Lonely is the Famous

Once I met Cliff Richard, a sweet little man,
came into the newsagent and bought
a paper-broadsheet- perhaps that makes
him looks intellectual; what do I know?
He nodded my way, smiled, mind, he smiled
to everyone. He is a professional showman,
smiling for him comes easy.

He had plenty of hair, slim no unsightly beer
belly like me, and I was quite envious till
I noticed the cape of loneliness he wore.
Wished I could help moderate the desolation
that dulled his eyes when he briefly let his
guard down. Poor Cliff sits alone at home, sips
his own wine and dream of happy holiday

The Death
I would not like to die in winter
When earth is frozen and will not take a *****
They will dig a shallow grave
Bury me in a coffin without a blanket
Then go inside and sit by the fire
Perhaps they will wrap me in canvas put me on
The hey-loft till spring
And collect my old age pension during the cold season
I don't mind that
Soft soil and flowers on the ground
Dig deep, and I will be a part of spring

Sand in your eyes
Full moon tonight a supernova to sound educated,
last time was in 1948 when the catastrophe hit
The Palestine people I was twenty at the time and
believed what paper said.
Even Folke- Bernadotte's killing in the hands of a fanatical
Jew  was overlooked, they had suffered so much and
secretly there was a relief to have the bothersome race
shifted to another place
Were your hands, Pontius Pilatus
Communists and Fascist were jubilant holding hands
And dancing in the street. Now that we have Muslims to
contend with a minaret is not enough they want the lot,
the Jews are remembered fondly they were happy with
a synagogue, a school, and our banking system.
Return children of Israel you are fake Jews anyway from
a tribe in Tyrkia, and there is no blood relation between and
the ancient Jews it is a Zionist construction

Family life

I ask myself what is wrong with borders well-defined places
with interior freedom and rules;
yes rules, the liberty to do what you want leads enslavement
break- up of families and chaos.
What's wrong with having your banking system and our
money of choice with a picture of a nationally famous, skier
and what Is wrong with discipline,
children becoming a little monster because we are so liberal
We talk about their right…what rights.
Look out of the window in any city what you see is flotsam
People who have no purpose a river of drugged people
Who never learned a thing?
What is wrong in saying a people can only absorb to fit
In refugees at a slower speed,
by all means, they are welcome
we need educated young people, in Europe were women
no longer care to procreate.
The glass ceiling is more important and men to think
their career comes first, and children are neglected
sent to a psychiatrist who prescribes pills knowing well
what the problem is.
But of course, we can say nothing and if we do, are
called  a fascist

Fatal attraction

The is the sweetest, people friendly poem ever written
it is about moonlight, stars so clear so near you can reach
up touch one of them and make a wish about love, but be
stars can be icicles so cold your finger might fall off.
This a poem about a woman in white floating on a transparent
lake, and it is not Vivian Leigh who is visiting us once again
casting her spell over Sir Olivier should you be a film fan?
No, this is a bigger love story that encompasses all humanity,
but buggers me if I know what it is that no storm can stop
nor flood, this, the fatal attraction of men and women in disharmony.

Rustic Morning
Still, early morning and coarse grass had stopped crying
But the carob tree was still tearful someone had broken its branch
The one that was easy to grab from the lane.
By the stone fence, a mule looked soulfully at me, so I scratched its
Forehead and we enjoyed each other’s nearness, while a cat chased
A rabbit that jumped behind some boulders where it was trapped
The cat came out with the dead animal in its mouth it dropped it and
I imagined it roared than began eating its prey.
Both the mule and I contemplated this rustic happening, we sighed
It began grazing; I walked my way saying: “see you tomorrow old boy.”

Resurrection

Then he died
As everyone must
And he entered a tunnel
Pink light
Like a boudoir
Sliding on soft silk
Well, I never!
Pity he cannot write
About it
Doctors resurrected him
They told him
He had smiled
So sweetly when they
Struggled to bring him
Back to life
Crucified
Surrounded
By Roman soldiers
Sigh!
His death had been so banal
A dream of a bordello

A sink bucket
Today I forgot to buy milk, black coffee in the morning it is so
easy to remember the past it shines like jewels lost.
It was the winter of 1964, it was dark my brother carried
a big sink bucket and I a smaller one, we were on our way to
the coal depot to- if we found a hole in the fence- to steal coal.
We were caught by a man who wore an armband of the new
people in command and they were taking no nonsense from
anyone least of all seven years old thieves.

I have often seen that you put a uniform on someone who
who never had power and they behave like little ****** sprats.
On the way home with two empty buckets we came across
a wooden fence that had partially fallen down we took as many
planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve

Haiku
A season is over
Golden leaves softly fall
The breeze is absent.

Haiku
Bushes have the blooms
Still intact covered in dust
The town waits for storm

Haiku
Indoor plants sag too
Sorrowful for no reason
Longing for freedom

Haiku
Umbrellas await
Know their duty are coming
They have the courage

Wars, the real thing

I like wars, the real thing as it was in Stalingrad
and now Mosul, wish I was there.
War, is ******, messy Sadistic, violent and merciless.
body parts, all over the place bombed out building,
shoot the ******* and if the enemy survives
**** and throw them in the river Tigress.
Their **** ******* ****** had slept with the enemy,
string them up; there is no excuse for youth, hang them
high and let their disgusting corpses twist in the wind
and be eaten by crows.
“Good Morning Vietnam”. Oh, *******!!!
“Saving Ryan.” What sentimental twaddle.
That's why I dislike American war movies, with a love interest.
The colour full explosion in the jungle, do they think it is 4th of July.
I love real wars it gives spectators and soldiers a meaning.
living at the edge of life and death.

The Complicated Scam
I met a man in a bar he was a monk dressed as civilian
to study the world and he painted me a picture.
How wondrous life was behind a wall, a cell each a habit a
and a pair of sandals. Regular meals of the healthy kind
Monks never got diabetes or heart diseases, and the wine
they drank at each meal was home made.
We had another drink followed by more it was closing time
I rose to leave, and he began crying  
He had nowhere to go, he said, what about the cloister, no they
will not open their doors I drank too much wine and seduced
A novice. I suggested he should take a photo prostrate in the front
Of our Saviour. He thought that was a good idea, but he had
No camera, I gave him mine -  he was a monk even a fallen one-
I never saw him again, but saw my camera for sale in the window
of a second-hand shop

No milk for babies

I have lost track of who is fighting whom in the overlapping endless wars
in the middle- east, but that is beside the point today.
I was standing in supermarket's till a woman in front of me had bought
a litre of milk and now she looking for loose change.
I was amazed she looked like human dairy; she could bottle her milk
in small flasks and sell it to health freaks.
In the vastness of her bag movements, it was her husband Carlos smelling
Like the inside of a purse
I always like to take him along when shopping and know where he is and,
He has got the car keys.

The Americans have been bombing again making sure there is no milk for babies
because they want to build that pipe gas line across Afghanistan and the Taliban
or is it the Pashtuns are saying no, from my home I see for me a giant in uniform
with a belt full of bombs bestriding the world.

The President
Today Benafim got a new president of the local council
he is a stern type wants to do away with meals on wheels
close the old people's home for those who cannot pay.
He promises to reduce taxes to a cheering crowd of fruit
And sheep farmers, this will attract businesses to set
up shop, the local hairdresser thinks he is wonderful.
He is a coarse man speaks uncultured Portuguese, not that
I would know, but that's what the manager of the home
she went to university in Coimbra and had a degree.
Rumours have that he has touched up women fifty angry
females stay outside the post office which is also
The president's place of work. Not that I care, I was posting
a letter, but was blocked by women with placards
I will wait till next week when the anger dies down a bit

A Flying Bagatelle

Through the open door
come flying
a sparrow grey
of no distinction
it sat on
the printer
looked at me
quizzically
the phone rang
startled it flew to the
window
caught in the curtains
I got it lose
carried the bird
to the door let it go
that was all
no epiphany
nothing mystical
just a bewildered bird
a ringing phone
and a magic moment

Wilderness

I dislike wasting my time shopping for shoes
the man who wrote wasteland a famous poem
is known for this; he did like boots too for walking
He did indeed and many other things too
I, when I had a bike, cycled through wasteland
a domestic landscape growing beautifully wild
I don't see it know there is a distance between
me and the dream I had, the touch the aroma of
nature is also a memory of horse manure in
a field verdant as the sea around Greenland.
I need a wasteland a place where I can lose myself
without it, life is an endless trivial repetition.
Tomorrow I will go buy a pair of walking boots.

Haiku
Notes of music
Fell into the ocean
Undulating


Haiku
Rain upon the sea
Softly lamented the loss
The conductor died.


Haiku
After great sorrow
Gigantic waves crash the shore
Disharmony

Not a *******.

The nun in her habit sat on a rock near the river,
when I came by she smiled, with lips that had never tasted
a kiss, asked if I wanted a *******; taken aback of
what, coming from a nun, sounded like a sick obscenity,
a shocking blasphemy, I left to tell my wife.

She demanded a divorce and got custody of our only dog which,
in triumph, bit my thumb; I went back to the river since I had lost everything,
better let the nun does her job;
but she was floating down the river like a black
bin liner full of newspapers reporting telling of atrocities.

The Tripoli losers


Guns in every untrained hand
                                                    They call it freedom
Zoo animals go unfed a son of Kaddafi fed them’
                                                     It doesn't matter now
We can’t prioritise beasts, they are dumb.
                                                     They have nothing to offer
Global capitalism has no use for them so set them free
                                                      Let the lion free
                                                      Give the camel its desert
  Let the eagle soar high above the humans’ murderous pursuit

A Friend of the Mouse

Outside on the bottom wall of an old house
I saw a tiny mouse, picked it up it didn't offer resistance
I looked the small life with wonder
It had lungs, eyes, a beating heart just like me, and a brain too
But of course its world view was
From a perspective of the place it occupied the election of
Trump not its concern and the feeding frenzy of the mass media,
The hysteria and wrong conclusions not to forget the hatred
Of those who thought they deserved to win.
I put the mouse down, it disappeared into a hole, and it will
Perhaps say to its friend:” God held me in his hands but let
Me walk in peace, I feel blessed.”

The News
During
The Second World War
We had two kinds
Of newspaper in Norway
Mainstream papers
That was ****-dominated
Illegal papers
That got their news
From London
The ****'s tried to stop it
Said they were telling lies
Those caught printing
The real truth
Faced a long time in jail
As owning a radio
Was a crime
Today we call
The truth peddlers
Fake news mongers
So little has changed
Since the war

The Domestic War

Everybody is dishonest your family too
They scheme and manoeuvre getting an advantage
My house has become a realm where
The aristocracy vies for power giving the wrong counsel
Trying to replace the old king
Now the chief counsellor his right-hand lady has openly
Betrayed him with false information
The ruler could have her expelled or ban her from his high table
He is weak, and the people sense it.
Giggling hyenas ready to attack the living corps
The monarch gets out of the bed call a doctor from afar
The regent becomes a vegan, his strength returns
He banishes the traitors and gets a new consigliere.

Testing Water
It began with a sign in a window have your water tested here, I knocked
On the door, they had meant drinking water.
Next day I brought a bottle your water is not drinkable they told me
I rang the water board the ******* water I pay for is not drinkable.
It has not been drinkable for 26 years I was told you foreign swine the man
On the phone said. Listen to me you **** I was in Luanda in 1975 when
The Portuguese army melted away and we from the foreign legion had to
Keep the population safe. SLAM!
Next day the water board came cleaned the cistern, the driver of the truck
Had lived in Norway for five years it was he said living with icicles 4 dead cat
Skeletons and a dog that still had fur on it head, I fed it and it grew a body
But the dog was not happy, when I took it for a walk it trice to tried to throw
Itself under a bus, I learned its name was Prince, one morning it disappeared
And was found in a pond having been dead for fifty year it preferred to stay dead
I understand that having tried to be famous for fifty years it is like waking up
And eating soggy cornflakes in the morning.

The oncoming

The human tragedy is not to learn from the past
The world is in an uproar a nuclear war is coming
The belief is by using a smaller bomb it will not be so bad
So also, is the thinking of the enemy.
Millions of people will be killed and nature already
Devasted will collapse too.
It appears to me that the coming tragedy is ordained
That unknown forces will make it this way, it is uncanny
That we blithely walk around with no care in the world
As the Damocles sword has loosened from it ropes, and
Is about to fall.
What is left is scorched earth circling around the sun
The seasons will come and go in in silence and we shall
Not hear the joyous laughter of the young.

The interior landscape

Here in the landscape of bushes and crippled trees
silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees with grey boughs stretching upward
appealing to a fairytale God:
“Give us today a new life.”
There is only one god with many names
you can't trust him to hear your whisper in the wind.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to endlessly
going to casinos or nightclubs, unable to be alone the noise drowns out the ghost of god.
Pale faces seeing a horror behind you or into a void which
is the biggest punishment is to be forgotten.
I shun not this landscape as it has been abandoned by man
can only be peaceful.

Winter-poem


On the way home I had bought winter-wood, only buy
a little at a time this because I’m so ****** old and can't carry much.
The supermarket was nearly empty I liked that people make me nervous and grumpy.
I bought a bottle of wine with golden horse; the wine is from Alentejo
We all have a penchant for lions; Norway is full of stone lions some
of them look scary and much bigger than the real ones.
It was then I remembered the poem, I think it is of the intellectual sort,
deep ploughing and full of dictionary words. Alas, after unloading
the wood I had forgotten it,
but I will remember when I get the first line right.

The Woods in January


I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black, wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.

This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like dangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;  

but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching, and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.

It isn’t easy to be a tree if one is placed
amongst siblings, and its roots can’t
touch a loved one, across the road, for  
the future must be bleak indeed    

Yet, trees can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written.  And you call that solace?

Love story

Her kiss tasted of iron railing a frostbitten dawn; my lips bled.
Her eyes were frozen stars in a deadly
galaxy of tranquillity.
A beauty flawless.
Her body…unbending, unwilling, an ice maiden in a winter forest.
Her blue lips had spots of cardinal crystal,
my futile attempt of resurrection.
My love, I laid by her feet, struck a match in the vast night of silence.
Ash and ember I was free.
In the glade among roses of gold,
my new love waited…hand in hand
we walked to where the day begins.

Atheism

When I grew up
I stopped believing in God
Toys belong to the young
And Santa fanatics
Yet
I leave small light on
In my bedroom at night
The fear of darkness
Never left me
Yet
I know Christianity had
Taken hold of me
The darkness of the sinner
Never left me
Yet
I believe in the day
The truth must not be hidden
In Churches' recesses
Yet
Blood splash on walls tinsel
On the ground
New Year Eve in Istanbul
The fear never left
Yet
I saw a happy child play in a puddle.

The Serene world

In the little corner of the world where I live far from airports,
military establishment and the liberal middle class among people
who at heart are flag nationalists and proud to be Portuguese.
They are not too fond of foreigners who for the most part are British
who are quite happy not having to mingle with anyone.
I having lived here forever is accepted as the strange silent man who,
when he speaks, sounds funny and rumours has it that he writes
which never fail to impress none readers.

So here you have a postcard picture of an idyllic village tucked away
in a valley, and the nearest it ever came to war was a bewildered plane
flew low overhead the houses shock
brought people out of houses talking excitedly about the near accident.
But in the tiny cottage unpainted and rustic, there is near starvation,
and if the winter is long the old die of cold and church bells toll.

For Fatherland

In a country to near the Arctic Circle
every new generation -men and women- had to
throw pebbles into a lake,
until the lake was full and you could wade over,
Alas, a bridge was built,
so futile the pebbles.
Now they are learning how to throw a hand grenade in Afghanistan
and draw funny pictures of Mohammad,
pity about the bridge.

Haiku
Christmas again
Seventy -seven ****** times
Spring is far away

Haiku
I wish for April
Intoxicating apple flowers
And rain softening soil

Dream makers

Through grimy windows, I can see
Santa and his elves blowing
bubbles, goblets and vases heat
and rolled up sleeves

Outside, large flakes of snow
dissolve on asphalt.

From the bar next door
red shadows and empty music leaked
out and into the gutter.
Hard smiles, and much wine, nicotine tongues
meet experienced lips.

Behind the bar a baseball bat,
the cheap scent and fake rings,
loneliness dances with greed.

Haiku
Norway, a glazier
Trapped inside a glass orb
Shake it and it snows

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?

Horse Flesh
The mare in the yard is almost a pony it used to be
the falling horse in western movies.
She got old and Hollywood has no use for slow horses
It had performed in Lima Peru where the cowboy fell off
and I bought it on the roundabout
took it home and painted it yellow but as got older she
ended up in my garage,
together with my scooter and other useless toys.

Senryu
A lie is
A poetic way of telling  
The truth


Tanka
There are many truths
Fanatics think they have a monopoly  
Their version is right
There are many religions too
Each on the keepers of the truth

Glasgow
The music stopped abruptly dancers left the floor
became paintings on the wall in the closed down dance-hall
in Glasgow's Sauciehal street the old entertainment centre.
We drank plenty of beer before going there, and we were frisked
to see if we had not brought any alcohol into the premises.
To ask a young woman up to dance was painful
The answer was often no, to be refused hurt one’s self- esteem
but luckily there was only one or two who said yes,
the ugly ones were the best to ask they were not so critical.
Later in the evening a few open chip shops and hopefully with
a new girl -friend one then followed to the last bus a kiss and
a cuddle a few promise murmured it was all too boring for word.
Glasgow had many splendid pubs I liked to sit drink and smoke
in one of them, the one nearest the docks.  I remember at these
pubs some elderly women drank gin & lime they were called
donkey women and I never knew why.
The old dance halls have got a patina of romance where
Friendly ghosts soberly dance to the tune of a bygone time.

The arrival of the vermin
It has now been confirmed there more rats
then people in Paris, I'm thinking of the furry kind
that lives under floorboards and drainage systems.
They have come out from their hiding holes,
walk unafraid up to the centre of the city, sit outside cafes
demand to be fed; dogs and cats have fled fearing
for their life. There is way out of this; we take the most prominent rats
tame them to attack other rats; to **** them on sight.
This new breed of rats will become our pets
some will like them so much they will have
five or six, and of course, there will be competitions.
We will fear our former pets like we fear the wolf
tell stories about them and go hunting them to extinction.

choices

It was a moment when the cacophony of voices, at the railway restaurant,
became one, no longer dusty prattle mixed with cigarette smoke, but a real,
human accent making an utterance; alas, the voice spoke of mortgages,
the price of heating homes, electricity and food; the only true issue in our
civilized world that has imprisoned us with their gilded promises
So should one be shocked, isn’t that what we have worked towards too?
A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you with any political philosophy,
any ism of this and that only leaves you to worry about the ordinary
things like the ice cream parlour in Parkgate that sells 21 flavours of ice cream,
now isn’t that nice to know and snigger about we can call it a democracy of
choices

The Sin
It must be a tragedy to be a man and a ******* what
treatment is there for an unspeakable lust the forbidding
feeling, the dreams, the church which is a wrong place to
confess a priest is not viable he has to cure himself of this
ugly vice. Is it a vice for a child liker for him this is
the sexuality he was given it was not asked for a burden of
always hiding yet goes to places where children assemble
and from their young bodies oozes a newness like a scent
that threaten his social standing should it be known and
should he succumb he will be cast out loose his employment
the sneering people goading him and he will join  the people
of the night.

The Mirror of Truth  
The face in the crowd worried me it was still
but the eyes were aglow showing an intense hatred
to no one, in particular, a man's who dreams had
been disturbed by reality; this is the way it is and
he is a slave of the conventional and his lack of courage
to break free a man who bullies himself and others,
if not rescued his rage will turn violent.

What bothers him is familiarity of the face he has seen
it before somewhere was it on the surface of the lake
so deep and silty those thoughts sink to the nethermost
conscience; he has long denied the veracity is shocking,
the face is a mirror image of him

The Misogynist
I wish I could remember the first day when
opening my eyes saw the world for the first time
****** sheets a sweaty mother grinning nurses look
at the size of his little ****, the child screamed
in horror and could see the rain and the dark sky he never
told me about that I had to re-live his revulsion
he was a child in his crib that didn't scream much observing
the foul world and his mother making love  
the bilious smell of love they thought the child was pure
and knew nothing of the lust of the *****
these early experiences he could not remember made me into
a whoremonger forever ******* anything in skirts
only to experience the loneliness of all animals after coitus  
only old age saved him from this ritual  disgrace
In the rocking- chair he sits and the **** is asleep this slack
the thing he uses when *******

From Face to Faith

As Christianity sinks into
ennui of middle class tosh
of an all forgiving God.

Zionists, claim the right
to defend themselves against
the people they robbed.

Moslem zealots are busy
blowing each other up
and playing the victim.

Atheists are hateful of
those who believe in God,
call them deluded.

The Love
*** and love do  not always meet and as you get older
seduction becomes a routine both partners trying to
do their utmost and after coitus feeling empty.
I was 55 when I met her, not a pretty lady, but she had
alluring eyes, after a few meetings she invited me to her
house for a meal and the magic happened.
In her bedroom only lit up by the open living room door  
we became one body and I remember the silhouette of
her body soft and glued to mine.

Embraced we fell asleep and hours past before we stirred
we had achieved the wonder of having an ****** at
the same time. We tried again, but the moment was lost
we drifted apart; we had dreamt the same reverie, yet it
was worth remembering.

Grumpy traveller

We are eating breakfast at the hotel,
it has proper breakfast that is suitable for a diabetic person
then we will pack our bags; she will repack my bag
since I crease the clothes.
I will then watch TV and wait.
Then we will pay and take a taxi to the railway station
I tried to get the place in a first-class carriage, but they didn't
have any. I know the train will be packed by noisy,
Tourists who carry more luggage then they need.
The train has a dinner, but I can't drink any wine since
I will be driving home our car is parked at the station
In Faro; I'm not a glad traveller only do so when I must.
Near Faro ten minutes before arrival, I feel quite perky;
it is so good to be home after being away.

The Hummock
There is a hill behind the houses rounded and soft
I call it a -mother hill- and it welcome you and softly
Murmur, how do you do and leave you alone to sit
On a boulder and think how incredible life is.
If you sit there too long enjoying your sentimentality
It wakes you up the rock get cold and the northerly
Blow that has a fragrance of Siberia, reindeer and *****
So you walk about to keep warm and see wildflowers
Hiding behind stones, but pick them you cannot they
Are not yours will wizen in your hands and bring rain

Walk softly now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Just behind the hill a hillock grey as October fall, but
Out of sight and no trees grow on it scrawny side it
The mother hill's burden which it bears with fortitude

in Paris
A summer is over the night arrives with
unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season
too spent most of the time indoors
fantasising about  silky sand, the sun and sea
reading brochures of adventures in Thailand.
When I get to a new place, it never is as had
Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris
I had in mind the way it was at the time of
Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and
Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another
overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace
of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of
time went by, so I shall not be invited to
a literary salon, but I got two collections of
poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop
I’m glad I read their books, but I’m also glad
I never met them

The Good-Bye

We walked
To the railway station
Mother
Dressed in an old coat
Fastened with safety pins
waved.
She looked so small wanted to leave the train
Embrace her.
The train moved
I waved
As long as I could see her.
Mother was untidy
Hair
On the sandwiches
She gave me.
At the next stop
I bought a bar of chocolate.

Religion and a poet
When I was nine years of age I came to see religion
as a fairy tale and as we know the bible is written
by many scribes during a time, some of them were wise.
I like the Old Testament because it is full
of blood and thunder, the New Testament is a construction
a clean-up of the real thing making palatable for the squeamish.
I think the creator of our world as an overarching intelligence
that when the job was done left its way.
The creator is neither good nor bad for it has no interest in
the world besides creating it, so it is entirely up to us
to make the world a liveable place, alas, so far we have failed.
Mankind have dreamt of extending life long after
its natural cycle even if unseen by the pulsing living world,
that is how some transcribers constructed Paradise so
we can exist into the indefinite and beyond.
To be and not to make no sense other than easing
the fearful heart and comfort the transition into death,
at this point my thoughts were interrupted, my wife
came and told me to do the dishes

Be Nice to the Police

It was like watching me on a film clip,
surrounded by four police officers
one of them a woman who yelled at me
for not speaking proper Portuguese.
I stared at her with contempt
It was a tense moment.
A conciliatory officer stepped in.
No big deal he said, a little scratch the car
is insured documents in order
have a pleasant journey.
I have often wondered why female officers
are so aggressive, is it because they are smaller,
land compensate the feeling of inferiority
by being brusque?
I met one smiling woman officer once, black and
six foot ten, refused my offer to marry her so I could
feel safe, was married she said…so what!
Before I forget the rude female officer was standing
behind a car in the dark smoking a cigarette and she
was overlooked by the male officers