The Surgical procedure

The Surgical procedure


The surgeon had been to my hospital bed, explaining
the procedure, a small elegant man with quick hand
movements and a shock of wavy hair; yet none of
the nurses surrounding him looked impressed, perhaps
they knew something I didn’t, a thought that gave me
a perverse delight. Perhaps his wore a wig too?

I was reading poetry, when they gave me a blue pill,
continued to read, but when I awoke twelve hours had
gone, the surgeon, in his Armani suit, looked down,
smiled satisfied and left. I hated him. It worried me
that the hours away had been dreamless and had I not
awoken I would not know I ever lived.

Faces from the hall of un-famous people, so modest
they had only appeared briefly in their death notices,
arose; made it clear there is no heaven, it’s childish
illusion best done away with; except for my old dog,
she follows me around, even in old dreams dreamt
before she was born. Her brown eyes, beg me not
to leave without her; together and unafraid we shall
walk into the borderless land of nonexistence

night walk in Amsterdam

Night Walk in Amsterdam

When I walked ashore in Amsterdam, with my
leather suitcase, no less, bought in a shop in
Hanover street, Liverpool, it was raining; fine,
persistent, precipitation, (isn’t that a nice word,)
the sort that dampens even the high spirited, at
a party, and makes him go to sleep in a corner.

I had been cook on a ship that was perpetually
sailing under a rain cloud; docked at every port
in Europe, even in Stockholm where they sell
the world’s worst beer, it’s not even cold: Do
not for a minute think you’re going to enjoy
yourself while drinking an alcoholic beverage

Tired and wet I booked into a BB hotel, found
a quiet bar drank cold beer and saw rain stop.
When I followed the barmaid home, but not in,
streets where dry and I enjoyed my solitude.

the disappearance

The Disappearance.


Where the road dips there is a puddle, but
Don’t think you can put you wellies on
And splash about; it’s bottomless. I’ve seen
Many children disappear.

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

It’s the rain you see, unstoppable, as is purity
Of evil; take the dip, in the road, away and
The puddle will appear somewhere else. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness.

In the garden’s ornamental pool lilies float
Tiny steps, that led there, are erased by rain
and a young life is a bitter memory. I’ve
Seen many children disappear

Madeline, your name’s so full of heartache;
It sums up a world of sadness

senryu

Senryu

If I were a duck
I would try not to waddle
And avoid China


Senryu

If I were a lamb
I would wear an Armani suit
And avoid mint sauce


Senryu

My red toy elephant
Trumpet so melancholic
That leaves rust in May

The Wall.

I was involved in a fatal car crash but my soul took refuge
in a nearby stonewall, not any old wall, but one built by
the time Jesus was a toddler and roman soldiers walked
around in leather skirts. I’m now a wall and have absorbed
every stones’ memory, we are one. It’s ok to be wall, in
the tourist season, people come from afar to take pictures
of me, the Chinese Charge de Affairs was here, said our
wall building style is the same as in his great country, we
smiled, he’s a bit of a flatterer and is looking for trade.

My days of guarding settlements and roman forts are long
since over there is a disused field behind me, it hasn’t been
ploughed for years, they are going to turn it into a housing
estate, it’s said; can’t say I like it children with spray cans
painting me into a kaleidoscope of garish colours; there is
talk of putting me indoors, that’s ok when it rains, but it
will be a bit lonely I’m, after all, part of nature, guess I will
have to take my chances with the kids, see them grow up
fall in love, kiss and cuddle on the lee of my solid flank.

The mystic Veil

The Mystic Veil

When a child, in Norway many, women wore veils
they were usually classily dressed and wore a dead
fox with glass eyes around their necks, mother said
they were rich bitches, scared me though, faces in
deep shadows they could tongue me and I wouldn’t
know, or perhaps they were witches with festering
sores and a third eye planted on the forehead

For the opposite reason I feared nuns, they covered
everything but their stern, unadorned faces, eyes not
mild, but judgmental, when seeing one I was quick
to walk on the other side of the street. Yesterday
I saw a Moslem woman wearing a full veil, but her
burka was too snug around her bum- an impostor-?
Other women stopped and stared, it won’t be long
now before it is the latest fashion.

I'm not guilty

I’m Not Guilty


I shot a horse, once, as it stopped grazing, wasn’t
afraid of me; I had fed it slices of bread, pressed
the rifle against its temple and squeezed. I had to
do it the farmer, my boss, didn’t want old horses
on his land, I was a hired hand. I’m blameless.
If you say I didn’t have to obey such an order it’s
because you have never been unemployed you
don’t know how it feels like to beg for money to
feed your family, burgers, fries and milk shakes

The horse had brown eyes and before it sank into
a heap of Italian salami it looked at me with
sadness, that did me in. I became a heavy drinker
prone to tears when telling animal stories. Wait!
Hold on a bit: “Is Italian salami made of horse
meat?” “Yes, and so is spaghetti Bolognese, but
I don’t care about your diet.” “How could you let
me eat salami and not telling me it was made of
horse flesh?” “Look it’s about my pain, not yours”

Tanka reflections

Tanka Reflections


11.37 pm,
What of the morrow?
Yesterday is still on my mind
It’s a riddle
It hasn’t been re-invented yet
Can’t solve the unknown


11.38 pm.
Dawn’s a mystery
Yesterday is still on my mind
I can’t solve it
If morning abstains
I won’t know the difference

11.39pm

“What of the morrow”
I wrote that, two minutes ago
Nothing has changed
A dog on the road barked
Didn’t know that two minutes ago


11.40
Dog’s gone quiet
Silence breathes down my neck
Soon it’s midnight
“One” is knocking on the door
Is he coming to get me?

love story

Love Story

The woman who couldn’t
get warm tore the wood
paneling off her walls,
bright was the fire, but she
was still chilled to the bones.
Tore up floor boards,
she did, and terrified mice
silly, a lively fire, but her
heart was arctic.
In desperation she lit a bonfire,
made of oak furniture,
in her living room,
delicious flames,
but she was a lump of ice;
only thawed when
fireman Peterson came
and kissed her blue lips warm

the compensation

The Compensation

The town council has sent me a form to fill
It’s about seeking compensation for ills
Suffered at a home many years ago, but it’s
So long time ago I don’t want to remember.
It means I have to go back to being a child
Again, the bewilderment, brutality and abuse
By those who called themselves Christians.
I know well, when I must, that most of my
Failings, a deep rooted inferiority complex,
Uncontrollable anger, and in younger days,
Massive drinking, are caused by scars my
Childhood gave me; no money in the world
Will make them go away. I have learned to
Live with myself, it has taken time, so why
Must I remember?

bauxite

Bauxite

I opened a café once
in Liverpool eight
it was located next door
to a café that
was always full;
spillover?
No such luck.
my resentment grew
three weeks
not a soul,
only gathering of
dust on tables;
by the time a couple came
I told them to get lost,
closed my café
and joined a ship bound
for Trinidad
the bauxite trade,
now there is dust
for you.

Tommy Steele and Parkgate

Tommy Steele and Parkgate


Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see
Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed-
down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used
to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one
day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point
though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw
this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar,
looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of
Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind,
who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer?

Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people
outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender
of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for
two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had
destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell
off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust.
There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place,
but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar
lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate
in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?

Politically Correct

It wasn’t really my dream, but my wife’s, she was waxing
the living room floor, had told her many time not to do that,
makes the floor slippery; I think she’s after my money.
A knock on the door, a woman with 8 children said she was
my wife and her children mine; denied all knowledge; she
called me a racist, I took my sunglasses off, yes they were
black. Feeling guilty I was about to offer them shelter when
my wife came, said with my navy pension I couldn’t even
keep a duck in a pond, slammed the door shut in the face of
the ebony lady. “Don’t be a sap; she said, there is no need
to believe people because they are black.” And that’s coming
from a woman born in Kinshasa.

Later that day driving to a masked ball in Haifa, I saw
the poor mother and her children, thought of stopping, but
desisted, 80 sticky fingers in my car...No! In Haifa I drank
fresh orange juice, and tried not to ask impertinent questions
about the plight of Palestine, wore an outsized nose the idea
was to look like roman senator. “Anti Semite” a waiter called
Olmert, thundered and tore it off, refused to serve me until
I repented and said I was deeply sorry for what had happened
to his people. Complied, who says I’m a hero? Looked out of
the window; saw a Gypsy family making slow progress across
the landscape, these victimized and neglected people,
no holocaust shrine for them

what difference a car makes

What Difference a Car Makes


Where antique moonlight is swathed around
ancient olive trees, she sat, the haunted old
woman, so gripped by a vast melancholy that
dogs howled when she came near.

She had been so proud and beautiful, but not,
perhaps, attractive enough; never took the bus to
town, only private cars would do, gave herself
for ride in shiny black Mercedes.

The cruelty of old age, it’s been ten years now
since anyone gave her a lift, a Honda van, and
when she refused to kiss the overall clad driver,
he had told her to get out

These regrets burdening her sad heart, it was her
mother who had said she was too good for yokel.
Chilly night, she was so tired; her last ride, days
later, was in a shiny black Mercedes.

autumn leaf

Autumn Leaf.

The fall leaves dance weren’t celebrating life,
but utter despair, they whirled around in
the plaza like furious dervishes, faster and
faster till they ended up, exhausted, in a heap
in the corner, near the bin, for empty bottles.

A thunder rumble, warning of rain to come,
gutters will be rivers and leaves rafts, steering
around boulders down foamy waterfalls and
into the sewers, where the outcast rat lives and
witness our gaseous effluence.

Turning into mulch, mixed with human waste;
perfect nourishment free of chemicals, perhaps
a gardeners dream? A golden oak leaf survived,
the tumult, though, drifted to the Saragossa Sea
where it became a king amongst the seaweed.

the slave trade

The Slave Trade

The African tribal chief was worried, too
many idle warrior hands in his kraal, too
few women, and no wars to fight, causing
words of bitter sedition; till an Arab trader
came along offered the chief costly Persian
carpets and a bracelet of gold in exchange
for fifty of his thumb twiddling men.

The chief told the men, before they were
marched down to the coast, that he now
released them of their bondage to him and
must now obey their new Arab master;
equilibrium restored, and ground lain for
future trade; a glad despot sat happily on
his carpets and twiddled with his bracelet.

senryu

Senryu

Depression…is
When curtains of truth opens
And the stage is bare.

Tanka

Senryu

Harvest moon
Ghosts in apple trees smile
Man! What a hoot.




Tanka (yearly migration)

Iberian village
The old till the soil
The young have gone to France
Doing menial tasks
Take Holiday here in August
Being rude, in French, to everyone

yesteryears summer

Yesteryear’s Summer

Rusty, padlocked gate, trees in the big garden need
trimming, on a swing, two rusty chains, it lacks
a seat. Autumn and there are apples unpicked on
the ground, fine rain has fallen, drops drips from
trees and glint on tall grass. Soon winter storms
will come rattle the gate and the derelict house-
unlit- will have to shoulder nature’s irate violence.

If you close your eyes and listen, can you not hear
laughter and see a child sitting on the swing?
Ice-tea and lemonade anyone? July 1956, no one
knew this was their last, a family was about to be
overtaken by life; ruin and scandals, “got what they
deserved,” the hateful said. The child, on the swing
disappears in the mist, rolling in from the sea. .

the swimmers

The Swimmers.

The two rotund, none smoking, healthy middle aged
ladies sit in their splashing pool get suntanned and wet
during the heat of the day; only venture to the beach
when the sun sets and body fascists and sand kickers
go home Far out they swim, gleaming seals that glide
with ease in the water, on their way to mate and meet
other seals frolic and play to dawn. Early bathers may
see the pair making slow progress in the sand and
there are those who will say:” Look, how fat they are.”
Not seeing they are tired, well fed seals on their way
home after a feast of fish and love on the outer rocks.