The Disappearance
There was a tramp, who lived under a wooden bridge
that crossed a stream that was lucid had shiny pebbles
and rainbow trout which he caught, fried and shared
with his dog that was big, black and looked like a bear.
When children crossed the bridge he thrillingly scared
them by asking: Who is walking on my bridge?” But
mostly he sang carols all by himself. Pious farmers
thought he was holy, left food hampers for him, made
the sign of the cross and felt good, went to church and
gave alms to the huddled poor by the sainted door.
But there were bad people too who threw stones at his
dog and shouted nasty words when crossing the bridge.
One night the tramp’s dog howled so madly that night
got scared ran off and dawn had to save the day by
arriving at one o’clock. The brave went to inspect and
found a grotto lit by candles it had the christmas aroma
of orange peel left drying on the stove. “Santa Claus has
gone forever they grieved, we mustn’t tell the children
though, so this coming winter one of us has to pretend
to be him to let the story of this man live on.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
the dreamers
The Dreamers.
There was once a philosophizing cobbler, who lived
under a wooden bridge that crossed a little stream,
mainly because his wife was so argumentative that
when he said “a” she said “b.”
He wrote a manuscript, a thousand pages long, about
philosophical problems when applied to real life, and
also whether a donkey could think; his manuscript
was booze stained, ashy and difficult to read.
In winters, when the river froze over, he moved back
home to his bickering wife, she was not impressed
by his words, mocked his long sentences, but didn’t
mind warming her hands when burning his papers.
Every year he wrote a manuscript and every year his
wife put it to the fire till, one winter, he didn’t come
home because he had built a papyrus raft, floated to
the sea where his thoughts about life were fulfilled.
His wife cried but not for long she had a lest, and
cobbler’s needles, advertised and suitors came, she
picked one who couldn’t read, alas his silence drove
her mad; she fled and went to live under that bridge.
She wrote a disputation, a thousand pages long, but
it was instantly rejected by the academic community,
so she made a papyrus raft and floated to the sea to
try find what had made her husband fulfilled.
There was once a philosophizing cobbler, who lived
under a wooden bridge that crossed a little stream,
mainly because his wife was so argumentative that
when he said “a” she said “b.”
He wrote a manuscript, a thousand pages long, about
philosophical problems when applied to real life, and
also whether a donkey could think; his manuscript
was booze stained, ashy and difficult to read.
In winters, when the river froze over, he moved back
home to his bickering wife, she was not impressed
by his words, mocked his long sentences, but didn’t
mind warming her hands when burning his papers.
Every year he wrote a manuscript and every year his
wife put it to the fire till, one winter, he didn’t come
home because he had built a papyrus raft, floated to
the sea where his thoughts about life were fulfilled.
His wife cried but not for long she had a lest, and
cobbler’s needles, advertised and suitors came, she
picked one who couldn’t read, alas his silence drove
her mad; she fled and went to live under that bridge.
She wrote a disputation, a thousand pages long, but
it was instantly rejected by the academic community,
so she made a papyrus raft and floated to the sea to
try find what had made her husband fulfilled.
Monday, June 23, 2008
fear of her
Fear of Her
I saw your
lace curtain
move
but lumber
aired
is your home
and I will not
enter
and risk
falling asleep
in your bed
and forever
see the world
outside
through
a fine knitted
mesh
and sapped
by manly
strength
end up doing
the dishes.
I saw your
lace curtain
move
but lumber
aired
is your home
and I will not
enter
and risk
falling asleep
in your bed
and forever
see the world
outside
through
a fine knitted
mesh
and sapped
by manly
strength
end up doing
the dishes.
2 tanka
Tanka.
Western way of life
Rests on Middle Eastern oil
If crude tap is off
It is us that will suffer most
The Bedouins have camels
Tanka
Electric cars
Were made a century ago
Now they are in vogue
Oil spivs have made their money
So let the wilderness bloom.
Western way of life
Rests on Middle Eastern oil
If crude tap is off
It is us that will suffer most
The Bedouins have camels
Tanka
Electric cars
Were made a century ago
Now they are in vogue
Oil spivs have made their money
So let the wilderness bloom.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Promise
The Promise.
The sea was oily looking calm and dark
perhaps marine life had died and turned
it into a pool of nothingness.
I sat in a dingy in the chill of loneliness
wrapped in a banner used 1st of Mays by
workers, asking for justice and freedom.
Now their request didn’t matter the world
had sunk beneath the sea like a Titanic, hit
by the iceberg of religious zealotry.
24 tins of tuna fish and 18 litre bottle of
water, enough to take me to an island
I had sailed past and often dreamed of.
One morning I saw a dolphin swimming
along the boat it had sought my company
and I was no longer vastly alone.
Then time stopped, days didn’t matter there
were no tomorrows, dreams and reality were
one, and we heard the green gecko sing.
Then days returned the sky blue and seas
translucent green, the world had healed
itself and the dolphin was no longer alone.
I nailed the banner, with its empty promises
of freedom, to the mast and at sunset set sail
to the island of my dreams.
The sea was oily looking calm and dark
perhaps marine life had died and turned
it into a pool of nothingness.
I sat in a dingy in the chill of loneliness
wrapped in a banner used 1st of Mays by
workers, asking for justice and freedom.
Now their request didn’t matter the world
had sunk beneath the sea like a Titanic, hit
by the iceberg of religious zealotry.
24 tins of tuna fish and 18 litre bottle of
water, enough to take me to an island
I had sailed past and often dreamed of.
One morning I saw a dolphin swimming
along the boat it had sought my company
and I was no longer vastly alone.
Then time stopped, days didn’t matter there
were no tomorrows, dreams and reality were
one, and we heard the green gecko sing.
Then days returned the sky blue and seas
translucent green, the world had healed
itself and the dolphin was no longer alone.
I nailed the banner, with its empty promises
of freedom, to the mast and at sunset set sail
to the island of my dreams.
the consequence
The Consequence
The door into the bar was narrow I stood outside
waited for a couple to come out. When they did
the woman carried a dead baby in her arms, said
it was mine, handed it to me; I refused to take it,
my wife’s abortion, more than forty years ago,
had nothing to do with me, we had agreed then
that time wasn’t right for us to have a child.
The waif opened its eyes stretched out tiny arms,
called me papa, I took the child in my arms, and
no longer an “It,” I stroked her golden hair, cried,
said sorry. The couple had gone back into the pub,
layers of years but I recognized her face, for her
it was too late, at sunset I walked into the woods
and buried my baby daughter alone.
The door into the bar was narrow I stood outside
waited for a couple to come out. When they did
the woman carried a dead baby in her arms, said
it was mine, handed it to me; I refused to take it,
my wife’s abortion, more than forty years ago,
had nothing to do with me, we had agreed then
that time wasn’t right for us to have a child.
The waif opened its eyes stretched out tiny arms,
called me papa, I took the child in my arms, and
no longer an “It,” I stroked her golden hair, cried,
said sorry. The couple had gone back into the pub,
layers of years but I recognized her face, for her
it was too late, at sunset I walked into the woods
and buried my baby daughter alone.
the acting profession
The Acting Profession
The scene was set I was to walk into the lobby
ask the man behind the desk if so and so was
at the hotel, I was then to look around studying
the faces of the other guests, which would make
the viewers think I’m a detective or an assassin
with a slight limp. We waited Roger Moore,
the star of the movie, he was late, and then it was
lunch, hamburgers and cold beer. The star came
in the afternoon and everyone applauded.
It was decided that my role wasn’t needed, they
handed me a newspaper and I was now one of
hotel the guests. The shooting took about an hour,
they paid me in cash and I took the bus back to
town. At a traffic light on red, I looked down, saw
Roger, sit in the back of a chauffeur driven Jaguar,
a polite man, he looked up, I think he remembered
me, and waved
The scene was set I was to walk into the lobby
ask the man behind the desk if so and so was
at the hotel, I was then to look around studying
the faces of the other guests, which would make
the viewers think I’m a detective or an assassin
with a slight limp. We waited Roger Moore,
the star of the movie, he was late, and then it was
lunch, hamburgers and cold beer. The star came
in the afternoon and everyone applauded.
It was decided that my role wasn’t needed, they
handed me a newspaper and I was now one of
hotel the guests. The shooting took about an hour,
they paid me in cash and I took the bus back to
town. At a traffic light on red, I looked down, saw
Roger, sit in the back of a chauffeur driven Jaguar,
a polite man, he looked up, I think he remembered
me, and waved
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wrath of God?
Wrath of God?
A pig farm in Iowa flooded, sixteen hogs got away
scampered up a levee where they stood not knowing
what to do. There is something unseemly rude, about
the artiodactyls mammal, like white, fat middle aged
men in a sauna; then the grunters were shot, one can’t
have shoats hanging about on a levee. Yes, greatly
unfair, I agree, but porkers are bred to be killed.
Like the young fellow who narrowly escaped death
in a car accident, only to be blown up in Baghdad
when sitting in his armoured auto eating an apple.
Up there an eagle flew, he grabbed hold of its feet,
in the hope it would help slow the descent. The nude,
the feathery and the dead. (Symbolism accidental)
Unfair? Yes, indeed, but what are soldiers for?
A pig farm in Iowa flooded, sixteen hogs got away
scampered up a levee where they stood not knowing
what to do. There is something unseemly rude, about
the artiodactyls mammal, like white, fat middle aged
men in a sauna; then the grunters were shot, one can’t
have shoats hanging about on a levee. Yes, greatly
unfair, I agree, but porkers are bred to be killed.
Like the young fellow who narrowly escaped death
in a car accident, only to be blown up in Baghdad
when sitting in his armoured auto eating an apple.
Up there an eagle flew, he grabbed hold of its feet,
in the hope it would help slow the descent. The nude,
the feathery and the dead. (Symbolism accidental)
Unfair? Yes, indeed, but what are soldiers for?
Genarations past
Generations Past.
When I get up in summer nights air in the rooms
of my old cottage are dense with souls of those
who lived here before. As I stir the air they move
away they don’t see me but feel a presence that
they think of as a passing ghost.
Young souls are fearful but are told that ghost
means no harm to anyone and that is perhaps true.
Sometime I hear murmurs, voices of sorrow
but also of pleasure, it is life lived which unseen,
relive itself endlessly.
In autumns when the rooms get cold, in a home
made of stones, I light the fire the souls settle in
the wall behind the hearth and the cottage grows
silent as we wait for a new spring.
When I get up in summer nights air in the rooms
of my old cottage are dense with souls of those
who lived here before. As I stir the air they move
away they don’t see me but feel a presence that
they think of as a passing ghost.
Young souls are fearful but are told that ghost
means no harm to anyone and that is perhaps true.
Sometime I hear murmurs, voices of sorrow
but also of pleasure, it is life lived which unseen,
relive itself endlessly.
In autumns when the rooms get cold, in a home
made of stones, I light the fire the souls settle in
the wall behind the hearth and the cottage grows
silent as we wait for a new spring.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
the diggers
The Diggers
In a museum, on the Isle of Man, there was displayed
a Viking’s tooth and it was brown, not from smoking
mind, the tobacco plant hadn’t been imported to
Europe yet, but from not having brushed his teeth
when a child. There was little else left of the Viking
that’s why I ask: how did the archeologists know
that this tooth had belonged to a Viking? He could have
been a crofter who secretly smoked dry oak leaves,
because it kept colds away. He could also have been
a sheep rustler- which is far less romantic than being
a horse thief- and knifed to death by irate farmhands.
Archeologists are a strange lot, give them a rusty nail
and they construct a cathedral, or some other godly
house; should you find a piece of a wine cup, they will
tell tall tales orgies, fig leaves and Roman canapés,
but they can’t find the wrist watch I lost in the year of
1985, in Chester- England- where Roman soldiers used
to bivouac drink wine and eat fried dormice while
cursing the Cesar who had sent them to this rain cold,
ungodly country where the people are so white they
look like green ghosts in moonlight. So you see there is
no doubts about it, archeologists are poets with shovels.
In a museum, on the Isle of Man, there was displayed
a Viking’s tooth and it was brown, not from smoking
mind, the tobacco plant hadn’t been imported to
Europe yet, but from not having brushed his teeth
when a child. There was little else left of the Viking
that’s why I ask: how did the archeologists know
that this tooth had belonged to a Viking? He could have
been a crofter who secretly smoked dry oak leaves,
because it kept colds away. He could also have been
a sheep rustler- which is far less romantic than being
a horse thief- and knifed to death by irate farmhands.
Archeologists are a strange lot, give them a rusty nail
and they construct a cathedral, or some other godly
house; should you find a piece of a wine cup, they will
tell tall tales orgies, fig leaves and Roman canapés,
but they can’t find the wrist watch I lost in the year of
1985, in Chester- England- where Roman soldiers used
to bivouac drink wine and eat fried dormice while
cursing the Cesar who had sent them to this rain cold,
ungodly country where the people are so white they
look like green ghosts in moonlight. So you see there is
no doubts about it, archeologists are poets with shovels.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
senryu
Senryu
Euphonic stillness
Liquid pearls on an oar blade
In a summer fiord
Senryu
Pleasing to the ear
Clicks of mother’s knitting pins
On cold winter nights
Senryu
Melancholy is
Layers of large snow flakes
On the window sill
Euphonic stillness
Liquid pearls on an oar blade
In a summer fiord
Senryu
Pleasing to the ear
Clicks of mother’s knitting pins
On cold winter nights
Senryu
Melancholy is
Layers of large snow flakes
On the window sill
When time is right
When Time Is Right.
The door I knocked on was as black and shiny
as a coffin, behind the door my twin brother
stood his silence like a seashell’s hum; I could
hear the sea of forever rippling onto Nirvana’s
strand. He was born five minutes too late, and
into darkness, this blue boy, nourishment gone,
not even a lungful of air and the pain of sudden
light he was given; a dream of what could have
been. For me, a troubadour, success was natural,
gilded doors opened I was the man of May, my
message, eternal happiness. Youth was filled
with dance and laughter never did I think of you,
there was no time, till I woke up one day and
could not dance anymore an elderly Casanova,
giggles from boudoirs; an entertainer no more.
Open up the door, dear brother, I will not enter
but let in the light so we can see the wonderful
sky and together walk on summer grass.
The door I knocked on was as black and shiny
as a coffin, behind the door my twin brother
stood his silence like a seashell’s hum; I could
hear the sea of forever rippling onto Nirvana’s
strand. He was born five minutes too late, and
into darkness, this blue boy, nourishment gone,
not even a lungful of air and the pain of sudden
light he was given; a dream of what could have
been. For me, a troubadour, success was natural,
gilded doors opened I was the man of May, my
message, eternal happiness. Youth was filled
with dance and laughter never did I think of you,
there was no time, till I woke up one day and
could not dance anymore an elderly Casanova,
giggles from boudoirs; an entertainer no more.
Open up the door, dear brother, I will not enter
but let in the light so we can see the wonderful
sky and together walk on summer grass.
the Happy country
The Happy Country
The king of Norway wears a top-hat and looks
like an old fashion plutocrat, it will be wrong
of you to think so because, he is a man of
the people, he say so himself. The streets of
Oslo is empty and no Latin rhythm flies out of
open café doors, this is mainly because the king
has gone to the opera, which is placed in a fjord.
And since there is no aristocracy he has taken
along a fourth generation of politicians and a third
generation TV personalities; all, let’s no forget this,
can point to a forefather who was a fisherman or
a crofter. There are not many shipping dynasties
present, if there are they try not to rock the boat,
rumours have it they mostly live in the Bahamas.
The king’s loyal subjects participate too, they sit
at home watch TV, seeing him applaud the singers
on the stage. As peace descends over the land my
wish is for the king of Norway to go lose that hat.
The king of Norway wears a top-hat and looks
like an old fashion plutocrat, it will be wrong
of you to think so because, he is a man of
the people, he say so himself. The streets of
Oslo is empty and no Latin rhythm flies out of
open café doors, this is mainly because the king
has gone to the opera, which is placed in a fjord.
And since there is no aristocracy he has taken
along a fourth generation of politicians and a third
generation TV personalities; all, let’s no forget this,
can point to a forefather who was a fisherman or
a crofter. There are not many shipping dynasties
present, if there are they try not to rock the boat,
rumours have it they mostly live in the Bahamas.
The king’s loyal subjects participate too, they sit
at home watch TV, seeing him applaud the singers
on the stage. As peace descends over the land my
wish is for the king of Norway to go lose that hat.
Monday, June 16, 2008
the ruin
The Ruin
The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.
Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.
The ruin, in the woods, has been a ruin for
so long that it is no more than a heap of moss
covered stones; always damp it smells of
poverty, a place where those who were able
to, fled before they sank into apathy and died
of hopelessness and homemade booze.
Perhaps some of the fleers fled to New York
and their grandchildren, now runs a deli,
Portuguese delicacies that in the old days were
poor man’s food, paint the old country in
pastel colours and makes it wetly romantic;
poverty of yore has a patina of old gold.
Municipal misery
Municipal Misery
The city’s public park had been deliberately run down,
no money for its upkeep it was said, the tarn in the park
was a disgrace, dirty water, excrement and plastic bags.
It was going to be privatized, like the municipal golf
course, built in days when people believed in social
equality and golf for everyone who wished to play.
The new “public park” is a fee paying park, there are
restaurants and an expensive tennis club, you can also
walk around there but it is too dear for ordinary folks.
I’ve been once, perfectly mowed lawns, trimmed trees
and flowers are standing to attention; no surprises, this
is always so when nature is made by a committee.
The city’s public park had been deliberately run down,
no money for its upkeep it was said, the tarn in the park
was a disgrace, dirty water, excrement and plastic bags.
It was going to be privatized, like the municipal golf
course, built in days when people believed in social
equality and golf for everyone who wished to play.
The new “public park” is a fee paying park, there are
restaurants and an expensive tennis club, you can also
walk around there but it is too dear for ordinary folks.
I’ve been once, perfectly mowed lawns, trimmed trees
and flowers are standing to attention; no surprises, this
is always so when nature is made by a committee.
Friendship
Friendship
He was my best friend we used to go for long walks;
we both liked the cinema and art, as my wife used
to say”You’re a perfect couple.” When I got arthritis
in one leg I used to keep my hand on his shoulder,
he was my cane and it eased the pain.
James, yes I was happy to be his friend, gave my
only boy his name. One day he told me he was gay,
perhaps I knew but preferred not to know, best that
way; but this knowledge changed our comradeship,
timidity had come between us.
I no longer held on to his shoulder, our bantering
was contrived. I didn’t go see the latest western
movie with him, blamed a cold, he wasn’t able to
come to a planned art exhibition. Yes, I do miss
him and my leg hurts like hell.
He was my best friend we used to go for long walks;
we both liked the cinema and art, as my wife used
to say”You’re a perfect couple.” When I got arthritis
in one leg I used to keep my hand on his shoulder,
he was my cane and it eased the pain.
James, yes I was happy to be his friend, gave my
only boy his name. One day he told me he was gay,
perhaps I knew but preferred not to know, best that
way; but this knowledge changed our comradeship,
timidity had come between us.
I no longer held on to his shoulder, our bantering
was contrived. I didn’t go see the latest western
movie with him, blamed a cold, he wasn’t able to
come to a planned art exhibition. Yes, I do miss
him and my leg hurts like hell.
Tanka
Tanka
Transport drivers strike
Two days later empty shops
No milk for the child
Wretchedly helpless we are
In our shiny democracy
Tanka
Runaway price of oil
We slides towards the abyss
But refuse to see
Stick our necks in the sawdust
And watch World Cup Football
Tanka
Ready made food
The art of cooking gone
Bread, marge and jam
When there is no frozen food
Due to transportation strike
Transport drivers strike
Two days later empty shops
No milk for the child
Wretchedly helpless we are
In our shiny democracy
Tanka
Runaway price of oil
We slides towards the abyss
But refuse to see
Stick our necks in the sawdust
And watch World Cup Football
Tanka
Ready made food
The art of cooking gone
Bread, marge and jam
When there is no frozen food
Due to transportation strike
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
rendezvous
Rendezvous with an old Flame
In the inner disused docks she was tied up and abandoned,
fifty years old now and looking it, the Greek owners were
trying to sell her, if a daft person bought her now, it must
be for love. It is twenty years since I stood on her deck, she
had been sold to a Greek shipping company and I was evicted.
The Greeks are great seamen but shipping is business not silly
romance on the high seas. I asked the guard by the gangway
if I could come onboard, he wore a baseball cap and had lived
in New York, “ you can buy her for a dime,” he had joked
On her bridge I stood and though I could feel her valiant
heart vibrating through my feet, from the glum north Atlantic
to the smiling Indian Ocean, in fair weather and in raging
storms; never had I been afraid that she would sink beneath
the waves. “Buy her for a dime.” Sentimental fool, she’s a rusty
old bucket now and not worth a penny for my thought.
In the inner disused docks she was tied up and abandoned,
fifty years old now and looking it, the Greek owners were
trying to sell her, if a daft person bought her now, it must
be for love. It is twenty years since I stood on her deck, she
had been sold to a Greek shipping company and I was evicted.
The Greeks are great seamen but shipping is business not silly
romance on the high seas. I asked the guard by the gangway
if I could come onboard, he wore a baseball cap and had lived
in New York, “ you can buy her for a dime,” he had joked
On her bridge I stood and though I could feel her valiant
heart vibrating through my feet, from the glum north Atlantic
to the smiling Indian Ocean, in fair weather and in raging
storms; never had I been afraid that she would sink beneath
the waves. “Buy her for a dime.” Sentimental fool, she’s a rusty
old bucket now and not worth a penny for my thought.
rOMAN HOLIDAY
Roman Holiday
In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.
In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.
Rivulet
Rivulet.
Lackluster stream, foams of rejection on
its surface, meanders between grey stones
before it disappears down a drain.
I used to bath her in summers that now are
dreams, and in twilight catch trout with my
homemade bamboo rod
Look at it now, a sick soul, and there is no
one around who remembers its glory, this
smelly old brook that ought to be removed.
Lackluster stream, foams of rejection on
its surface, meanders between grey stones
before it disappears down a drain.
I used to bath her in summers that now are
dreams, and in twilight catch trout with my
homemade bamboo rod
Look at it now, a sick soul, and there is no
one around who remembers its glory, this
smelly old brook that ought to be removed.
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