The amber moon

Super moon last night saw it from my terrace
18% brighter and 20% nearer, said the meteorologist
How unromantic can you get?
Hugh yellow and beautiful, so close I could reach
The moon with my broom, I felt the pull levitated
And dared to dream big.
Beauty should be shared till it becomes
A memory pooled by lovers, but you were not there.
This was a night of the vague nearness of the one you love.
I walked on a sandy lane thinking of your absence.

The armless

Once I had a snack bar selling soft drinks and unhealthy food
long hours of total boredom and fattening.
I tried to get a drinking license, but a Christian party was
in power at that time, said no.
One Sunday morning, a young man without arms came in
he was drunk, his fly was open, wanted a beer but settled
for a coke with a straw; then he fell asleep.
He awoke and needed a ***. I helped him with this.
Later he told me he was going to Oslo to have artificial arms
fitted, I was glad for him.
I closed the snack bar for the rest of the day took the dog
for a walk, my problems were trifling compared with his.

Home invasion

IKEA, the Swedish furniture giant
Is invading your home
Wherever you go homes look the same
all in pine and is a blend of office
and living room
A mother has put her daughter to bed
she sits by a computer and works
(No men in the IKEA world)
No books clutter the space, bookshelves
are for ornamental use a place for toys.
on the wall some friendly print
purposely abstract and tedious
There is no individual taste in a picture
of hygge, a unipolar world, will we drive
a Tesla next?

SATURDAY MORNING

The alarm bell has a modified
Saturday tone
And I murmur
give me 5 minutes more.
A good night’s sleep
A peaceful morning
I doze off.
Give me 5 minutes more.
I get up, make a coffee
The good feeling continues
The world is wonderful
Until the phone rings!

The long life

The knowledge of living forever is already here
all one has to do is renew the old cells for new ones
once a year starting when forty or thereabout when
a person is self-sufficient.
It is also possible to renew cells so often on regress
to infancy and looked after by your son who is unable
to grasp he is changing his father’s *****.
Longevity has its own risk of how to live you can alight
from the Garston, bus nr 9 and be knocked down
by a car, the autopsy will show the person was not forty
But 110.
The best way to get old is to **** someone in Oklahoma
get 200 years in a padded cell be fed by a slot in the wall
and when the conviction comes to an end
refuse to leave the prison, your home on earth.

Meeting Van Gogh

The wheat field is blond as a German milkmaid.
Intense heat, in the shade of an olive tree
I saw a grumpy Van Gogh is glaring at me for
appearing in his painting.
My scooter is electric blue and doesn’t fit in.
Easy now, my painter, pretend it is a mule.
The vine, deep green or dark cerulean
soon bottles of liquid pleasure.
The road in your landscape is like a mamba
sneaking its way, killing rabbits blue.
The afternoon sun is fierce, sweat in my eyes
I fall among thistles, and Van Gogh smiles.

Body obsession

Naked, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror
and asked are you sure this is you?
I’m a fat man with ******* and a big stomach but legs
thin as twigs on the almond tree.
I have diabetes, but that is no excuse, somehow
I eat too much
90% of my food intake is vegetables, not potatoes
no rice or bread, no beer most of the time, so how
could it come to this when what I like is banned?
I like whisky mixed with cold water before bedtime
and now I wait for the health brigade to tell me
Whisky is fattening, bad for the liver and the heart
I will not believe you; too many lies have been told.
I’m body shaming myself. Pathetic!!!

A fine day in Cascais

A beautiful spring day in Cascais, the centre full of people
which I found a little disturbing.
We moved slowly on old legs like weather bitten barges
in a sea of jubilant racing boats.
It was warm, down by the sea, and we were overdressed.
My wife’s niece had the patience of an angle adjusted her
strides to our gaits, not easy I’m sure she is a picture of
healthy living.
We had lunch, theirs was fish, I settled for a Greek salad
no wine though knows from experience unless you by
a full bottle, the wine served individually in glasses tend
to be inferior to the residue of bottled wine of dubious taste.
We drank beer, and the healthy niece stuck to water.

Doomed is the river

Twenty years ago, the river ran 2 meters deep
had trout we caught with a net and fried over
a small fire with delicious fresh food.
Every year I have seen the river getting smaller
even in the winter rain.
Years ago, three children were caught by a wall
of water, their father was arrested, they said
he had fed the children to his pigs but not
a single button was found in the pigs, enclosure
The broken father was set free, and every
summer I see walking along the river’s banks
hope to find his children’s bones, there is none.

Bug

On my blue-lined writing pad, a tiny ****** walk
It appears hesitant and lost before crossing a line
Lost in the vast wilderness. of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
Itself and will not budge.
I cannot touch it, tiny as it is I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now leave it to its own device
Go and watch TV.
When returned the insect was gone, a sheet of paper
With nothing written is a lonely place, no story to tell
But leaving behind a nagging question, the beginning
Of depression and the sense of futility.

Huldra

In a green valley near a blue lake
where pink salmon swam lived a Huldra.
She was beautiful as seen by human eyes
trolls found her ugly and rejected her.
I heard her desolate song
Saw her shimmering blond as Iberian
sea straw is made golden by the sun.
I saw her tail too.
Before spelling me, I sprinted away.
Folklore has made it clear.
Humans and trolls must not mix blood
because if they do mix, the offspring
will be rejected by both groups
and for perpetuity be lost
walking the strand of loneliness.

(Huldra, female troll in Nordic Mythology)

The Muir

As a child living on a farm during the war
had a pond on peatland, the pond’s water
was fenny and dark.
Slow swimming trout that tasted of mud
Swam, near the surface of the pond.
My friend and I built a boat with sails,
It sunk, I clung to the mast, Peter swam
didn’t make it, screamed before being
dragged under by something atrocious.
The adults came running, they didn’t find
Peter, the pond had endless silt, lukewarm
infinite, its foundation in the maelstrom
of conflicting horrors.

Dawn´s sky


Dawn, the sky is lit up by the unseen sun
clouds from the ocean were coming in they looked rain heavy
not a sound broke the stillness.
This was the last day of the year and he was still here on the terrace
able to see the birth of a new day and he was privileged
the world had given him a gift.
The night had been restless and fearful, the thought of his death
had disturbed him, no point resisting the oncoming it was futile
he had said to himself and the dark night.
He felt a chill the rain was coming in faster than he had thought
He got inside, made a coffee and warmed food from yesterday
Feeling good he had always been frugal it was his way

Alfred and the wilderness  

Alfred, who with the greatest of ease tells, me he is not my father
and Olga, he had a brief affair with In Belgrade, is not my mother
we went for a walk across a green field.
Alfred who is a musician and never ventures out in the landscape
saw some grazing sheep and wondered if they were dangerous,
no, I said they are sheep and born friendly
as God created them, to this Alfred called me a crypto-Christian.
A little Lamb came up to my father, it was so sweet,
as only a lamb can be. he lifted it up which the ewe disliked,
and it butted him in the rear.
Alfred was shocked, got up and demanded I bring him to safety
in the nearest town; never trust animals they are all out
to get us he said while limping to safer ground.

Deserted by Alfred


It was not my fault I had no shoes
And the police stopped and asked and since it was none of their business
I naturally told them to *******.
was handcuffed and put in a police car, which was more cooling than
the asphalt, after all, it was October in Albufeira.
I thought this is a perfect movement when a father defends his son
but Alfred who refuses to be my father had gone home
I was left to explain this ridiculous case, but luckily the Portuguese
police force felt sorry for me and let me go.
Next day I bought a pair of sneakers in a Chinese shop and my father
who refuses to be my father was wearing my leather uppers?

Domestic crime

The couple was nicely suntanned, but the woman had
a black eye, he was very courteous to her, tried to hold
her hand, she didn’t want to, he reddened in anger.
Well-dressed, the couple were on a way to a restaurant
meeting friends, no doubt a droll story would be told
how she got a black eye.
The men would believe the story, women exchange
because in the hapless woman's eyes they saw the truth.
They would find out-women talk- when at the ladies
powdering the noses.
The unlucky one would beg them not to say a word
he loves me but has a bad temper when I nag him
he slaps me; it is my fault for not understanding him.
He was very sorry for giving me a black eye, he cried
promised me not to hit me anymore.

Love is a spring day.

In a parking lot, two plastic bags danced
in the spring breeze elegantly circled each other
came near almost, touched but danced away
only to dance close again and shyly kissed
A paper napkin with smeared lipstick
wanted to join in, but the dancers only had
eyes for one another.
shamed the napkin, took refuge under a car  
that drove off, no place to hide.
It danced alone in slow motion; eyes closed
as it was dreaming, the lipstick smiled.
A gust of wind blew the napkin to the sky
away from the parking lot, to a secret place
only exploited paper napkins know of.

Autumn light

Softly they walk on a day in October
The old man and sunlight among olive trees
Planted when his grandfather was young.

On the track hove marks from sheep
That walk here daily on the way home
After grazing upland.

Bits of fleece on thorny bushes
Black pellets and the pungent aroma
Of the woolly-backed still lingers.

He sees the old cottage, warped roof
And bushes grow through the floor
He doesn’t stop; it was all so long ago.

Light is fading time, to leave for him
Autumn evening evenings can be chilly
Not so good for his chest.

Epiphany

It was an incredible summer in 1950 the war was over things were getting
back to normal, mother's new boyfriend who worked at a factory had
a rowboat and paid holiday leave. A Sunday early we rowed to a small island
in the bay, mother had brought a blanket, sandwiches in brown paper bags
mostly jam I think and two bottles of soft drink, water and cold milk that soon
was off, and a thermos flask of coffee. The boyfriend gave me a line with
a hook on told me to go fishing- telling me what to do is not easy not even for me-
in the shallow water near the pier as bait, I found a worm under a stone thread
the living thing on the fishhook.
the water was crystal clear had tiny fishes that looked like rainbows swimming
about I saw the sky I was in a trance thought I was what I saw took a step
forward and landed in the water people came running helping me up back I was
in real-time mother came running to shout at me as mothers do and worried
about my delicate health. Rowing back into town again the boyfriend was grumpy
and suggested I had fallen into the water to get the attention I said little in my defence
how could I explain for a moment I had understood everything, but on the other hand, he could have been right, how is a boy supposed to know

The vale of the rich

A strange place houses as big as castles tall forbidding walls
on top of broken glass in cement: gates that can withstand
armoured tanks.
Lush dale but no humming bees or bird song too much pesticide
for the sake of beauty, what’s left is graveyard peace.
I sat on my bike for an hour in the hope of seeing people, but no.
Each palace was like an islet cut off from the world outside,
here they need no one and no one needs them, splendid isolation
Like an asylum of the weary madness.
Just as I was to leave a hearse pulled up an iron gate, the gate
opened and let, well even rich people must die, prisoners of wealth.
I ought to take some of them outside, so they see a bit of real-life
before a hearse arrives.

The facets of love.

I love you, and your face loves itself
for its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The way you walk, the pavements adore you
Rain shies away not to make your hair wet.
I love you, and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street horn bleats
by themselves, white cars turn pink
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The sun doesn’t burn your skin makes
it golden glows in the dark
till one day the mirror tells of a wrinkle
you know years are ganging on you
your enemy is time, wait in the wings
The furrows settle on your forehead
I love you but your face doesn’t love itself
Car horns do not blare anymore
Get off the road, you lazy old woman.
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure.

What’s the time?

The dictator is obsessed with time
he has thousands of wrist-watches and wall clocks
showing the time in different time zones.
At noon, he checks the time zones if it is ten o’clock
Somewhere else, he adjusts his star-studded Rolex
In his mind, he has gained two extra hours.
The time is a must for the dictator, he is getting old
and fear the breath of the dead and the power.
He spends too much time alone, only seeing people
on the screen, political helpers consist of faces
Suspicious by nature, he tries to read if the faces
are treacherous trying to unseat him he needs total
loyalty to feel secure, he knows he is right they are
plotting against by fighting his war timidly yet know
if he falls, they will perish too.

The time gone

Do not spill my blood.
On wasteland
Do not bury my last scream
In a grave.
I will walk softly
Across the screen
Leave no trace.
Only a whisper.
In the years to come
You will hear an echo
Recalling my name.

It is a plant’s life.

Up in the continuous night, I saw a streak of light
a dying comet’s last hurrah.
Bedroom in darkness couldn’t sleep too much death
for one night.
Got up and read a book about plants speaking
to each other.
Warning, “heavy-footed human coming your way.”
“Duck, a lawnmower is going amok.”
Amputated roses and tulips chafes in a vase kept
alive for a few days, admire the agony of flowers.
Carrots scream when pulled up from the soil,
good for your health the dietician says.
Everything we do hurts someone, especially plants
except a few that can poison you.
Is my dentist a gardener of my teeth?

A cigarette

Dawn and the mist, what else expect
On Lake Martin early spring?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades.
The silence is absolute; I dare not inhale
A bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise.
I hear the faint noise of outboard motors
The moment of ethereal stillness was gone,
I lit a cigarette smoke inhale, blow
Rings of delight in the morning air.

Wherefore
  
there is a question, philosophers and goat herders
have in common with the rest of us a modest multitude
the query is, what is the purpose of our life
from a single ***** cell to fighting its way to survival and life
and we ask for what purpose?
We know the outer shell of what we are is based on
the environment we live in, such as education and friends
we meet and dream about.
But the question remains, why are we survivors and what
is the purpose of life that often changes unplanned by us?
The cynical among us have an easy answer,
but they cannot tell you why they become suspicious and
why Adolf became ******.
The nearest answer I can think of is that life is a prelude
to a new existence, an astral life form free of ego and ownership
will not be asked, we are free
liberated of the life that weighed us down on earth.
God is not in this picture, an abstraction we give thanks to when a war ends
and pray to during a new war which is like wildfire
there are always conflicts that are not planned but just happen
on life on our planet.
humanity is like a lost child in an amusement park, the colours
of the blinking light are a warning, outside the park is dark we look
for guidance but cannot find the answer.

tabula rasa
when we are born a child has no memory
one can say clean slates, after a few days they pick up
the basic like crying when hungry
from there on we fill the baby with what we know
a knowledge handed down from our parents, and the child
when it learns to read beliefs without reflection
what they are told must be the truth.
sometimes the child has a new thought, and it says what if this
is not valid, that is when the memory it didn´t have
is remembered, something that is clean and true about the life
we live an illusion made up of a generation of lies told
to keep us docile, most children dismiss this idea and go on
playing football, but a few listens to the voice of verity
and not knowing how to shut up tell everyone that life is more
than they have ever imagined.
those children are embarking on a long track that sometimes
leads to jail terms and sometimes to an early death
by those who know they are speaking the truth but try to say
the child has a criminal mind.
the road ahead of the few is long, and there is no happy ending
except for the knowledge, they have given them comfort

Down the dumps

Fog everywhere, walking on a mass of corpses
sludge of rotting flesh, sinks deeper into arms and legs
embracing me like I should be one of them.
Swam ashore in the lake of loss, soup of death
banks of bones.
A woman in white helped me up; she too
a haze and disappeared.
Totter in a desert of nothingness, heard footsteps
death wanted me to return to the lagoon of
reconstructed dreams.
Heart pounding, but there, the horizon’s dawn
the sun of life warmed my face if only briefly.
The sky rained the blood of the evicted.
Drops of rubies, in each one, the nucleus of me
lies and delusion engraved.

In defence of Donald Trump

How does one write about the indefensible? A person, so ****** brass and
egocentric lusting for power; Yes, I think of Donald Trump, the impossible.
Why is it after being banned by the press and Twitter, he is now more popular
than ever before, it is, I think, because he speaks the language people understand
He knew his enemy and how to appease them by putting the embassy in Jerusalem
get the Israeli off his back, knowing how much power in America they yielded.
But Israel got a whiff of his thinking of them press betted on another horse,
America first, the Americans living away from Washington   Get it and will vote for
him at the first opportunity.
The majority of true Americans are not stupid; they know the reality of being prisoners
of Washingtons Jewish influence, America first, is a rallying call to make people free
of the poisonous influence of Israel.
They know this, the people of the plains, the prairies of America are not free before
the land is free of the occupations of the true America.

Haughty Nation

“They crap in our forest”, a young man yelled
the Roma people had pitched a tent near the woods
where people of this tolerant nation go hunting.
They came here the people from afar to seek work
but are usually met with contempt and mistrust.
They came in the hope of getting a share
in this nations’ largesse, but ran into racism
unbecoming pride like it was their cleverness
that brought up oil from the bottom of the sea.
Now, instead of being unassuming, they became  
reactionaries giving pompous advice to less
fortunate countries.
“They crap in our forest”, nourishing an imbecilic
nation, that due to undeserved riches has lost
contact with reality and a kind- heart- ness.

The Anguish

An old memory inhabits the shadowland
she had a headache, doctors made tests, yes, her case was fatal
After the funeral, her sister arranged coffee and cakes
and sandwiches.
Relatives eyed the furniture and her many dresses
since most of the things in the flat had belonged to the departed
some of the stuff would fall to them.
I found this distressing and hoped the wake would be over
they did leave and left me to do the washing up.
Her presence was strong, she filled my thoughts was as
I could hear her talk.
Gradually she let go and got her golden memory of love.

Ageing dictator

The dictator is entering old age
his face is taken the appearance of a shrunken apple
but he still likes to look masculine.
Sitting wide-legged in a suit that is too tight.
He is not able to hide the beginning of a girth
he finds this annoying and swims several times a day.
He reads a lot but often draws the wrong conclusion
his anger toward the west is understandable
the broken promises of NATO and the USA
fills him with wroth he regards this as a lack of respect
for his beloved Russia.
The war in Ukraine is to say, will you respect me now?

In the absence of hatred

This man called Anders, a mass murderer, sits in his cell
a gigantic spider spinning a web of curiosity
we get entangled in.
We ask questions he cannot answer; if he could, we would
perhaps not care for the answers.
Learned men will write weighty books that will create
more questions are no valid answers, but abstract theories
why did this cataclysm happen?
Forget him as you forgot last winter.
Let him disappear into the labyrinth of the criminally insane.
When he dies, sooner than you think, do not make
big headlines of his demise.

Once a Christmas

The sun was blood red looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
Dripped blood on white, wholly cloud which slowly
turns red as the bandage of a fatally shot soldier
who slowly dies of his wounds?
His eyes turned into a mirror of the cold sky.
In the air is torn into puffs of powder an ambulance
comes to an abrupt halt, a man on the ***** floor
surrounded by presents for his family, his eyes
reflects the absurdity of a Yule decorated supermarket.
His wife will get a voucher.
As I drive home, a bag of night opens and strews its
soothing darkness over the land, but nearby
an anguished elephant has its tusks sawn off by a dentist.

Wood Talk

The wood delivery man came this warm sunny afternoon
the man wanted cash dislikes checks, I don’t blame
him for that.
Why should he pay tax when the likes of Starbuck pays
nothing much.
I usually drink coffee at the local café, tried Starbuck once
coffee with milk was not enough kept talking about
“latte” no, just coffee, nothing else.
A friend of mine who has gone to school came over and
sorted things out; didn’t care much for the coffee
I don’t think the woodman drink coffee, a faint smell of wine
about him.
It was after lunch, the police officers, leave us alone here
In the deep dark valley.

Too many roses

Those ****** roses, I **** in my garden
and around the house, but they keep coming.
The slightest crack in the pavement
up the roses spring, ruining the walkway.
Unstoppable blowing raspberry who tries
to stop their advance.
When a blue **** tries to find a sunny spot
they are replaced by roses.
History is written by red roses, for whom
A **** is a nuisance and should be cut in half.
Tiny hamlets are strangled by perfumed roses
The local weeds have to live up the hill.

The Divine Victims

There have been so many battlefields mostly forgotten
there was Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan Libya, among the many
battles and millions of dead civilians some were children
Yemen is a graveyard for children killed by Saudi bombs
Yes, the same nation we do business with.
Myanmar, ethnic cleansing is working overtime, but it is
in the east and nothing to bother about.
We have in Europe a clear-cut war, Russian versus Ukraine
Russians are bad lowbrow people, Ukrainians upright
defending their homeland; nothing could be simpler, right?
Ukraine is the victim of Russian aggression
enough said. Stop thinking, take out your prejudices and call
anyone asking questions traitors, dismiss them with contempt
when the **** hit the fan stop looking surprised.

Electric cars, they say it’s cheaper than petrol cars
we agree on it is also good for the environment
we agree to this too we like to befriend nature.
The prices of electricity rise sharply, so much the increase
we can’t even heat our homes.
They, the shadowy people, blame the Russians, but money
keeps rolling into the pockets of the rich.
The price of oil will soon fall, they say. Who are they?
So, the oil prices fall, but the price of electricity does not
The pensioners' shivers in their home, the electric car
is in the garage, who can afford driving it now?
Once again, we have been duped by capitalism.

Manufacturing dissent


The distance from Kirkenes to Murmansk is a bus trip, the Norwegian
often travel there to buy wine, ***** and other necessities.
The proximity of the two people has always been amicable,
it is not forgotten it was the Russian Army that freed northern Norway
from the German **** occupation; the job was done the soldiers marched home.
Lately, though, one read in newspaper both in Norway and foreign press,
a tendency to scatter conflict between the two countries to inject dissent
where there is none. This is manufactured and, I think NATO inspired
It is also contagious this will spread to other parts of Norway as people
tend to believe lies told many times until the lie becomes the truth
The amicable friendship must not fall prey to propaganda and destroy
the good relation Norway has with Russia.

The alcohol problem

They say the scientist, alcohol shrinks your brain
and is a cause for violence.
I’m not so sure, in Muslim countries, they are quick
to ****** people, and good humour appears
to be lost in oil-wells and sand.
In Pakistan, alcohol is forbidden and what a mess
the country makes drowning in hatred against reason.
Banning alcoholic drinks is to stop people
seeing the truth, and using religion as a weapon
What shrinks in the brain is the banal, the trite
what is left is sanity pure as ***** on the rocks
and cold morning beer.

In ancient time

The ninety seventies are up in patina, a yellowish colour
of the ancient when I was young; and for me, it is still
not far away and remembered as a good time, mainly
because I was busy finding my feet
In the interim 50 years, much has changed, now is not
a good time to be young, the world has aged badly.
1970, the last man guillotined in France, but thousands
have died in civil wars at the hands of war machines.
The attention span is lower now than before, atrocities
like the Iraq war is forgotten, even Libya reduced
to a failed state is in the limbo of being in the past, future
and the ever-present now.
We are blasted with news that rolls so fast we have no
chance to take it, is the leaders want, you must not think
to see through their lies, lest you should disagree.

In the eye of the beholder

To navigate between truth and lies skill is needed
I read in the Guardian, famous as a paper speaking the truth
but somehow, in the current debacle sounds like
polite propaganda.
There is a site called GAB, rather right-winged; I think
whose news is a corrector, of what is said in
the big papers.
Who speaks the truth?
It is like navigated in shallow waters of sandbanks
and in thick fog, all voices want to be heard.
What to do, we take the information to slosh it about
lies sink to the bottom, the truth is a bit obscured
Floats to the surface; depending on the experience
you had of life, make a choice.
Which invariable leads me to the left of the stream
In the river of words, when all is said a good place.

Long-legged ruminant

So, you think a camel is an ugly animal
with kissable lips and the eyes of
Marilyn Monroe, and yield low-fat milk
I bet you didn’t know this.
When four wheels stop in the sand of Sahara
the camel with padded feet trudges along
The beast smelled like hell, but who cares
when it brings to an oasis.
Sweet dates, cold water and languor under
palm trees, a dream come true
It was the trusted camel who found the way.
Have you ever tasted camel cheese?

To know and not know.

Red moss, crimson blood of a slaughtered calf
I knew seen it before but could not recall
where and when.
Like seeing a landscape painting in a valley
of cobblers where children ran barefoot on
summer grass and scents of wildflowers.
Unpasteurized milk had laughter in the breeze
I know this to be true but do not know why.
I think of raindeers, will they eat red moss
used as they are of the grey variety?
The sun keeps shining like a Spanish orange
so full of juice ready to burst.
The good earth is dry waits for rain, plenty
the red moss is forgotten as a love affair
if I sit still enough, perhaps I will remember

The war
The war in Ukraine is getting serious
but could easily be avoided.
Russia cannot tolerate a NATO close to its border
the USA, understand this
When the Russians had missiles in Cuba (1962)
the USA thought it was too close and demanded
their removal.
As it is we are witnessing is Ukraine at war
egged on by Europe who is such dunderheads
risking a bigger nuclear war.
We are sacrificing the Ukrainian people
for our hubris

The long Tanka

If all was lucid
If God was not a mystery
If life lacked meaning
If life was pure reasoning
If life was empty of dreams
If the sky had no birds
If rainbows were grey
If love was a chemical reply
If so, wouldn’t it be hell?

When the going gets cold

I was going down the lane
when I saw an ice front coming up the hill
I let go of the dog.
Ran home and burnt old poetry books
to keep the cold at bay.
Sagacity went up in flames keeping me warm
cold ashes and regrets.
The dog, with its thick fur and disregard
of reading
survived in the hollow of an old oak.

The Phantom of Genoa

Along the docks of Genoa, a man with bent shoulder walks
he is thin and pale like he hides under his winter coat
it can be very cold in Genoa, for him the winter is everlasting.
Few people recognize him, those who do to avoid him
of this huddled figure of cowardice; they see in him themselves
the humiliation of weakness buried deep within their soul.
Once he had been a popular captain on a cruise liner, he
failed, shamed by his nation and worst of all himself.
“Vada a Bordo Cazzo.” Rings in his ears.
Shouted in his whenever he appears in public.
Unforgiven he walks the street night street; he is our ghost.

Wedding in Paris

Coming out of the church after the wedding
smiles and cameras clicked.
From the steps, I saw a ***** in the park looking for
something to eat
he found a half slice of a pizza.
With all the clatter going on, I slipped away
had a whisky in the nearby bar.
I saw the ***** coming out of the park my idea
was to give him money.
I was self-conscious, hated the thought
of looking patronizing, so I had another whisky
Before joining the wedding party.

Basket case

There is a smudge on my computer screen trying to clean it with spit,
but no, perhaps it is finger marks left behind by the strange people
Who sits in the back of the computer shop?
Their diet is cola and chocolate; they are thin, bald and weedy looking
I must whisper to them, or they shrink away.
They sulk if I disagree with their diagnosis, it will take time to get
my computer back.
When the owner closes the shop, they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver, maybe the smudge is a camera
watching me
when I have a drink tonight, I’ll pour it in the bedroom then go into
the bathroom and smoke a cigarette
buy a can of coke a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front of the screen
and they will say, look, he is a basket-case like us.