Hail to the Chief
Saw his shadow walk across
the river I heard the roar, as
the people called his name;
I also heard cracks as ice split,
saw his shadow drown alone
in floes of driftwood rhetoric;
Saw the disappointed masses,
turned their back on a leader
they said could walk on water.
Friday, January 23, 2009
the strenght
The Strength
I awoke as green, frothy sea angrily washed over
The terrace robbing it of four white plastic chairs
And ditto table. When a new bottle green and
White topped wave came I grabbed it by its waist
Squeezed and kissed hard on its wet lips.
Shocked the wave surged back to sea and threw
Back my garden furniture, the sea now tamed and
Mediterranean blue retreated, as the sun broke
Through a steel band of resentment sent friendly
Rays upon us and the morning sailed to noon.
I awoke as green, frothy sea angrily washed over
The terrace robbing it of four white plastic chairs
And ditto table. When a new bottle green and
White topped wave came I grabbed it by its waist
Squeezed and kissed hard on its wet lips.
Shocked the wave surged back to sea and threw
Back my garden furniture, the sea now tamed and
Mediterranean blue retreated, as the sun broke
Through a steel band of resentment sent friendly
Rays upon us and the morning sailed to noon.
the harvesting
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1074649230181
The Harvesting.
The sons of holocaust
use white phosphorous
against Palestinians,
their parents’ calamity
have made them monstrous.
The sons of Gaza
seeing their parents heartbreak
will be gruesome too.
hungry for settling scores
and erase their catastrophe.
The Harvesting.
The sons of holocaust
use white phosphorous
against Palestinians,
their parents’ calamity
have made them monstrous.
The sons of Gaza
seeing their parents heartbreak
will be gruesome too.
hungry for settling scores
and erase their catastrophe.
the spirits of the woods
The spirit of the woods
The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.
With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.
The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.
With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.
the spirits of the woods
The spirit of the woods
The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.
With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.
The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.
With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
the prophecy
The Prophecy
The horses that drink water in the shallow river
on the grassland look up spooked by a low flying
plane its enormous wingspan is a shadow of ill
omen, frightened the horses gallop till they are
are tired then begin grazing again.
The far mountain is Canadian blue and hazy, like
there should be a forest fire or another war on its
other side. A lotus swarm of helicopter gunships
appear, cross the flatland and jolt the horses into
gallop again; and the sky darkens.
Then on the far mountain appears a new sun, it
shines bright for a while then dies like a comet,
a storm blows the grass withers and when silence
comes the river is empty, the horses are dead;
and the mountain top is a cold diamond.
The horses that drink water in the shallow river
on the grassland look up spooked by a low flying
plane its enormous wingspan is a shadow of ill
omen, frightened the horses gallop till they are
are tired then begin grazing again.
The far mountain is Canadian blue and hazy, like
there should be a forest fire or another war on its
other side. A lotus swarm of helicopter gunships
appear, cross the flatland and jolt the horses into
gallop again; and the sky darkens.
Then on the far mountain appears a new sun, it
shines bright for a while then dies like a comet,
a storm blows the grass withers and when silence
comes the river is empty, the horses are dead;
and the mountain top is a cold diamond.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Nostalgia
Nostalgia
The rock I used to climb was my mountain,
I had an unlimited view of fields, hedges,
trees and grazing animals;
Mice moved my mountain, too dangerous
for children, the field is full of little houses
and back yards with swimming pools;
Blue uniforms drive slowly around to see
If all is well, in nice streets cars are parked
but where are the kids on bikes?
This is twaddle, I give a shit where they
are as long as they keep off my lawn and
don’t steal my car.
The rock I used to climb was my mountain,
I had an unlimited view of fields, hedges,
trees and grazing animals;
Mice moved my mountain, too dangerous
for children, the field is full of little houses
and back yards with swimming pools;
Blue uniforms drive slowly around to see
If all is well, in nice streets cars are parked
but where are the kids on bikes?
This is twaddle, I give a shit where they
are as long as they keep off my lawn and
don’t steal my car.
summer concert
Summer Concert.
Early June that year had turned very hot
the evening concert at the old church was
packed with moist humanity, perspiration
from the public and musicians ran with
equal pace, a river ankle deep, seeped
down cracks in the stone floor down to
the crypt where bones of bishops rested.
Dormant souls awoke, arose and floated up
amongst us as an unseen miasma, a sharp
observer, say, a cat would have sensed them
and alarmed run off. When Handel’s Messiah
last note hung over us, the air stirred candle
lights blew themselves out, a breeze from
the open door? Mystified and silent we left.
Their souls had woken too early from slumber
and loath returning to the crypt where they
were supposed to stay for ten generations,
before taken abode in a newborn child. Lost
now they drifted about but found a maternity
hospital. That year more unsmiling babies than
normal was born in our town.
Early June that year had turned very hot
the evening concert at the old church was
packed with moist humanity, perspiration
from the public and musicians ran with
equal pace, a river ankle deep, seeped
down cracks in the stone floor down to
the crypt where bones of bishops rested.
Dormant souls awoke, arose and floated up
amongst us as an unseen miasma, a sharp
observer, say, a cat would have sensed them
and alarmed run off. When Handel’s Messiah
last note hung over us, the air stirred candle
lights blew themselves out, a breeze from
the open door? Mystified and silent we left.
Their souls had woken too early from slumber
and loath returning to the crypt where they
were supposed to stay for ten generations,
before taken abode in a newborn child. Lost
now they drifted about but found a maternity
hospital. That year more unsmiling babies than
normal was born in our town.
officious Ethics
Officious Ethics
It was a cold winter day with persistent rain
I was broke and walked past cafés where
people smoked and drank beer; warm indoor
faces and eyes that sparkled with hilarity.
The door of the town’s cathedral was open
I went in there found a secluded place and
a church circular from a corner table sat and
pretended to read about churchly affairs.
On the floor, by my feet, a folded green fifty
Kroner’s note, enough for four pints of beer
and a packet of cigarettes. Despondency over
I could now join the happy society again, but
inborn integrity reared its head; “You have no
right to the money put it in the collection-box.”
It was cold I had no sense of moral victory as
I walked past cafes, cursing my Achilles' heel.
It was a cold winter day with persistent rain
I was broke and walked past cafés where
people smoked and drank beer; warm indoor
faces and eyes that sparkled with hilarity.
The door of the town’s cathedral was open
I went in there found a secluded place and
a church circular from a corner table sat and
pretended to read about churchly affairs.
On the floor, by my feet, a folded green fifty
Kroner’s note, enough for four pints of beer
and a packet of cigarettes. Despondency over
I could now join the happy society again, but
inborn integrity reared its head; “You have no
right to the money put it in the collection-box.”
It was cold I had no sense of moral victory as
I walked past cafes, cursing my Achilles' heel.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
poets tree
The Poet’s Tree
On the plateau, at a distance, I saw a large tree
with multi coloured leaves, on each one was
printed a commercial poem, a verse for every
occasion and written as not to hurt any one’s
feelings. I asked for a poem about unjust wars
in the Middle East, the tree had none but I was
offered a few about World War One. All wars
are just and the winner gets to write the rules.
The tree, stood inside rolls of barbed wire, no
copy pens allowed within a radius of fifty yards.
A storm came, blew the wire around like tumble
weed, leaves- torn from the tree- flew in the air
and transformed into grooming tropical birds
cooing about love. I did find a pale green leaf,
almost transparent, on it was written in blood;
“Gaza is my name let me not die in vain”
Monday, January 12, 2009
the travel
The travel
Where the road curves there might be
an inn, a bit to eat and a drink, or just
a water-well. After the curve the road
might continue in a straight line till it
ends in a void.
No point to speculate about it before
I get past the curve (and then it is too
late) as I can only see what is in front
of me; a road exist in itself whether
I travel on it or not.
winter storm
Winter Storm
The north-westerly wind that blows
arctic down to Portugal and around
corners and deposit waste papers and
yesteryears, leaves in my yard, is no
good for my bones;
I feel no enmity though, because it
also carries the faint aroma of Nordic
summer evenings when darkness
is but a passing frown on the face
of the golden sun.
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.
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.
Monday, December 29, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, December 26, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
Monday, December 22, 2008
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 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.
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.
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.
Friday, December 19, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
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.
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.
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.”
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?”
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.
“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.
Friday, December 05, 2008
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.
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.
“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.
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
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.
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.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
epigram
Epigram
Lone mothers with infants have to go
out and find work, the government
only help corporations and big banks.
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”
“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”
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
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.
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
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.
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.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, November 28, 2008
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 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
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
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 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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
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.
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