the horse of dreams

I never had a rocking horse, but having read
about rich kids having one, I wanted one too.
On a dump, I found the tail of a rocking horse
fastened the end to the gate into the yard.
Sitting on the gate, swinging through and thro
and for a moment, I was Hoppalong Cassidy
till the hinges broke, I fell off.
The owner of the property swore, thought
it was the work of hooligans.
Years late, mother found the horsetail behind
the wardrobe, by then I was grown up
and didn’t bother with childish things.

Participation

I like to observe people, and the way they talk and act.
My dog observing me, knows when she has done
something wrong I’m angry, she also knows
my anger I mixed with love.
As a talented dog, she reads other people's minds also
baring her teeth if she thinks they are antagonistic.
I was a member of a Scandinavian group my dog
didn’t like them, so I quit.
I’m not a real poet if I sound like one it is entirely
by accident; however, I have written a few books
of vignettes, they serve the distinctions of not being read.
I never bother about this side; what is written stands
like a beacon that tells me I also participated.

A mountainous town

Lalitpur is a charming town among high mountains
the air is pure; no need to take a shower every day.
I was going there but, in Rome, I lost my passport
had to drive home to get a new one, which took
time and losing money.
Nepal is a small country often used as a tennis ball
by bigger countries in the region, for conflicts
killing thousands and condensing palaces to dust
covering mountains into a clock of sadness
Cry my lovely, I can only offer my understanding
when tourists evacuate on your sacred top
filling valleys with empty tunny tins, condoms and
the toilet papers flapping in the wind.
For tourists falling off cliffs, I only offer contempt
tourists that bestride and befoul a holy mountain.

Artists

Alfred, by chosen father, vehemently denies
the paternity and has had his statue erected in Faro.
At last, he was honoured for being glorious
bringing colour to an otherwise gloomy town.

Graffiti made by the like of Banksy charms
the rest is scribbling on a wall.

I know little about painters except for Caravaggio
he spoke the unvarnished truth about our life.
His critics like to point out that he was illegal too
what else to expect of the fearful.

A port in Italy

Livorno was a dark town with sparse light that appeared Russian
at an open place with many trucks and many women milling about
I paid one she bent over the bonnet of a car
did this to relieve the boredom and the onset of depression.
When the deed was done, I walked to a restaurant and bought
a bottle of wine, it was surprisingly good, probably Russian
I do not care for Italian wine.
The woman followed me, wanted wine also, said I was gentle.
After two bottles, she said she loved me.
When she went into the loo. I jumped into a taxi and drove
back to the ship feeling annoyed.
What has love got to do with this?

Not hearing

The old Canadian poet of Jewish ancestry
tall and elegant, wore his hat in a jaunty slant
reminded me of Alfred, my imagined father
the poet had a winning personality.

Remember the comma, they told me and write
about love, beautiful women and wine.

I used to wear a six-pence; Alfred made fun of me
learn to play the harmonica, he said
and leave your depressing poems; that was long
time ago before the Canadian was famous.

The ending

A **** heap collapsed with the speed of a Mercedes
with two batteries hurtling down a motorway in
an industrial landscape, grey as a Vera’s lonely life
amid crime and poverty.
On a night like this, how is it possible not to despair
battling a mass of sluggish dreams of endless harms
in a world bent on nuclear destruction.