Random Journey

Is the inception of a voyage the end of abstract nothingness?
Or the beginning of conscious life as driving to town buying the papers.
I remember a song, “Set sail at Sunset.” humming the words.
A red sun and calm sea, this not the crossing of Styx after sundown
ss it immaturity making fun of me again you can’t sail to Afghanistan?
I can sail there in a balloon and land where the Taliban shoots holes in the sky
smoke American cigarettes, we can drink coffee and have a natter.
The problem is, you can’t see any women like they do not exist.
It is like walking without crutches on a broken leg.
No one reads the “Guardian” in this part of the world.
I sit here and wait not for crossing any rivers but to sail the seventh ocean.

What you Like

I’m not dying to die, but like being slimmer,
be free of this overweight body, this harness of humanity.
It was not always I was young once.
In a way simmered down at middle age, suitable they said
balderdash, I wanted a daughter but didn’t find a woman
fitting the bill, they were too stupid, I wanted my child
to be a genius.
I met a female doctor once we had too much to drink
she refused to be a mother of my child.
Suddenly I was old had no future, no higher grade.
From the old people’s home, they came bathed me
changed wet sheets and said it was ok.
They gave me food I didn’t like flushed it down the loo
and drove to my restaurant, there they know what I like
and treat me like a man.

A letter of love
He is old, ten years ago he was old also
if lesser in years.
She is his niece, but love is like rain
falls where it pleases.
The Rain in Spain has nothing to do with this
as rain has nothing to do with love.
He wrote a poem about her long hair and sleek body
her dark brown eyes as well.
She cast her head angrily; what can he do a helpless mute.
It was not his intention to do anything about his love for her
dictated for his love for her.
Her indignity she was ashamed her uncle had had improper thought
he wrote the poem out of love.
She doesn’t ring anymore, the infatuation was abstract,
not meant to come to fruition that is not reprehensible.
Love has its rhythm like the ocean’s waves.

The soul of Christmas

Now that Hanukkah or Jul is upon us there talk about souls
floating about in listless bodies.
To believe that the soul is an entity a part of the body
is a fallacy the last bastions for the day-dreamers who think there is an afterlife?
The reluctance to accept death as an integral part of all life.
Graves are a gift to florists and those who steal flowers from graves
to make homes charming and festive.
So, what about the soul? does it disappear when Alzheimer comes knocking
one hopes the body will join the soul before memories are erased.

Unnoticed

Reading the papers and seeing the news on TV
the festive season has begun, like an eager blue tractor
little time for those caught up in wars;
We will remember them at the dinner table.
A woman received 8 million dollars in a divorce settlement
she had had aromatherapy worthy of a queen.
New knee caps worthy of Nefertiti’s found in the sand.
The divorcee can afford her hip bones if ever found,
according to the newspapers who live on rumours.
Archaeologists are looking for the ancient queens’ ***** hairs,
Now, that deserves big headlines.

Make it short

Soothing rain on slates
Heal nerves torn to tatters
Unforgiving is life.

Rain is decanting
A transparent carpet of silk
Untouchable beauty.

Rain chased by gusts
Mad dance around corners
A day fit for heroes.

The dread

He had slept too long hours lost
in a dream of deep dissatisfaction down a well of evil failure.
The depth had a silt of regrets and self- disgust.
Getting back up was slow progress
like an eagle flying in a vacuum.
Reluctant awakening as visiting death.
This time of the year makes him nervous it is called the festive season.
Christmas lunch.
Fake friendship from the nearest table by people who hated one another.
There was the beginning of an argument by a guest in his cups.
He had hoped it would last, truth even when not welcome, is delicious.
Dreaming by the log fire sounds romantic,
but he could only afford two bars on his electric heater.
Sitting in a restaurant eating third rate food was worse.