Tree Talk.
Tomorrow, Monday I will go for a long walk in
the bush landscape, so dense that if a boy gets
lost he can disappear forever.
I like Mondays weekend is restrictive walking
about in the boredom of no work, I used to milk
cows, they do not wait for Mondays.
I have many friends in facebook, they send me
picture of themselves playing guitar or football,
and I have no idea who they are.
It’s important to have many friends, something to
do with networking, but I rather have few friends
I can just talk to without preconception.
I hope for rain tomorrow I like sauntering in
the rain, the earth smells good after a good soaking
and makes the old landscape look new
Once I wanted to be a poet, an oak was a tree to
wax lyrical about; now perennials are friends
that kids me about my old passion.
Don’t overdo it I tell them, I might just find
the words which describe you so well that people
will come; chop you down to preserve you.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
4 senryu
Senryu
Stunning was sunset
But they hadn’t brought a camera
So it didn’t exist
Senryu
Beautiful horses
Cameras clicked like rainstorm
No one saw the day
Senryu
Busy taken photos
I’ll have to see what I saw
When coming home
Senryu
Barefoot on the lawn
We danced with dawn’s shy light
No photo needed.
Stunning was sunset
But they hadn’t brought a camera
So it didn’t exist
Senryu
Beautiful horses
Cameras clicked like rainstorm
No one saw the day
Senryu
Busy taken photos
I’ll have to see what I saw
When coming home
Senryu
Barefoot on the lawn
We danced with dawn’s shy light
No photo needed.
the nap
The Nap
It’s time you wake up. I have slept long dreaming.
Yes, you have been sleeping too long most of your
life has passed by and you know little of this world,
how it works, not like your talk of equality which
cannot exist other than as cosmetics the icing on
the cake called democracy.
You must wake up now I don’t want you to go to
your grave a fool who thinks animal rights is a big
deal; yet eating beef; these obsessions with rights
belong to the well off middle class who can afford to
eat expensive no meat food, and too dense to know
that if you are poor, you eat cheap burgers
Wake up sentimental dreams, do become a man
your age, your mother has died and so has your dog,
tears are misplaced in the cold light of truth, so come
now you are not a boy, life is not fake, poetry made
to make you maudlin and forgiving; I want to die
bravely like Saddam Hussein did.
Wake up now do not pretend to be asleep to avoid
the final truth which is what you long have know
to be true, your mother knew that and on her death
bed refused to play the conventional game of tearful
farewells they thought she was cold, but she had
nothing to regret, she lived life her way, so you can do.
No, no. no for you who read this I want a beautiful
death with candlelight on my side, not for me
the truth of sobriety, what so wrong with a little show
flowers and moist eyes. a mahogany coffin is much
classier that one made of cardboard, style, means
a lot to me, I was never an emotionally sober man.
It’s time you wake up. I have slept long dreaming.
Yes, you have been sleeping too long most of your
life has passed by and you know little of this world,
how it works, not like your talk of equality which
cannot exist other than as cosmetics the icing on
the cake called democracy.
You must wake up now I don’t want you to go to
your grave a fool who thinks animal rights is a big
deal; yet eating beef; these obsessions with rights
belong to the well off middle class who can afford to
eat expensive no meat food, and too dense to know
that if you are poor, you eat cheap burgers
Wake up sentimental dreams, do become a man
your age, your mother has died and so has your dog,
tears are misplaced in the cold light of truth, so come
now you are not a boy, life is not fake, poetry made
to make you maudlin and forgiving; I want to die
bravely like Saddam Hussein did.
Wake up now do not pretend to be asleep to avoid
the final truth which is what you long have know
to be true, your mother knew that and on her death
bed refused to play the conventional game of tearful
farewells they thought she was cold, but she had
nothing to regret, she lived life her way, so you can do.
No, no. no for you who read this I want a beautiful
death with candlelight on my side, not for me
the truth of sobriety, what so wrong with a little show
flowers and moist eyes. a mahogany coffin is much
classier that one made of cardboard, style, means
a lot to me, I was never an emotionally sober man.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
peaceful beginning?
Peaceful Beginnings
On an island on a big ocean generals walk about
and think they have killed a dream and they call
sullen silence peace. The vanquished will go on
dreaming till they get what they want, perhaps by
then their vision has become a suffocating dream.
Nearer home, in the Middle East, the mighty are
trying to kill a dream by bulldozing it, they too
had a vision and should know that dreams cannot
be eradicated. Now they want power, and call it
peace; but there are those who call it a nightmare.
Of course in the immeasurable future there will
be colossal amounts of peace, the sun will cross
the heavens and the world will heal in silence; till,
on the strand of pristine sand, the sky and sea give
birth to an odd creature and a scream is heard.
On an island on a big ocean generals walk about
and think they have killed a dream and they call
sullen silence peace. The vanquished will go on
dreaming till they get what they want, perhaps by
then their vision has become a suffocating dream.
Nearer home, in the Middle East, the mighty are
trying to kill a dream by bulldozing it, they too
had a vision and should know that dreams cannot
be eradicated. Now they want power, and call it
peace; but there are those who call it a nightmare.
Of course in the immeasurable future there will
be colossal amounts of peace, the sun will cross
the heavens and the world will heal in silence; till,
on the strand of pristine sand, the sky and sea give
birth to an odd creature and a scream is heard.
the peacemaker
The Peacemaker
The animal stood in the corner of the room chewing on
a bail of straw, dung on the floor; a woman, with a bucket,
came and collected it for the rose bushes. We know Israel
has nuclear weapons, but unless we are drunk and in bad
mood we are too polite to mention it; so I left the senate.
Stood on a bridge, threw tiny rocks into the river, a yacht
passed, and her navigator was hit; collapsed, but got back
on his feet again and waved to me with his fist
The Israeli army had blocked the entrance to the bridge and
Hamas, dressed in stylish black and silk scarves, the exit,
I didn’t know how to end this poem so I invented the phone,
it rang, Obama, he didn’t know either, I held up the phone
so both parties could hear his voice and they backed off long
enough for me to get away home to my thistle valley, where
eagles fly, sheep bleat, and no one pays attention to biblical
prophesies and self igniting bushes.
The animal stood in the corner of the room chewing on
a bail of straw, dung on the floor; a woman, with a bucket,
came and collected it for the rose bushes. We know Israel
has nuclear weapons, but unless we are drunk and in bad
mood we are too polite to mention it; so I left the senate.
Stood on a bridge, threw tiny rocks into the river, a yacht
passed, and her navigator was hit; collapsed, but got back
on his feet again and waved to me with his fist
The Israeli army had blocked the entrance to the bridge and
Hamas, dressed in stylish black and silk scarves, the exit,
I didn’t know how to end this poem so I invented the phone,
it rang, Obama, he didn’t know either, I held up the phone
so both parties could hear his voice and they backed off long
enough for me to get away home to my thistle valley, where
eagles fly, sheep bleat, and no one pays attention to biblical
prophesies and self igniting bushes.
cylindrical mirrors
Cylindrical Mirrors
Crossing the raven waters of a deep fiord
he saw a light and fell into a dream, woke
up on a strand that had bleached sand, sun
and turquoise sea, knew he had been given
a second chance.
He looked in the mirror had not aged at
all and wondered if there was a painting
hidden in some dusty attic, he smiled just
kidding, but his image didn’t smile there
was too much to remember.
Last year he went back to the small town
where the fiord arm ends in five rivers,
people there had never heard of him, it was
so long ago, no memory of him existed in
anyone’s mind, as he had never existed.
The future had arrived yesterday, nothing
for him to worry about, as clear, warm light
cascaded through the window; he lived in
a handcrafted kaleidoscope, an optical toy,
yet he was free of false illusions.
Crossing the raven waters of a deep fiord
he saw a light and fell into a dream, woke
up on a strand that had bleached sand, sun
and turquoise sea, knew he had been given
a second chance.
He looked in the mirror had not aged at
all and wondered if there was a painting
hidden in some dusty attic, he smiled just
kidding, but his image didn’t smile there
was too much to remember.
Last year he went back to the small town
where the fiord arm ends in five rivers,
people there had never heard of him, it was
so long ago, no memory of him existed in
anyone’s mind, as he had never existed.
The future had arrived yesterday, nothing
for him to worry about, as clear, warm light
cascaded through the window; he lived in
a handcrafted kaleidoscope, an optical toy,
yet he was free of false illusions.
song contest
Eurovision Song Contest
The young man Rybak, he used to be- perhaps
still is, - one of Santa’s little helpers, has made
Norway proud winning The Song Contest.
After years of walking on the unfriendly plateau
of null points, good to come in from the cold
hear applause, hearty laughter instead of derision.
Nationalistic steel in every Norwegian eye, we
can walk tall again under our banner that snaps
so rude, amongst bluebells, on days of May.
So let’s march behind Santa’s lad to the top of
the mountain white, and poke his eye, the boy
who won, for Norway, Europe’s great admiration.
The young man Rybak, he used to be- perhaps
still is, - one of Santa’s little helpers, has made
Norway proud winning The Song Contest.
After years of walking on the unfriendly plateau
of null points, good to come in from the cold
hear applause, hearty laughter instead of derision.
Nationalistic steel in every Norwegian eye, we
can walk tall again under our banner that snaps
so rude, amongst bluebells, on days of May.
So let’s march behind Santa’s lad to the top of
the mountain white, and poke his eye, the boy
who won, for Norway, Europe’s great admiration.
man tree
Man & Tree.
There was a spruce tree in the forest, he had
watched it grow from spindly sampling to
a handsome young tree, and thought of it as
the son he never had.
But shortly before Christmas it disappeared
he went to the market in town where they sold
hundreds of trees for those who want the real
thing, but couldn’t find it there.
After the festivities he found his tree on a dump,
green needles gone, now it was brown, he took
the dead plant home and used as kindling to lit
the fire on cold, soggy days.
There was a spruce tree in the forest, he had
watched it grow from spindly sampling to
a handsome young tree, and thought of it as
the son he never had.
But shortly before Christmas it disappeared
he went to the market in town where they sold
hundreds of trees for those who want the real
thing, but couldn’t find it there.
After the festivities he found his tree on a dump,
green needles gone, now it was brown, he took
the dead plant home and used as kindling to lit
the fire on cold, soggy days.
senryu
Senryu
Give me a free beer
You fiddler of drink optics
Petty is your greed
Tanka (Bilderberg)
Bilderberg meeting
Where the strong and unelected
Decide our future
Away from democratic tussle
And time wasting elections
Give me a free beer
You fiddler of drink optics
Petty is your greed
Tanka (Bilderberg)
Bilderberg meeting
Where the strong and unelected
Decide our future
Away from democratic tussle
And time wasting elections
Friday, May 15, 2009
senryu
Senryu
As the night thickens
And darkness tranquilises life
Dawn is welcomed.
Senryu
Banality of greed
To shop for the sake of buying
Not for what you need
Senryu
Fear not the dead
They are only a copy
Of your future self
Senryu
Those who work long hours
Feel holly and virtuous
But get arthritis
As the night thickens
And darkness tranquilises life
Dawn is welcomed.
Senryu
Banality of greed
To shop for the sake of buying
Not for what you need
Senryu
Fear not the dead
They are only a copy
Of your future self
Senryu
Those who work long hours
Feel holly and virtuous
But get arthritis
from teheran with love
From Teheran with Love.
Side by side the beaus stood, hooded and
silent, they no longer heard charivari chants as
prayers on pale, shivering lips abruptly ended.
They had been warned, their love was banned
by the law of the land and by straight people’s
norm, and now forsaken even by their families.
They had tried to conform, but their bond was
too strong. Two Iranian men twist in the wind,
will their mothers, when alone, pray for them?
Side by side the beaus stood, hooded and
silent, they no longer heard charivari chants as
prayers on pale, shivering lips abruptly ended.
They had been warned, their love was banned
by the law of the land and by straight people’s
norm, and now forsaken even by their families.
They had tried to conform, but their bond was
too strong. Two Iranian men twist in the wind,
will their mothers, when alone, pray for them?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
sit by the river
Sit By the River
The dripping tap, ticking clock, the long nights
when unwanted memories surface on gloomy
waters, and my past creeps nearer and future
hides in a Saragossa mist, together they push
me nearer a non existence. Sad morning light,
rain falls like an old man’s tears when all ships
have sailed and he is stranded on the island he
shares with snakes and scorpions knowing they
will soon eat him. Driftwood in the sea of life,
I never was a master of my destiny, but I can do
a last brave thing, walk into the Savannah night
and eaten by lions or, with my luck, wolfed by
hooting hyenas, so I will stay where I’m, my
last act of cowardice, sit by the river and wait.
The dripping tap, ticking clock, the long nights
when unwanted memories surface on gloomy
waters, and my past creeps nearer and future
hides in a Saragossa mist, together they push
me nearer a non existence. Sad morning light,
rain falls like an old man’s tears when all ships
have sailed and he is stranded on the island he
shares with snakes and scorpions knowing they
will soon eat him. Driftwood in the sea of life,
I never was a master of my destiny, but I can do
a last brave thing, walk into the Savannah night
and eaten by lions or, with my luck, wolfed by
hooting hyenas, so I will stay where I’m, my
last act of cowardice, sit by the river and wait.
guardian angel
Guardian Angel?
During the night the temperature fell, ice everywhere
I was in a polar kaleidoscope of glittering frost crystals.
Under duvet and blankets I shivered uncontrollably,
then the arctic cold left, as quickly as it had come, and
I fell into an exhausted slumber dreamt I was holding
on to a gentle hand felt a surge of strength seeping in
to my body. Feebly, I gave into this sweet illusion and
beautifully slept. Woke up, when dawn’s light came
through window shutters, and saw an angel leave my
bedside. Scornfully said to myself:” Stop these childish
fantasies you are a man now and have better things to do”
During the night the temperature fell, ice everywhere
I was in a polar kaleidoscope of glittering frost crystals.
Under duvet and blankets I shivered uncontrollably,
then the arctic cold left, as quickly as it had come, and
I fell into an exhausted slumber dreamt I was holding
on to a gentle hand felt a surge of strength seeping in
to my body. Feebly, I gave into this sweet illusion and
beautifully slept. Woke up, when dawn’s light came
through window shutters, and saw an angel leave my
bedside. Scornfully said to myself:” Stop these childish
fantasies you are a man now and have better things to do”
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
blowing in the wind
Blowing in the Wind
Wild oats and thistles covered the track swiping
at my legs as a punishment for old sins I thought
safely forgotten in the misty dale that makes
wars look romantic adventure that separated men
from boys where the trespasses are buried under
flowers and manly never referred to unless you
are a soppy fool who betrays old soldiers secrets.
The cottage was still there but trees around it had
grown so big it could not be seen from the road.
the door was easy to open the window had layers
of spiders’ webs as curtains made the room shady
in the noon heat. In the intense silence the past
came thundering alive, so many grave not visited
and tears of those betrayed ran down my chin,
a lake of clarity, a mirror I couldn’t run away from
I punched the stone wall, bloody knuckles, I had
Spilt much blood but never my own I savoured
the pain, stood on an ancient table throw a rope
over a beam, when my dog barked wanted to come
in from the heat…At ease now I walked back to
the road and drove home.
Wild oats and thistles covered the track swiping
at my legs as a punishment for old sins I thought
safely forgotten in the misty dale that makes
wars look romantic adventure that separated men
from boys where the trespasses are buried under
flowers and manly never referred to unless you
are a soppy fool who betrays old soldiers secrets.
The cottage was still there but trees around it had
grown so big it could not be seen from the road.
the door was easy to open the window had layers
of spiders’ webs as curtains made the room shady
in the noon heat. In the intense silence the past
came thundering alive, so many grave not visited
and tears of those betrayed ran down my chin,
a lake of clarity, a mirror I couldn’t run away from
I punched the stone wall, bloody knuckles, I had
Spilt much blood but never my own I savoured
the pain, stood on an ancient table throw a rope
over a beam, when my dog barked wanted to come
in from the heat…At ease now I walked back to
the road and drove home.
argetntinean sojourn
My Argentinean Sojourn
I left my ship in Buenos Aires wanted to buy a horse
cross the pampas climb the Andes, into Chile, I had
paid for the horse and took a picture of it too when
a revolt came a junta of generals had taken it upon
themselves to save the country, and since I was not
one of them I was sent packing back to Europe.
Forty years ago now, bet the horse is gone, or some
bits of it can be found in old tins of dog food; still got
the picture though, it’s faded but shows I could have
been an adventurer if it hadn’t been for the officers
hell bent on playing with their many toys and saving
the myth of endless parades, military bands and flags.
I left my ship in Buenos Aires wanted to buy a horse
cross the pampas climb the Andes, into Chile, I had
paid for the horse and took a picture of it too when
a revolt came a junta of generals had taken it upon
themselves to save the country, and since I was not
one of them I was sent packing back to Europe.
Forty years ago now, bet the horse is gone, or some
bits of it can be found in old tins of dog food; still got
the picture though, it’s faded but shows I could have
been an adventurer if it hadn’t been for the officers
hell bent on playing with their many toys and saving
the myth of endless parades, military bands and flags.
august mystic
August Mystic
Sunlight flooded through the open window
it filled every room till I swam in light and
had to seek refuge in a troll’s shady tavern.
Towards evening the light surged back to
the horizon, left my landscape to gasp alone
in a night that had eradicated tall mountains;
till moon pushed aside clouds and bathed
skeletal trees and dead flowers in layers of
silver that dripped and became shiny lakes.
Sunlight flooded through the open window
it filled every room till I swam in light and
had to seek refuge in a troll’s shady tavern.
Towards evening the light surged back to
the horizon, left my landscape to gasp alone
in a night that had eradicated tall mountains;
till moon pushed aside clouds and bathed
skeletal trees and dead flowers in layers of
silver that dripped and became shiny lakes.
august mystic
August Mystic
Sunlight flooded through the open window
it filled every room till I swam in light and
had to seek refuge in a troll’s shady tavern.
Towards evening the light surged back to
the horizon, left my landscape to gasp alone
in a night that had eradicated tall mountains;
till moon pushed aside clouds and bathed
skeletal trees and dead flowers in layers of
silver that dripped and became shiny lakes.
Sunlight flooded through the open window
it filled every room till I swam in light and
had to seek refuge in a troll’s shady tavern.
Towards evening the light surged back to
the horizon, left my landscape to gasp alone
in a night that had eradicated tall mountains;
till moon pushed aside clouds and bathed
skeletal trees and dead flowers in layers of
silver that dripped and became shiny lakes.
Monday, May 11, 2009
old lovers
Old Lovers
If I tell you I love you I do so of self interest
but being with you is better than being alone
so I tell you lies every day and I see your
smile, which warms my heart and I think how
lucky I’m to have found you.
I know very well that had I told you the prosaic
truth you would have been so disappointed and
I hate to see you cry, because you’re the only one
I have met who do not tell me how to behave,
what suit to wear, and I adore you for that.
I know you like to go dancing dressing up and
all those things, and I go with to art places and
pretend to like what I see, but I’m watching you
because you look so lovely when talking about
these things and know I’m a lucky man
Here, the other day you told me we have been
together for fifty years and asked for flowers
but I laughed because time could not run that
fast, I pride myself to have a keen eye and you
look as sweet as on the day I first met you.
If I tell you I love you I do so of self interest
but being with you is better than being alone
so I tell you lies every day and I see your
smile, which warms my heart and I think how
lucky I’m to have found you.
I know very well that had I told you the prosaic
truth you would have been so disappointed and
I hate to see you cry, because you’re the only one
I have met who do not tell me how to behave,
what suit to wear, and I adore you for that.
I know you like to go dancing dressing up and
all those things, and I go with to art places and
pretend to like what I see, but I’m watching you
because you look so lovely when talking about
these things and know I’m a lucky man
Here, the other day you told me we have been
together for fifty years and asked for flowers
but I laughed because time could not run that
fast, I pride myself to have a keen eye and you
look as sweet as on the day I first met you.
observed when buying onions
Observed when buying Onions
The massive grey cloud on the sky looked like a tiger shark,
open jaw ready to strike it had one shiny eye, and tore off
a piece of heaven’s floor. I saw shocked angels running about
one lost his harp; it fell like a comet down to earth, and landed
with a thunder on the frozen wasteland of Siberia.
The shark had tried to eat more then it could possible swallow,
it fragmented with a limp bang and fell to ground as lumps of
rain. When I looked up again the hole on heaven’s floor, had
been filled in with fluffy clouds, but the angels evening choir
had to do without the harp’s sweet and lyrical tunes.
The massive grey cloud on the sky looked like a tiger shark,
open jaw ready to strike it had one shiny eye, and tore off
a piece of heaven’s floor. I saw shocked angels running about
one lost his harp; it fell like a comet down to earth, and landed
with a thunder on the frozen wasteland of Siberia.
The shark had tried to eat more then it could possible swallow,
it fragmented with a limp bang and fell to ground as lumps of
rain. When I looked up again the hole on heaven’s floor, had
been filled in with fluffy clouds, but the angels evening choir
had to do without the harp’s sweet and lyrical tunes.
the drumbeat of war
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer. a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer. a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
...and sweet was my love
….And Sweet was My Love
I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.
A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.
I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.
We awoke early I took her down to the railway
station so she could use its facilities, we also
breakfasted there, in silence, I had realised how
poor I was, she was shocked and wanted to go
home, and thus, forlornly a love affair ended.
.
I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.
A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.
I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.
We awoke early I took her down to the railway
station so she could use its facilities, we also
breakfasted there, in silence, I had realised how
poor I was, she was shocked and wanted to go
home, and thus, forlornly a love affair ended.
.
Friday, May 08, 2009
the odium
The Odium
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collections were, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collections were, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
road works
Road Works
The loose pebbles off the road I picked
were cold and unwilling, but as they
warmed in my palm they thawed and
when I opened my hand they were sand
of time and told a story of a future strand
washed by swells of seas not yet born.
Life lines in my hands are mere blinks
when measured by cosmic seconds, yet
worriedly I asked: “shall I not be there
and witness a birth?” This silence, so
telling , is free of sentimentality, but it
whispered about blameless eternalness.
The loose pebbles off the road I picked
were cold and unwilling, but as they
warmed in my palm they thawed and
when I opened my hand they were sand
of time and told a story of a future strand
washed by swells of seas not yet born.
Life lines in my hands are mere blinks
when measured by cosmic seconds, yet
worriedly I asked: “shall I not be there
and witness a birth?” This silence, so
telling , is free of sentimentality, but it
whispered about blameless eternalness.
winter of discontent
Winter of Discontent
It was a bitterly cold time, 1949, coal was dear we had to
let the fire die out at night, killer frost lurked everywhere.
The harbour froze over and in the morning frost smoke
filled the town like a ghost seeking deadly vengeance.
In the morning there was partly dried blood on the knee
of my long underwear, mother said I had to wear them to
school as she didn’t have a spare once; my whole being
shock in repulsion. At school I took them off threw them
away…and it was unbearable cold without them on.
Mother scolded me for throwing good underwear away,
just for a drop of blood. I insisted on sleeping on the floor,
in the morning I had fever, doctor came, pneumonia; and
I was sent to hospital. When mother visited, she tried to
kiss me but I turned my face away, she looked hurt, but at
that moment I hated her for what she had done. When I came
back from hospital, the frost had eased and given way to
a shy spring, but I insisted on sleeping on the floor. I never
kissed mother again except when she lie dying, but when
I bent down to kiss her, on the forehead, she turned away
It was a bitterly cold time, 1949, coal was dear we had to
let the fire die out at night, killer frost lurked everywhere.
The harbour froze over and in the morning frost smoke
filled the town like a ghost seeking deadly vengeance.
In the morning there was partly dried blood on the knee
of my long underwear, mother said I had to wear them to
school as she didn’t have a spare once; my whole being
shock in repulsion. At school I took them off threw them
away…and it was unbearable cold without them on.
Mother scolded me for throwing good underwear away,
just for a drop of blood. I insisted on sleeping on the floor,
in the morning I had fever, doctor came, pneumonia; and
I was sent to hospital. When mother visited, she tried to
kiss me but I turned my face away, she looked hurt, but at
that moment I hated her for what she had done. When I came
back from hospital, the frost had eased and given way to
a shy spring, but I insisted on sleeping on the floor. I never
kissed mother again except when she lie dying, but when
I bent down to kiss her, on the forehead, she turned away
chair person
The Chair Person.
The woman, who was chairing the meeting, wore a flowering
dress of an expensive material, she wore much gold and with
her tan she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge, too red
and octopus greedy and her fingers, when resting on the table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, blood still dripping and
when lesser charges shared it looked as she mentally hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something insincere about her, maybe she didn’t
have problem, but this was the only place people tolerated her.
Beautiful summer evening windows open, I heard bird song,
sun was setting into an azure sea. at home I had a cold bottle
of white wine waiting. Must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room, I looked up the woman was glaring at me
waiting for me to share something, I looked up to the roof and
counted the beams and thus the meeting ended
The woman, who was chairing the meeting, wore a flowering
dress of an expensive material, she wore much gold and with
her tan she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge, too red
and octopus greedy and her fingers, when resting on the table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, blood still dripping and
when lesser charges shared it looked as she mentally hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something insincere about her, maybe she didn’t
have problem, but this was the only place people tolerated her.
Beautiful summer evening windows open, I heard bird song,
sun was setting into an azure sea. at home I had a cold bottle
of white wine waiting. Must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room, I looked up the woman was glaring at me
waiting for me to share something, I looked up to the roof and
counted the beams and thus the meeting ended
the ancient profession
The Ancient Profession
Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.
Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.
pandemi and paintor
A Painter and the Pandemic
An old lady in our village died last night… flu,
but since it was not the swine variety no one took
notice, the world press will not come here, we’ll
not see our houses on the TV. There are many
disappointments, Amazon floods, many dead, alas,
not from The Flu, survivors can sit on mud banks
without face masks, and wait for all we care.
Gauguin cut Van Gogh’s ear off, at a whore house,
then he went off to Hawaii painted native girls with
big bosoms and flowers behind well formed ears.
Now we know why. A pity none of the women who
worked there, didn’t write down their memoirs, so
a relative could proudly announce that my great, great,
great grandmother knew them both.
An old lady in our village died last night… flu,
but since it was not the swine variety no one took
notice, the world press will not come here, we’ll
not see our houses on the TV. There are many
disappointments, Amazon floods, many dead, alas,
not from The Flu, survivors can sit on mud banks
without face masks, and wait for all we care.
Gauguin cut Van Gogh’s ear off, at a whore house,
then he went off to Hawaii painted native girls with
big bosoms and flowers behind well formed ears.
Now we know why. A pity none of the women who
worked there, didn’t write down their memoirs, so
a relative could proudly announce that my great, great,
great grandmother knew them both.
angst
Angst on the High Seas.
I used to wake up at four, just to savour the two hours before
I had to open the cabin door and go down to the galley and
speak to people I didn’t like, make coffee and prepare breakfast.
Then a ten minutes break resting in my cabin, back down and
hearing the crews, inanities while making dinner, knowing that
between 13-15 hours, I would be safe from them in my cabin.
Two days more and the ship would dock in New York, I knew
of a club, uptown, where sailors didn’t dare to go; there I could
spend all night listening to Ella, dream and not have to speak
anyone and gathered strength to endure weeks in company of
gossiping small town Norwegian seamen, as my ship sailed
through the Panama Canal and to the beautiful Pacific Ocean.
I used to wake up at four, just to savour the two hours before
I had to open the cabin door and go down to the galley and
speak to people I didn’t like, make coffee and prepare breakfast.
Then a ten minutes break resting in my cabin, back down and
hearing the crews, inanities while making dinner, knowing that
between 13-15 hours, I would be safe from them in my cabin.
Two days more and the ship would dock in New York, I knew
of a club, uptown, where sailors didn’t dare to go; there I could
spend all night listening to Ella, dream and not have to speak
anyone and gathered strength to endure weeks in company of
gossiping small town Norwegian seamen, as my ship sailed
through the Panama Canal and to the beautiful Pacific Ocean.
the suitor
The Suitor
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five and milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five and milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
bird watching
Bird Watching
Two sparrows, on roof of my car, noisily chirped, five
more sparrows came, chirped too and showed no debate
culture, and then they flew off and left the couple to it.
One of them, I think he was the male, flew off and left
her alone, but not for long, he chirped more left again;
did this three times, finally she, I think it was a she, flew
off with him, but looking resigned. A drama had passed,
that I had seen and judged with limited understanding.
Bird dropping on the roof of the car, but think I had
witnessed a family drama, good as any seen on TV, and
as afternoon dramas must, had ended blissfully.
Two sparrows, on roof of my car, noisily chirped, five
more sparrows came, chirped too and showed no debate
culture, and then they flew off and left the couple to it.
One of them, I think he was the male, flew off and left
her alone, but not for long, he chirped more left again;
did this three times, finally she, I think it was a she, flew
off with him, but looking resigned. A drama had passed,
that I had seen and judged with limited understanding.
Bird dropping on the roof of the car, but think I had
witnessed a family drama, good as any seen on TV, and
as afternoon dramas must, had ended blissfully.
the scream
The Scream.
The new and young couple next door, for whom
all car adverts are made, came home late last night,
high voiced and full of spirit. Later on I heard her
cry out loud and thought: “wine, a man who slaps
his wife around when drunk.”
Next day I saw her in their cute little garden, she
wore the right outfit to prune roses, she smiled
called her hubby darling, it was then I remembered
that the cry, in the spasm of love, sound jarringly
like someone in throes of pain.
The new and young couple next door, for whom
all car adverts are made, came home late last night,
high voiced and full of spirit. Later on I heard her
cry out loud and thought: “wine, a man who slaps
his wife around when drunk.”
Next day I saw her in their cute little garden, she
wore the right outfit to prune roses, she smiled
called her hubby darling, it was then I remembered
that the cry, in the spasm of love, sound jarringly
like someone in throes of pain.
mandrake
Mandrake.
If you have what you need, food to eat and roof
over your head, the rest is frills and rude greed.
So now we hate bankers they offered us a dream,
endless credit never ending prosperity; they had
dream also to be the sages of their time, silk suited
men who had an answer to everything, of course,
they also wanted to be a little richer than you.
No one expect wisdom and cryptic words about
the economy, falling from bankers pale lips, but
wait, they have not gone away, easy credit will be
back and you can buy that ten bedroom room villa
we don’t need. Once again we’ll listen to bankers,
yes, you and I; just like them we have big dreams
and will go on believing in fairytales.
If you have what you need, food to eat and roof
over your head, the rest is frills and rude greed.
So now we hate bankers they offered us a dream,
endless credit never ending prosperity; they had
dream also to be the sages of their time, silk suited
men who had an answer to everything, of course,
they also wanted to be a little richer than you.
No one expect wisdom and cryptic words about
the economy, falling from bankers pale lips, but
wait, they have not gone away, easy credit will be
back and you can buy that ten bedroom room villa
we don’t need. Once again we’ll listen to bankers,
yes, you and I; just like them we have big dreams
and will go on believing in fairytales.
the flick
The Flick
The blond girl had turned her back to the beach
head in hand her guitar flung aside, I think she
was crying. A man walked his dog another one
jogged, birds in V shape flew towards the eye of
the twilight; and no scientist saw the weeping girl.
Night, on a strand of sand that faced the mighty
Pacific Ocean I so often had crossed on my way
to the land of the setting sun. A girl alone and me
on a beach of forget us not, I walked over to tell
her go home; the girl was a heap of golden sand,
her fine guitar was flotsam of a blue fishing boat
and her bikini a tattered plastic shopping bag.
The blond girl had turned her back to the beach
head in hand her guitar flung aside, I think she
was crying. A man walked his dog another one
jogged, birds in V shape flew towards the eye of
the twilight; and no scientist saw the weeping girl.
Night, on a strand of sand that faced the mighty
Pacific Ocean I so often had crossed on my way
to the land of the setting sun. A girl alone and me
on a beach of forget us not, I walked over to tell
her go home; the girl was a heap of golden sand,
her fine guitar was flotsam of a blue fishing boat
and her bikini a tattered plastic shopping bag.
the legend
The Legend
They are everywhere now, streets are full
of them, in cars looking out sniffing the air,
on the beach, in boats, splashing in lakes,
rivers, ornate ponds and swimming pools.
A dying breed, the Portuguese water dog;
then Obama came to the recue. Will he be
remembered, have his bronze statue erected
in every Iberian town square, for this?
They are everywhere now, streets are full
of them, in cars looking out sniffing the air,
on the beach, in boats, splashing in lakes,
rivers, ornate ponds and swimming pools.
A dying breed, the Portuguese water dog;
then Obama came to the recue. Will he be
remembered, have his bronze statue erected
in every Iberian town square, for this?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
and sweet was my love
….And Sweet was My Love
I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.
A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.
I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.
We awoke early I took her town to the railway
station so she could use its facilities, we also
breakfasted there, in silence, I had realised how
poor I was, she was shocked and wanted to go
home, and thus, forlornly a love affair ended.
.
I had met her in the town where I went to school,
about an hour train ride from my town. She was
very sweet and I had met her parents they lived in
a big house that had a bathroom, a novelty for me,
mind I used the public baths near my home.
A Saturday she came to visit my mother, who
didn’t say much, it was like she was feeling shy,
and didn’t offer us anything to eat, my girlfriend
and I went to the movie and when we came back
mother had gone to bed and left us to it.
I had to tell my girl that the sofa we sat on, was
my bed and that I used a sleeping bag; however
we had a spare woolly blanket, I put it over us
to keep warm. Side by side, if not by Sondheim,
we cuddled and fell youthfully asleep.
We awoke early I took her town to the railway
station so she could use its facilities, we also
breakfasted there, in silence, I had realised how
poor I was, she was shocked and wanted to go
home, and thus, forlornly a love affair ended.
.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
the Asidic sea
The Acidic Sea
All those nice villas along the coast are empty safe for stray cats
and those too poor to live inlands, because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out
too much acidity caused by industrial man, and now it is too late
to clean up the mess. Fish in tanks are guarded well and so dear
that only the very rich can afford to eat, say, bacalao; we have to
eat fishcakes that consists of ninety eight percent mashed potatoes,
the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure all medicine, it’s very
expensive and only the well off can afford to buy it, and they,
the rich live years longer than the poor. This has raised concern
and social unrest, politicians on the left, insist the poor too has
the right to be given a teaspoon full every morning; mind there is
synthetic cod liver oil on the market, but it tastes awful. Seagulls
and terns have adopted well have earth hued feathers, sit in carob
trees, sharp eyed keep and eye for scarps of food and scare tiny
tots with their inane pirate shrieks. From safe distant, when wind
is calm, and on romantic, moonlit nights, the sea looks as beautiful
as described by marine biologists in fairytale books.
All those nice villas along the coast are empty safe for stray cats
and those too poor to live inlands, because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out
too much acidity caused by industrial man, and now it is too late
to clean up the mess. Fish in tanks are guarded well and so dear
that only the very rich can afford to eat, say, bacalao; we have to
eat fishcakes that consists of ninety eight percent mashed potatoes,
the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure all medicine, it’s very
expensive and only the well off can afford to buy it, and they,
the rich live years longer than the poor. This has raised concern
and social unrest, politicians on the left, insist the poor too has
the right to be given a teaspoon full every morning; mind there is
synthetic cod liver oil on the market, but it tastes awful. Seagulls
and terns have adopted well have earth hued feathers, sit in carob
trees, sharp eyed keep and eye for scarps of food and scare tiny
tots with their inane pirate shrieks. From safe distant, when wind
is calm, and on romantic, moonlit nights, the sea looks as beautiful
as described by marine biologists in fairytale books.
vanishing future
The Vanishing Future
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.
killing field
Killing Field .
The mass grave of ivory hued sandstones,
each one of the same size and just the thing
as headstones, has been filled in.
Chocolate brown soil covers them and that’s
a pity, not touched by a stonemason’s hand
they will forever be nameless and lack soul.
Grass and weed will cover the soil sheep
will graze rabbits frolic, as the shepherd
smokes a cigarette and look at the blue sky.
The mass grave of ivory hued sandstones,
each one of the same size and just the thing
as headstones, has been filled in.
Chocolate brown soil covers them and that’s
a pity, not touched by a stonemason’s hand
they will forever be nameless and lack soul.
Grass and weed will cover the soil sheep
will graze rabbits frolic, as the shepherd
smokes a cigarette and look at the blue sky.
Monday, April 27, 2009
no love for Jonny
No Love For Jonny?
Was doing the dishes when I felt an odd rousing
below the belt, thought of calling my girlfriend,
haven’t seen her for ages, but she probably would
want dinner, with wine, before succumbing to my
charms, and by then I would be drunk and tired;
so just forget it. Dried the dishes and staked them
neatly, I’m you, see housetrained and divorced,
went into the bathroom and shared my vanishing
ardour with the pink, blasé bathroom sink.
Was doing the dishes when I felt an odd rousing
below the belt, thought of calling my girlfriend,
haven’t seen her for ages, but she probably would
want dinner, with wine, before succumbing to my
charms, and by then I would be drunk and tired;
so just forget it. Dried the dishes and staked them
neatly, I’m you, see housetrained and divorced,
went into the bathroom and shared my vanishing
ardour with the pink, blasé bathroom sink.
Friday, April 24, 2009
...and it was Her Summer
…And It Was Her Summer
“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to se me.
“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to se me.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 13, 2009
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.
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?
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?
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?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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