The freedom of the media


Freedom of speech and freedom of information
have now been restricted unless you watch the news
from approved channels.
I watch the news from the USA channels, from BBC
and Portuguese news; not to forget France 24.
I watched Russian TV since it carries alternative news
Take the news of Donbas, did you know the Russian
speakers tired the Ukraine army shelling has fled to
Russia, hundred thousand, by bus and rail.
This the western media keeps away from us because
we might consider Ukraine in a more sober way
The nail in the coffin of freedom of dialogue is shut.

War in Europa

Never have I seen so many well-dressed refugees
fleeing a country where few bombs fall on people.
Never have I seen a media totally unbiased
stirring up a war that has yet to produce victims.
This winter, the hungry and the cold were stopped
at the border of Poland stopped by water cannons
and dogs.
The refugees came from Libya, Afghanistan, Africa
and most of them were not pristine white one could
be forgiven thinking we are watching discrimination
of the worst type.
War is to be condemned, but the media is suffering
from amnesia, whipping people into a frenzy like it
should be the first and only war in Europe.

Tour 1

A man with blue-rinsed hair was the tour’s leader
we stopped outside Edith Piaf’s former home where she was born
The house is still the dwellings steps into the house
were well-trod.
Our leader held up a picture of the lady, a photo I had seen
on YouTube, he told us a fairy tale about her goodness
for a moment, I thought he was talking about a saint.
We retired to a café where he sang, “La vie en rose” and forever
Destroyed the most beautiful of songs.
Tour 2
Fighting my way through the metro and jostling with rude commuters
I found my way back where Edith was born; the street was taken
over by the Chinese wedding, the brides were lovely.
While sitting on the steps where Edith used to live, her voice
came back to me; the offensive man with blue-rinsed hair
didn’t succeed in destroying the song
It was a beautiful autumnal day, Edith and I walked to a park overlooking Paris.,
we drank absinthe and coffee.
At a safe distance, I saw the fabled Eifel tower looking old
yet elegant in glorious sunlight.

What stones tell

I followed a track in the landscape, rocks dug up
clay clings to the stones unhappy and exposed in the daylight
need a good shower, but it will not rain for a while.
Not that it matters, stones will be churned into grit this year.
They have been in a dreamy limbo for aeons; the dream they
dreamt is a whisper in the wind, walk softly and listen.
TV is full of triviality photogenic politicians who talk loudly
are our leaders of tomorrow.
False promises, forgotten like the grit.
Dream time over, what is left is the stark truth giving light
in the walk of the life destined for us, the human race
as the stones murmur in the wind.

Ancient battle

Beautiful field blood-red poppies
ringed with delicate dandelions.
Once a battlefield
the righteous, in blue uniforms
shiny golden buttons.
The terrorists of the time
were farmers and shepherds.
The revolutionaries lost the battle
and many more.
In the end, the rebels won
got their land back.
When the field is ploughed
human skull appears
rebel or soldiers, who knows?
Rusty buttons surface too
not of gold, after all.

Is war coming?

The sky is subdued, military jets scream across awful thunder.
Soldiers in the wood, guns at the ready, the dog took fright
disappeared in the bushes.
Deep silence walked past them ignored my greetings
am I the target? Vultures circled around, sensing a meal.
With a sharp order from an officer, the soldiers march eastward.
The dog came back from its hiding place looking shameful.
The warning of war is coming this way sure as lightning
60 years of peace- except the Balkans- we are spooked.
People of Europe hence the scramble to find a way back home,
where they will feel safe huddled together
hoping; the war will not affect them.
The news speaks about patriotism, time to take sides.
When the war is over, those who chose wrongly will be hanged
on the winning side, wave flags and feel heroic.

Distant country


The flat was on the third floor, flights of wooden stairs
deep groves from generations of people going up and down
in the living room, I sat down, had been away too long.
The autumn wind blew, the house swayed and creaked
like an old schooner meeting the Atlantic swells.

The room was simple, a few pictures and an Amateur
painting of a rowboat in a fiord, a boathouse and blue sky
afar the silhouette of a mountain range, the painting was
ominous by its deadness; got up went down the same stairs
I entered; the past and those I knew had gone.