Mr. Nice Guy
Saw her stacking shelves at the supermarket, my instinct
was to take her in my arms, away from all this, and ask
her marry me. But I remembered we had been married
before, how she had wanted a divorce because I had no
ambition, a mere short order cook, and how the court
secretly had sided with her, and treated me with dislike,
and yes, I had to leave out flat. Later she married a man
who sold Mercedes cars, he wore a suit to work and had
shiny fingernails, but he used too much au de cologne of
the type who doesn’t bath often and rarely changes his
underwear. He stole money from a the till and ended up
in prison, and me? I’m a manager now of a burger bar,
perhaps I should offer her a job for all time sake?
No, that would be rubbing it in, so let her stack shelves.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
haiku
Haiku
Sunset
Empty asphalt road
Black mamba
Haiku
Lyrical silence
In our domestic landscape
Rabbits don’t cry.
Haiku (after a painting)
Brown city puddle
Mirrors an abject Sunday sky
Stray dog sees itself
Sunset
Empty asphalt road
Black mamba
Haiku
Lyrical silence
In our domestic landscape
Rabbits don’t cry.
Haiku (after a painting)
Brown city puddle
Mirrors an abject Sunday sky
Stray dog sees itself
too late
Too Late For Love
Knock on my door, she stood there, the woman
who had caused me untold sorrow, to tell me of
her love for me.
After all this years, lone night and despair, now
that love is a tiresome cliché, how pathetic she
looked in her red raincoat.
I closed the door, walked into my enchanted
garden, where yesterday appears in soft focus,
and played Sibelius for my pet rabbits.
Knock on my door, she stood there, the woman
who had caused me untold sorrow, to tell me of
her love for me.
After all this years, lone night and despair, now
that love is a tiresome cliché, how pathetic she
looked in her red raincoat.
I closed the door, walked into my enchanted
garden, where yesterday appears in soft focus,
and played Sibelius for my pet rabbits.
poet laureate
Poet Laureate
I’m back on a trail I used to walk thirty years ago,
now I use a cane and have no dog to keep me company.
The trail is still used by sheep, droppings on ground and
wool on bushes, and I’m not a pathfinder. So Ann Duffy is
a poet laureate, and she also has a living room full of pillows,
I read; I sent her a poem once, so now I can boast that
I have been rejected by a poet laureate.
Thirty years of refutations, and now I’m as old as
the great, still living Irish poet, I ought to be more
humble and take up golf, tried it once it was so boring
that I undressed, it was a hot day, and I swam in a lake
near hole nine and was banned for life, which was
meaningless since I wasn’t a member, too expensive,
but had climbed over a fence to get in.
A tiny rabbit on the track, it looks confused I pick it
up it is incredible beautiful, can’t take it home though,
put it under a bush and hope it finds its own lair.
I look up to the sky the noon sun is glaring at me
as poetic carrions circle low looking for a chair, in
the academic glade, to sit on. Time for lunch so I leave
this thorny landscape to its own lyrical silence.
I’m back on a trail I used to walk thirty years ago,
now I use a cane and have no dog to keep me company.
The trail is still used by sheep, droppings on ground and
wool on bushes, and I’m not a pathfinder. So Ann Duffy is
a poet laureate, and she also has a living room full of pillows,
I read; I sent her a poem once, so now I can boast that
I have been rejected by a poet laureate.
Thirty years of refutations, and now I’m as old as
the great, still living Irish poet, I ought to be more
humble and take up golf, tried it once it was so boring
that I undressed, it was a hot day, and I swam in a lake
near hole nine and was banned for life, which was
meaningless since I wasn’t a member, too expensive,
but had climbed over a fence to get in.
A tiny rabbit on the track, it looks confused I pick it
up it is incredible beautiful, can’t take it home though,
put it under a bush and hope it finds its own lair.
I look up to the sky the noon sun is glaring at me
as poetic carrions circle low looking for a chair, in
the academic glade, to sit on. Time for lunch so I leave
this thorny landscape to its own lyrical silence.
Monday, May 25, 2009
failed musician
Failed Musician?
My uncle died, he was on holiday in Piraeus when a pig fell off
a balcony, he left a piano and since his wife didn’t want it in her
house, mother took it, only because it would lend an impression
of high culture, and no one else in our neighbourhood had a piano.
I played on it day and night, picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano; people where impressed, mother too, but she
needed her rest worked long hours at a canning factory; one day,
coming home from school, a big empty space, I cried mother gave
me Danish pastry, they were a day old but still tasty. I’m glad she
sold the piano, though I might have ended up a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens as background music
for bored diners
My uncle died, he was on holiday in Piraeus when a pig fell off
a balcony, he left a piano and since his wife didn’t want it in her
house, mother took it, only because it would lend an impression
of high culture, and no one else in our neighbourhood had a piano.
I played on it day and night, picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano; people where impressed, mother too, but she
needed her rest worked long hours at a canning factory; one day,
coming home from school, a big empty space, I cried mother gave
me Danish pastry, they were a day old but still tasty. I’m glad she
sold the piano, though I might have ended up a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens as background music
for bored diners
tre talk
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.
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.
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.
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