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Dark Forces

There is a sense of ennui the déjà vu after a feast
life is not what we thought it was, the banner of battle
no longer flies on top of the town hall.
The hero is not a hero but a figure fluctuating in the wind
and ruled by outside forces where he is only the visible  
to fool the world into a shared vision of bravery.
There are so many other problems the scourge of pest
the sizzling heat burning human skin crisp
and rain that kills and sea that floods the landscape.
The undertone is getting louder; we have been lied to
dark forces seek a unipolar world, malleable people
into enslavement, where words are no longer truthful
but lies are endlessly repeated until lies are the truth.
It is late in the day, but there is a rumble of a fightback
the freedom of the individual precariously wilts like
grains of life die if not rescued by the rain of revolt.
Bridge to nowhere

I paddled down a narrow river
flanked by elm trees like paddling in a tunnel
A new road stopped the rivers flow
underground, the river streamed
Perhaps, if I carry my canoe to the other side
the river will continue as before
Not so.
By the side of the road sat two elderly men
“What are you doing here,” I asked?
“We wait for a bridge to be built, “they said
Answering in unison.
Have you waited long?
Yes, we have.
But what is the point with a bridge
If there is no river underneath?
The men smiled and said, “because we like
sitting under bridges.”
A dog’s day

It’s not that I’m lonely I like the beauty of the landscape
without having anyone to interrupt my thoughts, telling
me how nice it is.
My dog sees my mini-Savannah as enemy territory
barks and birds take flight leave her in the car with
open the window and try to take a few pictures.

We are going out for lunch, my wife and me, food
is not as great as nature, golden grain and green vines
it is about forks and knives looking decorous talking
about nothing and chewing in silence

The door to the yards is ajar so the dog can go into
the living room when we are out.
She pretends to be distraught it is an act, she knows
I will bring her leftovers; when we return, she great us
theatrically, I know she has slept on the sofa, drinking
water in the loo and barking at noises outside.
Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, ***** and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.
The combat in Ukraine

I have a problem; we know that Ukraine is a corrupt country
we also know it has fought a low-level war against
the Russian-speaking people in the Donbas region, so Russia
intervened, so far so good, but what is the next step?
If Russia holds on to the territory gained without having
an army station in the freed territories on a permanent basis
because Ukraine will cry foul and attack when they can.
Russia has always been a magnet for intruders because
of its potential riches and vastness.
There was a time when Yeltsin and his cronies were popular
they grabbed the state's assets and sold them down the Volga.
This was abruptly stopped, to the chagrin of the west
once more; Russia was the enemy.
I’m not partial to the Russian government’s plan, but as I see it
Russia has to occupy the whole of Ukraine and install a regime
that is permanently neutral and let Ukraine be a member
of the Russian federation.
In any case, the war must stop as thousands of young soldiers
die for the wrong reasons and the civilians are bombed senseless.
The oil of life

when one writes about minorities
no one wants to know, the next page is about knitting, please.
We do not like to read about losers
and our responsibility for their failure.
A tsunami came rolled over the landscape, changed it
and the language, unstoppable misery for the people
who lived there, but it brought us the automobile.
The Palestinians have lost most of their land and now
they are losing more, except their dignity.
We don´t want to know the next page about knitting, please.
Let us read about the super-rich and their yachts
and Rolls Royce, we like to see the pictures of them
in magazines, their villas and life mode-
we dislike the truth, and it demands us to sit up straight
and think about the world and the orangutan losing
their habitat to palm oil.
The army intruder

I live near a stream that has been running dry for years
into a winter lake that has been drained to a helicopter pad
trees around wear dusty uniforms.
There is edginess in Europe after many years of peace
the warrior monster is waking up.
The monster is ****** erratic and can strike at any time
asks for more weapons.
We think we know who the enemy is, as usual, but we are wrong
as we listen to the voice of antagonism.
A new page of history is written; we must make a choice
Not wait till millions of people are killed, the last bomb dropped
when a poet writes about the war, be “the guardian famous.”
The new peace will only last so long because the human mindset
is set on war; this is our tragedy.
The voice for peace is as puny as children cry in the symphony
of the battlefield.
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