From a Balcony in Paris

Fine rain
open umbrella
Sitting on the balcony
Of a hotel
Overlooking
Haussmann-Saint Lazare.
Throngs of people
Something has changed
People drink
Starbuck
Eat hamburgers
On the hoof.
Old restaurant closed
Converted
To fast-food joints.
I sigh
Drink from the bottle
Of Bordeaux
To avoid
Getting rainwater
In my wine.

The schooner

On the flatland between the vales, I could see the sea
I had walked uphill for a long time, after the downhill
and the way to the coast, it was easy, but it was
getting cold, I wore a light navy uniform (Furlough)
I saw a protest house of worship on its own no other
Houses nearby this place would do.
I fell asleep, awoke and heard ***** music, the church
full of matelotes singing psalms; the paster spoke
of redemption and the glory of God.
I saw a superb sunrise continued my walk to the coast.
In the morning an open café, I told the girl behind the
counter, where I had slept, she looked confused as far
as she knew the church had been torn down, it was
built of planks when of a schooner ran aground with
the loss of all hands.

Last dance

They had danced to the dunes of a juke-box
dawn, they were alone except for the barkeep
he was asleep, leaning his head on folded arms
on the mahogany counter.
Soon the sun will shine, followed by the day
and they had to face the dreaded future.
Both were married but not to each other  
was love strong enough to survive the day?
They didn’t know the answer.
Just one more dance.
Hell is tomorrow with heartache and loss.
My god, let this moment last forever.

The fall of the west

Easy, abortion worrying, call for an appointment at five.
A well-educated woman has a career to consider
this is her right to pursue her dream. (Work before pleasure.)
a mother is hard work and the pay is lousy
Birth rates in Europe are sinking, upsetting the balance of the future.
A less educated woman has to work also one pay packet is not thanks
to our capitalist system called hard graft
In Portugal, the birth rate is low from one generation to a distressing fall.
Old people die out there are not enough people to take up the slack,
which in the end ruin a country?
If an unmarried woman has 3 to 4 children, she is seen as a loose
Woman, we punish her and her children sending them into poverty
while we should applaud her for saving the future of Europa
What is needed is economic stimulus making motherhood well paid
a career to strive towards.

Storyteller

Now, as spring light fades into
a soft blue night, I turn to you and ask
Tell me more.
The river doesn’t run rapidly as before
The lake is dry
No wind blows away broken dreams.
Tell me more, if you can before, the light
Is an empty space
The stillness has lost its echo.

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.

The Eagle

Fair flowers
Among the rocks
Flora of sorrow
Butterfly winged
In the breeze.
On a tree
A crow throats
A warning.
An eagle soars
In its claws
A white rabbit.
It sees
Fair petals
Flying
In the breeze

Garments

Opened the wardroom’s door, suits and jackets worn
so long looked like sad copies of me.
Gave all my clothes to the salvation army, which gave
them to people not unlike me.
Too much textile is a heavy burden one becomes and
snug in old suits losing interest in adventures.
I bought a pair of jeans and a matching jacket, walked out
at dawn’s first light, began looking for a horse, failing that
a mule to transport me when I traverse the landscape
of imagining, I’m a cowboy lassoing dreams.

Furtive meeting

We sat in the park a packet of ****
a bottle of wine, on the back of a napkin
I wrote her a poem about love.

While struggling to find the right word
I hardly knew her, she fell asleep,
wine of good quality can be strong.

I counted my cigarettes had five left
saw the tempting light of a night bar
left her sleeping, went and had a drink.

Coming back, she had left my poem
written on the clean side of a napkin
was on the ground torn to shreds.

Antique village

Houses around me are emptying the old, reaching the age of dying.
A timeworn man went missing on Monday, was found miles away,
the local constabulary drove him back home.
He had tried to flee, didn’t to where he had no money.
Behind closed doors in dark rooms, he tries to stave off the fated.
Sunlight unbearable reminds him of the sunrises he will not see.
When a car stops outside his house, he trembles in fear, is a hearse
coming for him?
Voices of children are like the scorn of his elderliness, he longs for peace
but fears death’s endless cruelty.

Posted by the blog Friends of Palestine

The day of reckoning

A bird with an enormous wingspan darkened the sky
it was a night of horror in the Middle East.
A new country born in sin and filched land arose
blood ran in ancient, narrow cobblestoned roads.
The people fled over a broken bridge, now live far
from the homeland, the dream of returning is alive.
Young men living in squalor are attracted to Islamists
the grim head cutting people, who know no mercy
know they will win one day, and more blood will flow
Into sand and time.
When everything is forgotten, walls erased, the losers
will flock back to Europa, whence they came.

The Unbiassed Media

Bombs rain on Gaza, the youth throw stones, the Israeli soldiers killed
or maim stone throwers, a dance of death.
What do the leading media say? Not very much,
the Gazans must be partly blamed; the victims are guilty
of the strength of being Palestinians defending their right.
In Hebron, the settlers are razing houses, killing goats and setting fire
to olive trees and daily is the death of those who get in their way.
The media might have a byline about it, that’s all.
If Israel is criticized, it unashamedly invokes the sacred Holocaust
and calls us antisemitic
Should a Jew speak up, he/her is called a self-hater
and be banned from entering the stolen land of Israel forever.

When I’m eighty-five

Once upon a time, when I was sixty-five
my hair turned grey, bought hair dye.
Blue rinsed looked like a stern teacher
of the type of women doing good work
among the poor.
She said she loved me, remembered
a song “when I’m sixty-five.”
We are old, take our love for granted
she calls me darling I call her sweetheart.
I will sing you a song when I’m eighty-five
full of cakes and ale.
I bet someone will say, who was the Beetles?

Is Tanka a poem

We the classless
seek no revolution only fairness
we like quality
a well-balanced diet
and cold German lager.
The stinking rich
one assumes they do not bath
can continue to pong
we seek no egalitarianism
only German lager.

Small fry

Fingerlings are playing among seagrass in shallow water
they stop when the big shadow of an adult passes overhead
sometimes they play is so exciting they forget
and end swallowed whole by a fish that knows no mercy.
Alas, the tiny fry has a short memory and soon leave
the seagrass attracted by shiny pebbles shines like nuggets
of gold on a summer day.
The play stops as it just like old school friends drift apart
to other seas and too smart to anyone bearing false bait.
There are no promises for elderly fish when finally caught
a fishmonger awaits them or the supermarket’s frozen
counter displayed in all their faded glory

A runaway mutt.

A dog bit a boy’s hand for this it must die
in human society, a dog has to be nice
ask any dog owner, simply this we feed you
and you make us proud, and we will
unreasonable think you love us.
The dog fled to the woods ate birds fallen
off the sky, blueberries and baby rabbits.
Cold snow on the ground, not a good time
“Humans show me how to lit a fire.”
A man in a cave gave the dog leftovers and
let it sleep near the fire until spring when
the man went looking for gold in the river.
The dog came upon a hidden sheep farm
Surrendered, showed a friendly face.
Adopted, lived a good life, guarding sheep.

Water shortage

In the deepest valley where the winter is short
summers long, sheep come home for safety
of bears and wolves, he bought an old house.
From a two hundred years house, a cane roof sprung
splendid isolation he lived the seasons fair.
Unknow to him and other dwellers of this Paradise
plans afoot to make the valley into a water reservoir
filling it with water to serve the city far away.
This ancient village, built stone by stone, drowned.
No, the dam didn’t burst lack of rain made it dry.
It was an eerie sight to see his home again
reminds him of a Paradise lost to development.

A story of love

Eva Braun was a Greenland seal who lived in an aquarium
Herr ****** liked animals; dogs adored him.
in childhood, his call for love denied him
his dream was sitting by the fireside stroking a dog
and feeding Eva in her aquarium.
In the country, I lived on many tiny islands
bridges built; the islands no longer feel like islands.
Nevertheless, we stood at the gangway of a ferry
that was going to an island that didn’t have a bridge
I knew you were not coming back, pleaded with
you gave me a phone number when I tried to call
it sounded as was dipped into a fish tank
I heard repressed laughter; it must have been
fun to joke with a man you no longer found useful.
C'est la vie…

The re-read (poet)

Hemingway was a writer suffering from a disabling inhibition,
the conversation he had with women in his books are based
on wishes and not reality.
Women in his life were stronger than him, he tried
to compensate by ***** behaviour, it always ended with him
stroking the cat and she going back to the USA.
Ernest Heming way was an alcoholic who made his hero
take care centre stage.
At times he wrote like an angel there, are lines in his writing
that is high-class poetry.
After reading his work, setting aside his bragging
he was a great poet.

9/ 11 the cruel aftermath


Dented western hubris, the mirror cracked
self believes shocked the vanity foundation.
How dare they we are the top predators
our rage will be swift and massive.
Falluja, the western army killed anything that moved
my thought went to Palestine a state of olives
and goat herding, who paid the ultimate prize.
Propaganda is the mixing of truth and deliberate lies
there are those who say Palestine never existed
but old maps tell a different story.
The wheel of the future is ruthless, Israel is tolerated
as the new province of the Caliphate.
The 9/11 is for you to avert your eyes and forget
the mass ****** of the indigenous people of Palestine.

The Russians are coming

Skiers complain it is too cold, most of them are from the cold country
is the frost in China different than say, Scandinavia?
A newspaper gleefully telling us there fewer spectators this time
then in the Olympic last time, I think this tittle-tattle has to do with
infantile reports looking to throw some **** China’s way.
The war that didn’t happen and are not going to cover the front
pages of Europe, one senses they are willing a war against Russia.
Crimea was not annexed by Russia, there was a vote in favour
of being a part of that country, which is natural since most people
living in Crimea are Russians; this is a no brainer.
I so do dislike I. Phones; bills are sent to the phone nothing on paper
my phone is blocked because I let the battery run flat
Now they ask for my code to open the ****** phone who in
their does right mind remember a code?
Meanwhile, the sporting people continue to chase gold in Pequin.

Short verses.

Hurriedness is a sin
Against art and nature
Slow down time.

The valley awakes
Brush strokes of crimson
Rabbits in the field.

Beautiful May
Your rare flowers didn’t last long
Soon it will be June.

A field of oats
Wild and strew around
Mine? Surely not.

The boy in the drain

A boy of five years played in a field
noticed a hole in the ground worth exploring
a hiding place to show other children.
He fell and fell like forever before the falling stopped.
It was dark and cold he wanted to go was home.
The boy cried out they would come and save him
I must stay strong; he was strong falling asleep
and waking up, stay strong, stay strong.
five days is a long time for a boy of five.
So, easy to succumb to the long sweet dream.
The evening of the fifth day, the rescuers
reached him, but it was too late.
Morocco is mourning.
For many of us, it was as hope for the future
had vanished words do not cover our despair.

Remembered is the loss

I sit in the sumptuous living room with my wife
we have a bed the king would be proud of
a lunch café on the first floor and den for myself
my old age is blessed.
My thought goes to the village far and beyond
the road up there is now full of petals white and rosy  
my cottage is where the road bends to the right
I see smoke from its chimney, a dog bark.
I was happy here animals and people knew me
alas, old age caught up with me, I had to leave
my almond tree and things that let my heart sing
Years of contentment more is asking too much.
Fly memories, fly to where the sun sets over
the blue mountain range and into the sea.

Her birthday

We’re having lunch in the Cascais centre
at a posh restaurant with a sea view.
The price of the lunch was outrageous
steak with salad and chips, which she
could not eat because of her teeth
she did eat the French fries.
She had a glass of white wine I had water.
I had suggested we take a taxi, so I too
could have a glass of wine.
Nearby a luxury hotel, it was splendid
she had spent a fortnight there with her first
husband, 300 euros a night, and in case
you misunderstood it was the room price.
I was glad to drive back to our house.

The maggots

One morning in the village, millions of maggots
At the cemetery appeared protesting about hunger.
They merged into a big fat pink ball with tiny feet
chanted: we want more corpses, the supply side
has let us down
It had been hitherto a healthy village few people died
those who did were elderly with meagre flesh
The day after the covid struck, the supply was fine
despite nurses and doctors valiant work to stop
this avalanche of untimely death.
As for the maggots, not a pip from, say, complaining
of too much to do.

The Intrepid

Tall Savannah grass, he had to drive on its only road it was narrow
had no pavement, he rode his scooter could see the ears of big cats
listening.
It was noon, the lions didn’t like the smell emitting from his scooter,
animals only eat when hungry.
He stopped switching off the motor he wanted to be attacked by a lion,
be eaten alive he thought life would give meaning to his futile life.
The silence was total heard insects crossing the road sound like a regiment
on war foot.
Now or never, walked into the tall grass remembered lines like
“I’m the master of my destiny.”
What rot! He knows nothing about the future.
The savannah was an oat field, a farmer shouted scared the lions away.
Sometimes we will be eaten by the worms in the soil
that is undignified.

The Intrepid

Tall Savannah grass, he had to drive on its only road it was narrow
had no pavement, he rode his scooter could see the ears of big cats
listening.
It was noon, the lions didn’t like the smell emitting from his scooter,
animals only eat when hungry.
He stopped switching off the motor he wanted to be attacked by a lion,
be eaten alive he thought life would give meaning to his futile life.
The silence was total heard insects crossing the road sound like a regiment
on war foot.
Now or never, walked into the tall grass remembered lines like
“I’m the master of my destiny.”
What rot! He knows nothing about the future.
The savannah was an oat field, a farmer shouted scared the lions away.
Sometimes we will be eaten by the worms in the soil
that is undignified.

The Fluidity of war

We live in a strange and relative time.
Russia doesn’t want war; Putin has made his mark
we respect him; the USA understand his concern
If you cast your mind back to the Cuba crisis in 1962
when the Soviets had bases in Cuba, the USA demanded
the Soviets removed the nuclear weaponry and the bases.
The USA has internal problems so serious it can split the union;
border conflict is of little interest.
Ukraine doesn’t want war, asks Europe not to meddle.
NATO has proven it has gone a base too far and should
be dismantled for the sake of peace.
Britain is recalcitrant bang, a big drum, no listens.
What interests the USA today, China is spreading?
its wings across the pacific that’s a pressing concern.

Beer Sonnet

I have a bottle of German beer in the fridge
and naturally cloudy, first brewed in some small town
in Bavaria in 1624.
They didn’t make the beer clear and decided to call
the brew Dunkel (cloudy), PR, yes it existed it worked
now it is a world-famous beer.
It also cost a bit more, which never fails to attract snobs.
I opened the beer dislike the colour me, a Budweiser man
of the type brewed in the USA
A band of clouds was, obscuring the sunset it was Dunkel
a sentence not spoken but sensed even a child could get.
I drank the beer, let the tomorrow keep its secret.

The boxer and the actor

I saw them on the sidewalk near The Radio music Hall
in New York, Jack was telling Alan a joke
Jack Dempsey wore a sport’s jacket, brown trousers
a white shirt’s open, top button open
shiny shoes; Alan Ladd, wore a grey suit, with matching
tie (Everyone had shiny shoe trainers not yet invented)
I noticed he was considerably smaller than Jack.
I was in awe had never seen someone famous
life and up close; this was, in 1957, I was so young.
I bought a ticket to see the show at the music hall
before the movie dancing girl came to the stage
with live music and plenty of thighs.
The final was a big kick a woman got it wrong
she kicked with her left leg when she realized her mistake
shifted to the right leg; too late, the music had stopped
but with one leg still in the air, it was what I remember.

Tomorrow is the near future.

I live near a stream that has been running dry for years
there used to be a winter lake too, now drained
as a landing pad for military helicopters
trees around get dusty like tired soldiers on the western front.
There is edginess in Europa, many years of peace the monster,
that lurks in mankind awakes.
We think we know the enemy, as usual, we are wrong
when listening to the voice of antagonism.
A new page of history written we don’t know which
side to choose, when millions of people killed
and the last bomb dropped, then it doesn’t matter which
sides we choose.
Poets will write for peace; few will listen to their warnings.
The new peace can last, but only so long, because the human mind
is bent on war; this is our tragedy the voice for peace is a child cry
in the symphony of the battlefield.

…And It Was Her Summer


“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man, I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
” Get lost you, stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?  
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to see me.

War kills

Retina less windows
Bodies were strewn on foul streets
A photo of Grozny
Summary execution
Death sways from unlit lampposts
Friend or foe
Who knows?
Conspiracy of peace
Both sides declare victory
The truth is debris

War kills

Retina less windows
Bodies were strewn on foul streets
A photo of Grozny
Summary execution
Death sways from unlit lampposts
Friend or foe
Who knows?
Conspiracy of peace
Both sides declare victory
The truth is debris

The occupied

Never negotiate
With the conquering invaders
He will think
You are pathetic and ask for more.
He will respect you
If you refuse him
And have contempt
If you give way.
If he built a house in your garden
Is constructed on your land
Eventually, it will be yours
You sign no contract
You gave no ground
In the end
The occupier leaves
Defeated
By your steadfastness.

Lost Chances

On a crowded Christmas Street, I saw her
something of the way she walked, I sensed her perfume
I hurried after she touched her shoulder, alas
it was not her, not the woman of my dreams.
I said sorry; she smiled and said that was ok.
in her brown-warm eyes, I saw a hint of invitation
alas, I was in love with the mythical one, said sorry again
flapped my wings and flew into the night sky
to seek her among the stars.
In the cold outer space, I realized she was a seraph
and I, earthling; I flew back to earth looking
for the brown-eyed one, but she was gone.

The Wish

I dream of sleeping in a bed of rose petals like an Indian potentate
who waits for his favourite concubine to come to join him in his bed?
I know I have to wait long till the petals are squashed and cling
to my body itch my bed will smell of degeneration.
I drive a motorbike across the Alps but can’t smell the edelweiss
for petrol fume; cows go on grazing unaware of my presence.
If I swim in the Ganges, it will be among the corpses floating down
to a heavenly ocean.
There is a temple in India dedicated to rats; I will go there, seek
a cure for my fears of vermin
Jasmine flowers are enchanting like virgins open up late at night
but I will not swap any of them for my sweet almond tree.

Cold weather front

A few good days fooled us the cold weather returned we thought it was
early spring. I worried if my almond tree had its buds been damaged
and will not bloom and strews petals on the lane,
the illusion of frost, the princes in the tower saw in the fairy tale.
The fire in the grate is exuding warmth the dog no one owns snoozes in a chair,
no, the heart to throw it out
I’m not a tree hugger, but give trees a friendly slap
a sucker for the down and out bought a chicken for a Roma women
begging outside, the guard said, “you must not feed
them” like they should be vermin.
I love my almond tree reminded me of my mother when she was old,
so sweet her face in her frailty.

The mystery of man
This is the third day after new year and the day
equally dark and miserable as they were before
the new has number changed.
On the Eve of festivity, drunk people thronged
narrow streets hoarse voices and screams
upsetting dogs and cats.
oddly, we celebrate the new year with
warlike gestures like fireworks.
Most of my friends are dead, yes, we too danced
the golden calf, not knowing what life was about
I still don’t know.
On the third sober day, the same old **** bombs
killing people, as arms dealers drink champagne.
Our democracy is for the well to do
for us subjugation and waiting for Godot.

The lonely cabin

I knocked on the door of the small cottage
the window steamed up I drew a childish picture
faces of children, that when the sun came erased
the drawings and, I thought of childhood.
My brother had lived here, his children refused
gave the cottage to be a gesture of goodwill.
I knocked on the door; it fell in a cloud of dust
the cabin was empty a floorboard creaked in pain
unused being walked on.
I turned to leave, the door arose and blocked my way
I promised the cottage, a man from the village
will come and paint inside and outside I will
move in here with my dog.
The cottage relented, door and window opened
letting in fresh air and sunlight.

Senryu

Endless summer heat
In January when cars won’t start
I’ll dream of summer.

One by one
Rose petals fall like old dreams
Heartache is your name.

Whirling dust
On summer empty lane
Melancholy.

The orchard

It was a beautiful apple tree with low hanging fruit
shaped by a gardener whose parents had been Jehovah witnesses
(His parents didn´t believe in Christmas)
made to look like a decorated Christmas tree as seen on postcards.
On the tree, a twig stuck out that had no apples appeared dead
as I reached up to pick an apple the twig was a snake and said:
“Don´t steal the fruit that belongs to the old people’s home.”
Have you never heard of Paradise when the snake tempted Eve?
“Yes, I know I was there, but have changed gone woke now speak
nicely, before we strike with a drone, the twig said”
I picked an apple anyway; it began raining, and I had no umbrella
I got soaking wet, and the next day I had a nasty cold.

The aftermath

If Russia invade Ukraine
The invaded country will get no help
From the USA who knows about “my back yard.”
NATO but it has no army to speak of
Only generals we can call desk riders.
The big nation will see invasion as a free for all
The USA will attack and occupy Venezuela
And Cuba as a pretext to stop the Russians
Possible bases.
And we are back to a cold war again.