Brussel

I dream of a river clear
As a nun’s tears
In a landscape of flowers.
Bees, don´t sting
Nestles is banned.
Honeysuckles
Is a dulcet word.
I think of a woman
who came to my village?
Years ago.
Her smile lingers
Her laughter
Alentejo wine
Not the supermarket type
With plastic top
And fake labelling.
The river of love
Runs to Brussel.
This is odd, Brussel  
Is a rain heavy place
And little else.
Except
For wonderful chocolate
And tasty beer.

The climate

Is an elephant on *****
Weaned off.
Going berserk
Throwing things around
Tearing the
Polaris into fragments.
Hurricanes
Storms
Flooding.
Scorching summers
Arctic winters
There is no end
To the elephants
Despair.
Slim the elephant
Normal food
It will soften
Its rampage
And trumpeting.

Nature wonders

The morning was ice blue
Cold
Wild animals
Freeze
Whish, they had
A human overcoat
The sun thawed
Raindrops
Big as balloons
Exploded on impact
Damaged cars
Drowned cats
The sun
Dried its tears
Dogs barked
Came out of barns
The day
Continued
As nothing had happened.

The Imitators

He has worked in the garden of poetry
Forty years gone.
The soil is meagre and the plants are eaten
By boars, they applaud him with grunts.

To find the roots and transplant them on a page
Or in the garden of literature, is not easy.
The gardener is famed for his genius or a charlatan
Of rose bushes.

Truth rears its ugly head, there are doubters
Who will not be silent, he knows when his plant’s
Has been purloined.
Better than not be read at all.

Writing on the Internet

Before the internet
Killed off
The small press
He often sent poetry around
And was thrilled
To see his work
Printed on paper.
A book to collect.
Poetry/short stories
Are not the same
Published on a computer.
The work disappears
In the vast maze
Never to be seen again.
When he switches off
The computer
It is gone
Like it never existed
What is left
Is a blank screen
that needs dusting.

Virtue

I wish
I could write
A love song
From the heart
About a mountain stream,
Were cynicism
Dare not enter
Not intrude
As sarcasm
Is banned
Sorry to say
Cannot have lived
That long
I know when hearts
Cries
For the loss
Of innocence

Maggots
  
If ******* *****
From millions of seafarers
Over a hundred years.
Think of this floating loneliness
had met up and formed
An Island.
And up from its depth
Sprung the unborn
Like larvae
Whose only contact
With mothers
Depended
On what the ******
was dreaming at the time.
Not a new Atlantis emerging
But an island
Of tedium
And tired desire.
Not on a chart
To see its existence
So, be careful when dreaming.