They are coming to take you away, aha.

I hate corners know he will be standing there
A Parisian Apache, one leg resting on a wall
Of a closed-down factory.
Smoking Gitane a cigarette.
Sharpening his stiletto, cleaning his fingernails.
Or a farmer, stony ground fed up, takes his *****
and cut my throat,
A geyser of blood that will fertilize the floor
it could also happen walking home after an evening
at the pub, falling face down in a puddle where yellow welly floats.
It could be so banal, as falling when going to the loo
with a broken nose, no one hears the muffled screams
dying and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide, sleep in it every night
wake up in the morning dead, with sunlight on my pale face.

The Foreigner

What does one do when your pension is small?
He lived in an industrial town in England not green and pleasant.
Rows of brick houses, a tiny front yard too narrow for a car.
He could not thrive here; going back to Sweden was out
too expensive he would need help from the state to hand him accommodation.
He settled in Portugal, a country he knew little about
low wages, and he could get by with his modest pension.
He bought a ruin, fixed it up, and had a home of his own.
He never learned the language, can go to a café, no need to speak.
He had planned to live out in his house, but elderliness and illness
stopped this dream.
He sold his house moved in with his partner,
she has a big flat
and he helps pay the bills.
Life is good, but when he closes his eyes, his thoughts go back
to his small house and a dog, he had.

Once Greenland
Had bananas
Monkeys sat in trees
Snakes in the grass.
Then it colder
The jungle vanished
Ice took over.
Yet
The Vikings
Did farming
Had cows
And root plants.
When it got too cold
They took the cow
Home
To Norway
In longboats.
The clime
Had changed
Now it is changing
Again.
Will, it ever snow
In New Delhi.

Arguing with GPS.

Pernicious words, hatred spewed in impotent rage
against the female voice telling me to turn left at the first roundabout
“Shut up, silly cow, I know this road better than you.”
“You never follow my instruction is it because I'm a woman?”
“No dear, it is because I know the roads around here better than you.”
  “So, you don´t need me anymore?
  “No, dear is no so when sitting alone in the car it is nice to hear a friendly voice.”
   Sobbing and soft music from the GPS.
  “You have to follow the instruction,” she said, sounding like my doctor.
   He got angry and said, “I can turn you off if I want to.”
   She said you will regret this when driving to Lisbon.”
  When arriving home, the voice said, “you have arrived at your destination.”
  For heaven’s sake, I know.

A happy ending?

A camel and a dog
Tired of performing
Every night
At a circus.
Escaped.
The camel walked
On top of it
Sat the dog
guiding the camel.
They found the valley
Seen on a map
In the window
Of a book shop.
They lived happily
Till the died.
The dog´s tongue
Stung by a bee
Could not swallow.
The camel died too
When the water
In the lake
Got brackish.

The Refugees
The west was a result of its constant interference and war in the middle east
has created the refugee problem we see in Poland.
two autocracies, one is Poland sliding into a fascist state
the other is a communist state Belarus.
Between the as a buffer, hapless refugees, freezing and hungry
waiting to be let into Europe.
The EU leaders are in flux, their incompetence is glaring
and their lack of vision is none existing.
The refugees don´t want to stay in Poland or in Belarus
they have had enough of tyranny.
The EU has a duty to open up a corridor for the migrants
so, they can walk to Germany or France or some other countries
all they want is work, bread and peace.
We in the west created this problem we which must come up with a solution.
It must be done now before we lose our common humanity.

Warped tree, kinked man

Today, I will not argue with Walter on Facebook or Twitter.
I was reading poems from my last collection and was surprised
to find an internal rhythm.
To my horror, I find Walter has unfriended me my friendly thoughts
burned into insignificance.
When I had a motorbike, I often visited the crooked tree
I said:” you look better today, my friend.”
The roots of the tree curled in bashfulness.
At the entrance of the village, an old olive tree they came with an axe
wanted to cut it down, replace it with a signpost.
I protested, so did the other villagers.
The tree is perhaps 500 years old, and we are not
brutish settlers.
But someday, people with no sense of beauty will axe it.