pig farming

Pig Farming

British farmers treat their pigs better
than their European counterparts,
straw strewn floors to walk on and
toys (usually footballs) to kick around
in the pen while they wait…

Alas, like their European brethrens
they will be slaughtered roasted, boiled
or smoked, usually when very young;
straw and toys are for you and I so we
can say we’re kind to animals we eat.

the hex

The Hex.

 

 

Where the village lane meets the main road there was

an ugly olive tree that looked like two crippled old men

trying helping each across the road, petrified by cars,

I used to stop and talk to the tree old but still bore fruit;

now it has been chopped down and will end up as winter

wood. No. I’m not a tree hugger but it annoyed me that

it was cut down as it was not in any ones way.

An old woman came down the lane she had a long nose

with a big hairy wart on and a sack of wood slung on her

crocked back. “Tell me dear woman, why was this tree

executed? “Because it was ugly looked like two old men

trying to help each other across the road”, she said and           

toothlessly laughed.

 

the psychopath

The Psychopath

 

The lane is siesta empty, meanders forever amongst

olive trees and budding almond trees, but afar I see

a black clad man, an ominous shadow, marching

towards me. He has got one hand in his pocket, a knife?

Bet he is a psychopath out to see if he can kill someone

without being caught. Nowhere to run fields are soggy

and he’s younger than me; he will catch up and plunge

a knife in me when I’m exhausted. When he stops and

looks around to be sure there are no witnesses, I quickly

bend down and pick up a big stone I can hit him over

the head with it, I think I’m stronger than him. He looks

tense as he passes me on the opposite side of the lane,

I stop pretend to look at the sky, can’t let him thrust his

knife in my back. He’s running now, see him disappear

around a sharp bend but I wait till sure he ain’t coming

back, I better arm myself with a kitchen knife next time

I go out the world is full of bad people.   

   

the death of an author

The Death of an Author

 

John Updike is dead, can’t say I know much about him

I may have read one or two of his books but he didn’t

leave a lasting impression as Hemingway did.

 

One of my neighbours has died too, I saw him every

day walking past my house with his old dog and a basket

in his left arm, with wine and a bit to eat.

 

He was going to his little field, doing some weeding but

mostly just drinking looking at the way birds flew, patting

his dog’s head and snoring gently under of a tree.

 

There was something about his eyes, like some inner

suffering had made him look holy, say, as an idealized

picture of Jesus on the cross.

 

I’m going to his funeral tomorrow morning, at 67 he was

bit young for death I thought, a new face will come and

take his place; but who is going to look after his old dog?  

 

 

transformation (Tanka)

Transformation (Tanka)

It can’t be denied
the almond tree is ugly
weak looking branches
its bark is grey and scabby
not a future beauty queen.


it can’t be denied
the almond tree is pretty
when covered in pink flowers
its bark is brown and healthy
a favoured bride of spring.

the lovely couple

The Lovely Couple

In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.

thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.

COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT

Collective Punishment

A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.

The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.

winter algarve

Winter Algarve.


The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009,” a tourist guide will say.

The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again

The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.

The vines in black soil look like dead soldiers held up
by wire, not a hint of jollity to come. My wintery vale,
winds gets cold my face is as frozen as a newscaster’s
botoxed face, but since I need not look young I hurry
home to thaw it into familiar wrinkles.

tango for two

Tango for Two.

On internet I looked up dancing in Algarve, got ballet
dance and dance schools, those were out, and lap
dancing which is even more embarrassing, a girl on
your lap jumping up and if you don’t get an erection
due to your knees hurting the girl will feel offended
and tell the audience that you are impotent; and it
beats me why she should want to humiliate the poor
punter who has paid. Maybe it has to do with pride,
professional honour, the woman might feel that she
has failed not getting you exited, so why do I care?
I just want to go to a place and sway to the music,
remember a hot night in Buenos Aires, 1961 and at
the same time get some exercise, is that too much
to ask a Saturday night?

siblings

The Siblings

Twin, one strong, the other naïve and pale, nature
is merciless the strong threw the weak out of
the nest that fell to the brushwood and had to seek
shelter where it could a temporary shelter, but it
learned how to survive and trust no one, frail yes,
but sensitively strong it had time on it side watching
how fear and hate consumed its brother how, with
its phosphorous bombs, had lost the plot and could
not kill a wish the losers’ absurd idea of equality.
So it came to pass when the strong saw it could not
win and subjugate its twin to its whim it choose to
destroy itself and its insignificant brother. Toxic sand
more lethal than Wall Street’s bad debt, cover land,
yet in caves survivors still dream of nationhood.

hail to the chief

Hail to the Chief

Saw his shadow walk across
the river I heard the roar, as
the people called his name;

I also heard cracks as ice split,
saw his shadow drown alone
in floes of driftwood rhetoric;

Saw the disappointed masses,
turned their back on a leader
they said could walk on water.

the strenght

The Strength

I awoke as green, frothy sea angrily washed over
The terrace robbing it of four white plastic chairs
And ditto table. When a new bottle green and
White topped wave came I grabbed it by its waist
Squeezed and kissed hard on its wet lips.

Shocked the wave surged back to sea and threw
Back my garden furniture, the sea now tamed and
Mediterranean blue retreated, as the sun broke
Through a steel band of resentment sent friendly
Rays upon us and the morning sailed to noon.

the harvesting

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1074649230181







The Harvesting.

The sons of holocaust
use white phosphorous
against Palestinians,
their parents’ calamity
have made them monstrous.

The sons of Gaza
seeing their parents heartbreak
will be gruesome too.
hungry for settling scores
and erase their catastrophe.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the prophecy

The Prophecy


The horses that drink water in the shallow river
on the grassland look up spooked by a low flying
plane its enormous wingspan is a shadow of ill
omen, frightened the horses gallop till they are
are tired then begin grazing again.

The far mountain is Canadian blue and hazy, like
there should be a forest fire or another war on its
other side. A lotus swarm of helicopter gunships
appear, cross the flatland and jolt the horses into
gallop again; and the sky darkens.

Then on the far mountain appears a new sun, it
shines bright for a while then dies like a comet,
a storm blows the grass withers and when silence
comes the river is empty, the horses are dead;
and the mountain top is a cold diamond.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

The rock I used to climb was my mountain,
I had an unlimited view of fields, hedges,
trees and grazing animals;

Mice moved my mountain, too dangerous
for children, the field is full of little houses
and back yards with swimming pools;

Blue uniforms drive slowly around to see
If all is well, in nice streets cars are parked
but where are the kids on bikes?

This is twaddle, I give a shit where they
are as long as they keep off my lawn and
don’t steal my car.