child of war

Child of War.

 

 

I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.

When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated

by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory

and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back

joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and

teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me

the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.

I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting

the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know

any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in

the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it

made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me

the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is

the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will

have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me

once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion

 

child of war

Child of War.


I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion

Death in the Afternoon

Death in the Afternoon


There was a poor black lady, who lived in a city slum,
got ill and sought help at the local hospital. Tolerantly
she waited, but because she was poor and also quiet,
was ignored till she fell off her chair and in agony died.
Guards who saw her, thought she was asleep or drunk,
even in death she was disregarded till her body began
to reek in the hot air of despair and decay. Don’t blame
badly paid staff, for them too the American dream is
nightmare, a pay packet away from hunger, prisoners
of a capitalist system where the winner takes all, live
long, feeding on the corpses of the poor. Yet, the guard
and the orderly hope that someday they will be rich too.
The dream will only come true if they united fight and
win. Banal ignorance makes the unequal system survive.

history lesson

History Lesson


An old film clip on the TV, perhaps from
the beginning of the last century, bigwigs
in tall black hats are going up in a balloon.
A group of marines in white uniforms hold
on to a rope to keep it to the ground, but as
it began to ascend they let go except one
who holds on till the balloon is high up in
the air, then he lets go, and he falls back to
earth, like an angel who has lost its wings.
End of film clip. What happen to the one?
who fell to earth, did he break a leg, or did
he die. We will never know, history is about
men in tall hats, the little guy is a nameless
man in the street waving a flag ready to die
for the VIP’s.

various poems

Denial.


Morning dread, something said
Last night that should have been
Unsaid, the smell of lonely sex
And an empty bottle under the bed

Sunlight tries to break in through
Tears in tobacco yellow curtains,
Expose dust on dead plants and
Spot of rot on night’s red roses

My conscience troubles me, it’s
The only thing of moral left, if
I wake up without guilt one day
Will I be free to run away?
Morning in Dreamland


My street is a tunnel of
Whispering night that
Sighs-dies as dawn
Sneaks in from the east

My garden’s miasma
Gracefully arises and
Disperses, tears on
Blades of green grass.

The sun gleam reaches
Over a wall, dry morning
Sorrow as a joyous child
Awakes and laugh.
A Dog’s Night.


From a square light on a dark
Tenement building words fell
Hit the street, rolled on dust
Like morning phlegm.


A dog sniffed broken syllables
Licked a few individual letters,
Spat, the heat of lingering anger
Was not to its liking


Looked up, waited for morsels
Of human wisdom to rain,
To fill its starving mind…this
Long violent night.

,,,,,,,,

A Spare Moment


Inside the green-house
I laid out wizened roses
Heat and the smell of
Dead nature made clear
Not to waste tears on
Infertility, as the beauty
Of dust sparkle in shafts
Of light and dance.
------

Epitaph.


None existence
Is the aftermath
Of death,
Who fears?
The long sleep
When there is
No night.
To be
Never born
Is bliss.
Fear not my
Brother
No evil shall
Touch you.
Life was but
A brief
Interlude on
your way to nirvana



The Pauper

The lame gypsy who begs at the traffic-light
hasn’t got a fucking chance a man so tested
by life’s vagary that even a slum priests look
another way and think of Sunday sermons
and afternoon tea in the garden of the rich
who donate money to his charity. I sense that
behind his inane smile, there is a green of
mockery and deep in his stupid, amber eyes
a burning hate flicker I think he is an angel
who made fun of god, expelled from heaven
dumped on earth and cruelly stigmatized.

,,,,








,,,,,,,

two poems

The Time of Dreams.

Harbour light a welcomed sight, weeks
of ennui, when days reluctantly drag
themselves from dawn to dusk; a day
in the middle of the Pacific is twice as
long as a day in Brussels, where bustle
makes the clock tick faster

Zombies on tank a rusty tanker’s deck
gripped by a melancholic loneliness
they cannot shake off even long after
leaving the sea. Lost souls doomed to
pace the long shores of life and dream
the impossible

.......The Precious


Diamonds on her manicured,
Elegant fingers have the look
Of petrified pain,

The price one has to pay
For a flawless beauty that last
long after agony is forgotten.

Gem stones on my mind are
Remembered, but their sheen
Have gone,

Frozen capsules of what
Was once a longing to love,
That now has lost its passion

Only a onyx of reflective
Melancholy glimmers in
Shadow land.

the trust

The Trust

When the azure far mountain smokes Turkish
blend that is a whisper in the air as a stream
meanders amongst clover, leafy trees and
pretty flowers. And the sea is liquid mirror that
reflects the blue sky and wooly lambs graze on
a heavenly canvas. That’s when we love nature
and give thanks to an absent god.

When the sea rages, sinks ship and lashes shore
tsunami waves, and Thor wields his hammer and
sends embers fly through the night, streams burst
banks and drown flowers, and the mountain blasts
darkens the sky and the earth trembles. We start
over again build a cathedral to honour the absent
one; blaming god is a waste of time.

various poems

Never Look Back.


The hamlet was quiet, dogs asleep,
on this rainy afternoon’s spring day
when I said adieu.

Ten years I dad spent here, good
sad and lonely days, whitewashed
walls and green weed in sunlight

An abundance of flowers in pain
pots and rusty buckets by doorways
their beauty…a sad heartache.

I lingered, so did the day, hoped
someone would come out and say
no one did, the silence dripped.

I drove through the dreamy vale’s
Scented air and reached the coast
as night fell the sea was calm.


The Otherness.

Piss hued sea, Newcastle
is a haze and we‘ll dock at five.
Go ashore drink brown ale and kiss
white faces with lipstick on

We will leave early in the morning,
plough through polluted waters and
a foggy channel and be tossed about
by a restless Bay of Biscay.

Up the Tagus and dock in Lisbon,
go ashore and drink red wine and
kiss night faces, with lipstick on,
and believe in fairy tales.

Tomorrow we are heading for
Tripoli a Moslem city that is alien
and there is unease in the air; and
let’s hope God is merciful.
.....

the wedding

The Wedding

Brussels national airport is designed by a fitness fanatic
or a sports committee, I walked for miles to find its exit
I needed a whisky after all this travail but they had none,
settled for a beer, and yes, it was cold and refreshing.

I took a taxi, expensive, the journey ended at a small inn,
near the national Basilica, the inn was still serving food
I had a sausage and drank a few more beers went to bed
and dreamed about the summers of my childhood.

Brussels in summer light is attractive, mainly because of
its architecture and many trees which make any citycape
more beautiful, glad the Belgians like trees, but I would
have liked to see the trees look more natural and at ease.

In the morning next day I visited the basilica. It was built
after the second world war in honour of the war dead, it
is the most impressive religious edifice I have ever seen,
and it represented all that is good in our hearts.

Tomorrow I’m going to a wedding it’s an African affair,
people will be in good mood, food laughter, music and
and plenty of wine; but today I will walk around, look at
houses and people… and, of course, drink a few beers

Le Grand Duc

Le Grand Duc


Is a café in Brussels where everyone know each
other and there are kisses and handshakes many
times a day. I sat reading my newspapers when
I remembered that the brother of the queen of
Belgium had been a playboys and a pianist, who
didn’t get to be famous before his sister married
the king. I thought him a sad man, with a thin
mustache, he smiled often, but the humour never
reached the eyes. Then he faded out of the picture
I don’t know why, he wasn’t really the material
of a man linked to easy women and platitudes, he
knew he was only a mediocre given engagement
through his connections. So he died then a man
who never got to live the life he wanted to.

the disappearance

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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

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?

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.

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.