I was in Trieste

It was in 1962, a revolution attempt that failed
roads had been churned; the American CIA tried to blend in
not successfully wearing Hawaii shirts to hide the guns.
I met her at the railway station, a small woman with a big suitcase
which I offered to carry at her lodging.
I was a polite young man, thanks to my communist mother.
It was a long road, a cobblestone road, was heavy going
I have come to think Federico Fellini was hiding in the case.
Arriving at her lodging, I was not invited to her room
she gave me a peck on the nose.
Later I learned she was a famous actress, but I wondered
why is she, in Trieste?

Mild obscurity

At the local supermarket, a woman not a day over seventy-five
asked me where she could find unsalted butter spoke
with an American accent.
What do I know, perhaps, she was related to the Kennedys?
By the butter- shelf we stood, there was a spark between us
like the Ronson-lighter I once bought in Liverpool, a heavy
lighter, I always knew in which pocket it was; now that smoking
is a sin the lighter ended up in the garage, only to be used
in extreme perseverance,
I had seen her before, in Trieste in 1962 she was a spy for the CIA
Smoked posh Monte Carlo cigarettes through a long holder
while drinking creme de menthe.
My wife stirred; leg cramps, switched on the bedside lamp
and I was brought back to reality.

The legs

Sitting in shorts. on the terrace, I bought ten years ago
I try to get a tan hiding them from the devastation of time.
Several vessels in the bay, I wonder what kept me sailing
long after the romance had gone.
I liked going ashore to meet people from life, not mine
it was fascinating to see what was an important ritual  
for them and why.
The in-between time, called the deep sea, was often long, not
being talkative, I spent my time reading in my cabin.
Hundreds of books were read over time, some the good
others were a waste of time…almost.
Books were my escape from tedium; I made notes
of words to use later but somehow lost them when leaving.
At the time, I relied on my memory of the unwritten.

Looking at things

Walking on cobblestones is an ordeal
and more is the traffic, I look out of the window
when I walk on my treadmill count how many
cars going around the roundabout.
When I have counted 500, I stop this treadmill
15 minutes have gone by.
When I lived at the border of Alentejo I walked
on the soft grass and counted flowers
saw grass grow into fodder for sheep.
A Moldavian family bought my house, people
tell me how lucky I was selling the house
I had many offers but told no one, hence “lucky.”
My lyrical mine is all but dried up, now reduced
to write about furniture, a sad fall from grace.

The war games
  
Yesterday afternoon in Finland, as happy people walked about
content in their world of social welfare and full employment
a train loaded with armoured tanks was seen heading for
the Russian border as spring light danced on the lakes.
What do I know, that might be the military's yearly outing?
As the wolves howl lustily to the stars and the trout wakes
in the streams of spring.
Is it, God forbid, a strategic baiting to divert the Russian army?
From Ukraine. If so, this is a dangerous war game.
Finland has a long border with Russia, 1400 kilometres, therefore
2-to 300 tanks a drop in the forest, but enough to make a point.
I prefer to think it is a manoeuvre performed in days of light.

Of men and plants


The endless growing of new leaves
of my indoor plants, shedding the excess
all over the floor, as disregarded dreams
getting in the way of the day.

Female hyenas are good mothers teaching
their litter is how to scare off lions.


Restless minds are not sound as leaders
who overthink everything and have nervous breakdowns?
Sit shaking in the corner on the bridge of warships
excellent, dancers in the ballroom of peace.

The song contest.
There has been a song contest in Europe
Russian singers and musicians were banned
Which makes the contesting political?
Needless to say, Ukraine won.
One notice Israel appeared but not
Palestine, who was mourning a dead reporter
Killed by an Israeli ******, but we will not hold
this against he musicians and singers