The Street

 

 

The street I walked was very long,

had shops on both sides, but it was

empty of people.

 

A hearse drove past stopped outside

a florist, driver picked up a couple of

wreaths, drove off.

 

Across the sky a lone plane flew

the echo of its motor sounded mute

and full of melancholy.

 

I turned around a woman stared at

me, eyes, blue as a day in May; then

she was erased by mist from the sea.

 

The street too had vanished, the world

had no colours, but I heard cowed feet

walk reluctantly eastward. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

winter dream

Winter Dream

 

 

The evening has a pale moon that shines

on a cold landscape, on the western sky

there is a shimmer of erasing red; the sun

was glad to leave and reappear in Rio de

Janeiro where palm trees and female hips

sway languidly

 

Frosty blue with rimfrost on ground, that’s 

what the moon get to watch over, for stars,

the whole lot on the milky- way, have gone

to Rio too, to see the young, sometimes

the old as well, dance and make love on

the Copacabana beach.  

 

saying

Saying

 

Alzheimer is a disease

that causes sufferers

to outlive themselves   

the hope eternal

The Hope Eternal

 

Today I saw the moon on ashen sky

it was incredible white like a ghost

haunted by its, own death.

eyes gone, dark sockets that could

no longer cry.

 

The real moon will not light up my

path as uniformed snipers lurk behind

old olive trees ready to reclaim

an ancient promise steeped in blood

by the dispossessed.       

 

Today I also saw the first flower on

the almond tree that get the first

and the last sunlight of the day,

a mere bud shivering in the breeze;

I gave it to my heart and walked on. 

 

 

winter of discontent

Winter of Discontent

 

The air over Europe is clear and cold

on my terrace the parasol is down flaps

slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.

 

The pond near, the houses, is frozen solid,

the sun has no power, but makes nature

look like a pretty postcard

 

As the pond compassion is hard packed 

too, the ground I walk on is unyielding;

this is the face of bitter unhappiness.

 

Amongst the voiceless olive trees a bird

shrieks a warning and in the stillness

that follows I hear drums of war.   

 

 

 

 

 

heehaw

Heehaw.

 

The steep incline up to the village is too hilly

Today, the north westerly blows cold, I must

Stop turn and admire the valley for a while.

 

I used to run up hear with my father’s elderly

Dog, prince, past shocked sheep grazing on

The verge, proud I was of winning every race.

 

Back then the villagers kept chicken, pigs,

Sheep and mules that wandered about, cosy

You may say, but very muddy when it rained.

 

Every house is painted white, roads asphalted,

A rural museum tourist buses, dogs on lead

Not a heehawing beast to be seen or heard.

 

Couldn’t wait to take the bus to a bigger town,

A large world and the endless ocean, it was

Only when looking back I saw my happiness.          

 

My childhood has become a picture Post-card,

An old face amongst new ones, like the donkey

Unseen and I have ceased braying long ago. 

 

human condition

The Human Condition

 

 

The paleness of the screen ogles me waits

to be written on like woman waiting for me

to make the first move, but I’m too timid fear

her rejection, shall I murmur a little jovial, say

she has lovely hair? Or is that too forward?

 

Can’t very well mention the massacre in Gaza,

and that it is the victims of Israel’s foul act

who get blamed? Or shall I say, the display of

fireworks on the night and buildings on fire

has its own awe-inspiring beauty?      

 

In 1959 I sat in a park, New Year’s Eve, holding

hands with a gipsy girl in Huelva, Spain, but for

Maria was a boring town, she had brown legs,

dark eyes and dusty feet, her grim father came

took my lighter and chased me away. 

 

Now isn’t that a better story to tell, than tales

of the tediousness, the human tragedy named

Gaza, where the sky rains fire and children are

covered in the dust of war, unable to escape,

but will she listen to such a sad story? 

   

pretender

Great Pretender

 

I now they were laughing behind my back

and mother was ashamed of me when

I tried to speak like a book, I took evening

classes to be able to speak as the fine

people did, I was an imposter and laughed

 at in the street. But poverty of birth clings

to me like dirt under finger nails and I will

always be damned for denying my class.

At last I speak as we did in our street, had

they heard me now they would have been

proud of me, nodded sagely and said:

“the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

 

 

nordic april

Nordic April  

 

A sigh as unseen wings, flew

thro the room, a mild breeze,

a flutter; sign, perhaps that

he has been here too long,

 

Go home? No one left, only

cold head-stones in a land

that has long winters; but

he can still remember April. 

 

When nature jubilantly sings,

free of winter’s shackles as

fields greens, bird nests and

night is forever expelled. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu

 

Hot air over Gaza

Makes roses bloom early

Or is it blood I see?

 

 

Senryu

 

This tragic struggle 

Semite Murders Semite

While we sing Carols     

 

 

the wolf

The Wolf.

 

 

We sat on a boulder high up on a plateau

the soul of the slain wolf and I, we saw

mountains and deep dales as far as our eyes

could reach and since it was winter there

were spirals of smoke coming from hunting

lodges; we didn’t see any towns as they

were in the deepest gorges, but could hear

the distant clamour of industrious humanity.

 

I stroked the wolves head slightly, it had

not succumbed, like its cousin to, mans whims

and craved no approval. A heavy mist came

from the sea filled the valleys with a white

blanket of silence. Slowly the mist dissipated

and I sensed the wolf’s soul had gone, but

could hear the bay of wolves far away where

my eyes could not reach.           

NEw year eve 2009

New Year Eve 2009

 

Midnight, New Year, fireworks explodes on

velvety sky. Gaza has fireworks too every day,

but they aren’t enjoying it the way we do,

standing here on the terrace of a five star hotel,

perhaps it is only three stars, drinks in hand

and idle chat. I feel wretched, wish I was drunk

but this place only severs wine and that is not

enough to drown my lack of shame.

Palestine, Europe doesn’t cry for you tonight.

 

winter in the vale

Winter in the Vale

 

Rain had lasted for days now it was clearing

up and the road leading to the village, where

I buy food, was drying under a mild winter

sun; the nature breathed with an ease as

coming to an end of a long, vigorous sorrow.

 

By the roadside a big grey wolf, it had been

run over by a fast car only a few minutes ago

half of its body flattened, but over it the air

stirred, a shimmer I thought it was it soul that

was now homeless and at a loss what to do.

 

I blessed the dog opened the car-door and let

in the soul, it sat beside me till we came to

a plateau on top of mountain, I spoke softly

and let it out, saw it fly up and up, a shimmer

in the air that become a fluffy lamb on blue.

 

the occupiers

The Occupiers


They came, the huddled masses, victims
of a war and pogrom far from our shores;
we gave them room at the inn, and on
our common land they could graze sheep.

They have now taken over the inn, stolen
our common land, bulldozed our villages
and uprooted olive trees to build roads we
cannot use, erected walls to keep us out.

They want us to leave to roam the world
as they did; we will not, we shall stay here
near our ancestors and the land and wait,
yes, wait till they uproot again and leave.

here we go again

Here we go again

One of the world biggest army has attacked Gaza, the world
biggest prison, how many killed? Who cares? I’m fed up of
this war now, we have been ringing around trying to book
a table at restaurant, everything is full in the neighbourhood.
The Gaza people have brought this on themselves, agreed
to a democratic election and elected Hamas, Israel wasn’t
standing for that having leaders who think Israel is a crown
of thorns carried by every Arab in the region; and as we know
by now (we have been told it often enough) that plucky little
Israel has the right to defend herself no matter what, they
have had their holocaust someone else can carry the can this
time. And then there is bloody Iraq, luckily not on the front
news anymore, but bombs are going off all the time killing
scores of people, at Christmas I ask you, as we sit down to eat
we get blood and mangled bodies in dusty streets, with our
turkey and two veg. why can’t Sunnis and Shiites live in peace
like us. Then there is Afghanistan those crazy Taliban and opium
smugglers like murdering people, so what we are doing there
beats me dropping bombs on wrong targets killing children and
guests at a wedding, it is their own fault, this habit of shooting
bullets up in the air confusing helicopter pilots. So who care?
It is Christmas give us a break and, anyway, without us, those
people would be riding around in donkeys. Wife rang she has
been to book a restaurant table, it is a long drive by taxi, but
what’s the heck it’s only New Year once a year…get it?

Harold Pinter RIP

Harold Pinter RIP.

Harold Pinter is dead, we had one
thing in common; he protested
against NATO’s bombing of Belgrade,
I did too. He disputed the invasion
of Iraq, so did I.

He called Bush and Blair criminals,
so did I. His voice was heard, no one
heard mine, but in the end we’re
both ignored; and that’s what we
have in common.

good to know

Good to Know

I know the famous cardiologist Cohen
he has got his surgery on the fifth floor
of a building without a lift. Those who
make it up are declared healthy enough
to work, those who don’t get a bypass
operation. No waiting list. The building
also has a florist on the first floor.

Yule tide

Yule Tide

There are no children in this house no eager
Voices full of new life or shining eyes finding
In coloured light an enchanting fairytale.

There is no laughter in this house only tired
Old people slumped in chairs watching old
Repeats of Christmases past old movies.

There are no presents under this plastic tree
No parcels to feel if they are soft or hard,
Only a blinking light howling silent despair.

This is an old peoples’ home, made for two
Who cannot escape their common boredom;
compassion is a word that carries emotion.

the path

The Path

Just off a ship I was going to meet friends
at a hotel, no one there and the staff had
gone; all rooms locked, I sat in the foyer
and waited. In the late afternoon, getting
dark, my sister came, I told her the rooms
were locked, she went upstairs anyway
but didn’t return.

Light from came from the street, I sat by
the window looked out, a party going on,
lot of actions, and coloured lanterns, but
windows, double glazed, I couldn’t hear
a thing. Tired, but didn’t dare sleep in
case lights disappeared and the street got
as dark as the night behind me.

I did fall asleep, when I awoke the street
was white and covered in pristine snow,
strolled outside, the snow was like dust.
I began walking, came to a plateau where
memory said my home town used to be:
nothing of it remained except the railway
tracks darkly going yonder

the prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

miracles

Miracle



The Dakota plane should have been scrapped years ago,
eight soldiers and me, they took off my handcuffs laughed
and said I was free to go. Looking down I could see glitzy
Pacific Ocean; they opened the door and threw me out.
I fell and fell, air rush sounded as an express train, terror
froze my brain, but I remember thinking: “this is not a day
for enjoying the view.”Miracle! A mist bank crossed my
path so thick it broke my fall to a gentle descent and put
me softly on top of a tree that had many branches, it was
like going down a ladder which I had done often,(I used
to be a house painter.) People came running, I had landed
on a tiny island, they gave me coconut milk to drink and
told of a military plane that had crashed on a mountain
slope. I didn’t, gloat knew what they must have suffered,
drank more sweet milk, climbed up a hut on stilts and went
to sleep on a fragrant mat of palm leaves.

the tidy bachelor

The Tidy Bachelor

I have been made destitute, workers in my house,
no water or heating, chalk dust and dirty footsteps.
Stay in a hotel that has institutional white sheets
can’t sleep; think of hospitals infirmity and death.

Workers gone, women arrive, in a van, to clean;
fill my little house with never ending natter, I sit
on the terrace try to read, can’t concentrate, they
laugh a lot, so what’s hilarious about my cottage.

I pay them and they leave with their buckets and
brooms, I make the bed, green sheets with large
flowers on, fresh from the laundry too, will go to
bed early; my home sighs and sinks back to itself.

The child Prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

the clairvoyant

The Clairvoyant

Over a cold Nordic coast a seagull flies and sees
the bay between the island and the coastal town.
40 minutes each way by ferry. It’s an old gull and
has a blind eye and one leg; yes, you are right,
a real pirate I used to know years ago, it knew me
too when I was a cook on that a ferry boat, sat on
the mast and waited for me to throw scraps of
food into the sea shrieking harshly, it is the gulls
way of wishing me well.

This year has no ice in the bay, there was a time
when the ferry was icebound islander folk had to
walk on ice across to get to the shops, as they do
now, there is a bridge now, ferry been sold and
is plying its trade on the delta of Bangladesh.

The day is clear I’m a seagull and can see the past
lucid as the day it is lucky that I can’t see the future,
but there is a name that warms my heart: Falluja.
The down trodden, the raped, took up arms and
fought the mightiest army the world has seen and
won a moral victory that one day will bring peace,
to Iraq. I’m not a seer, but the old pirate is, flies
beside me now and harshly shrieks, it is the way we
seagulls greet each other.

poetry carrousel

Poetry Carrousel


In Norway poets are well educated
they go to university and get a diploma
to stick on the wall in their studies.

They are respected throughout land
and in all school children learn dead
poets, name by heart

They don’t get paid as no one publish
their work, but get invited to the best
literary parties and poetry festivals.

Poets, who have been accepted by
the literati, are revered and can get,
if needed a writer’s stipend.

But the best thing for a poet is to
have a private income, say, from
his grandfather, the shipping tycoon.

The man who founded his dynasty
by sending over-insured ships to sea
hoping they would hit a horn mine.

If you are not an accepted poet you
can still be published by, say, sending
your work over the internet.

And if lucky you can have your work
assessed by the grandson of the mogul
who killed your own grandfather.

bleak coast

Bleak Coast

On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?

A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slap the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.

a night to remember

A Night to Remember.


It is cold here in this room that has wall paper
With faded roses on, which absorb the light.
From a 40 watt bulb stuck naked and hanging
On a thin rubber encased electric wire.
Too dark to read too early for a bed that doesn’t
Look inviting, I wonder who many losers
Have been trying to find sleep looking up to
Silence and asking the same question: “how
Could it come to this?” I sit on a chair and look
Out of the window, dark shadows move some
With haste in the hope of getting away from,
Here, but they have yet to formulate, to where?
On a ship of dreams I sail, at dawn ice crystals
Glitters on the window pane and tell of hope.

a christmas tale

Meat is Meat (a christmas tale)

Santa came running up the road his coat was open
exposing a hairy belly, arms full of parcels, asked
me if I was a vet, because Rudolf had broken its leg.
Told him I was a destroyer of Christmas, took delight
telling children that Santa was their own uncle Ted)
every child got an uncle Ted) but was willing this once
to help him out. I called a Lapland friend, who has
a herd of reindeer lives in a tent and is dressed for
year long winters, he gave us a reindeer for free as
he too was a sentimental fool and had eight children.
Problem solved, but what about Rudolf? We sent him
to an abattoir where he was humanly slaughtered,
(humanly, means he was shot in the temple when
was carrots) as a reindeer is too cute to eat its flesh
was sold as veal, which is meat of doe eyed calves.

the comedy

The Comedy

When the sun sets he flies through the night to
far away enclaves, looks around and declare
that he sees an improvement from eight years
ago, then he takes off, flies through the night
and in his own dreams and lands unheralded
on his own, sacred soil. The mishap on his way,
a reporter’s loose boots, has reduced his tenure
to farce, we should have laughed only it wasn’t
funny just sad; end of a failed system.

To build a tower, higher then the slain towers,
of scraped gas guzzlers, lit a fire and let it burn
itself out: end of story. The historians can pick
the skeleton clean and tell us what went wrong.
The new century has been eight years delayed
it begins in January 2009 and it will be a painful
birth; but if the elite tinkers with the old system
Athens will burn for no gain; blood will flow in
rat infested sewers as nihilism reigns supreme.

cloud nine

Cloud Nine


I see people’s faces on TV filled with rapture when
hearing rousing political or religious speeches, feel
a certain sense of envy. As an observer, ecstasy is
a mystery to me. I don’t care for its second face
though, the insistence of being right and willing to
commit act of violence in the name of an abstraction.
It’s been said:” it is better to believe in something
than in nothing.” The more I think of that sentence
the less sense it makes. Ok, I believe in equality and
justice, there is little of it, but I’m, no not so sure of
western type fairness anymore, as it is mostly given
those with money. I’d love to like to be able to jump
up and down- no, not in a bed, but in a town’s square,
amongst the people and hear a moving, soon to be
USA’s president, Hussein Obama kind of discourse.

a belly full

A Belly Full

Christmas Eve, festive shop windows
cast glee on sleet, huddled in a doorway
as seeking the fading warmth of people
in a hurry to get home, an old man sits,
looks a window display of phony happy
Santa Clauses.

Tomorrow they’ll be brought down to
a dank crypt, oddly smile in darkness
with rats nesting in their vacant bellies,
while he- the real one- will carry on as
the town’s longest living drunk for one
more year.

accident

Accident

Yellow dog, looks like damp winter straw,
crosses the road in front of me, big beast
been away from for days in pursuit of brief
happiness following the scent of love, or
is it just an instinct you unthinkingly must
obey? Tired now lost weight too it will be
good to come home eat and flop down by
the fire, wag your tail and lick your master’s
hand he will think you love him and give
you an extra bone; you will fiercely growl,
bark madly especially against other dogs.
Thud! Yellow beast, bundle of bloody fur,
sorry dog, abstruse night, I forgot to brake.

Lusitania

Lusitania

From the highroad I look down on
a town made of stones, deep down in
the valley where a wide river flows.

There are no trees so high up only
undulating blue/gray grass that looks
as the sea near the coast of Labrador.

It has been raining, clouds break up
and sunlight swipes the town and
I see an ancient fairytale of granite

Church bells toll I’ve forgotten it is
“the day of the dead” as a procession
snails its way through narrow streets.

The pageant crosses a bridge walks to
a marble necropolis where ancestors
rest; and the breeze sighs me a dream.

haiku

Haiku (dance)


Accordions play
In the land of thousand tarns
She and summer dance


In blue suits and tie
They are elegant and polite
The Ballroom dancers


Nihilistic
The Latin dance of rumba
Passion ends in death


PS. Finland is often called
“The thousand lakes land.”

festive time

Festive Time for Some

Pale little bodies wrapped in plastic
in the open freezer at the supermarket,
tiny eyebrows, closed eyes; they are
called suckling pigs I think they look
like babies…and, of course, they are.

A woman with two children in tow
bought one, forty two Euros she paid.
” Look mum,” said one, the baby pig
has eyebrows just like us, are you
sure it is dead and not just sleeping?”

broken window

Broken Window


“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.

Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can’t be choosers” I was silent.

The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.

Portuguese Blues

Portuguese Blues.

The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and then put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered bosom, sings
Fado, dark eyes fill the screen with sadness;
yeah she has been around the block ok; I put
my jacket on and walk to the nearest bar.

broken window

Broken Window


“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.

Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can be choosers” I was silent.

The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.

winter afternoon

Winter Afternoon

The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and after put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered chest sings Fado,
dark eyes fill the screen with sadness; yeah
she has been around the block ok; put my jacket
on and walk to the nearest bar.

tanka

Tanka.


Chefs are “in” right now
And isn’t that nice to know
They used to be
Unshaven men in the back
Grumpy and reeking of booze

the Unspoken

The Unspoken

On the top of the Welsh dresser in the kitchen coffee, tea and
milk jugs made of tin stand in an unemployed group, reminds
me of a set of middle aged people, not the kind who do work
outs, are ambitious, talk fast and laugh loudly while sizing
each other up with jealous eyes. No, just regular gray people
at a shopping entre near a housing estate that hasn’t drowned
in graffiti and populated by the unlucky who are losers before
they are teenagers; I think they are gentiles with dust on and
too polite to speak badly of anyone, lost in thought waiting for
a bus no one has told them will not arrive to take them back
whence they came; to a fabled place were summer lasted long,
winters had proper snow to ski on and frozen lakes to skate on.
Utensils made of tin, not quite silver, tell of a time that never
was, when they were polished and shone in gentle candle light.

epigram

Epigram

Lone mothers with infants have to go
out and find work, the government
only help corporations and big banks.

the importance of newspaper

The Importance of Newspapers


“I know nothing I don’t read newspapers anymore, so
whatever people are up to it isn’t any of my business.
I live in peace with myself and as far as I’m concerned
the Palestinians can get lost, they must learn, as I have,
to keep their head down and accept their situation is as
fated, for now. If they learn to live by this simple rule
they will find happiness, I know for I have been a sober
member of AA for than twenty years and I’m superbly
contented. I just bought a newish car, something I could
never have afforded when drinking; I’m certain that
the Palestinians, if they keep their heads down, accept
facts, can by cars and washing machines too.” Thus
he spoke my old friend who used to be very funny before
he stopped reading newspapers”

epigram

Epigram

Lone mothers with infants must work,
they can’t hang about doing nothing;
receive handouts from the state like
they should be banks, or corporations.

The fisherman/poem-story


Every Saturday morning he went fishing in
his little rowing boat and in the afternoon
he came back with a bucket of sea riches,
already gutted and cleaned for his wife and
friends; Monday morning she washed his
“fishing” jeans, hung them on the balcony.

One Saturday he didn’t return, they looked
for him everywhere on and under the water,
his boat was found floating nice and clean
on the mirror silent sea; and there was great
lamentation, greatly missed by wife, friends
and fishmongers.

Time heals grief and sorrow his widow,
still young, and one day another pair of
jeans hung on her balcony, bluer, longer
and perhaps wider around the waist, and
the aroma of fresh food of the sea wafted
through the house just as before.


The disappeared man had gone to Spain
with his mistress, there they lived happily
for a month or so till his saving was gone
and he had to take a job on a building site
12 hours a day six days a week, as a low
paid illegal worker without valid papers.


This ill suited his mistress who liked to
go out at night, dance and talk to friends
he was too tired and went to bed at nine
in the evening… This was no good, even
worse, when he came home and found
furniture gone, soap and toilet paper too.


In despair he took the bus home, and in
vanishing light walked through his old
street looked up and saw the jeans hung
there to dry, knew all was lost, found his
boat neatly docked, rowed and rowed to
land had gone and he vanished for good.


On the mirror silent sea a boat was seen,
in it a few dead mackerels and a pair of
Spanish made boots; there was gossip,
mad rumour spread by an old man who
said he had seen the ghost of the missing
walk through the street at twilight time.

The boots fitted the new “fish winner,”
since little troubled him, he wore them
with ease, but kept them in the boat as
the widow didn’t want to be reminded of
her vanished husband and the soft voiced
murmur that whispered of infidelity.

joh

the hope

The Hope


The jet black cloud that hangs over the village
is a malevolent pillow held by arms of awesome
power ready to press down and strangle us.
Serves us right we have been smug thinking we
had the keys to peace, shaking our heads
lecturing others how to, and then it all collapses.
Our democratic system that makes it possible
for the rich to steal from the poor, or our system
of law, where justice is given to those who can
afford it. It is no longer safe to live here, but how
to leave? Car-lights cannot penetrate through
the miasma of night on a road that has lost its
purpose and ends in a vale of nihilistic laughter
where the victims are told to live in peace with
their tormentors. Yet there is a beacon of light
a still flame of hope, the heart of humanity is not
yet defeated.

my web page

My web Page

I’m telling you this because the experts
say I can have my own page, so at last
I can tell you that my father was a swine.

My words of complaint came too late,
driving on the dirt roads of Idaho with
my drunken dad is not a story to tell.

There are so many stories on the net
of children abused that reading them
all causes compassion fatigue.

I kissed her sex, her delight shone on
my face. She kissed me too, said I was
her lover but left me for her husband

I have exposed, myself to a world
indifferent to my woes, but would
eagerly drink my tale were I famous

Safe in obscurity you can scour every
web page in the world, the answer
is: “ we don’t know that name.”

My father’s son could do no wrong;
he’s got diabetes, the sanctimonious,
old crock, yet he is loved by women.

I’m, an advocate of innocent reality,
my client is not guilty, come spring
we’re going on a holiday to Greece.

how can i forget

How can I forget

August eight nineteen sixty two was the day Marilyn died,
overdose they said but why was her lovely face so blue?
Once she wore a green jumper a chilly February day, aware
of the impression she had on men, still she wanted to be taken
seriously. Alas, she was not, men could not see that the object
of their desire had brains too. Her talent was disregarded they
tried to keep her in a cocoon of a child/ woman, the more
she kicked and screamed the more men of power found her
desirable a woman to be conquered. Despair, she couldn’t
win, she had to escape, but how? A blue face on the slap
in the morgue. They said Marilyn had tried to ring someone.
What can I say I loved her, she was an artist. Some day a new
generation will see her as a great actress who had laughter in
her heart and sexuality based on true love, and I whispered:
“Darling Marilyn you’re free.” Ok, this is all very well, but
today it is the Eve. In my heart it is always August eight and
I hate turkey, funny hats, drunken uncles, aunts and children.

even here in my valley

Even here in my valley

After seeing the horror of Mumbai
how peaceful my vale is, rain falls
gently on the roof; earlier today as
as sun and rain shambled about
I saw, in the old olive grove where
the rainbow had landed, forest gods
danced lustily around an angel sat
on a throne of glitzy stones.

As I came nearer they saw me and
disappeared in a mist of aromatic
rose’s scent. It was not a dream, for
I saw marks of elegant, narrow feet,
but, alas, one had a hoofed foot,
bigger then a sheep’s, about the size
of a mule’s that lacks the want to
dance in a ring of reproductive desire.

terror in Mumbay rewritten

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, flushed look and his eyes shine
with the ecstasy of total power, the one
who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute supremacy.

terror in Mumbay

Terror in Mumbai

The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, his face is flushed and his eyes
shine with the ecstasy of total power,
the one who decides who’s to live or die.

This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.

Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute power once again

the awareness

The Awareness

As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.

An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one

No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now

As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.

the aide

The Aide

The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.

blank decency

Blank Decency



The capital of Norway, Oslo, has well lit
clean streets swept clear of humanity;
you’ll see clusters of people here and there
sat inside plastic tents- pavement cafes-
smoking tobacco. And now that it’s illegal
to buy sex too, streets will be cleaner then
before. If a consumer of bought of sex
thinks he can go abroad and buy it he will,
if found out, be prosecuted.

There are still cars driving around these
empty streets, to get rid of them it might
be an idea to ban the purchase of petrol;
a car free city, something to boast about,
tourists come and puff virtuous Oslo air.
Those who miss driving can when in, say,
Bangkok on vacation, rent a coupé for
the duration, but remember credit card
purchases can be traced.

the whiteness within me.

The whiteness within…me

Yesterday I saw an albino raven
it had just killed a sparrow and
had drops of blood on its chest.

Having had the privilege to be
white you would think it would
desist from killing sparrows.

But I must be wrong perhaps it
was an angel dressed as cardinal
they wear red and eat meat.

Or was it was a dove of peace
wearing a ruby necklace, or had
it been hurt by an Israeli sniper?

Perhaps it was a white cloud
I saw drifting along on blue
being lit up by a red eyed sun.

A white feather, cowardice is
pale as cold snow, so why does
a peace dove has to be white?

haiku

Modern Life.



Flat-pack furniture
It’s a green sofa this time.
Am I a handyman?


“The world is yours.”
A swiping promise I made.
She wants IKEA.


Fittings in flat packs,
A bathroom cupboard, she said
I made it a chair.

haiku

Haiku

Compass pointing south,
I migrate, follow the sun,
But my heart looks north.


Haiku

Chopping winter wood
The eye of a fire is blue
The colour of yours



Haiku

At twilight,
I shot a blackbird
Night fell down.

the transplant

The Transplant

You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?

My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.

I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?

Irate the heart cries and skip a beat
worryingly, been threatened by
the man it gave itself too. Why can’t
he, get off his backside and take his
wife to the ball.

A byway

A Byway

The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.

The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.

wishes and reality

Wishes and Reality

Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.

friday night blues

Friday Night Blues.

The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.

Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.

a letter partly read

A Letter Partly Read


“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.

I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.

haiku

Haiku

Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice


Haiku

On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye

Haiku

November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow

not an idle moment

Not an Idle Moment

A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.

the hunter

The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.

great war

The Great World War.

It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.

The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die

I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.

an ordinary painting

An Ordinary Painting


A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.

But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.

hauku

Haiku


Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love


The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams


Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified

past heroics

Past Heroics

They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.

Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics

the dance of life

The Dance of Life


When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;

As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;

Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension

Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory

The flowering Shrub

The Flowering Shrub


The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge

Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;

Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.

the lost president

The Lost President

Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.

the rat catcher

The Rat Catcher

When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.

They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.

To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.

I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.

the tarn of life

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

the tarn of life

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

a street in Paris

A Street in Paris


September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was

There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.

A quiet word

A Quiet Word

Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.

the silent song

The Silent Songs

Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.

mirror image

The Mirror Image


I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.

Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.

I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.

the egg

The Egg.

A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.

Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.

Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.

Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.