a sunny day

A Sunny Day

This morning she remembered my name repeated

it many times:” Sunny and bright,” a voice on TV

said. I helped her having a shower, the hot and

cold water knobs a problem, I made her breakfast.

We spoke about the old days she could remember

everything clearly, we laughed and it was a good

day for us both. She wanted to go for a drive and

today she dressed herself, she stood in front of

the mirror I said she looked beautiful and went to

put my suit on. When I came back she was still

standing there not recognizing the woman she saw.

I sat her down in an armchair, the room was heavy

with her absence, as she stared into her vanishing

world: “Sunny and bright” the voice on TV said.

matricide

Matricide

He stood in the kitchen ironing his shirt,

suit cases packed his mother sat on her

wheelchair in the hall, he could not

afford to pay the rent, they had to leave,

but had nowhere to go.

He looked out of the window the land

was greening now, sparrows sat on

sills waited to be fed breadcrumbs, he was

filled by a pain of unbearable longings

bit his lips not to cry out loud

His mother was ailing, she often said

she wished to be dead, she had asked

god to release her now. Like a zombie

he picked up the iron went into the hall

and bashed his mother’s head in.

Washing his hands in the bathroom his

image looked back at him and said: “you

didn’t do that for your mother, but to

set yourself free.” His image was right

he deserved to be punished severely.

He put his ironed shirt on, looked out

of the window, calm now he knew that

spring had always giving him a miss,

and for the rest of his life he would

always see April though prison bars.

matricide

Matricide

He stood in the kitchen ironing his shirt,

suit cases packed his mother sat on her

wheelchair in the hall, he could not

afford to pay the rent, they had to leave,

but had nowhere to go.

He looked out of the window the land

was greening now, sparrows sat on

sills waited to be fed breadcrumbs, he was

filled by a pain of unbearable longings

bit his lips not to cry out loud

His mother was ailing, she often said

she wished to be dead, she had asked

god to release her now. Like a zombie

he picked up the iron went into the hall

and bashed his mother’s head in.

Washing his hands in the bathroom his

image looked back at him and said: “you

didn’t do that for your mother, but to

set yourself free.” His image was right

he deserved to be punished severely.

He put his ironed shirt on, looked out

of the window, calm now he knew that

spring had always giving him a miss,

and for the rest of his life he would

always see April though prison bars.

hearing silence

Hearing Silence

The woods are full of natural silence,

I hear bird songs and the murmur

of growing plants and an afar my dog barks.

Total silence is a ravine where all the unheard and

unsaid fall like autumnal leaf, damp dank and loveless,

dust of sorrows and layers of notes never played.

Those who fall into this abyss of silence

will never be able to survive and hear the cockerel crow

or a horse gently neighs in the meadow.

Total silence is cruel it has no vibration for

the unhearing to hear the whisper of nature that tells

of endless renewal that is spring’s true promise.

a poets leaf

A Poem’s Falling Leaf

Millions of tiny insects

Fluffy and light as dust

Fly in afternoon sunrays

Amongst olive trees

And the stillness is full

Of euphonic sounds.

assassination?

Assassination?


The country lane I walked on twisted and turned I didn’t
know what next to see after a new bend, I like it so a straight
road, one I see till it disappears into blue yonder, is scary
fear I will not reach its end. People came walking up behind
me, I stood aside and took my cap off; it was the lady, I had
seen jogging on this road, strolling along with a tall, dark man,
in his shadow she looked timid and insignificant, with a smile
glued firmly on her red lips, this gave a hint of deep sadness,
that of one who had lost the highest office in modern time.
A step or so behind them, ambled another man, with a fun sign
on his back that read:” We have suffered now it is our turn to
dish it out, kick me if you dare.” I heard the cough of a colt
forty-five, and the tall shadow fell to the ground, the fixed
smile stood motionless in the baffling glare of the midday sun,
the man, with amusing sign, had run into the bushes; smoke
spiralled from his hand, a cigar? Sky darkened, thousands of
war planes loaded with smart, cluster, bunker busting, stupid
and sweet, looking bombs for any surviving children of
the catastrophe that was about to befall their country.

th war victim

The War Victim

The death of a dashing young officer, flags on half mast
in the town he hailed from, yes it is so sad, of course,
blown up in a foreign field, so far from home, dying, not
in defence of his country, but in Afghanistan where western
nations have no business being; a political war and doomed
to utter failure. Yet, for a military man, a good way to gain
experience and promotion. On the day of the young officers
met his demise other people died, caught up in an unavoidable
situation not being able to escape and they sought no glory
and no advancement in the art of war, in bleak soil they were
buried and no minister of defence cried for them, so let us
mourn them as we grieve for the debonair, young officer.

the love of wars

The Love of Wars


For all time you have killed my children,
they know when they grow up they will
have to come slay yours; mine have lost
the ability to feel empathy. And you will
cry, as I did, tie yellow ribbons to trees,
swear vengeance and kiss your banners.
We’ll have in common our mutual hatred,
which is a bond of blood longer lasting?
than mere love.

it is in the showing

It’s in the Showing

In poetry one is not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in van Gogh nature, and I know of field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention, as a beauty
show where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know, but will ~
not tell you, by end of May it will all be gone, straws will be ~
pale and dry, shriek in pain when trod on. That is why I have
a cistern and collect every drop of water that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself, lift up the cistern lid look
down and the tiny fishes that swims there will think you are
angles. I’m their God, I have told them so, sometimes I shout
down flick a lighter, just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m not
sure if it works anymore last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water, fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish may have said: “If he’s God why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
him, we are the ones who keep the water clean. You see, I have
told you nothing only shown you a world where fledglings jump
out of their nests, to test their flying skills, and never make it back
home again.

So, Good bye..then

So, Goodbye… then

Whatever happened in life I always had a home where
they would take me in. Then, one day, it was not a home;
family members came got what they thought they needed,
and rooms where bare with pale squares on walls where
pictures had hung. My last act was to give the key to those
who were coming to paint and decorate the apartment.

When driving past, I saw new curtains, open windows
and voices of people I didn’t know, living in my home.
I sat in the car for some time unable to drive. I had lost my
childhood’s abode it had been thrown into the skip with
useless stuff, like rusty nails and childish keepsakes.
Whatever happens next, the road ahead looks loveless.

global warming

Global Warming


Gentle rain falls, in the night, on the roof tiles
keeps the cottage awake, it inhales and exhales
until the darkness in my room sways; yet less
rain falls now than before and the lake, where
the landscape dips, has long since gone.

On my night wandering I walk through a room
that used to be a stable for a mule, and when
rain falls I can smell hay and the lovely aroma
of animal that has worked the field all day and
through soft nostrils contented snorts.

The mule is still there and I have to be careful
it doesn’t know it has passed on waits to be
harnessed for a new day of work; come morning
I will let it out to graze, but if it still rains I’ll
tethered under the big carob tree.

Gentle rain one day it will be gone, the wind
will blow scour the landscape white, till it is
only fit for scorpions and snakes, the mule
and I will have to ride for days to find a place
where rain softly falls on old roof tiles.

the totality of loss

The Totality of Loss

Whatever happened in life I always had a home where
they would take me in. Then, one day, it was not a home;
family members came got what they thought they needed,
and rooms where bare with pale squares on walls where
pictures had hung. My last act was to give the key to those
who were coming to paint and decorate the apartment.
Later, when driving past, I saw new curtains, open windows
and voices of people I didn’t know living in my home.
I sat in the car for some time unable to drive. I had lost my
home and, whatever came next, nothing would ever be
the same again.

downward spiral

Downward Spiral


The leaf fell easy from the tree landed gently
on other leaves bunched a bit and came to calm
rest on a carpet of memory of summer past.
But often a leaf is torn from its tree by impetuous
storm flung far away and dumped down in streets
of despair where the light has gone and only old
people live boarded up shops and faded plastic
roses forever stand on the sill in behind grimy,
tearstained windows. And as it turns from green
to curled up brown and parched, there is no
golden age; let it be known that the song it had
was of a half remembered lullaby that hummed of
hope of love that ended in life’s inequality and
the poetry of sadness.

meeting equals

Meeting Equals


White haired, the queen skin as bee wax, she
had a honeyed smile when shaking hands with
the president and his wife; how far they have
come she had said to her husband only this
morning. The presidents, the most powerful
family in the world, wonder if the children are
aware of that, and first lady, from a street wise
lawyer, to a wife whose job was to look pretty.
There was a great glow in the air, new time
meets old time and the past was hidden behind
a smile; however there was a question rumbling
in the first lady’s mind, but she pushed it back
for now: “why, it asked, are all the white folks so
exceedingly nice to us?

Meeting Equals


White haired, the queen skin as bee wax, she
had a honeyed smile when shaking hands with
the president and his wife; how far they have
come she had said to her husband only this
morning. The presidents, the most powerful
family in the world, wonder if the children are
aware of that, and first lady, from a street wise
lawyer, to a wife whose job was to look pretty.
There was a great glow in the air, new time
meets old time and the past was hidden behind
a smile; however there was a question rumbling
in the first lady’s mind, but she pushed it back
for now: “why, it asked, are all the white folks so
exceedingly nice to us?

girl in the park

Girl in the Park


In the park I saw my dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café , it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.

girl in park

orchids

Orchids

On the narrow lane I walk a woman fair has taken
to jog, she has red fingernails, a slender bum and
her tits don’t move under her t. shirt, I’m sure it
was her who took the rare orchids that grew on
the verge. In a shop I saw orchids made of some
stuff unknown to me, they looked beautiful and
were infused with a pleasant aroma, wouldn’t you
think she could have bought one of those?

If you throw artificial flowers on a compost heap
they refuse to be mulch, hang around year after
looking new after rain but everyone knows they
are ancient and thinking you ought to rinse them
under the tap and put them in the back window sill.
The woman who runs on my lane has had a face-
lift forever she will look middle aged while we all
know she is really very old

en liter vin

En Flaske Vin

Vinen i glasset er breddfull, den minste lille forstyrrelse
og den røde væsken vil renne over, som blod fra ett
bajonett stikk i magen, og nedover en forskrekket legg.
Jeg bøyde meg for å inhalere vinen ikke en dråpe tapt og
lurte på hvorfor mere og flere nå drikker øl som ikke
lenger er natrulig brygget; er det fordi vi har fjernet oss
fra naturen og føler oss tryggere med ”man-made”
produkter? Snart vill vi ha ett kosthold som passet til det
arbeidet vi har, om du vil ha en hamburger med smelted
ost må du først være fyrbøter i tolv til femten timer.
Om du bare vill skrive ett dikt om naturen som omgir
deg den du kan se om du står på en gardintrapp, ja da er
det er det yugurt uten sukker til deg. Har du skrevet
ett dikt etter søndag steik, blir du sensurert og dømt til
enn spasertur i parken mens du forteller alle at du er
en krukke, tom av gullkorn; så dum at du vet ikke engang
hva”networking” er menes, ja det og andre banaliteter
som får folk til å kjøpe hva de ikke trenger, det der pengene
ligger og medaljer med ekeløv og slike nyttige ting.
Hva bryr jeg meg, men det irriterer meg når jeg kjøper
den samme såpen som alle andre, men jeg bør vell være
glad over en slik sammhørighet.

the loss of passion

The Loss of Passion

There is a haze over the sun, sky looks like
daylight coming down into a hole in the sooty
top of a wigwam as used by the Algonquian
speaking natives in the North eastern part of
United States. Roasted buffalo meat is tough to
chew, old Indians have no teeth, they live on
maize gruel and suckle milk from young mother’
breasts they are proud and tell no one, yet we
all know and young warriors hope the will die
bravely on the battle field rather than having to
eat maize gruel and suckle on a full juicy breast.
I’m not a warrior wear my cowardice as a shield
it protects me against the vanity of pride, beside
the milk part can’t be all that bad.

the escapee

The Escapee


When the uniformed arrested him they used “Taser “
because he didn’t stop when called to do so, but it
appeared to have done him no harm told them he had
forgiven them, an easy prisoner they thought he was
a religious nut, but there was something about him that
made them wary. They placed him in a lone cell
brought him coffee and he told his keeper he had been
away for a long time. The officer who brought him
coffee was in no doubt it was the lord savour who had
returned, he said so to and was quickly relieved of his
duty. There was an odd silence at the station that night,
the officers on duty didn’t feel like banter and making
crude they looked inwards Thinking of the meaning of
life; and in the morning when they came to take to court
he had disappeared. The case was not brought to public
attention it would make the police look ridiculous that
one of them had let the prisoner go because he thought
the man was Christ. Case forgotten it was Easter with lots
religious processions to guard and peace to keep

indemnity

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 India before the monsoon,

I’ll find the princess drive her home to Portugal in

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,

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 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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

   

 

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?

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

senryu

Senryu

God created life,
Darwin came, explained it
No big deal

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.

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

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.

epigram

Epigram

If there were absence of wars we
wouldn’t know the meaning of
peace, but go on being hostile to
each other.

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.

lament

Lament

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.