The Indemnity
I had bought a plot of land years ago and forgotten about it,
went to have a look smaller than I thought. A carpenter came
and built me a coffin with two floors, and as I sat on the top
floor watching TV the echo of an Italian, earthquake struck
and I fell down a hole. Felt wretched I had done everything
right in life always paid my bills but now I had forgotten to
insure my coffin. I came to the rescue centre and met a friend
he wore a gold chain around his neck its in inscription read:
“One Day At a time” He had been sober for twenty years paid
all bills but never laughed, so I gave him a bottle of whisky in
return for his chain…and he laughed and laughed, collapsed
and died. I felt desolate and cried, but a doctor came he was
trained to help people who grieved, told me it wasn’t my fault
and that my friend was responsible for his own demise.
Relieved and absolved for my sin by a man from the medical
profession, (priests are so yesterday) I sold the gold chain and
built a small log cabin in a forest but near a lake in case of fire.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Saturday, April 04, 2009
short poem
Short Poem
Saw on the lane verge
An orchid rare, as a dove
On Greenland’s cold shores
I have told no one
Rare can be made extinct
By red fingernails.
Saw on the lane verge
An orchid rare, as a dove
On Greenland’s cold shores
I have told no one
Rare can be made extinct
By red fingernails.
A Shanty
A Shanty.
I will walk to where the open mass grave of
bleached sandstones is, the grave is flanked
by sober olive trees, which have silvery leaves
and in the breeze remind me of the Black Sea.
I was on tank-ships walked on iron decks and
dreamt of sandy beaches, when ship docked
miles of pipes and oil refineries was on offer,
and lights of cities were always too far away.
Badly paid and far from home this was not
a song of a “Youngman Jansen’s life; a loss
of time if you ask me. The slam of an engine
door a watch over, the sea was isolation.
Ashore together fearful of wolves that circled
us looking for the weakest in the flock, drink
up it’s midnight the last launch back to our ship
in the bay is leaving now, yes, lost was time.
Deep shadows in the vale trees are green again
as breeze dies, I’ll leave my past where it belongs
in the cupboard of the forgettable, I’m free now
and no longer a prisoner of the sea.
I will walk to where the open mass grave of
bleached sandstones is, the grave is flanked
by sober olive trees, which have silvery leaves
and in the breeze remind me of the Black Sea.
I was on tank-ships walked on iron decks and
dreamt of sandy beaches, when ship docked
miles of pipes and oil refineries was on offer,
and lights of cities were always too far away.
Badly paid and far from home this was not
a song of a “Youngman Jansen’s life; a loss
of time if you ask me. The slam of an engine
door a watch over, the sea was isolation.
Ashore together fearful of wolves that circled
us looking for the weakest in the flock, drink
up it’s midnight the last launch back to our ship
in the bay is leaving now, yes, lost was time.
Deep shadows in the vale trees are green again
as breeze dies, I’ll leave my past where it belongs
in the cupboard of the forgettable, I’m free now
and no longer a prisoner of the sea.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
as time passes
As Time Passes.
This place used to be a farm landscape, then the farms
took to disappearing and houses were built, with nice
roads, shops, petrol station, school and church.
The traffic was slow, children played in the street and
it was a good place to live for young families.
Hard time struck, mortgages could not be paid, some
houses were boarded up people disappeared and was
never seen again; more people left, everyone in fact, no
one bothered to board up houses and empty houses had
broken windows, for a rule unwritten.
Packs of dogs roamed for a while, but drifted away to
find human settlements, and cats were eaten by foxes.
Plants broke up the asphalt in nice streets and dwellings
lost roofs; what could fall down fell, rain, snow and sun,
the wind blew and there was silence.
Then a fine spring day a man was ploughing what used
to be the sport fields and in the old school yard cows
mooed as it was milking time; and there were plenty of
bricks for many farmsteads to be built, soon they dotted
a farmland that once had been a townscape
This place used to be a farm landscape, then the farms
took to disappearing and houses were built, with nice
roads, shops, petrol station, school and church.
The traffic was slow, children played in the street and
it was a good place to live for young families.
Hard time struck, mortgages could not be paid, some
houses were boarded up people disappeared and was
never seen again; more people left, everyone in fact, no
one bothered to board up houses and empty houses had
broken windows, for a rule unwritten.
Packs of dogs roamed for a while, but drifted away to
find human settlements, and cats were eaten by foxes.
Plants broke up the asphalt in nice streets and dwellings
lost roofs; what could fall down fell, rain, snow and sun,
the wind blew and there was silence.
Then a fine spring day a man was ploughing what used
to be the sport fields and in the old school yard cows
mooed as it was milking time; and there were plenty of
bricks for many farmsteads to be built, soon they dotted
a farmland that once had been a townscape
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Paradise Lost
The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program
I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.
Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.
So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.
Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti
The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.
The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.
A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.
The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program
I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.
Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.
So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.
Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti
The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.
The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.
A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.
Paradise Lost
The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program
I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.
Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.
So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.
Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti
The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.
The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.
A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.
The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program
I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.
Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.
So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.
Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
my home than, say, Sweden is, and when the south
easterly blows dust in my nose smells of Serengeti
The man on the green tractor coming, my way used
to live in Angola but had to leave, but Africa never
left him, that’s why his has a wistful smile.
The Portuguese who had to leave Africa years ago
ache for their lost love, they wear the heavy cape
of melancholy and speak of returning… one day.
A picture 1912, a woman dark sits in a courtyard
She is painting her toe nails, looks up and smile
I knew her well she used to be wife.
Monday, March 30, 2009
the drowning
The Drowning
The island was close to shore when sea was
low we waded over, high tide we swam, dogs
too swam in the shallow and happily barked.
The sea was very clear but further out it had
under-currents I often saw things there of scary
nature, bodies floating by and I knew them.
I liked the shoreline for what I could find, but
didn’t like to be in the sea, I felt it was trying
to drag me down and away from what I knew.
Father said I had hydrophobia I fine word didn’t
understand it though, but hoped it was an illness
so I didn’t have to swim into its dark depths.
I was me who found father washed up on shore,
he had been missed for days, but I had seen him
floating by long time ago and wasn’t surprised.
Mother never came back to our summer house
On the island, when I returned there was a bridge
Across, but the sea was now dark and polluted.
The island was close to shore when sea was
low we waded over, high tide we swam, dogs
too swam in the shallow and happily barked.
The sea was very clear but further out it had
under-currents I often saw things there of scary
nature, bodies floating by and I knew them.
I liked the shoreline for what I could find, but
didn’t like to be in the sea, I felt it was trying
to drag me down and away from what I knew.
Father said I had hydrophobia I fine word didn’t
understand it though, but hoped it was an illness
so I didn’t have to swim into its dark depths.
I was me who found father washed up on shore,
he had been missed for days, but I had seen him
floating by long time ago and wasn’t surprised.
Mother never came back to our summer house
On the island, when I returned there was a bridge
Across, but the sea was now dark and polluted.
Friday, March 27, 2009
on the sunny side of life
On The Sunny Side Of Life
An almond tree and an olive tree stand close together touching
leaves, olive is a reluctant groom waiting for things to get
normal so he can go out with his mates again; the almond is
a blushing bride and she has got other plans for him.
I do not care about them today; there is an electric line over
this domestic forest, it goes all the way to Spain which is
suffering from recession. In my valley life is the same as before
farmers till the soil and prune trees and eat. On a felled tree
a shepherd sits smokes a cigarette, by his feet three obedient
dogs wait for their orders bring the sheep home; miles from his
mind is the Spanish recession.
In a field of yellow flowers a lone red poppy stands, begs me
to pick it so it can get away from this foreign soil, to be put in
a vase and admired for a day or two, which is a far as a flower
can see into the future.
I can smell the redolence of horse manure, if they could bottle
this scent as an after shave lotion I will gladly splash it on and
people would think I was a cowboy. I always wanted to be but
never got to Texas. Mind I wanted to a general too, but hate wars,
I think it was the uniform that pulled me. I became a short order
cook till someone shot me and robbed the till. When my wounds
were healed I got a job as a taxi drier and saw people doing
unspeakable things in the back of my cab.
Work and I never got along it ended in a bitter divorce,
so I’m back in my valley again and will not get involved
with work again.
An almond tree and an olive tree stand close together touching
leaves, olive is a reluctant groom waiting for things to get
normal so he can go out with his mates again; the almond is
a blushing bride and she has got other plans for him.
I do not care about them today; there is an electric line over
this domestic forest, it goes all the way to Spain which is
suffering from recession. In my valley life is the same as before
farmers till the soil and prune trees and eat. On a felled tree
a shepherd sits smokes a cigarette, by his feet three obedient
dogs wait for their orders bring the sheep home; miles from his
mind is the Spanish recession.
In a field of yellow flowers a lone red poppy stands, begs me
to pick it so it can get away from this foreign soil, to be put in
a vase and admired for a day or two, which is a far as a flower
can see into the future.
I can smell the redolence of horse manure, if they could bottle
this scent as an after shave lotion I will gladly splash it on and
people would think I was a cowboy. I always wanted to be but
never got to Texas. Mind I wanted to a general too, but hate wars,
I think it was the uniform that pulled me. I became a short order
cook till someone shot me and robbed the till. When my wounds
were healed I got a job as a taxi drier and saw people doing
unspeakable things in the back of my cab.
Work and I never got along it ended in a bitter divorce,
so I’m back in my valley again and will not get involved
with work again.
tanka and Haiku
Tanka
Trees have long shadows
Their Shadows don’t cast shadows
But they have a tree each
And since nothing is equal
They feel quite cool about it.
Haiku
It is fairly ok
To be old in November
In May it is hell.
Trees have long shadows
Their Shadows don’t cast shadows
But they have a tree each
And since nothing is equal
They feel quite cool about it.
Haiku
It is fairly ok
To be old in November
In May it is hell.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The vice
Lasten
Regnet har gitt seg, mann under paraply
står og teller regndråper som faller fra ett
tak, han har lite annet å gjøre nå siden han
sluttet å røke igår kveld.
Han har en lighter i lommen som han
tvinner rundt og rundt, så flirer han
til seg selv sparker in ruten til en godteri
butikk og stjeler en boks med drops
Regnet har gitt seg, mann under paraply
står og teller regndråper som faller fra ett
tak, han har lite annet å gjøre nå siden han
sluttet å røke igår kveld.
Han har en lighter i lommen som han
tvinner rundt og rundt, så flirer han
til seg selv sparker in ruten til en godteri
butikk og stjeler en boks med drops
Busy Spring
Cute little tractors, blue and green, everywhere,
fill the vale with distinctive smell of diesel fume.
It’s easy to be a farmer now up and down hillsides
no big deal, ploughing nice little field turning over
red rusty soil; but there is no horse manure for
the roses anymore, but what the heck, the nature
is green and flowers are red, sheep bleats and cows
are blue, well not around here, but on milk cartons.
But when the farmers have parked their tractors in
the barn and gone indoors for their evening meal
and the sun is setting; I can see a caravan of Gipsies,
horses and carts, leaving the road they have spotted
a flat piece of land where to camp for the night; so
there will be manure for the roses and all is well.
Cute little tractors, blue and green, everywhere,
fill the vale with distinctive smell of diesel fume.
It’s easy to be a farmer now up and down hillsides
no big deal, ploughing nice little field turning over
red rusty soil; but there is no horse manure for
the roses anymore, but what the heck, the nature
is green and flowers are red, sheep bleats and cows
are blue, well not around here, but on milk cartons.
But when the farmers have parked their tractors in
the barn and gone indoors for their evening meal
and the sun is setting; I can see a caravan of Gipsies,
horses and carts, leaving the road they have spotted
a flat piece of land where to camp for the night; so
there will be manure for the roses and all is well.
my lost brother
My Lost Brother
Cloudy October day I was walking home from
yet another funeral, my clan was dying out,
when told I had another brother, my father’s son;
he no longer lived in our town but in the woods,
near the sea, where the north westerly blows.
The woods, trees that had been planted to protect
the upland from the wind, looked like an army
of defeated soldiers slowly marching home,
but in the woods, where his cabin was, I sensed
an eerie stillness and no birds flew or sat in trees.
Knocked on his door- it opened- yes, he was my
brother ok, a bit weedy I thought and it was long
time since he had smiled and he wasn’t going to
now. Told him who I was and if there was anything
he needed. No, he was fine needed nothing.
Since he wasn’t going to invite me in I invited him
out for lunch, No, he wasn’t well. Gave him a slip
of paper with my address and phone number, told
him to call me at anytime, I was getting annoyed
too his dog never stopped growling at me.
Walked to my car turned and looked he had gone
in, but the curtains moved he was standing there
watching me drive off. Poor man, my brother,
immense his animosity. On soft ground, amongst
fallen leaves, a piece of paper soaked up his tears.
Cloudy October day I was walking home from
yet another funeral, my clan was dying out,
when told I had another brother, my father’s son;
he no longer lived in our town but in the woods,
near the sea, where the north westerly blows.
The woods, trees that had been planted to protect
the upland from the wind, looked like an army
of defeated soldiers slowly marching home,
but in the woods, where his cabin was, I sensed
an eerie stillness and no birds flew or sat in trees.
Knocked on his door- it opened- yes, he was my
brother ok, a bit weedy I thought and it was long
time since he had smiled and he wasn’t going to
now. Told him who I was and if there was anything
he needed. No, he was fine needed nothing.
Since he wasn’t going to invite me in I invited him
out for lunch, No, he wasn’t well. Gave him a slip
of paper with my address and phone number, told
him to call me at anytime, I was getting annoyed
too his dog never stopped growling at me.
Walked to my car turned and looked he had gone
in, but the curtains moved he was standing there
watching me drive off. Poor man, my brother,
immense his animosity. On soft ground, amongst
fallen leaves, a piece of paper soaked up his tears.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
the visitor
The Visitor
When I woke up in the night I saw him standing
in the doorway giggling devilishly at me, I got
out of bed and screamed: ”Not Now!” Grabbed
a picture from the wall, ( a painting of Jesus on
the cross) and threw it after him.
The frame hit him square on his forehead, blood
oozed down his hairy body, a pool on the floor,
slimy liquid full of worms, wriggling maggots and
venomous snakes that swayed and hissed to their
master’s horrid laughter.
A stir in the air the fiend became a grey dissipating
mist and the echo of his giggles faded into silence.
In the morning I found the broken frame and glass,
softly picked the saviour up and rinsed him under
the kitchen sink.
When I woke up in the night I saw him standing
in the doorway giggling devilishly at me, I got
out of bed and screamed: ”Not Now!” Grabbed
a picture from the wall, ( a painting of Jesus on
the cross) and threw it after him.
The frame hit him square on his forehead, blood
oozed down his hairy body, a pool on the floor,
slimy liquid full of worms, wriggling maggots and
venomous snakes that swayed and hissed to their
master’s horrid laughter.
A stir in the air the fiend became a grey dissipating
mist and the echo of his giggles faded into silence.
In the morning I found the broken frame and glass,
softly picked the saviour up and rinsed him under
the kitchen sink.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Indian Dream
The Indian Dream
I saw an Indian princess coming out of a limousine, not
an actress, pretending to be royal. She was dressed in
a sari made of the finest silk that ad been spun eight times
was airy and light as a zephyr. She wore diamond earrings
and necklace of black pearls on her swan like neck,
she looked so aromatic and esoteric had I seen her coming
out of the loo I would have been quite flummoxed.
Eyes downcast, a demure mien she didn’t see me waving
at her, when crossing the street a guard shaded her with
a green parasol. I’m going to
I’ll find the princess drive her home to
a low-cost Indian car, I will have to install an air condition,
one cannot have a princess transpire, mind, if she did it
would be pearls of sweet honey on her brow.
the travel
The travel
The landscape I remember is a place from a dream
and has no time or distance, although I have not
been here for a long time it’s easy to get to, it only
takes the blink of an eye. No one gets old here where
now is always present, mother is there shakes her
head thinks I have gone old and grey, my brother on
the other hand, smiles he used to be the oldest one;
and my sister is, as always, beautiful. I don’t stay here
long it is place so perfect that there is no dust about,
the sky is always blue, sun is noon; an overwhelming,
peace rest and hums like a phone line gone silent,
Monday, March 23, 2009
not welome today
Not Welcome Today
The police car came to the supermarket
to day a stubborn gipsy on his rusty bike
refused to leave when told by the guard,
claimed the guard was a lacy for the rich.
Police has guns and handcuffs, the gipsy
left, head held high, carrying his bike, this
since it only had one wheel. One simply
cannot have that sort of scruffy people at
the supermarket’s parking lot.
The police car came to the supermarket
to day a stubborn gipsy on his rusty bike
refused to leave when told by the guard,
claimed the guard was a lacy for the rich.
Police has guns and handcuffs, the gipsy
left, head held high, carrying his bike, this
since it only had one wheel. One simply
cannot have that sort of scruffy people at
the supermarket’s parking lot.
the african bee
The African Bee.
Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,
Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,
the famous and the dead
The famous and the Dead
So she died then the famous young woman who lived her
life in front of the cameras naked glare. I knew little of her,
but could not avoid seeing her on the news and unthinkingly
thought her vulgar and cheap, forgetting that she and I came
from the same class which makes the middle class feel good
about themselves, until she became ill and died before my
eyes. I had done the mistake of thinking that because she had
no general knowledge she must be dumb, like knowing names
of kings and presidents should make anyone superior. Yet she
was able to, despite her didactic handicap, to make money for
her sons’ future, their legacy is not squandered before they get
their schooling. They will have little but their mothers dream
for them to keep them from falling into the underclass’s´ illness
of despair. She died with courage, yes, a true a people’s princess,
and I must say that after hearing about her death I feel humbled
and hope she will be remembered well.
So she died then the famous young woman who lived her
life in front of the cameras naked glare. I knew little of her,
but could not avoid seeing her on the news and unthinkingly
thought her vulgar and cheap, forgetting that she and I came
from the same class which makes the middle class feel good
about themselves, until she became ill and died before my
eyes. I had done the mistake of thinking that because she had
no general knowledge she must be dumb, like knowing names
of kings and presidents should make anyone superior. Yet she
was able to, despite her didactic handicap, to make money for
her sons’ future, their legacy is not squandered before they get
their schooling. They will have little but their mothers dream
for them to keep them from falling into the underclass’s´ illness
of despair. She died with courage, yes, a true a people’s princess,
and I must say that after hearing about her death I feel humbled
and hope she will be remembered well.
ulucky
The Unlucky
The gipsy woman who sits by the supermarket’s door is feather light,
looks like a wing damaged canary bird sun and outdoor life has not
been kind to her face. I gave her some change, avoided looking at her
when doing so didn’t want her to be thankful, but noticed she had
bruising at the corner of her lips, another beating from her drunken man.
A low aid security guard came out tried to look tough in his starched
uniform, told her to leave, but there was something hesitant about him
and he had kind eyes, he looked around slipped her some change.
“Bad move security man, this will be noticed and someone will write
down in a black book that you are unreliable, you have not what it takes
to wear this fine uniform, you better find a new job before they fire you.
” The woman will be back again, she has no other choice, she would rather
be chased by a guard then take a beating from her man; and so her life goes
on till someone asks her up to dance.
The gipsy woman who sits by the supermarket’s door is feather light,
looks like a wing damaged canary bird sun and outdoor life has not
been kind to her face. I gave her some change, avoided looking at her
when doing so didn’t want her to be thankful, but noticed she had
bruising at the corner of her lips, another beating from her drunken man.
A low aid security guard came out tried to look tough in his starched
uniform, told her to leave, but there was something hesitant about him
and he had kind eyes, he looked around slipped her some change.
“Bad move security man, this will be noticed and someone will write
down in a black book that you are unreliable, you have not what it takes
to wear this fine uniform, you better find a new job before they fire you.
” The woman will be back again, she has no other choice, she would rather
be chased by a guard then take a beating from her man; and so her life goes
on till someone asks her up to dance.
daybreak song
Daybreak Song
Soon it will be morning and I can’t have drink
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like; “face the truth,” but not saying what that
truth is. And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood and you can see
they are not being honest. Now I have a watch
on my arm, I never had a wrist watch before but
the woman I live with bought me one as it would be
good for my self respect, like I should go around
hating myself. On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break, I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it I will simply postpone my
dreams and sleep till sunlight hits my face and
I know it will be ten in the morning and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.
Soon it will be morning and I can’t have drink
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like; “face the truth,” but not saying what that
truth is. And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood and you can see
they are not being honest. Now I have a watch
on my arm, I never had a wrist watch before but
the woman I live with bought me one as it would be
good for my self respect, like I should go around
hating myself. On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break, I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it I will simply postpone my
dreams and sleep till sunlight hits my face and
I know it will be ten in the morning and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
the reptile
The Reptile
The small lake in the vale is muddy brown and
I see what looks like an uprooted tree floating
in the middle, the tree disappears and the water
ripples like it suddenly feels cold. There has
been rumours about sheep disappearing when
grazing near the lake but since there is a good
road nearby, rustlers have been blamed; mind,
dogs too have vanished and no self-respecting
thieve can possible be interested in our motley
canines. The breeze that made the water ripple
has died out and in sharp spring sunlight I can
see the tree again, but it seems to be lower in
the water. The lake gets smaller and browner
every year less rain falls now then in the past,
a few years hence it will be a piece of dry land,
with, perhaps, a crocodile skeleton on.
The small lake in the vale is muddy brown and
I see what looks like an uprooted tree floating
in the middle, the tree disappears and the water
ripples like it suddenly feels cold. There has
been rumours about sheep disappearing when
grazing near the lake but since there is a good
road nearby, rustlers have been blamed; mind,
dogs too have vanished and no self-respecting
thieve can possible be interested in our motley
canines. The breeze that made the water ripple
has died out and in sharp spring sunlight I can
see the tree again, but it seems to be lower in
the water. The lake gets smaller and browner
every year less rain falls now then in the past,
a few years hence it will be a piece of dry land,
with, perhaps, a crocodile skeleton on.
Friday, March 13, 2009
old news
Old News
As the clock struck seven, a summer evening, outside
the town hall, a horse pulling a cart bolted. The driver
fell off and broke a leg, a policeman on duty was able
to stop the horse and calm it down. In our small inland
town this was a big event and many people took their
evening walk down to the town hall and stood in groups
listening to what the witnesses, two elderly men who
spent their time there sometimes doing odd jobs but
mostly hung around doing nothing; now for once they
had an audience and were treated as equals. News get
old and little is as stale as yesterdays´ the driver’s leg
mended, the horse was made into glue and tasty salami,
no one was interested in what a pair of layabouts had
to say, not now that a circus was coming to town.
As the clock struck seven, a summer evening, outside
the town hall, a horse pulling a cart bolted. The driver
fell off and broke a leg, a policeman on duty was able
to stop the horse and calm it down. In our small inland
town this was a big event and many people took their
evening walk down to the town hall and stood in groups
listening to what the witnesses, two elderly men who
spent their time there sometimes doing odd jobs but
mostly hung around doing nothing; now for once they
had an audience and were treated as equals. News get
old and little is as stale as yesterdays´ the driver’s leg
mended, the horse was made into glue and tasty salami,
no one was interested in what a pair of layabouts had
to say, not now that a circus was coming to town.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
rainy day
Rainy Day
It was eight in the morning when I heard
a car door slam and a car drive off.
It rained all day and it soothed my nerves
to hear water trickle down old roof tiles;
stuck indoors, I didn’t have an umbrella.
Five o’clock, afternoon, the car returned
and the same door slammed shut,
the rain continued, the water trickling
was a Geneva Convention offence; utterly
bored now and still without an umbrella.
It was eight in the morning when I heard
a car door slam and a car drive off.
It rained all day and it soothed my nerves
to hear water trickle down old roof tiles;
stuck indoors, I didn’t have an umbrella.
Five o’clock, afternoon, the car returned
and the same door slammed shut,
the rain continued, the water trickling
was a Geneva Convention offence; utterly
bored now and still without an umbrella.
Zoo Gorilla
Zoo Gorilla
There was a big, bright ape at a zoo in Sweden who
disliked being looked at when walking about in his
enclosure minding its own business. To get visitors
to move on he threw stones at them. Bad ape, bad
for business the wise zoo administration concluded.
A tranquilizer dart flew through the air and the ape
was rendered emasculated; one cannot have hostile
apes at a zoo, they should behave like cuddly giants.
Visitors who go to the big ape’s enclosure, a at zoo
in an arctic town not too far from of Stockholm, do
not stay long; nothing much to see other than a fat
primate that only sits there and eats bananas.
There was a big, bright ape at a zoo in Sweden who
disliked being looked at when walking about in his
enclosure minding its own business. To get visitors
to move on he threw stones at them. Bad ape, bad
for business the wise zoo administration concluded.
A tranquilizer dart flew through the air and the ape
was rendered emasculated; one cannot have hostile
apes at a zoo, they should behave like cuddly giants.
Visitors who go to the big ape’s enclosure, a at zoo
in an arctic town not too far from of Stockholm, do
not stay long; nothing much to see other than a fat
primate that only sits there and eats bananas.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Corrida de Touros em Portugal
Corrida de Touros em Portugal
The bull, led into the arena knows no fear, its
rage is against the man and horse it sees as one.
Elegantly the Pegasus evades the bull’s horn,
the beast snorts, has no sense, bleeds dark blood
from wounds inflicted on the neck by its taunting
nemesis’ banderilhas. The bull, blood on muzzle
takes a break, Pegasus takes a bow, what a great
show. A group of men, dressed as cowherds of
yore, jumps into the arena, the unwilling beast is
provoked into attacking them, but weakened by
blood loss it is soon subdued, and much praise is
heaped on the bold group. Cows are brought in
to the ring, the bull meekly follows them out, later
it is butchered, its meat given to the poor its ears,
I presume, is nailed on the wall of the cowshed.
The bull, led into the arena knows no fear, its
rage is against the man and horse it sees as one.
Elegantly the Pegasus evades the bull’s horn,
the beast snorts, has no sense, bleeds dark blood
from wounds inflicted on the neck by its taunting
nemesis’ banderilhas. The bull, blood on muzzle
takes a break, Pegasus takes a bow, what a great
show. A group of men, dressed as cowherds of
yore, jumps into the arena, the unwilling beast is
provoked into attacking them, but weakened by
blood loss it is soon subdued, and much praise is
heaped on the bold group. Cows are brought in
to the ring, the bull meekly follows them out, later
it is butchered, its meat given to the poor its ears,
I presume, is nailed on the wall of the cowshed.
Sunday roast
Sunday Dinner
It was on an impulse I went to visit
my brothers’ at noon a fine Sunday.
No answer, but the door was open
I walked in food on the table, still
warm. Mary Celeste, I thought and
served myself.
Their garden looked enchanting
bushes full of red berries, I turned
on the water sprinklers and left;
heard a scream, thought it came
from their neighbour’s garden and
took no notice.
It was on an impulse I went to visit
my brothers’ at noon a fine Sunday.
No answer, but the door was open
I walked in food on the table, still
warm. Mary Celeste, I thought and
served myself.
Their garden looked enchanting
bushes full of red berries, I turned
on the water sprinklers and left;
heard a scream, thought it came
from their neighbour’s garden and
took no notice.
a way
A Way
I saw a narrow side road unused now but
scars from cartwheels are still visible. On
both sides’ walls have partly fallen down,
no longer protecting or guarding anything,
obvious except, perhaps, memories; yet
the walls, with yellows spring flowers on
looked graceful as the easterly softly blew.
I followed the road, half an hour or so, till
it ended on a field of cardinal poppies and
Spanish bluebells. The road, pointless but
lucidly romantic, tells of a time gone by,
but whether it was a good or hard time it
stays quiet, leaves it up to me to make
sense of the past and remember it gently.
I saw a narrow side road unused now but
scars from cartwheels are still visible. On
both sides’ walls have partly fallen down,
no longer protecting or guarding anything,
obvious except, perhaps, memories; yet
the walls, with yellows spring flowers on
looked graceful as the easterly softly blew.
I followed the road, half an hour or so, till
it ended on a field of cardinal poppies and
Spanish bluebells. The road, pointless but
lucidly romantic, tells of a time gone by,
but whether it was a good or hard time it
stays quiet, leaves it up to me to make
sense of the past and remember it gently.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
The vengance
The Vengeance
There is no war it is all happening on TV, for our
entertainment, I look out of the window and see
no dead bodies, no blood or bombed buildings,
or soldiers prancing about, except Pedro coming
back after hunting rabbits. He hates rabbits since
one chased him and bit his bum, he was twelve
at the time but the indignity made him malicious.
He hunts rabbits in the morning, they hear him
come and hide in burrows, except for the unwise
that think they can make play hide and seek with
him. Pedro is a crack shot and at times bag one,
which is good for us, had he always missed his
hatred may have grown to include us and the war
would move from the TV screen on to our street.
There is no war it is all happening on TV, for our
entertainment, I look out of the window and see
no dead bodies, no blood or bombed buildings,
or soldiers prancing about, except Pedro coming
back after hunting rabbits. He hates rabbits since
one chased him and bit his bum, he was twelve
at the time but the indignity made him malicious.
He hunts rabbits in the morning, they hear him
come and hide in burrows, except for the unwise
that think they can make play hide and seek with
him. Pedro is a crack shot and at times bag one,
which is good for us, had he always missed his
hatred may have grown to include us and the war
would move from the TV screen on to our street.
Recession
Recession
“To stimulate the economy one has to spend,”
the economist on TV, said looking directly at
me. Contemplating this I went for a walk, and
found on the road side a tiny mouse, on its
back pink feet in the air, pointed snout, mouth
open showing cute little teeth; thought it was
dead picked it up, in my hand it came alive it
had only been stunned by rain. Roman soldiers
used to eat deep fried mice as snacks- must
have been lots of mice back then- This scene
that could have brought tears to the eyes of
harp playing angels, had been observed by
a craven raven in a carob tree, as I walked off
it swooped. Later that day I drove into town
moved the economy and bought a copy pen.
“To stimulate the economy one has to spend,”
the economist on TV, said looking directly at
me. Contemplating this I went for a walk, and
found on the road side a tiny mouse, on its
back pink feet in the air, pointed snout, mouth
open showing cute little teeth; thought it was
dead picked it up, in my hand it came alive it
had only been stunned by rain. Roman soldiers
used to eat deep fried mice as snacks- must
have been lots of mice back then- This scene
that could have brought tears to the eyes of
harp playing angels, had been observed by
a craven raven in a carob tree, as I walked off
it swooped. Later that day I drove into town
moved the economy and bought a copy pen.
the spectres
The Spectres
In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts,
stumps of amputated boughs painted white;
I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears,
to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces.
I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage’s
wall, it’s from my merchant-navy college days,
the group of smiling youths are all dead now
except for two, we’re old timers spit and wait.
How young we were, “here we are, life,” smile,
bitter regrets hadn’t yet clouded our features;
suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our
heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover.
It is almost unbearable to see them like this,
I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time,
redraw their faces and bring them back to life.
In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts,
stumps of amputated boughs painted white;
I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears,
to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces.
I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage’s
wall, it’s from my merchant-navy college days,
the group of smiling youths are all dead now
except for two, we’re old timers spit and wait.
How young we were, “here we are, life,” smile,
bitter regrets hadn’t yet clouded our features;
suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our
heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover.
It is almost unbearable to see them like this,
I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time,
redraw their faces and bring them back to life.
reptiles
Reptiles
Dead lizards on the road,
grey leathery
backs and milk white bellies.
Eyes closed as not to see
oncoming death.
I think they drowned.
In a child’s mind they can
become monsters and
grow building tall.
They’re baby dragons
that shouldn’t have gone out
playing in the rain.
Dead lizards on the road,
grey leathery
backs and milk white bellies.
Eyes closed as not to see
oncoming death.
I think they drowned.
In a child’s mind they can
become monsters and
grow building tall.
They’re baby dragons
that shouldn’t have gone out
playing in the rain.
the aristocratic war
The Aristocratic War.
A lone burgundy poppy amongst the weed on
verge of the lane remembers World War 1,
few wars, this so romantic English war, are as
well recorded. Verdun and stinking mud, many
poems written ( not that verses ever stopped
the juggernaut of war.) Plinths and cenotaph,
statues of generals -covered in bird dropping-
astride bronze horses, in every town. Lest we
forget that this is the only war where the upper
classes died, on the battlefield, in equal numbers
as the common soldier… and that, I suspect, is
why it is so well documented.
A lone burgundy poppy amongst the weed on
verge of the lane remembers World War 1,
few wars, this so romantic English war, are as
well recorded. Verdun and stinking mud, many
poems written ( not that verses ever stopped
the juggernaut of war.) Plinths and cenotaph,
statues of generals -covered in bird dropping-
astride bronze horses, in every town. Lest we
forget that this is the only war where the upper
classes died, on the battlefield, in equal numbers
as the common soldier… and that, I suspect, is
why it is so well documented.
Monday, March 02, 2009
the town's buffoon
The Town’s Buffoon
He sat fishing in the town’s small lake too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water, and fish had chocked to death, mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes!”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.
He sat fishing in the town’s small lake too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water, and fish had chocked to death, mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes!”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.
the truant
The Truant
Trying to flee Christmas I opened a wrong door and
fell from sky into a glossy stygian lagoon, swam to
its northern shore and saw trees dismal graveyard,
petrified and silent trunks lit up by hazy moonlight.
I walked to the lake’s eastern shore and witnessed
the easy birth of a day; a deer chastely drank blue
water when a brown bear came out of the forest
attacking me. I jumped into the lake the bear too
jumped in, a better swimmer, but as it was going to
catch me, I ducked, swam up behind it, mounted
the beast- like a cowboy- and gripped my fingers on
the liberal skin folds of its fat neck. Howling angry
the bear swam in circles but couldn’t shake me off,
when it beat swam for shore I let go, the poor brute
crawled ashore and tired scuttled into the woods.
I followed a barely visible track and came to a town
where kind people gave me food ( hotcakes, honey
and bacon,) a bath and a bed in a green room. I slept
for days , but when asked where I came from, could
only tell of a deer and a bear as my only memory.
To be an embryo inside a celestial dream feels fine
while I plan the newness of my life.
Trying to flee Christmas I opened a wrong door and
fell from sky into a glossy stygian lagoon, swam to
its northern shore and saw trees dismal graveyard,
petrified and silent trunks lit up by hazy moonlight.
I walked to the lake’s eastern shore and witnessed
the easy birth of a day; a deer chastely drank blue
water when a brown bear came out of the forest
attacking me. I jumped into the lake the bear too
jumped in, a better swimmer, but as it was going to
catch me, I ducked, swam up behind it, mounted
the beast- like a cowboy- and gripped my fingers on
the liberal skin folds of its fat neck. Howling angry
the bear swam in circles but couldn’t shake me off,
when it beat swam for shore I let go, the poor brute
crawled ashore and tired scuttled into the woods.
I followed a barely visible track and came to a town
where kind people gave me food ( hotcakes, honey
and bacon,) a bath and a bed in a green room. I slept
for days , but when asked where I came from, could
only tell of a deer and a bear as my only memory.
To be an embryo inside a celestial dream feels fine
while I plan the newness of my life.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
final Reckoning
Final Reckoning
Murky day in my valley the mountain which
Is a gigantic, petrified dry wave of earth and
boulders, is obscured today should it liquefy
the vale will be a plateau with a story to tell
but no one around to tell it too, except for
mustangs that only cares about the quality
of the grass. Perhaps some of us would live
on in air pockets underground turning into
earth worms while looking for a light switch
we knew used to be on a wall while gulping
stale air, not grasping that we are doomed;
and a battery radio plays a dirge because
the king is dead like that should be our chief
concern on a day the valley disappeared.
Murky day in my valley the mountain which
Is a gigantic, petrified dry wave of earth and
boulders, is obscured today should it liquefy
the vale will be a plateau with a story to tell
but no one around to tell it too, except for
mustangs that only cares about the quality
of the grass. Perhaps some of us would live
on in air pockets underground turning into
earth worms while looking for a light switch
we knew used to be on a wall while gulping
stale air, not grasping that we are doomed;
and a battery radio plays a dirge because
the king is dead like that should be our chief
concern on a day the valley disappeared.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
angels too..
Angels Too…
I didn’t believe it was possible, mind I had been away
for some time, angles growing old? In the fair Faro,
an old city in Algarve, Portugal she lives and used to
be as blond and pure as the ones one sees in fairytale
books, here where people are olive skinned and look
Arabic- which make them kinder than peoples who
live up north-. When she floated through my town in
the afternoon, people lined streets in the hope that
her smile would fall on them for luck, alas, no more.
Grey haired now, wearing slippers, bunions give her
great pain, she looks inwards which is a good thing
as no one recognizes her anymore. Smiled to her and
said halloo, that woke her up, she smiled back at me,
yes, the same angle is still in there just harder to see;
thus fortified by her glow I did my newspaper round.
I didn’t believe it was possible, mind I had been away
for some time, angles growing old? In the fair Faro,
an old city in Algarve, Portugal she lives and used to
be as blond and pure as the ones one sees in fairytale
books, here where people are olive skinned and look
Arabic- which make them kinder than peoples who
live up north-. When she floated through my town in
the afternoon, people lined streets in the hope that
her smile would fall on them for luck, alas, no more.
Grey haired now, wearing slippers, bunions give her
great pain, she looks inwards which is a good thing
as no one recognizes her anymore. Smiled to her and
said halloo, that woke her up, she smiled back at me,
yes, the same angle is still in there just harder to see;
thus fortified by her glow I did my newspaper round.
the constant battle
The Constant Battle
Dawn, the silence is a dying breath here in
the village on the grassland, stealthily in
the night they had taken their cattle, dogs
and mules and headed for the hills, there
is no defends against helicopter gunships;
I hear them now, a swarm of bees from hell.
But as the bullets hit red roofs sun light rose
over the mountain and sent rays of energy
on the silvery death machines and singed
them out of the air, once again a new day
had begun; relieved villagers returned as life’s
echo rippled through the meadowland.
Dawn, the silence is a dying breath here in
the village on the grassland, stealthily in
the night they had taken their cattle, dogs
and mules and headed for the hills, there
is no defends against helicopter gunships;
I hear them now, a swarm of bees from hell.
But as the bullets hit red roofs sun light rose
over the mountain and sent rays of energy
on the silvery death machines and singed
them out of the air, once again a new day
had begun; relieved villagers returned as life’s
echo rippled through the meadowland.
cultivated is my valley
Cultivated Is My Valley
Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.
Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?
Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.
Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?
winter travel
Winter Travel.
Star cold night frost on ground, ice floes
on the lake; glittering moon too does its
best, to make a landscape magic, as seen
from an express train hastening through
the night, to a town that sell coffee, hot
buns with butter that melts on the tongue.
Star cold night frost on ground, ice floes
on the lake; glittering moon too does its
best, to make a landscape magic, as seen
from an express train hastening through
the night, to a town that sell coffee, hot
buns with butter that melts on the tongue.
a sudden realiization
A Sudden Realization
In the clarity of darkness I often felt
a presence, in the old cottage’s living
room, I often paused and willed it to
take a form, a human shape, but no,
till a figure stood before me, darker
then the night, dressed in a cape and
veil, an epiphany had taken outline;
slowly the figure took its veil off and
I looked into a humbling nothingness
where all matters, are absorbed and
melted as no entity had ever existed.
The form too vanished and blended
with the night; linking me to life was
dawn’s light seeping down the skylight.
In the clarity of darkness I often felt
a presence, in the old cottage’s living
room, I often paused and willed it to
take a form, a human shape, but no,
till a figure stood before me, darker
then the night, dressed in a cape and
veil, an epiphany had taken outline;
slowly the figure took its veil off and
I looked into a humbling nothingness
where all matters, are absorbed and
melted as no entity had ever existed.
The form too vanished and blended
with the night; linking me to life was
dawn’s light seeping down the skylight.
Friday, February 20, 2009
the primeval
The Primeval
Was it a distant cry of a child I heard?
it evoked an equally remote memory
of another child’s wail.
The body in, the bay is your dad’s.
The school yards is empty and cold as
the sea. The bullies have gone home and
the afternoon sun paints unyielding
windows reddish-purple.
Don’t go home yet. Your mother cry,
relatives eat shop bought sandwiches,
whispers, I will stay here for a while
and listen to the silence.
sparkle
Sparkle
Diamond dust on the tarmac road I travelled
shone brightly in the afternoon sun, but I hadn’t
brought a dustpan, and was hungry it had been
a long day. It rained in the nigh in the morning
the day scented fresh and the dust glittered on
a sea that smiled and tried seduce me into joining
the navy.
to be or not....
To Be or…
The swan on the lake doesn’t know it is a swan,
they say. How do they know? A swan may look
at us and say to another swan “Darling humans
don’t who they are.” Quite right my lovely, they
are daft that way” (swans have lot in common
with actors, the lake is their stage and we are
their adoring audience) I know that because Tom,
the only actor I have met in the flesh, called me
darling, well, not only me but everyone he spoke
to. Tom died no one calls me darling anymore.
We only think we know ourselves, if we really did
it would be too scary to know that inside us lurks
a monster.
migration
Migration
In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.
Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.
Two tribes had lived here till one tribe had decided to seek
their fortunes on the mountain’s other side, an early mass
exodus; they had vanished into a void, no one could find
the smallest trace; a mystery no more. “My granddad didn’t
know this or his granddad and before that history is a blur,
someone else must be responsible for this mass murder”
the people who live here say. But I wonder who invented
the fine tale about burying of the stones?
cabin fever
Cabin Fever.
The firewood in the hearth hiss and smoke
refuse to burn bright, these limbs of a giant
will not heat my cabin this winter evening.
I must have done something wrong, don’t
know what. I have doused the flaccid limbs
with alcohol, drank some too, now the fire
is burning bright with an inner ice blue tint.
From the floor looking up I see the roof is
on fire. Someone knocks on my door, I’m
a pirate burning my ship, there is rum for
everyone; for the dreary I’ve diet coke and
for the loony there is low fat yogurt.
forgivness
Forgiveness.
It was dawn in Calcutta; I had spent the night in
a bar with no name, when I came upon a hospital
in a side street, a place for the dying. Two nurses
in white uniforms with blue borders - they were
nuns- twins, poke marked, elderly, had prominent
noses and dark penetrating eyes. They led me to
a room were an ancient woman lie dying on a mat,
she smiled held out her hand and asked me what
had taken me so long? I told her of my endless
journeying, all the obstacles in my way and how
I regretted my lateness. She smiled glad that she
could see me a last time; then she died. Twilight,
long shadows a day was ending and I had been
forgiven for not knowing I was loved and missed.
Monday, February 16, 2009
the assessment
The Assessment
My copy pen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now I feel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
to write, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do not write with a pen but use a word processor,
a pen is a crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
of paper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waiting to write something sensible on the processor;
a mad publisher has shown interest in them.
Twenty years feels a very long time, twenty more and
I’ll be ninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
the floor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
hum tells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
of scribble how is that for an epitaph?
My copy pen fell to the floor I bent down to pick it up
now I feel dizzy. I came to this country, decades ago
to write, many pens have fallen on the floor- although
I do not write with a pen but use a word processor,
a pen is a crutch and to make droll shapes on sheets
of paper; a thousands sheets filled with doodles while
waiting to write something sensible on the processor;
a mad publisher has shown interest in them.
Twenty years feels a very long time, twenty more and
I’ll be ninety bet I will not be able to pick up a pen from
the floor then. Now I wake up in the night and a steady
hum tells me I have wasted my time scrawling, a book
of scribble how is that for an epitaph?
epigram
Epigram
All dolls are equal, but some are
better dressed than others; yet
they all end up- utterly forlorn-
in a cardboard box, on the attic.
All dolls are equal, but some are
better dressed than others; yet
they all end up- utterly forlorn-
in a cardboard box, on the attic.
man eater
Man-Eater
A great sight, a flock of flying fishes,
hunted by dolphins, sailing through
the air, almost like birds, side fins
outspread soaring, alas, they landed
on the deck of my ship;
fried they taste as mackerel which
I don’t like since I found an oxidised
wedding ring in the belly of a giant
nasty looking mackerel bought at
a fishmonger’s in Bergen. (Norway)
(flock since they flew like birds)
A great sight, a flock of flying fishes,
hunted by dolphins, sailing through
the air, almost like birds, side fins
outspread soaring, alas, they landed
on the deck of my ship;
fried they taste as mackerel which
I don’t like since I found an oxidised
wedding ring in the belly of a giant
nasty looking mackerel bought at
a fishmonger’s in Bergen. (Norway)
(flock since they flew like birds)
a nice middle class family
A Nice Middle-Class Family
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
a nice middle class family
A Nice Middle-Class Family
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
Winter Journey to Lisbon
Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.
The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people?” Yes, why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.
Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.
The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people?” Yes, why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.
Lisbon winter night
Lisbon Winter Night
From my hotel window I see, deep down
in the city’s canyon, a cobble stone river
cars are moored to its banks; from under
one a cat runs across to the bins, a squeal
as it catches its wretched prey.
From he opposite edifice a few shards
of light give succour to the dying and to
those who cannot sleep that radiance too
fades as night progresses towards dawn,
what’s left is the hum of enduring silence.
From my hotel window I see, deep down
in the city’s canyon, a cobble stone river
cars are moored to its banks; from under
one a cat runs across to the bins, a squeal
as it catches its wretched prey.
From he opposite edifice a few shards
of light give succour to the dying and to
those who cannot sleep that radiance too
fades as night progresses towards dawn,
what’s left is the hum of enduring silence.
fighting fit
Fighting fit
Walking home from the bar,
yes it was late, the asphalted
road rose up to fight me,
I fought back with both arms,
but suffered a knock out.
When I awoke, we were both
flat out, I had sore knuckles
and a bloody nose, the road,
however, had deep watery
scratch mark in the asphalt
Walking home from the bar,
yes it was late, the asphalted
road rose up to fight me,
I fought back with both arms,
but suffered a knock out.
When I awoke, we were both
flat out, I had sore knuckles
and a bloody nose, the road,
however, had deep watery
scratch mark in the asphalt
the face
The Face
On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
epigram
Epigram
If there were absence of wars we
wouldn’t know the meaning of
peace, but go on being hostile to
each other.
If there were absence of wars we
wouldn’t know the meaning of
peace, but go on being hostile to
each other.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
february afternoon
February afternoon
Flecks of sunlight and shadows
are stretched out on a green mat
in harmony;
clouds have broken up and in
the stillness there is place
for everyone;
but accord doesn’t last
in the late day shadows will be longer
and sun specks will vanish;
there will the morrow though, when
sun is relentless, chases and obliterates
lingering murk;
gloom and light it seems to me
that we can’t have the one
without the other.
Flecks of sunlight and shadows
are stretched out on a green mat
in harmony;
clouds have broken up and in
the stillness there is place
for everyone;
but accord doesn’t last
in the late day shadows will be longer
and sun specks will vanish;
there will the morrow though, when
sun is relentless, chases and obliterates
lingering murk;
gloom and light it seems to me
that we can’t have the one
without the other.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
lament
Lament
I have the desire but
Can’t finish the race
Should I use, performance
Enhancing drug
Or will that disqualify me?
I have the desire but
Can’t finish the race
Should I use, performance
Enhancing drug
Or will that disqualify me?
winter wish
Winter Wish
I’m tired of this winter valley the sky has seven
hues of grey, there are no donkeys left only blue
tractors reeking of diesel fume, no echo of happy
hee-haw anymore.
I will go to Congo where nature is both beautiful
and scary with roaring lions, snapping crocodiles,
ear flapping, cantankerous elephants and chest
beating mountain gorillas.
I will break in a river-horse and bare back gallop
across the Serengeti followed by crashing rhinos
flanked by laughing hyenas; arrive in Cape Town
as the biggest show on earth.
Welcomed by Desmond Tutu, he’s such a nice
all forgiving man, stable my horse near a river,
take the plane back to Portugal just as the sun
breaks through and sky is blue again.
I’m tired of this winter valley the sky has seven
hues of grey, there are no donkeys left only blue
tractors reeking of diesel fume, no echo of happy
hee-haw anymore.
I will go to Congo where nature is both beautiful
and scary with roaring lions, snapping crocodiles,
ear flapping, cantankerous elephants and chest
beating mountain gorillas.
I will break in a river-horse and bare back gallop
across the Serengeti followed by crashing rhinos
flanked by laughing hyenas; arrive in Cape Town
as the biggest show on earth.
Welcomed by Desmond Tutu, he’s such a nice
all forgiving man, stable my horse near a river,
take the plane back to Portugal just as the sun
breaks through and sky is blue again.
fruit rats
Fruit Rats
Nature in the vale sleeps today last
night a storm raced through it, twigs
and almond petals litter lanes, birds
sit with heads under wings, wide open
Algarvian sky a few clouds sails slowly
about and the sun warms my face.
This is a tilled landscape, like a stroll
in a city park only less noisy, wolves,
foxes, brown bears and boars have
gone, I stand near a sign that warns
of cattle crossing, but I haven’t seen
a ruminant around here for years.
Flocks of dumb sheep usually graze
under the olive trees, if not now, and
I’ll not tread on wet grass; it saddens
me to see oranges fall unpicked to
the ground, but rats eat them and in
time of need I can eat a healthy rat.
Nature in the vale sleeps today last
night a storm raced through it, twigs
and almond petals litter lanes, birds
sit with heads under wings, wide open
Algarvian sky a few clouds sails slowly
about and the sun warms my face.
This is a tilled landscape, like a stroll
in a city park only less noisy, wolves,
foxes, brown bears and boars have
gone, I stand near a sign that warns
of cattle crossing, but I haven’t seen
a ruminant around here for years.
Flocks of dumb sheep usually graze
under the olive trees, if not now, and
I’ll not tread on wet grass; it saddens
me to see oranges fall unpicked to
the ground, but rats eat them and in
time of need I can eat a healthy rat.
after a gale
After the Gale
Now that the storm has past and the tall grass
that bent with the wind has straitened up and
stands deep green ready for the sheep in pens
to come out and graze on succulence, nature
is infused with a new energy that strengthens
man and beast. Liquid silver that hangs from
from tiny leaves on prickly bushes by the road
dries for there is no place for sorrow now that
a battle has been won and yesterday is gone
and it only gets a brief mentioning in histories
many footnotes. Without tumult, life will dry
on the vine and produce ill will instead of wine.
Now that the storm has past and the tall grass
that bent with the wind has straitened up and
stands deep green ready for the sheep in pens
to come out and graze on succulence, nature
is infused with a new energy that strengthens
man and beast. Liquid silver that hangs from
from tiny leaves on prickly bushes by the road
dries for there is no place for sorrow now that
a battle has been won and yesterday is gone
and it only gets a brief mentioning in histories
many footnotes. Without tumult, life will dry
on the vine and produce ill will instead of wine.
green eyes
Green Eyes
I didn’t know that life had set the stage for me
on that day as I walked on with open heart
and innocent mind. I met green eyes she had
auburn hair and smooth white skin that only
angels get to wear; she smiled, I touched her
hand to be sure she was real.
When we made love I was fearful of crushing
her delicate body with my clumsy embrace,
but here eyes smiled and I boldly conquered.
This was glory the world was mine love had
made me powerful, I could be a master builder
if I wanted to, or president of USA.
I glanced away for an instant and she was gone,
looked everywhere in other women’s smile or
eyes, but no. Time passes, now I know that it
was a moment of wonder it had lit up a path
that other ways would have been dull, I accept
that and savour the memory of green eyes.
I didn’t know that life had set the stage for me
on that day as I walked on with open heart
and innocent mind. I met green eyes she had
auburn hair and smooth white skin that only
angels get to wear; she smiled, I touched her
hand to be sure she was real.
When we made love I was fearful of crushing
her delicate body with my clumsy embrace,
but here eyes smiled and I boldly conquered.
This was glory the world was mine love had
made me powerful, I could be a master builder
if I wanted to, or president of USA.
I glanced away for an instant and she was gone,
looked everywhere in other women’s smile or
eyes, but no. Time passes, now I know that it
was a moment of wonder it had lit up a path
that other ways would have been dull, I accept
that and savour the memory of green eyes.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
pig farming
Pig Farming
British farmers treat their pigs better
than their European counterparts,
straw strewn floors to walk on and
toys (usually footballs) to kick around
in the pen while they wait…
Alas, like their European brethrens
they will be slaughtered roasted, boiled
or smoked, usually when very young;
straw and toys are for you and I so we
can say we’re kind to animals we eat.
British farmers treat their pigs better
than their European counterparts,
straw strewn floors to walk on and
toys (usually footballs) to kick around
in the pen while they wait…
Alas, like their European brethrens
they will be slaughtered roasted, boiled
or smoked, usually when very young;
straw and toys are for you and I so we
can say we’re kind to animals we eat.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
the hex
The Hex.
Where the village lane meets the main road there was
an ugly olive tree that looked like two crippled old men
trying helping each across the road, petrified by cars,
I used to stop and talk to the tree old but still bore fruit;
now it has been chopped down and will end up as winter
wood. No. I’m not a tree hugger but it annoyed me that
it was cut down as it was not in any ones way.
An old woman came down the lane she had a long nose
with a big hairy wart on and a sack of wood slung on her
crocked back. “Tell me dear woman, why was this tree
executed? “Because it was ugly looked like two old men
trying to help each other across the road”, she said and
toothlessly laughed.
the psychopath
The Psychopath
The lane is siesta empty, meanders forever amongst
olive trees and budding almond trees, but afar I see
a black clad man, an ominous shadow, marching
towards me. He has got one hand in his pocket, a knife?
Bet he is a psychopath out to see if he can kill someone
without being caught. Nowhere to run fields are soggy
and he’s younger than me; he will catch up and plunge
a knife in me when I’m exhausted. When he stops and
looks around to be sure there are no witnesses, I quickly
bend down and pick up a big stone I can hit him over
the head with it, I think I’m stronger than him. He looks
tense as he passes me on the opposite side of the lane,
I stop pretend to look at the sky, can’t let him thrust his
knife in my back. He’s running now, see him disappear
around a sharp bend but I wait till sure he ain’t coming
back, I better arm myself with a kitchen knife next time
I go out the world is full of bad people.
the death of an author
The Death of an Author
John Updike is dead, can’t say I know much about him
I may have read one or two of his books but he didn’t
leave a lasting impression as Hemingway did.
One of my neighbours has died too, I saw him every
day walking past my house with his old dog and a basket
in his left arm, with wine and a bit to eat.
He was going to his little field, doing some weeding but
mostly just drinking looking at the way birds flew, patting
his dog’s head and snoring gently under of a tree.
There was something about his eyes, like some inner
suffering had made him look holy, say, as an idealized
picture of Jesus on the cross.
I’m going to his funeral tomorrow morning, at 67 he was
bit young for death I thought, a new face will come and
take his place; but who is going to look after his old dog?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
transformation (Tanka)
Transformation (Tanka)
It can’t be denied
the almond tree is ugly
weak looking branches
its bark is grey and scabby
not a future beauty queen.
it can’t be denied
the almond tree is pretty
when covered in pink flowers
its bark is brown and healthy
a favoured bride of spring.
It can’t be denied
the almond tree is ugly
weak looking branches
its bark is grey and scabby
not a future beauty queen.
it can’t be denied
the almond tree is pretty
when covered in pink flowers
its bark is brown and healthy
a favoured bride of spring.
the lovely couple
The Lovely Couple
In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.
In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.
thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.
My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.
Monday, January 26, 2009
COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT
Collective Punishment
A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.
The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.
A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.
The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.
winter algarve
Winter Algarve.
The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009,” a tourist guide will say.
The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again
The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.
The vines in black soil look like dead soldiers held up
by wire, not a hint of jollity to come. My wintery vale,
winds gets cold my face is as frozen as a newscaster’s
botoxed face, but since I need not look young I hurry
home to thaw it into familiar wrinkles.
The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009,” a tourist guide will say.
The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again
The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.
The vines in black soil look like dead soldiers held up
by wire, not a hint of jollity to come. My wintery vale,
winds gets cold my face is as frozen as a newscaster’s
botoxed face, but since I need not look young I hurry
home to thaw it into familiar wrinkles.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
tango for two
Tango for Two.
On internet I looked up dancing in Algarve, got ballet
dance and dance schools, those were out, and lap
dancing which is even more embarrassing, a girl on
your lap jumping up and if you don’t get an erection
due to your knees hurting the girl will feel offended
and tell the audience that you are impotent; and it
beats me why she should want to humiliate the poor
punter who has paid. Maybe it has to do with pride,
professional honour, the woman might feel that she
has failed not getting you exited, so why do I care?
I just want to go to a place and sway to the music,
remember a hot night in Buenos Aires, 1961 and at
the same time get some exercise, is that too much
to ask a Saturday night?
On internet I looked up dancing in Algarve, got ballet
dance and dance schools, those were out, and lap
dancing which is even more embarrassing, a girl on
your lap jumping up and if you don’t get an erection
due to your knees hurting the girl will feel offended
and tell the audience that you are impotent; and it
beats me why she should want to humiliate the poor
punter who has paid. Maybe it has to do with pride,
professional honour, the woman might feel that she
has failed not getting you exited, so why do I care?
I just want to go to a place and sway to the music,
remember a hot night in Buenos Aires, 1961 and at
the same time get some exercise, is that too much
to ask a Saturday night?
Friday, January 23, 2009
siblings
The Siblings
Twin, one strong, the other naïve and pale, nature
is merciless the strong threw the weak out of
the nest that fell to the brushwood and had to seek
shelter where it could a temporary shelter, but it
learned how to survive and trust no one, frail yes,
but sensitively strong it had time on it side watching
how fear and hate consumed its brother how, with
its phosphorous bombs, had lost the plot and could
not kill a wish the losers’ absurd idea of equality.
So it came to pass when the strong saw it could not
win and subjugate its twin to its whim it choose to
destroy itself and its insignificant brother. Toxic sand
more lethal than Wall Street’s bad debt, cover land,
yet in caves survivors still dream of nationhood.
Twin, one strong, the other naïve and pale, nature
is merciless the strong threw the weak out of
the nest that fell to the brushwood and had to seek
shelter where it could a temporary shelter, but it
learned how to survive and trust no one, frail yes,
but sensitively strong it had time on it side watching
how fear and hate consumed its brother how, with
its phosphorous bombs, had lost the plot and could
not kill a wish the losers’ absurd idea of equality.
So it came to pass when the strong saw it could not
win and subjugate its twin to its whim it choose to
destroy itself and its insignificant brother. Toxic sand
more lethal than Wall Street’s bad debt, cover land,
yet in caves survivors still dream of nationhood.
hail to the chief
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.
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.
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.
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