This beautiful country is in the gripe of the pandemic.
Pyre after pyre burns in the night.
Ash and ashes fill the mourners settle on their clothes
and death is inhaled.
The people of this ancient land are stoic because
they know that there is no death, only a continuation
No politician can break the pact the Indian people have
with the past and future; and wordless Gandhi the great
river flows into a new beginning.
a little argument in Portugal
at the pharmacy
a man tried to get in front of me
I would have none of it
We had words.
But something he said
Stuck in my mind;
We don´t like you (foreigners)
We only tolerate you.
The people at the pharmacy
I had the sense they agreed with him.
On a bed attached to many wires, my body was prodded
by female hands, at my age, it was not everyday people touch me.
My heart sounded like an old steam-ship battling the waves off Greenland
seeking calmer water; as for my pacemaker, it sounded like
a pump in need of repair.
I fell asleep, which caused laughter from the staff; it is not often
happen to a patient.
Then it was over. I thanked the staff, the finding if any, will be delivered
by my doctor next week, she can also take a look at the lump
In the middle of the chest, the last time I was operated
for this, it was called cancer.
Looking out, the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in the corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded gave birth to a scream which
Shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped became petrified like
were fish eyes glared as the day was punished down an abyss.
Of black, shiny boots trampled all fragment.
But the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside
on my mind.
Closer and closer they came
old women with faces made of lava
and stinking volcanic mouths.
Bodies of soil after years of drought,
dead oasis simmered
between thin thighs and haloes
of brittle hair.
They slowly stomped during ancient dust
covered their bird claw feet.
I turned and fled through a thorny bush.
Stumbled into indifference time.
Fell into a muddy lake
and drowned in a cascade of ages.
What few see
99% of people do not care about poetry
and why should they?
The sheep who feed among the olive trees,
the furtive fox, is crossing a field.
the forest full of life and rabbits jumping over
A sinking stone walk.
The climbing rose flower surrounding a house.
Where an old lady leaves and her grandson bringing
Her food and the latest news.
The cat sleeping on the old roof
And the eagle high up seeing what is worth hunting.
The beauty of nature we are too busy seeing.
Yet, poets write about it.
It is a hopeless task, but they are doomed to report
A sleek body arose from the bath
foam fondled her thighs
and the triangle of life.
The fire in the hearse hissed
painted her body with the fire of lust,
only the window saw her body´s hunger.
A pail of frost slowly dissolves
an ember of love lends warms to the night.
Tender is her longings.