a blind alley, but the only time
they touched was when they fought in the bar
or when sharing an Annie-get-your-gun.
The prairie was as big as an ocean and at
the horizon I saw a bright yet welcoming
light that I noticed the Indians was walking
towards, bad on my feet I kept on riding till
I was inside a light that was free of mortality,
and it was good to be amongst the braves
My body had been interred in the prairie
landscape, I stuck a steel rod down soft
soil till it met the lid of the coffin; so it was
true then, yet it was eerie that I was here
above ground while my body was slowly
absorbed by the earth.
There are many red Indians about, they all
have droplet horses and one, small as a pony,
nodded friendly, yes, I had seen it before in
western movies it had been especially good
at falling, so I mounted it and of we trotted
away unseen by the indigenous people.
Further on men in jeans and big hats, called
cowboys, were fencing in a watering hole,
they were men with secret desires that were
biologically a blind alley, but the only time
they touched was when they fought in the bar
or when sharing an Annie-get-your-gun.
The prairie was as big as an ocean and at
the horizon I saw a bright yet welcoming
light that I noticed the Indians was walking
towards, bad on my feet I kept on riding till
I was inside a light that was free of mortality,
and it was good to be amongst the braves
Dawn
Dawn.
I closed my eyes and saw
another universe,
millions of stars,
red and green planets,
gigantic faraway eruptions and
clouds of cosmic dust.
No life there, eternal night
and empty silence.
Opened my eyes and
saw through curtains
a square of light, dawn was seeping in,
a new day, a beginning, renewal
and the hope of peace.
I closed my eyes and saw
another universe,
millions of stars,
red and green planets,
gigantic faraway eruptions and
clouds of cosmic dust.
No life there, eternal night
and empty silence.
Opened my eyes and
saw through curtains
a square of light, dawn was seeping in,
a new day, a beginning, renewal
and the hope of peace.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Winner & Loser
Winner & Loser
Cycling along a pathway in a stony, dry bush
landscape I saw a hawk lose its kill, a sparrow,
the unfortunate fell in front of me, alive but
badly wounded. While the hawk sat on a tree,
an almond tree that had no business growing
here and it showed no one had tended to this
domestic plant years.
This bit of violence was none of my concern
I shouldn’t have picked it up the sparrow, but
now that I felt its nervous little heart beating
in my palm and its blood dripping on my hand,
it was hard to let go. I put nature’s victim on
a big boulder, sat still on my bike till the hawk
swooped and reclaimed its quarry
Cycling along a pathway in a stony, dry bush
landscape I saw a hawk lose its kill, a sparrow,
the unfortunate fell in front of me, alive but
badly wounded. While the hawk sat on a tree,
an almond tree that had no business growing
here and it showed no one had tended to this
domestic plant years.
This bit of violence was none of my concern
I shouldn’t have picked it up the sparrow, but
now that I felt its nervous little heart beating
in my palm and its blood dripping on my hand,
it was hard to let go. I put nature’s victim on
a big boulder, sat still on my bike till the hawk
swooped and reclaimed its quarry
flight of a bird
Flight of a Bird
A heron flew low across the motorway, alas too low,
it collided with an ice-cream van that was on its way
to a suburban school to sell its freezing and delicious
products, it broke a wing, but managed to get on to
the hard shoulder of the road. A driver, in an apple
green jaguar came speeding along, swerved and tried
to kill the bird, didn’t quite make it though, but now
the heron had two broken wings; confused and in pain
it crawled back on to the road. In the afternoon only
a few soft feathers drifted aimlessly on the left bank of
this manmade river of blood and loss.
A heron flew low across the motorway, alas too low,
it collided with an ice-cream van that was on its way
to a suburban school to sell its freezing and delicious
products, it broke a wing, but managed to get on to
the hard shoulder of the road. A driver, in an apple
green jaguar came speeding along, swerved and tried
to kill the bird, didn’t quite make it though, but now
the heron had two broken wings; confused and in pain
it crawled back on to the road. In the afternoon only
a few soft feathers drifted aimlessly on the left bank of
this manmade river of blood and loss.
The home turf
The Home Turf.
The enclosure’s gate was left open and led by
a tall, black stallion, a natural leader, the horses
escaped and soon galloped to the freedom of
open land. When tired they settled down, grazed
or just enjoyed the day. They were not wild and
when the light faded, on this great land that
casts no shadow, the timid horses thought of
the safety of the ranch, got restless and scraped
hooves on the ground and blowing through their
nostrils. Reluctantly their leader began trotting
back, and as the day became evening the flock
was in the coral they knew; the gate was firmly
shut behind them, as it will be tomorrow and
the days thereafter.
The enclosure’s gate was left open and led by
a tall, black stallion, a natural leader, the horses
escaped and soon galloped to the freedom of
open land. When tired they settled down, grazed
or just enjoyed the day. They were not wild and
when the light faded, on this great land that
casts no shadow, the timid horses thought of
the safety of the ranch, got restless and scraped
hooves on the ground and blowing through their
nostrils. Reluctantly their leader began trotting
back, and as the day became evening the flock
was in the coral they knew; the gate was firmly
shut behind them, as it will be tomorrow and
the days thereafter.
morning and the mythical
Morning and the Mythical.
On the hazy field a white stallion, with steam
rising from its back, was grazing and I thought
of the lady who used to ride naked through
the night. The horse seeing me cycling slowly
on the village sandy lane came to the fence
neighed softly and looked endearing.
I stopped spoke to it till it began grazing, but
when I tried to leave it neighed again didn’t
want to be alone. A man was letting sheep, on
to the field, eighty-five damp wooly backs,
(counted them and nearly fell asleep,) I could
leave now my presence was no longer needed.
On the hazy field a white stallion, with steam
rising from its back, was grazing and I thought
of the lady who used to ride naked through
the night. The horse seeing me cycling slowly
on the village sandy lane came to the fence
neighed softly and looked endearing.
I stopped spoke to it till it began grazing, but
when I tried to leave it neighed again didn’t
want to be alone. A man was letting sheep, on
to the field, eighty-five damp wooly backs,
(counted them and nearly fell asleep,) I could
leave now my presence was no longer needed.
the struggle
The Struggle
I have struggled for decades not to sink into
the morass of years, had been holding on to
a branch of the tree of learning, but when
asleep I lost the grip and now see the underside
of its leaves, they are pale and tells me that
learning gives yarning and ambitions for
a wider horizon, but without education, a title
that tells us who we are, we will continue work
as garage hands, or peel potatoes in a café.
It’s easy to let go slip into old age, to forget
and to be forgotten by the world
I have struggled for decades not to sink into
the morass of years, had been holding on to
a branch of the tree of learning, but when
asleep I lost the grip and now see the underside
of its leaves, they are pale and tells me that
learning gives yarning and ambitions for
a wider horizon, but without education, a title
that tells us who we are, we will continue work
as garage hands, or peel potatoes in a café.
It’s easy to let go slip into old age, to forget
and to be forgotten by the world
Friday, April 18, 2008
September travel
September Travel
I’ve packed my suitcase ready to go to Norway in
September, extra jumpers, wooly socks and two
bottles of whisky; well, I’m only staying there for
four days, but there might be a war breaking out.
Booze is very expensive in Norway so I can’t go
into bars, but sit in a tiny hotel room drink good
whisky from a glass in the bathroom, the one used
to brush ones teeth in the morning.
I will be walking around in streets where no one
knows me, there will be rain and I have no umbrella,
and I will end up in one of those expensive bars,
just standing there drinking and talking to no one.
I have unpacked my suitcase, and opened one of
the bottles and sit in my favourite chair drinking
a drop, I will not be going back to Norway this year,
the dog is old and can’t be left alone in a kennel,
I’ve packed my suitcase ready to go to Norway in
September, extra jumpers, wooly socks and two
bottles of whisky; well, I’m only staying there for
four days, but there might be a war breaking out.
Booze is very expensive in Norway so I can’t go
into bars, but sit in a tiny hotel room drink good
whisky from a glass in the bathroom, the one used
to brush ones teeth in the morning.
I will be walking around in streets where no one
knows me, there will be rain and I have no umbrella,
and I will end up in one of those expensive bars,
just standing there drinking and talking to no one.
I have unpacked my suitcase, and opened one of
the bottles and sit in my favourite chair drinking
a drop, I will not be going back to Norway this year,
the dog is old and can’t be left alone in a kennel,
4 haiku
Haiku
Snows only purpose?
To make my garden look good
Four months a year
Haiku
Shadows and light
In an unseemly embrace
Foolish April Dance
Haiku
In the middy heat
Mules seeks shady carob trees
Man seeks the beach.
Haiku
Morning sadness
Rain trickles down the window
Grey October sky.
Snows only purpose?
To make my garden look good
Four months a year
Haiku
Shadows and light
In an unseemly embrace
Foolish April Dance
Haiku
In the middy heat
Mules seeks shady carob trees
Man seeks the beach.
Haiku
Morning sadness
Rain trickles down the window
Grey October sky.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Mother's last day
Mother’s Last Day.
When I came to the nursing home mother
fretted she wanted me to drive her down
to the bay she wanted to see the sea again.
I was getting wintry but the nurse brought
some extra blankets and of we drove.
It was a blustery day and sea in the bay was
white topped, she sat there for a long time
saying nothing, then she spoke of her father,
who had been a master of a schooner and
sailed all the way to USA and Argentina.
Going back we stopped at a café ate Danish
pastry and drank hot chocolate, she also
smoked a forbidden cigarette. At the home,
she didn’t want anything to eat, had been
to a café with her son.
I sat with her till she fell asleep, they rang
early in the morning, she was the last link,
with the past, snow covered flowers on her
coffin, her time had run out, from now on
I had to walk the rest of the way alone
When I came to the nursing home mother
fretted she wanted me to drive her down
to the bay she wanted to see the sea again.
I was getting wintry but the nurse brought
some extra blankets and of we drove.
It was a blustery day and sea in the bay was
white topped, she sat there for a long time
saying nothing, then she spoke of her father,
who had been a master of a schooner and
sailed all the way to USA and Argentina.
Going back we stopped at a café ate Danish
pastry and drank hot chocolate, she also
smoked a forbidden cigarette. At the home,
she didn’t want anything to eat, had been
to a café with her son.
I sat with her till she fell asleep, they rang
early in the morning, she was the last link,
with the past, snow covered flowers on her
coffin, her time had run out, from now on
I had to walk the rest of the way alone
mother and the singer
Mother and the Singer
I first heard Edith Piaf on the radio in 1954,
her songs were translated into Norwegian
and mother used to sing them when peeling
potatoes or frying fish cakes.
Today I came across Edit Piaf, on the net,
singing her heart out, I thought she looked
like my mother, and I hadn’t been thinking
of her for a long time, small, old fashion
and ungainly, but with a big heart.
So there I sat riding pillion on a great voice
back to a time that had glimmer of gold in
songs and in books to relieve days of fear,
and the insanity of poverty
I first heard Edith Piaf on the radio in 1954,
her songs were translated into Norwegian
and mother used to sing them when peeling
potatoes or frying fish cakes.
Today I came across Edit Piaf, on the net,
singing her heart out, I thought she looked
like my mother, and I hadn’t been thinking
of her for a long time, small, old fashion
and ungainly, but with a big heart.
So there I sat riding pillion on a great voice
back to a time that had glimmer of gold in
songs and in books to relieve days of fear,
and the insanity of poverty
summer with my mother
Summer with my mother.
I t was the best summer I ever had or can remember,
mother and I had cycled to the beach, that is,
I was riding pillion. It was a hot day mother, a strong
swimmer swam, to the small islet nearby, it wasn’t
far, I sat on her back, like a little monkey people said
and laughed. Later we ate sandwiches she had made
before we left and tepid tea from the thermos flask.
She gave me coppers and sent me to buy ice-cream
it was a long way off and going back the ice-cream
melted. I ate mine of mother’s there was only a wet
cone left. I must have fallen asleep. Mother woke me
said it was time to cycle home, I was very happy that
evening that when my sister called me a mother’s boy
I didn’t mind but said I knew who her boyfriend was.
Before going to bed I told mother that I would never
leave her; she gave me a hug, and that was great, she
wasn’t much into hugging people. Then she had to go
back to work, putting sardines into tins and smelling
of fish when she tired came home.
I t was the best summer I ever had or can remember,
mother and I had cycled to the beach, that is,
I was riding pillion. It was a hot day mother, a strong
swimmer swam, to the small islet nearby, it wasn’t
far, I sat on her back, like a little monkey people said
and laughed. Later we ate sandwiches she had made
before we left and tepid tea from the thermos flask.
She gave me coppers and sent me to buy ice-cream
it was a long way off and going back the ice-cream
melted. I ate mine of mother’s there was only a wet
cone left. I must have fallen asleep. Mother woke me
said it was time to cycle home, I was very happy that
evening that when my sister called me a mother’s boy
I didn’t mind but said I knew who her boyfriend was.
Before going to bed I told mother that I would never
leave her; she gave me a hug, and that was great, she
wasn’t much into hugging people. Then she had to go
back to work, putting sardines into tins and smelling
of fish when she tired came home.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The mortification
The Mortification
The famous widowed singer, a titled living icon
worshiped as a demi-god, married again, this time
with a woman the same age as his daughter, who
called her stepmother a brazen gold-digger.
And in the sewer system of the famous, poisonous
rumours seeped all the way to the gutter press,
the new woman in their heroes life was tart and
didn’t deserve him.
And to make matters worse, the singer still loved
his dead wife, everyone knew that, and soon tired
of the new one; so he changed locks in his houses
and started divorce proceedings,
And the press gloated when the humiliated wife
trashed about in distress and uttered words that
didn’t make much sense, and showed picture of
her posing in an unbecoming way.
So she got her money then and is it: good riddance
then? No quite she has got a gift the singer has to
forego, his baby daughter and the snubbed wife is
going to live far away
The famous widowed singer, a titled living icon
worshiped as a demi-god, married again, this time
with a woman the same age as his daughter, who
called her stepmother a brazen gold-digger.
And in the sewer system of the famous, poisonous
rumours seeped all the way to the gutter press,
the new woman in their heroes life was tart and
didn’t deserve him.
And to make matters worse, the singer still loved
his dead wife, everyone knew that, and soon tired
of the new one; so he changed locks in his houses
and started divorce proceedings,
And the press gloated when the humiliated wife
trashed about in distress and uttered words that
didn’t make much sense, and showed picture of
her posing in an unbecoming way.
So she got her money then and is it: good riddance
then? No quite she has got a gift the singer has to
forego, his baby daughter and the snubbed wife is
going to live far away
a farm cat
A Farm Cat.
The cat sits on the steps outside the scullery
watches with indifference maids clean urns
and separate cream from milk to make butter.
It has had a saucer of cream and is tired after
a long night of wildlife, violence and murder
that goes unseen by sleeping humans.
So it curls up on the steps and warmed by
the spring sun thinks of nothing in particular
except, perhaps, of another saucer of cream
The cat sits on the steps outside the scullery
watches with indifference maids clean urns
and separate cream from milk to make butter.
It has had a saucer of cream and is tired after
a long night of wildlife, violence and murder
that goes unseen by sleeping humans.
So it curls up on the steps and warmed by
the spring sun thinks of nothing in particular
except, perhaps, of another saucer of cream
Unwanted
Unwanted
Coming in from the sunlit lane, where I had
been stalked by a shadow that wasn’t mine,
it was as a cave under the solid branches of
a thick leaved carob tree.
Yet the tree emitted an unnerving one tone
sound just like a telephone before it is dialed
and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness,
I saw ants coming up from a hole.
They began eating my leather shoes, there
was nothing I could do, not with the surplus
shadow hanging about, wanting to join me
since it’s own owner died this morning
The ants were now eating my socks, soon
they will start eating at my toes, but luckily
the sun is fading, as is the lost shadow, and
now the ants are nibbling at my feet
It’s dark, ants’ gone back down their hole,
the lane, in moonlight looks, as a silk scarf,
and by the verge I see, calf-skin boots; and
sharp pebbles hurt my bare and bloody feet.
Alluring is the pull, I touch the boots, how
soft they are, but I see the shadow, curled up
in a ditch, waiting. No, I’ll not try them on
I refuse to wear a dead man’s shoes.
.
Coming in from the sunlit lane, where I had
been stalked by a shadow that wasn’t mine,
it was as a cave under the solid branches of
a thick leaved carob tree.
Yet the tree emitted an unnerving one tone
sound just like a telephone before it is dialed
and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness,
I saw ants coming up from a hole.
They began eating my leather shoes, there
was nothing I could do, not with the surplus
shadow hanging about, wanting to join me
since it’s own owner died this morning
The ants were now eating my socks, soon
they will start eating at my toes, but luckily
the sun is fading, as is the lost shadow, and
now the ants are nibbling at my feet
It’s dark, ants’ gone back down their hole,
the lane, in moonlight looks, as a silk scarf,
and by the verge I see, calf-skin boots; and
sharp pebbles hurt my bare and bloody feet.
Alluring is the pull, I touch the boots, how
soft they are, but I see the shadow, curled up
in a ditch, waiting. No, I’ll not try them on
I refuse to wear a dead man’s shoes.
.
The inedible
The Inedible
The bush in the corner of the garden
carries berries that are pearl shaped
pale red and looks nice in sunlight.
They hang high up on and taste bitter;
the birds ignore them, to make jam of
them one needs a ton of sugar.
Yet this bush grows in my garden and
gets bigger every year, it is not for me
to ask what’s the point of it all.
The bush in the corner of the garden
carries berries that are pearl shaped
pale red and looks nice in sunlight.
They hang high up on and taste bitter;
the birds ignore them, to make jam of
them one needs a ton of sugar.
Yet this bush grows in my garden and
gets bigger every year, it is not for me
to ask what’s the point of it all.
animal power
Animal Power.
The cat, on the terrace, is black and it isn’t mine,
it used to run away when it saw me,
now it ignores me, wants the terrace for itself and
waits for me to go back in, but I defy its unspoken
dislike and stay there as long as I want to.
I don’t stay very long, no point hanging about just
to prove that’s it’s my terrace; it’s not like a tiger,
jaguar, panther or a cheetah, no, it’s a regular feline
that I can’t get to like me, It’s really pathetic, but
the animal makes me feel like a loser.
The cat, on the terrace, is black and it isn’t mine,
it used to run away when it saw me,
now it ignores me, wants the terrace for itself and
waits for me to go back in, but I defy its unspoken
dislike and stay there as long as I want to.
I don’t stay very long, no point hanging about just
to prove that’s it’s my terrace; it’s not like a tiger,
jaguar, panther or a cheetah, no, it’s a regular feline
that I can’t get to like me, It’s really pathetic, but
the animal makes me feel like a loser.
saying
Saying
“The night has no morning”
For a man ambushed by his
Own shadow when going to
The loo before daybreak.
“The night has no morning”
For a man ambushed by his
Own shadow when going to
The loo before daybreak.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The ending
The Ending
The far history is 2000 years old, and we have
no kinship with those who lived before that time.
Near history began 700 hundred years ago, and
feels like yesterday, through paintings we know
what people looked like then, their culture and
so forth; names of those who were famous then.
“A million years from now”, the learned man on
the TV, said, “the sun will implode and on earth
there will forever be night. Should I be worried?
By then what we know and find important today
will be forgotten and since there is no memory,
humanity never existed. Perhaps a cry undulates
through the dark vastness, lamenting the passing
of a god that disappeared into its own void.
The far history is 2000 years old, and we have
no kinship with those who lived before that time.
Near history began 700 hundred years ago, and
feels like yesterday, through paintings we know
what people looked like then, their culture and
so forth; names of those who were famous then.
“A million years from now”, the learned man on
the TV, said, “the sun will implode and on earth
there will forever be night. Should I be worried?
By then what we know and find important today
will be forgotten and since there is no memory,
humanity never existed. Perhaps a cry undulates
through the dark vastness, lamenting the passing
of a god that disappeared into its own void.
An obsolete emotion
An Obsolete Emotion?
What happened to laughter, last time I looked
it walked along a lake and giggled at the antic
of ducks; the birds have gone and the lake is
polluted so what’s so funny about that.
Serious venture in a grim factory by the lake’s
shore, ducks can’t compete with that, somber
house prices, grave problem with the sewer and
you have the making of gloominess.
The factory is closed and a house is no longer
an asset but a cold shelter where people waits
for the bailiff, as some people, chuckling and
giggling grimly, buy up defeated domesticity.
Yet laughter hasn’t been fully eradicated it
lurks in a child’s face ready to come and play
What happened to laughter, last time I looked
it walked along a lake and giggled at the antic
of ducks; the birds have gone and the lake is
polluted so what’s so funny about that.
Serious venture in a grim factory by the lake’s
shore, ducks can’t compete with that, somber
house prices, grave problem with the sewer and
you have the making of gloominess.
The factory is closed and a house is no longer
an asset but a cold shelter where people waits
for the bailiff, as some people, chuckling and
giggling grimly, buy up defeated domesticity.
Yet laughter hasn’t been fully eradicated it
lurks in a child’s face ready to come and play
solder Hero (rewritten)
Soldier Hero
They are so proud of their son, the war hero,
and now he was given the highest accolade
a soldier can receive, from a grateful nation.
In the great hall they met generals who said
it was an honour to meet the parents of a hero,
they had brought up a fine son, (post mortem
medals are as soft plaster on ulcers of grief.)
Music and red carnation, chocolate cake and
tea; the nation’s president shed blameless and
manly tears, his lachrymose for us to admire;
pity the hero wasn’t there. Time to go as low
paid cleaners came, gobble up the remains of
the cake, drank lukewarm tea, and idly spoke
about the weather and the high price of gas.
They are so proud of their son, the war hero,
and now he was given the highest accolade
a soldier can receive, from a grateful nation.
In the great hall they met generals who said
it was an honour to meet the parents of a hero,
they had brought up a fine son, (post mortem
medals are as soft plaster on ulcers of grief.)
Music and red carnation, chocolate cake and
tea; the nation’s president shed blameless and
manly tears, his lachrymose for us to admire;
pity the hero wasn’t there. Time to go as low
paid cleaners came, gobble up the remains of
the cake, drank lukewarm tea, and idly spoke
about the weather and the high price of gas.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
soldier hero
Soldier Hero
They are so proud of their son, the war hero,
and now they were given the highest accolade,
a soldier can receive, from a grateful nation.
In the great hall they met generals who said
it was an honour to meet the parents of a hero,
they had brought up a fine son, (a post mortem
medals are gentle plaster on the ulcer of grief.)
Music and pink flowers, chocolate cake and
tea; the nation’s president shed blameless and
manly tears, his lachrymose display for us to
admire; pity the hero wasn’t there. Time to go
as low paid cleaners came, ate the remains of
the cake, drank lukewarm tea, and idly spoke
about the weather and the high prices of gas.
They are so proud of their son, the war hero,
and now they were given the highest accolade,
a soldier can receive, from a grateful nation.
In the great hall they met generals who said
it was an honour to meet the parents of a hero,
they had brought up a fine son, (a post mortem
medals are gentle plaster on the ulcer of grief.)
Music and pink flowers, chocolate cake and
tea; the nation’s president shed blameless and
manly tears, his lachrymose display for us to
admire; pity the hero wasn’t there. Time to go
as low paid cleaners came, ate the remains of
the cake, drank lukewarm tea, and idly spoke
about the weather and the high prices of gas.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Getting to know you
Getting to know you
In the mid Atlantic, where spoken English
takes on an American twang, swells give
birth to waves that grow very quickly and
dreams of getting as big as Mount Everest.
Alas, there are rocky shores that cut them
down to size, in a froth of white blood and
fish-finger ignominy, an experience they
are unable to pass on the next generation
In the mid Atlantic, where spoken English
takes on an American twang, swells give
birth to waves that grow very quickly and
dreams of getting as big as Mount Everest.
Alas, there are rocky shores that cut them
down to size, in a froth of white blood and
fish-finger ignominy, an experience they
are unable to pass on the next generation
indisposed gardener
Indisposed Gardener
Today I want to write a poem it’s spring you see,
and green weed with blue flowers along the house.
I’m reluctant to remove them they have been
around longer than me and will continue long after
I’ve gone; when I die my little gesture of kindness
towards fingerless dog and despised weed will not
be forgotten, if asked what I have done in my life to
look back upon, I will mention this, if the man is not
impressed I will tell him it the unseen kindness that
counts, the big bravado things only bring satisfaction
to the beaming do-gooders who, for all we know,
may go home and be malicious to his wife if dinner
isn’t ready on time and shame her by peeing out of
the window when drunk. The blue flowers only last
a week then they’ll wilt and my backache… gone.
Today I want to write a poem it’s spring you see,
and green weed with blue flowers along the house.
I’m reluctant to remove them they have been
around longer than me and will continue long after
I’ve gone; when I die my little gesture of kindness
towards fingerless dog and despised weed will not
be forgotten, if asked what I have done in my life to
look back upon, I will mention this, if the man is not
impressed I will tell him it the unseen kindness that
counts, the big bravado things only bring satisfaction
to the beaming do-gooders who, for all we know,
may go home and be malicious to his wife if dinner
isn’t ready on time and shame her by peeing out of
the window when drunk. The blue flowers only last
a week then they’ll wilt and my backache… gone.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
the forgotten remembered
The Forgotten Remembered
It’s so long ago I’m not sure whether it was a dream,
it happened at quiet a corner of a land where, although
occupied by the enemy, war’s cruelty hadn’t reached
yet. There was a prison camp nearby, Russians I think,
guards let me feed them scraps of food as they looked
benignly on at this scene of sweet innocence.
A cold early morning many shots had been fired but
no one knew why and after dinner I went to feed
prisoners leftovers; the camp’s gate was open and they
lay on the ground, some with eyes open, yet unseeing
and there was blood in the snow. I must have been there
long time it began snowing again and flakes of gentle
crystal covered their faces and I wondered why.
A giant soldier with his rifle slung across his massive
shoulder, came, took me by the hand and led me back
to the farm; whispering voices, they put me at the front
of the log fire, I was very cold, everyone was so kind
that I began crying gave me hot, sweet cocoa to drink.
It’s so long ago I’m not sure whether it was a dream,
it happened at quiet a corner of a land where, although
occupied by the enemy, war’s cruelty hadn’t reached
yet. There was a prison camp nearby, Russians I think,
guards let me feed them scraps of food as they looked
benignly on at this scene of sweet innocence.
A cold early morning many shots had been fired but
no one knew why and after dinner I went to feed
prisoners leftovers; the camp’s gate was open and they
lay on the ground, some with eyes open, yet unseeing
and there was blood in the snow. I must have been there
long time it began snowing again and flakes of gentle
crystal covered their faces and I wondered why.
A giant soldier with his rifle slung across his massive
shoulder, came, took me by the hand and led me back
to the farm; whispering voices, they put me at the front
of the log fire, I was very cold, everyone was so kind
that I began crying gave me hot, sweet cocoa to drink.
Unrequited Love
The street and the clapperboard houses flanking, it was the same
only the street had a layer of asphalt and the houses had been
painted. It was here it all began when I fell into confusion, or as
they say, love. Walking by her house, but on the opposite side
of the street, her home was green and had pretty curtains, flowers
on sills and oozed of small town decorum. I noticed people inside
and stopped, by a little shop that sold knitwear and wondered how
a tiny business like that can ever make a living and its window reflection saw her house; she came out, walking across the road,
and I recognized her at once even though she must be sixty five,
to be invisible, didn’t want her to think I came here just for her,
I put a yellow supermarket plastic bag with holes in over my head,
it worked, she walked by me into the needle & thread shop where
she bought a pair of shiny knitting pins.
Coming out she stopped said I looked daft in that xanthous bag,
(she is fond of using unusual words) I took it off, very was hot
inside it anyway, said I wasn’t trying to hide but was looking for
a gold ring and I didn’t see as well as before. Overcome by lust
I grabbed and passionately kissed her, till she lost her pins: “let’s
go and make love” I hoarsely gasped, but she pushed me away
and said: “Are you mad, I have to knit a jumper for my grandson
before winter, and have to go home and cook my husband’s tea,
you must have better things to do than follow me around as you
did forty years ago when you camped outside the house; mother
was very upset worried if the neighbours thought I was common
a tart.” Upset, by her hard words, I put the sad bag back over my
head didn’t want to draw attention to myself when crying tears
of humiliated rejection.
The street and the clapperboard houses flanking, it was the same
only the street had a layer of asphalt and the houses had been
painted. It was here it all began when I fell into confusion, or as
they say, love. Walking by her house, but on the opposite side
of the street, her home was green and had pretty curtains, flowers
on sills and oozed of small town decorum. I noticed people inside
and stopped, by a little shop that sold knitwear and wondered how
a tiny business like that can ever make a living and its window reflection saw her house; she came out, walking across the road,
and I recognized her at once even though she must be sixty five,
to be invisible, didn’t want her to think I came here just for her,
I put a yellow supermarket plastic bag with holes in over my head,
it worked, she walked by me into the needle & thread shop where
she bought a pair of shiny knitting pins.
Coming out she stopped said I looked daft in that xanthous bag,
(she is fond of using unusual words) I took it off, very was hot
inside it anyway, said I wasn’t trying to hide but was looking for
a gold ring and I didn’t see as well as before. Overcome by lust
I grabbed and passionately kissed her, till she lost her pins: “let’s
go and make love” I hoarsely gasped, but she pushed me away
and said: “Are you mad, I have to knit a jumper for my grandson
before winter, and have to go home and cook my husband’s tea,
you must have better things to do than follow me around as you
did forty years ago when you camped outside the house; mother
was very upset worried if the neighbours thought I was common
a tart.” Upset, by her hard words, I put the sad bag back over my
head didn’t want to draw attention to myself when crying tears
of humiliated rejection.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
The Master Mariner
The Master Mariner
Last night I was a master once again,
stood on the terrace easing my errant
house that pulled at the anchor she
wanted to drift towards the open sea
and safety from knife sharp reefs and
torrential blinding rain.
When first light broke storm ceased
and I saw houses that had broken
anchor and slammed into one another,
bad seaman ship but said nothing as
I inspected my house and noticed that
a few roof tiles were missing.
Last night I was a master once again,
stood on the terrace easing my errant
house that pulled at the anchor she
wanted to drift towards the open sea
and safety from knife sharp reefs and
torrential blinding rain.
When first light broke storm ceased
and I saw houses that had broken
anchor and slammed into one another,
bad seaman ship but said nothing as
I inspected my house and noticed that
a few roof tiles were missing.
this year's springtime
This year’s Springtime.
Spring used to lift my spirit,
this last one, however, seems
intrusive, it thrills and loudly
reaches towards the sun;
for no reason I can think of,
as I grow down to a ground
that is an open cast mine
decked with flaccid flowers.
Spring used to lift my spirit,
this last one, however, seems
intrusive, it thrills and loudly
reaches towards the sun;
for no reason I can think of,
as I grow down to a ground
that is an open cast mine
decked with flaccid flowers.
Horseshoe for luck
Horseshoe for luck
There was a wooden bridge, near the farm,
where I lived - a few years- as a child,
I often sat under it looking at the clear, soft
flowing water and I could see tiny fishes
swimming about, sometimes they came to
the surface to have a look at me; when horse
and cart crossed the bridge fine dust fell and
shimmered as gold. This was my secret place,
I kept things here like rusty nails, a whistle,
coloured stones and a shiny horseshoe
When I came back here years later, no one
could remember a river, I must be mistaken
it was said; mind there used to be a tiny
stream here, but it was filled in years ago.
The farm had been replaced by a business
park, people with hard dreams worked here.
A petrol station, tarmac roads and cafés, yes,
the future had won “Never been a farm here,
they said. In a ditch I found a rusty horseshoe
and knew my memory was not a dream
There was a wooden bridge, near the farm,
where I lived - a few years- as a child,
I often sat under it looking at the clear, soft
flowing water and I could see tiny fishes
swimming about, sometimes they came to
the surface to have a look at me; when horse
and cart crossed the bridge fine dust fell and
shimmered as gold. This was my secret place,
I kept things here like rusty nails, a whistle,
coloured stones and a shiny horseshoe
When I came back here years later, no one
could remember a river, I must be mistaken
it was said; mind there used to be a tiny
stream here, but it was filled in years ago.
The farm had been replaced by a business
park, people with hard dreams worked here.
A petrol station, tarmac roads and cafés, yes,
the future had won “Never been a farm here,
they said. In a ditch I found a rusty horseshoe
and knew my memory was not a dream
Once a summer
Once, a Summer.
It was a special Nordic summer, its night was
short when walking home to change and go
to work, no one about so early, but a cat going
home after a night of murderous pursuits, there
it will drink a saucer of cream, curl up on a sofa
and its owner would never know what a vicious
killer she had in her house.
I was in love, the taste of her still clung to my
hungry lips, it was the best of times to be in love
and after work I would see her again and again;
she was so lovely this morning, and in her brown
eyes I read nothing but true love-: “Come back
soon darling,” she had whispered by the door,
before gently closing it.
She wasn’t there that evening: “gone to another
town to work,” a neighbour said, “with a man
in an Oldsmobile car,” (and in her brown eyes
I read nothing but true love.) The night misted
hasting towards autumn, trees shed green leaves,
and as cooling rain drizzled my short summer of
innocence was over.
It was a special Nordic summer, its night was
short when walking home to change and go
to work, no one about so early, but a cat going
home after a night of murderous pursuits, there
it will drink a saucer of cream, curl up on a sofa
and its owner would never know what a vicious
killer she had in her house.
I was in love, the taste of her still clung to my
hungry lips, it was the best of times to be in love
and after work I would see her again and again;
she was so lovely this morning, and in her brown
eyes I read nothing but true love-: “Come back
soon darling,” she had whispered by the door,
before gently closing it.
She wasn’t there that evening: “gone to another
town to work,” a neighbour said, “with a man
in an Oldsmobile car,” (and in her brown eyes
I read nothing but true love.) The night misted
hasting towards autumn, trees shed green leaves,
and as cooling rain drizzled my short summer of
innocence was over.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Fear by the sea
Fear By The Sea.
On the beach alone, there is a dark silence
the sea has inhaled and is ready to blow a
wave my way drowning me; and there is
no seagulls they have disappeared behind
the horizon following a ship, waiting for
the cook to throw overboard left overs.
I sense movement behind a sand dune it is
an assassin ready to shoot me; defenseless,
I should not have forsaken my friends.
Who can I call now to get me out of this?
A dark shudder on the grey skin of the sea,
pallid as the sky, they are waiting for me to
scream in fear and beg forgiveness for my
sin of omission. If I get off the beach alive
I will extol friends’ virtues and compose
a lyrical song for a family I could have had,
but is it not too late? As I flee I hear bullets
shred the air into find strands of wonder.
On the beach alone, there is a dark silence
the sea has inhaled and is ready to blow a
wave my way drowning me; and there is
no seagulls they have disappeared behind
the horizon following a ship, waiting for
the cook to throw overboard left overs.
I sense movement behind a sand dune it is
an assassin ready to shoot me; defenseless,
I should not have forsaken my friends.
Who can I call now to get me out of this?
A dark shudder on the grey skin of the sea,
pallid as the sky, they are waiting for me to
scream in fear and beg forgiveness for my
sin of omission. If I get off the beach alive
I will extol friends’ virtues and compose
a lyrical song for a family I could have had,
but is it not too late? As I flee I hear bullets
shred the air into find strands of wonder.
Global warming
Global Warming
Senryu
One wonders,
Will the last thawed ice floe
Inundate New York?
Senryu
Was it a raindrop
That caused the disappearance
Of an atoll?
…………….
Senryu
In a blind man’s eye
His wife is forever young,
This makes her happy.
Tanka
For a writer to
Rage against injustice
And be heard
Depends on an editor
If he rejects
Dramatic words turn to dust
In a shut drawer of gloom
Senryu
One wonders,
Will the last thawed ice floe
Inundate New York?
Senryu
Was it a raindrop
That caused the disappearance
Of an atoll?
…………….
Senryu
In a blind man’s eye
His wife is forever young,
This makes her happy.
Tanka
For a writer to
Rage against injustice
And be heard
Depends on an editor
If he rejects
Dramatic words turn to dust
In a shut drawer of gloom
Monday, April 07, 2008
After The Storm
After The Storm
Now that the spring tempest is over and the ground
is littered with twigs and juicy, green leaves flung
off mother tree long before they should, it gladdens
the woods that the old oak still stands although it is
almost hollow inside and is home to a family of foxes,
myriads of insects, and a 40 years old bachelor hawk.
It is the oldest wild tree around; there is an older
one though an olive tree that still remembers when
Roman soldiers marched through here and the young
centurion who rested in its shadow, fell asleep and
dreamt of becoming a new Cesar. Whether he made
it or not the olive has no way of knowing. The reason
other trees were glad the oak endure is that that its
presence gives them the hope of longevity
Now that the spring tempest is over and the ground
is littered with twigs and juicy, green leaves flung
off mother tree long before they should, it gladdens
the woods that the old oak still stands although it is
almost hollow inside and is home to a family of foxes,
myriads of insects, and a 40 years old bachelor hawk.
It is the oldest wild tree around; there is an older
one though an olive tree that still remembers when
Roman soldiers marched through here and the young
centurion who rested in its shadow, fell asleep and
dreamt of becoming a new Cesar. Whether he made
it or not the olive has no way of knowing. The reason
other trees were glad the oak endure is that that its
presence gives them the hope of longevity
Before The storm
Before The Storm
Deep silence except for a fly that keeps bumping
its head against the window, but when I open it
the dipterous takes fright flies off and walks on
the ceiling, wish I could do that
Trees stand, unmoving, as petrified, there no birds
fly about, we are in the eye of a storm and when it
does shift and hit the oldest ones will be uprooted
and many others will lose limbs and leaves
I open the window; give the fly its last chance to
seek freedom, before I put shutters on and hunker
down, but it refuses to come down so I do nothing
but keep a rolled up newspaper ready to swat it.
Deep silence except for a fly that keeps bumping
its head against the window, but when I open it
the dipterous takes fright flies off and walks on
the ceiling, wish I could do that
Trees stand, unmoving, as petrified, there no birds
fly about, we are in the eye of a storm and when it
does shift and hit the oldest ones will be uprooted
and many others will lose limbs and leaves
I open the window; give the fly its last chance to
seek freedom, before I put shutters on and hunker
down, but it refuses to come down so I do nothing
but keep a rolled up newspaper ready to swat it.
Sentimenatal attachment
Sentimental Attachment
There is a mosquito in my room, it’s is slow and
Fat when it comes near I’ll kill it even if all
Life is equal; the damn thing may carry Dengue
Fever and, anyways it isn’t possible to have
A meaningful relationship with an insect and feel
Distraught when it drowns in your coffee.
My neighbour has a lamb in his shed, it’s baaing
All day, misses its mother, the company of other
Lambs, to jump in the air, on a field, and looking
Cute; now it is being fattened up for slaughter in
About six month’s time, I’m looking forward to
Be invited for dinner, I have made mint sauce.
Dogs, would be difficult to eat though, there is
Something cannibalistic about it, they have been
Close to us through history emotionally they are
A part of us, this is partly true, people in China
Eat dogs, only a few through, the rest are like us
Give their pet silly names like… Fofino.
There is a mosquito in my room, it’s is slow and
Fat when it comes near I’ll kill it even if all
Life is equal; the damn thing may carry Dengue
Fever and, anyways it isn’t possible to have
A meaningful relationship with an insect and feel
Distraught when it drowns in your coffee.
My neighbour has a lamb in his shed, it’s baaing
All day, misses its mother, the company of other
Lambs, to jump in the air, on a field, and looking
Cute; now it is being fattened up for slaughter in
About six month’s time, I’m looking forward to
Be invited for dinner, I have made mint sauce.
Dogs, would be difficult to eat though, there is
Something cannibalistic about it, they have been
Close to us through history emotionally they are
A part of us, this is partly true, people in China
Eat dogs, only a few through, the rest are like us
Give their pet silly names like… Fofino.
Riches
Riches
Dark clouds hang over the valley this morning,
there will be rain ok; I also hope there will be
a rainbow too, I have a silver spade ready and
leather boots as well.
Last time I found a nugget of gold, where a multi
coloured arch got stuck in the ground, my brother
stole it, he lives in Bahamas now, pays no taxes
and have seven servants
He wasn’t happy so they sent him to Betty Ford’s
clinic where they teach him to accept his guilt and
stop beating himself up because of a trifling
culpability, attack of remorse can happen to us all;
forget your sin, sobriety is bliss, god forgives and
speaks English. Should I be rich today I will not tell
anyone, but keep my money under the mattress, live
like a pauper and enjoy my solitary treasure.
Dark clouds hang over the valley this morning,
there will be rain ok; I also hope there will be
a rainbow too, I have a silver spade ready and
leather boots as well.
Last time I found a nugget of gold, where a multi
coloured arch got stuck in the ground, my brother
stole it, he lives in Bahamas now, pays no taxes
and have seven servants
He wasn’t happy so they sent him to Betty Ford’s
clinic where they teach him to accept his guilt and
stop beating himself up because of a trifling
culpability, attack of remorse can happen to us all;
forget your sin, sobriety is bliss, god forgives and
speaks English. Should I be rich today I will not tell
anyone, but keep my money under the mattress, live
like a pauper and enjoy my solitary treasure.
Friday, April 04, 2008
My Garden
I need no garden, live in a middle of a field of
flowers that have the hue of homemade butter
produced by the milk from cows that have name
like Rosa, Daisy, Buttercup and Rosemarie
(the farm in mind is small.) On big farms a cow
is a ruminant …is, and so on. Gertrude Stein?
Yes. She told everyone she was a genius, yet all
we remember of her words, is that a rose is a rose
till the cud chewers come home to be milked.
“What does she knows about my flowers,”
the rose bush said and stung me cruelly when
I picked one of its offspring for my lapel, I had
an appointment with my doctor and wanted to
look healthy. Next week the field will be purple,
my colour and I’ll regret not being a cardinal.
Yes, I could have been, hadn’t kissed a Marilyn
sister’s lips and embraced her voluptuous body,
till the Vatican became an impossible dream
I need no garden, live in a middle of a field of
flowers that have the hue of homemade butter
produced by the milk from cows that have name
like Rosa, Daisy, Buttercup and Rosemarie
(the farm in mind is small.) On big farms a cow
is a ruminant …is, and so on. Gertrude Stein?
Yes. She told everyone she was a genius, yet all
we remember of her words, is that a rose is a rose
till the cud chewers come home to be milked.
“What does she knows about my flowers,”
the rose bush said and stung me cruelly when
I picked one of its offspring for my lapel, I had
an appointment with my doctor and wanted to
look healthy. Next week the field will be purple,
my colour and I’ll regret not being a cardinal.
Yes, I could have been, hadn’t kissed a Marilyn
sister’s lips and embraced her voluptuous body,
till the Vatican became an impossible dream
Senryu
Senryu
Theft alarms
Keep neighbours awake
When you’re in Spain
Senryu
When a sunny wall
Shines luminously clear
Shadows live in fear.
Senryu
The precipitation
That falls on fields of love
Is a blessed gift
Senryu
In dour winter light
Cars parked near a clinic
Looks fatally ill
Theft alarms
Keep neighbours awake
When you’re in Spain
Senryu
When a sunny wall
Shines luminously clear
Shadows live in fear.
Senryu
The precipitation
That falls on fields of love
Is a blessed gift
Senryu
In dour winter light
Cars parked near a clinic
Looks fatally ill
a Day at The opera
A day at the Opera.
It was winter when I came home, had been in Spain
for twenty years; cold and snow and I wore sandals;
asked mother for woolen socks, she wouldn’t give
me any since I didn’t lived here anymore. My sister
who was there too, agreed. Having no home I went
to the cinema to see Casablanca, got lost and walked
in a maze of empty streets where everyone sat indoors
watching TV, I could tell by the flickering blue light
on curtains. When I finally got there, it was an opera
house, and premiere, plenty of horse drawn carriage
outside where the famous were being photographed
and interviewed by a sycophantic, yet resentful press
that hoped the horses would bolt. “ I’m an opera
lover” I said and sang an aria from Madam Butterfly,
still they wouldn’t let me in, the sandals you see. So
I walked back home, only it wasn’t there anymore,
but made into a parking lot; served me right for being
away too long
It was winter when I came home, had been in Spain
for twenty years; cold and snow and I wore sandals;
asked mother for woolen socks, she wouldn’t give
me any since I didn’t lived here anymore. My sister
who was there too, agreed. Having no home I went
to the cinema to see Casablanca, got lost and walked
in a maze of empty streets where everyone sat indoors
watching TV, I could tell by the flickering blue light
on curtains. When I finally got there, it was an opera
house, and premiere, plenty of horse drawn carriage
outside where the famous were being photographed
and interviewed by a sycophantic, yet resentful press
that hoped the horses would bolt. “ I’m an opera
lover” I said and sang an aria from Madam Butterfly,
still they wouldn’t let me in, the sandals you see. So
I walked back home, only it wasn’t there anymore,
but made into a parking lot; served me right for being
away too long
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
the widow
The Widow
The man on the trolley was fully dressed he had died in
the street and brought in to the hospital; his face at ease
wasn’t peace but nothingness, a story yet to be invented.
His wife had arrived, looked at his face and said:
“a good man always saved money for the day he could
retire, he had so many plans, today he went to cash his
first pension check.” Her life hadn’t be easy, always
watching the pennies and it struck her that now she could
go buy a new dress, coat and shoes, for the first time in
years; but would she? After years of saving money it had
become a habit hard to brake, and then the children, grown
up now, but they would come wanting money. “You cheep
bastard, she murmured angrily, you made my life a misery
and when no one looked slapped his face… hard.
The man on the trolley was fully dressed he had died in
the street and brought in to the hospital; his face at ease
wasn’t peace but nothingness, a story yet to be invented.
His wife had arrived, looked at his face and said:
“a good man always saved money for the day he could
retire, he had so many plans, today he went to cash his
first pension check.” Her life hadn’t be easy, always
watching the pennies and it struck her that now she could
go buy a new dress, coat and shoes, for the first time in
years; but would she? After years of saving money it had
become a habit hard to brake, and then the children, grown
up now, but they would come wanting money. “You cheep
bastard, she murmured angrily, you made my life a misery
and when no one looked slapped his face… hard.
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