Midnight train
  
The lake we swam was man-made,
not a big lake it consisted mainly of rainwater.
The lake had no undercurrent and lacked profundity
It was blue in May, but when little rain fell
it turned muddy and in fall it was brown as the leaves
on my almond tree.
Spring is a good time for love, Trine and I used to sit
by its shore and talk about our future.
Her future didn´t include me and I was full of rage.
Trine disappeared one day it was assumed she had
taken the midnight train to the main city.
Little rain fell that winter, the lake turned to dust
and became a landfill for our expanding town.

Verity

Telling the truth to people close to you
is a difficult feat, the accusations and repercussion
can be dire.
When you puncture the picture where they see
themselves as helpful people.
The unvarnished truth is they will rob you blind
and expect you to be grateful.
Those who were your friend will not help you
for them, assistance have a pecuniary aspect,
If you let the trespasses against you slide, you will
think of yourself as a coward; and those who were
your friends will feel contemptuous of you.

Diabetic hand-book

If you forgot why you are in the kitchen it is  
probably because cause your wife has hided
the nectar.
Wives are no good in letting you remember.
*** over eighty is cumbersome and clumsy
avoid it at all cost.
If you can´t remember yesterdays’ lunch
the likelihood is it was boring.
If you can´t remember your cat´s name do not worry
it doesn´t know either.
If your diabetic feet restrict your walking. try a treadmill
when you see a blank wall remind yourself
that you were bored too when young.
Swimming can be good but preferable in a child´s pool.
The point of all these exercises is to live longer
but you will only live as long as nature intended,

Morning in the bay

This morning the water in the bay
is in a whispering mood, mellow and no temper
at crashing waves on the shore.
There is, near the water, a mysterious building that looks like
a luxurious old passenger liner without a motor
I'm told famous people live there, I don´t know
why they are famous, but I think they are of the type
which endlessly are interviewed on TV, talking about the obvious.
Or they are from families who can trace their ancestors
back to when Cascais was a fishing village.
I don´t think many actors live here they are too pedestrian
reducing the tone of inherited leisure.
Young people on the beach believe in eternal life
none of them wears masks, death is what happens to the old.

Icarus

I have been so fascinated by Icarus my dream was to fly closer to
the sun than man or god dared.
I had the good fortune of meeting a mad scientist at a wine tasting
contest, where our capacity for the wine was appreciated.
He had a type of wax that could withstand intense heat.
I did not hesitate to order a pair of wings.
I flew higher than any god had done before, but the heat
was so intense the wax began to melt.
Like a rocket, I dived back to earth hoping to meet water.
Splashed down into the Barents ocean.
My body, now covered in wax kept me afloat and tolerably warm
till some Russian fishermen picked me up.
They kept me warm and snug till I sat there in my boiler suit
gave me a warm coat taking me into Vladivostok if I remember rightly.
Pravda, the Russian newspaper, got hold of my exploit and printed
my story on the first page, but who reads Pravda?
The local TV also interviewed me, but who looks at Russian TV?
I´m a hero in Russia but ignored by the rest of the world,
this happens when politics get in the way of a heroic deed.

Wonderland

Dreams have always been vital they are the wing
I fly to a consciousness of old truth.
Now I do not dream much but when I do
I visit places I have been before in earlier dreams.
Meeting people say hello we have not seen for a long time.
The landscape is thorny and cannot be shared by those
who are ignorant of hidden tracks?
It is strange to see familiar faces of those of old dreams
they remember I was a cobbler who worked for free.
My phone does not ring it has s modern chant.
While is asked I by the lake when I'm moving in always.
But will I leave when you no longer stroke my hair
tells me you do not love me anymore?

Fishing

The sea is turquoise
ships are clouds in the sky.
On the pier headless dolphins
side by side
Music in the air.
Children slide on gore.
shouting sellers
argumentative buyers.
a cacophony of humanity.
Bless this day.
This moment.
God is good here is food for all.

Frosty love


Her kiss like putting your lips on an iron railing
a frost-bitten morning.
Her eyes were icy stars in the coldest of nights
in the tranquillity of the meaningless.
A beauty flawless.
Her body unbending as an ice maiden in winter forest
her lips had spots of cardinal crystal.
Futile, my attempt or resurrection.
I struck a match in the vast silent night and was free.
In the glade, among roses of gold,
my new love waited,
Hand in hand we walked to where the day begins

Today is the impending

Christianity appears tepid we do not think of it
as a centre of our life.
I dislike all religions they are fairytales for adults
that demands to be taken seriously.
Ladies decorating the church with flowers while secretly
lusting after the vicar.
We remember Blair and Bush both are Christians
in its name, they invaded Iraq and killed thousands
of perfectly innocent people,
The Christians have for hundreds of years and foisted
their version upon masses who already have a god.
The occupiers of Palestine belong to the western culture
and they will be the biggest losers when the weakness
of our insipid culture cracks as the world implode.

Some summer night


The summer night is hot you can see the flames of hell,
acrid smoke and soot through the open window.
In the interior of the house, a primal scream
two wriggling bodies try to produce an offspring who
will grow up and be like them and die like them?
But not before it has tasted love, a seed of humanity.
Then sinking back underground, spent, forgotten
in the mass-grave of boredom
decorated with flowers that radiate deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and forever
vanishes into an ancient forest,
While werewolves’ sways to a Mexican dirge

Unlike love story

Sweet dawn you are not
in your embrace I'm not reborn.
A night with you gives birth to bitter regret.
A promise to not seek you out
will not help,
I love you more than life itself.
Nightfall brings long shadows
irresistible your allure,
Our lair is not feathering of tenderness
but thorns of demanding ferocity.
A pact we made in a church that reeked of burnt wicks.
desiccated roses and the redolence of death.
Our love is agony,
we can´t but clawing us asunder

Sunglasses

We parked around the corner from the ink shop
I wore sunglasses, they are no good for seeing details
didn´t see the shop.
I walked and walked till I could not walk more
no shop, I had to walk back whence I came.
Mild panic set in, am I so old I need a label so people
people can take me home?
I rang my wife, “I sit in the car near the ink shop and can see you
sitting on the shop´s wall.
Then I remembered.
“What took you so long,” she asked?
I witnessed a collision between a horse and a mule, the horse
broke a leg and a police officer had to put it down.
-----long pause. “you got lost!”
With all the contempt I could muster I stayed silent.

Flying high

I fall through the air so dense can´t see a thing
opened up my big, black umbrella
descended in an orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light I could see the coastline
the dark menacing sea was waiting.
Landed on dry ground walked through a mono-cultural landscape
at the sound of endless Fado seeping up from the earth.
A maze of orange trees that bore a fruit no one bothered about
artificial juice can be bought anywhere.
From a hilltop, I could see my cottage noticed the yard light was still on
this hurt my frugal nature.
I heard the din of a desultory air-plane circling around
looking for a missing passenger.

Forever lovey


The mannequin in the dark corner
of the shop shows bathing suits a la 1948.
She is beautiful in her own eyes
and made of Jade.
Dust on lips who cares?
Not a sultry type shows little interest in flirtation.
When the shop closes and she is alone
She secretly smiles and is forever 1948.

Denmark

There is a charming little country
it has no sharp stones or huge mountains to obstruct the view
In our heart, we loved this little land.
They even invented the word “HYGGE.”
The reality is quite different, as it turns out to be a den of spies.
they spied on the behalf of the USA; in other Scandinavian countries they even bugged the prime minister of Germany´s phone.
In shipping it has been noticed they get the best contracts.
Quid pro quid, I think the word is.
We in Norway have been half sceptical of this sugary land
We were ruled by them for 500 years.
But they make good beer.
It will take time before we trust the sweet little land again, and
The word “Hygge” has lost its cosy sense of brotherhood.

Brooklyn

Salt beef with onion
sandwiches.
Goat cheese made
near the wailing wall
The waiter
is a scientist.

Intelligent eyes
behind thick-lensed glasses
do not dare to leave a tip.
The burden of my ancestors
weighed heavy on my mind.

The chicken soup was excellent
I shan´t return
Before
Palestine is a sovereign state

August in Athens is always confusing
I spent the evening looking at a white wall the moon had lit up,
waiting for the movie to start.
Staggered into a church where bearded priests handed out bags
of yesterday’s cake.
The elderly lady behind me got none, it was her second time
she had been in the line
I gave her my bag and felt good about my act of charity.
In the deep shadows of the park, I found a grotto displaying
Jesus in he looked like a sleeping angel, one painted by Caravaggio.
The painted Jesus opened his eyes smiled like an urchin selling himself to a paederast.
Behind two nuns giggled and I fled this religious horror.
Came to a lone bar run by a horse that had fled a Russian circus.
As Alice Walker said,” horses make the landscape more beautiful.”
I drank ouzo, she had hay.
At midnight we rode through the summer night.

The stone casts of the life


The journey has not ended
since I had a fall on the terrace the dream was over
I had been holding on selling my old home for a slushy reason.
No, I have not resigned I will not give up on anything
it is just I have to find other alternatives.
No, I have no firm plans they never came to fruition.
I have had the fortune to live a dream.
Now I live in a flat too big for me four bedrooms and
I only sleep in one of them.
The next step I live to what life gives me I don´t need much
when I was a ******, I had a cabin, books and a bunk.
I never dreamt of a castle.
Except for recurring depression, I´m quietly contented.

Guns in Sweden

Sweden has problems with too many guns
shoots hole in the night.
Many refugees came to Sweden, who thought
when the refugees discovered a Nordic paradise
they would become Swedes overnight.
The inhabitance of this Eden has a discriminatory heart.
The glance of an eye tells the truth.
There was a clash of culture.
People of the same philosophy likes to live close to each other,
for them, Sweden has a cold heart.
No work no education, guns are easy to buy.
I don´t know the solution
Perhaps the Nordic people, are too regimented
and it will take time to change this attitude.

The Attack from the West


There had been a revolt by people infused
by the west’s propaganda.
They, the western countries, bombed and bombed and flattened
many cities, but the army fought on.
The goal. I think was to unseat the president and make
that country into a new Libya; that is called democracy.
A third-country, not a westerly one, came to the rescue
the bombing has almost stopped.
A small and historically insignificant country took a piece
which it eventually has to return.
Thousands of inhabitants fled, not from the ruler of the country
they fled from the terror of the bombs, and the traitors who wanted
the power for themselves.
Today there is an election that can only have one winner
for the time being this war-torn country can´t cope with more.
Denmark is sending home those who sought refuge there
the logic is it is a safe country to return to

Echo

For those who are dead
the planet does not exist.
must we assume
life on a lone planet does not  occur
but is it a dream?

Writers and poets
think they are immortal
by ink and pen.
But everything ever written
will rot as autumn leaves do.


Heat cracks the phone pole
lost voices turn to tears,
but dries in the sun.
White streaks of intense longings
a lover´s word goes unheard

Once a summer

Like a beached whale the rowboat lies on its side
its bottom had been tarred and the aroma mingled
with ozone of the sea.
When the tide turns the boat will float again and look refreshed.
Seen from the wooden pier the sea is crystal clear
looks emerald.
Small ***** and tiny fish feed in the shallow.
When the sea slowly inhales and exhales pebbles softly fizz.
The sky is the sea´s lover, doomed to forever be apart.
The sea pulls me closer it is hard to resist no be absorbed
by its beauty.

Wales

I used to live in Chester, a beautiful town
and often walked along the Roman wall and, in my mind,
I saw Roman soldiers sitting by the fire roasting mice.
On Sundays, I liked to drive to Wales a beautiful country of rolling hills
and sheep with coal dust on,
Back then and this is years ago, you could drink tea in a pub,
I once drank coffee and it was ghastly.
I liked this country it had a dreamy quality.
Now I´m watching a crime story from Wales and it had nothing to do with
the land I remember.
This country I see on the screen is dark with old houses and people
who carries a dark secret in their hearts?
What do I know? Perhaps the lovely barmaid had killed her father
dropped him in a deep well only a detective who knew the mind
of Wale's psyche could work out.
As it is I prefer to remember Wales, crossing fords wondering who deep they were, the narrow roads and sheep on hills.
I stick with what I remember, the TV. The program is entertainment.

English Village

It was a beautiful spring morning.
Nothing I know of can be more harmonious
then an English village.
Sycamore trees dripped morning dew like honey
and rose bushes sparkled as ruby.
On an open field, a lone horse came to the fence
I stroked its flank and spoke softly.
It was morning moist and exuded a delightful aroma.
On the other side of the turf, another barrier opened
and a flock of sheep came out.
The horse trotted over I was forgotten.
Continued eastward towards the sun and memories.

In Ceuta

A Senegalese sat on a stone near the sea
he had tried to get to Spain but didn´t make it.
A nurse spoke to him hugged him.
God smiled down to both of them,
this moment of tenderness.
Not so the monster calling itself the social media
they purred scorn on them.
Not only was he black and she white,
racism is alive, he was also a refugee who had sought a better life
which millions of Europeans had done when persecuted?
when seeking work in the USA
and freedom from oppression.
Europe has become a haven for haters intolerant and obscene
a place where right-winged populism will bring us down the path
to the stone age of ******

The Vale of Revulsion

There is a vale adjacent between the village and the hill farms
where people had given up their constant struggle with poverty
and of moved to France or the USA.
I walked into this neglected vale with my dog that usually
walked in front of me, this time she walked behind, not sure if
she should take flight or stay loyal, it was a place of fear and silence
a place where nature hated the humans and no bird thrilled.
There was no fox or rabbits here, the tree had bark that stung
I was petrified, behind bushes sensed monsters that only appear in a child´s nightmare.
My knees buckled; the temptation was to sink on my knees
and give in to terror, I walked on, and finally, we came to the main road.
I sat on a stone at the entrance of this nemesis of a future.
We walked home the dog and me, and as usual, she was in front of me, feeling unafraid of life

October manifesto

I came across a paper on it was written” October document.”
no date, nothing at all.
This prompted me to look in the mirror at the face looking back at me
an elderly man with sad eyes.
A man I didn´t know who carried my face or was it my face?
The inner me looked pretty different, more youthful, I thought.
In my old house, I had no mirrors except the one in the bathroom
that mirror was always steamed up; I preferred it that way.
A woman moved in, and suddenly I had many mirrors.
It is difficult to know oneself without illusion, it helps to have a friend to tell us
the truth as she/sees it.
But are they telling the truth they don´t know what you think?
October is a strange month, it can be mild, it knows what
is coming. Sleet and winter storm, with and yellow leaves, it accepts the fate,
check the roof and firewood and waits.

spring

This is a beautiful day,
the sea-breeze is softly embracing me
and I think of a bush that grows by the wayside into my village
only angels can spin such a bush for us to enjoy a day like this.
The finely spun bush stays for a few days but take off a nightfall
not to be seen again before next spring.
The rose bushes are hanging over the fence in a symphony
for the eye and aroma.
Yes, spring is here, a time when everything is eternal before
the cruel burns the landscape yellow and dry,
and we dream of the sea.

The beginning
Adam sat on a bough of a tree waited for his friend
The gorilla, Eva, sat in a cave tried to make a skirt of palm leaves.
The cave was warm; a burning bush had taught them how to make fire.
They lived on fruit mostly, when not stealing eggs from nests
Eggs that were about to be hatch were the best
And they had chicken and thus became meat-eaters.
Adam´s friend, the gorilla, when they played card made out of green leaves
The animal was sentinel without a moral compass.
The gorillas had thick fur which, made them look dressed,
and Eva liked to cover exposed parts. Adam didn´t get it.
He should sit with her and listen to her problem, a pity she
Used to say, God had made men so stupid

The occupation

Black is yellow
Amber is green
War is peace
And everything is the truth
When spoken from an autocue.
By a man who never got
An Oscar.
More wars in Afghanistan
And it will go on till someone loses
In this case, the invaders.
A dead sea of suffering
May the west be forgiven
Trespassing
In the Middle East.
In the end, Israel
The western transplant
Will not set root.
Two thousand years is a long time.

The Island

There was an island where the fiord arms open and the     ocean begins
  it was a nice little island with trees and a strip of sand for the boy to play
  he had no interest in swimming, favoured to build dreamy sandcastles.
Not that the boy couldn´t swim, his father had thought him; he didn´t like it
the sea was cold, and monster might lurk in the unseen depth.
There was also a strong current further out depending on the way of the ocean, his father,
who was a strong swimmer, often swam where the current was strong; he called it fighting against the elements?
I saw him waving his arms; he waved back, another current took him around the island, he was still waving but looked distressed. he walked up to the cabin
and told his mother, who ran and loosened the rowing boat from its mooring
To find him, but he had disappeared. The coast guard came they were looking for him; he knew they
would not see him he had been eaten by a sea monster, but he said nothing
The stay on the island had been a happy one for his parents. She was pregnant and hoped for a
daughter, life was beautiful for them, and now this.
A motorboat came and took them back to town, families came, there were many tears,
he was asked why he hadn’t told his mother the first time he saw his father
Waving, a question he could not answer.
His mother gave birth to a beautiful baby everyone said she looked like her father
he didn´t think so, she was just beautiful. The daughter grew up and went off to university
So, it was only him and his mother left in the old house.
She took to drinking and, in her cups, hinted that had he called the first time,  He might be alive now;
he never answered.
His mother committed suicide drowning in her bath-tup.
The house was sold.
The daughter needed the money, and he became a wanderer voyaging across the many seas.
Always restless, the sense of guilt was always there.
Sometimes he dreamt he was the monster swallowing his father.
Now as he is an old man, he wrote a letter to his sister, he so much needed someone absolving him of guilt, there was never any answer.

The Ending?

Not quite, but Palestinians have had enough.
They were thrown out of their houses to get space for Israelis.
They are resisting so much. so the IDF has called up reserve soldiers.
But Palestine cannot achieve this alone; it´s up to the world
To finally wake up and see Israel is a pirate state the
Practices apartheid as a matter of politic.
The Gaza strip has been sending a puny homemade rocket
Into Israel, rockets that break a window or two and is big news in the USA
Telling us how terrible the Arabs are.
I despair I watch Portuguese news, which consists of football
And old men sitting around a table analyzing the matches.
Bless Portugal, and football is better than war.

Tired Angels

He was a lucky man by his side angels walked
or perhaps flittered a little jostling as they all wanted to be near him.
Absentminded, he came near the fiord walked across.
He was out cashing ***** that clung to the sheer cliff wall, yes, and a plastic bucket.
He got five ***** and walked back the same way the angels sweated he had trusted
(unknowingly) their blind faith in him,
to the point when some of them were at a point of giving up.
Looking after this person is hard. One angle sighed; the others mumbled in tacit agreement.
The angels watched him boil the ***** and eat everything, not offering them anything;
how could he?
We should have let go, one angel said, let him splash about with his bucket.
The thought of this made every angle laugh; one took out a harp and beautiful music-filled sea and
land with everlasting peace and the satisfaction of a job well done,

Ages
When I was young my youth lasted a long time.
When someone said next year, it sounded as it was forever.
I remember the long summers
but realize it is the sum of many summers.
Since in our estimation summer lasted long into autumn
and mild winter.
The real cold season lasted a month, and since
We didn´t sit still it didn´t feel so cold.
Now that I'm old the seasons whirl faster and faster rapid
I get dizzy and have to sit down or hold on to my cane.
the tremendous speed is accelerating towards doom and the hope
of another spring.

The foresight

When I look back on my life, which I seldom do
I think in my writing, I should be deeper; alas, my self-mockery gets in the way.
Why should I think I'm intellectual to have any worth to say?
It appears to me that many on Facebook feel important enough
to enlightening us with their homilies?
If you live like this or that, you will find peace and happiness.
Balderdash!
Reading what philosophers said, is interesting but it does not change your mind.
Nor does reading
the bible makes you a Christian.
Gladness is a gift and the place for village idiots who lack the ability
to reflect upon life.
speculated on what life is for is useless; the only cure is acceptance
that life is cruel, and if you live long enough, friends may drive you around
asking you about the old days, a time you rather forget.
No religion or philosophy will rescue you; you are on your own until death.

May Morning

A strange morning, clouds look like they were trying
to put up wallpaper, but the work was too much, and they left the project.
Drips like glue fell into the sea and became flakes of sunlight.
An airplane crossed the sky. It looked old, and it wheels were not retracted
perhaps it was a private plane doing a bit of exercise keeping its owner alert.
A seagull flew past it was a big one hardly flapping its wing, how I envy its flight.
So, why are you not happy?
I have seen so many oceans they are all the same…wet.
The oceans have many colors, grey, blue and grey, and I never saw a red sea.
The building is waking up, lifts in motion, slamming of doors.
Yet, I miss the woodland, the small terns where fish and fairies play; I shall not be there
and ask if they miss me?

India

This beautiful country is in the gripe of the pandemic.
Pyre after pyre burns in the night.
Ash and ashes fill the mourners settle on their clothes
and death is inhaled.
The people of this ancient land are stoic because
they know that there is no death, only a continuation
of life.
No politician can break the pact the Indian people have
with the past and future; and wordless Gandhi the great
river flows into a new beginning.

a little argument in Portugal

at the pharmacy
a man tried to get in front of me
I would have none of it
We had words.
But something he said
Stuck in my mind;
We don´t like you (foreigners)
We only tolerate you.
The people at the pharmacy
Fell silent.
I had the sense they agreed with him.

Echography  

On a bed attached to many wires, my body was prodded
by female hands, at my age, it was not everyday people touch me.
My heart sounded like an old steam-ship battling the waves off Greenland
seeking calmer water; as for my pacemaker, it sounded like
a pump in need of repair.
I fell asleep, which caused laughter from the staff; it is not often
happen to a patient.
Then it was over. I thanked the staff, the finding if any, will be delivered
by my doctor next week, she can also take a look at the lump
In the middle of the chest, the last time I was operated
for this, it was called cancer.

The fear

Looking out, the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in the corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded gave birth to a scream which
Shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped became petrified like
were fish eyes glared as the day was punished down an abyss.
Of black, shiny boots trampled all fragment.
But the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside
on my mind.

Elderliness

Closer and closer they came
old women with faces made of lava
and stinking volcanic mouths.
Bodies of soil after years of drought,
dead oasis simmered
between thin thighs and haloes
of brittle hair.
They slowly stomped during ancient dust
covered their bird claw feet.
I turned and fled through a thorny bush.
Stumbled into indifference time.
Fell into a muddy lake
and drowned in a cascade of ages.

What few see

99% of people do not care about poetry
and why should they?
The sheep who feed among the olive trees,
the furtive fox, is crossing a field.
the forest full of life and rabbits jumping over
A sinking stone walk.
The climbing rose flower surrounding a house.
Where an old lady leaves and her grandson bringing
Her food and the latest news.
The cat sleeping on the old roof
And the eagle high up seeing what is worth hunting.
The beauty of nature we are too busy seeing.
Yet, poets write about it.
It is a hopeless task, but they are doomed to report
Nature´s greatness.

Love unseen
  
A sleek body arose from the bath
foam fondled her thighs
and the triangle of life.
The fire in the hearse hissed
painted her body with the fire of lust,
only the window saw her body´s hunger.
A pail of frost slowly dissolves
an ember of love lends warms to the night.
Tender is her longings.

A moment in time

I remember a hot summer night
unusual hot for a Nordic country
all windows were open.
My mother, brother and sister sat around a table
drinking coffee.
It was a glorious moment
my happiness was so intense I cried
I knew this moment would not be repeated.
My brother kidded me, I take so quickly to tears
but I could not tell him the why
Without them, I feel so utterly alone, and they died too early
there was no time for a farewell.
I live in a foreign country the past is a treasured memory.

Counsellor

For a short time in Liverpool, I had a job driving
to a house (always working-class) where the man of the house
according to his wife, had a drinking problem.
The man sat in the living room his wife was in the kitchen crying.
The man said, I like a whisky after work, and I go to the pub,
what is wrong with that.
Every day, I said.
Yes, a man got to have his freedom!
I suggested he should not drink for two weeks and see how he felt,
then I left an address for people he could contact if he wanted
to stop his alcohol consumption.
The houses I visited was sad because (not always alcohol) the people
involved didn´t talk to each other.
Sometimes there was a meeting when the whole family surprised
the man in the living room airing their grievances, it always ended in tears
from the man accused.
My thought was to invite the crying man out for a drink it is a brutal way
to attack anyone this way.
No, this job was not for me as I tended to have sympathy for the victim.
My advice would be to get the hell out of the house and find a place
where he could get some peace from interfering with women.
Of course, alcoholism is real, but to get help, they will not get it at home.

The clown of life                  
  
Sadness fills my mind
perhaps it is time to go home,
but that would be hopeless
meet with the country I no longer know.
I had a home, but now it is being sold.
Looking back on my life as a zombie,
like an autumnal leaf in a stream
Someone else lived my life. It was not me.
Perhaps there is nothing like free will.
We are just born, and what happens
to us has been foretold.
Am I the result of thought?
That began hundreds of years ago,
eternal life of unconsciousness.
I accept who I´m sad will always
be a part of me; I try to make into humour.

The acting lark
Since I was not going to be a George Ramsay of cooking
I decided to become an actor, paid my money and went
to the relevant studio, which situated in an old building
in Liverpool.
Up a rickety floor that had a lift conductor for a reason
that escaped me since he stood the and I had to press
the button for the third floor.
The hallway into the centre of learning was lined with
former actors I didn´t know.
The lessons began.
My teacher was a beautiful woman with a magnificent voice
she taught me to speak clearer, louder and confidently.
When the theatre in Chester needed an actor in minor, I applied
but was turned down.
I didn´t mind as I had lost interest in this artform pretending
to be someone else.
My next step was to learn public speaking, this I failed since
there were more than five people in the room, and I fainted.

Caravaggio

  
A painting of Caravaggio has been hanging on a wall
in a modest house when it was discovered, it was painted by the greatest
Painter of all time.
I gladdened my heart. I´m a great admirer of this robustious man
A misfit that didn´t fit in the company of artists but walked his road.
No, I have no Caravaggio on my wall, only prints of his work
his original belongs to the millionaires and collector who byes the great man´s
art and hide it from view.
Art should be available for all he speaks to us working-class few other
painters ever did.
A museum is a suitable place for him, not rotting away
in the mad people´s world
who thinks art equal money?

Racism

Where are the war graves of the 350 thousand soldiers?
Who fought and died for our wars?
Most of them were black or Indians.
No neat war graves for them, and the racism has not changed
since the wars of our making.
The nearest we can come to honour them are names written
In a ledger.
I think there is a racist in every white man’s heart this often
Because the school system was racist, telling of white men’s
Exploits in India or Africa telling us we brought civilization and
To countries that already had an ancient past.
Oh, you wretched white man, when are searching your heart
And free yourself of the racist mentality.

The Killing of Floyd

So, the policeman who Killed Floyd by pressing his
knee on his neck, the sentence was ******, but was it?
The police officer accidentally killed Floyd as he was trained to do.
The why police are learning their dubious craft has to come
into focus, the whole police department has to be scrutinized,
and the new “servants” of the people must be accentuated.
To concentrate on one man who is insensitive and stupid does
Not solve the problem of the American police.
First of all, the poorly trained officer must understand a gun
It is not for shooting people who are fleeing, but the weapon is a defence
Only used when attacked directly.
I cannot understand why a single police officer has to bear
The burden of guilt that is pervasive in the American society
is by its nature, overly fascistic and too dependent on the GUN.
The victory (political) can be a pyrrhic one if some people can disregard
Law and order.