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

Beer in a Bucket

The well is almost dry he could hear the bucket scraping
at the bottom and the bucket was only half full when
he brought it up, global warming was true, but he was
not sure whether it was caused by man or by a natural
The shift in the weather pattern, having read the once there
were palm trees in Greenland?
Once the well was full of cold, clear water and he used
to lower a bucket full of bottled beer down it and when
he hoisted it up the beer was cold; of course, he could
put the beer in the fridge, but it didn't have the sangfroid,
about it as everybody had a fridge.
He looked at his watch they were going out to eat she
said, not that he wanted to go out, people went on his
nerves, the good thing was the served cold beer, almost
as cold as the beer in the well.

Goodbye Alfred
  I had not seen Alfred for a while, had been busy
selling off my donkey farm, with this down I drove into town
but couldn't find him and his flat had been rented out to others.
Found him in rundown old peoples home, four old men to a room.
What the hell are you doing here papa? Well, it’s about the money, he said but get me out of here. Alfred who had now accepted me as his son was wealthy his grandfather had been in oil, and he feared Olga- my mother-
Would take the money, had placed most of it in Portugal.
As he had given me the power
of attorney I got him out and into a posh private home for the aged.
Alfred look frail, his wavy hair was reduced to a few strands of
White hair and his unafraid, one could say arrogant, ways had gone
The home had phone number should he get worse.
The call came in his room sat Olga she embraced me called me my son, my son.
Sitting by Alfred’s bedside, I fell asleep only awoke
when a nurse said Alfred had slipped away, strangely Olga had disappeared also, but
in a way I was content, it had not been an imagination, they were real I had a family,
although it must be said that Olga’s vanishing puzzled me and the nurse said there
had been no visitors other than I.
Alfred's last wish was to have his ashes strewn over Portugal I hired a helicopter and had it done. It was a sorrowful time, yet I was
glad that my dreams had come true.

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.

The pace
  I walked for 50 minutes
Inhaling fumes of cars, it is like
Living in a roundabout
The see air on the seventh floor
At my flat, the air is healthier
But I walk every day because
It is suitable for my diabetes
And it makes me slimmer
Only the walk makes me hungry.
It makes me wonder if
The great and late president Chirac
Walked the street of Paris?

The Odd Narrative

Steamed up window my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest and a lake; the peak cries into
                   the lake it becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, are made into wooden rafts floats.
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to Himalaya,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses gallop,
                                   flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.    

The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
                                     is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgot,
                                     he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he  puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s    belly: “without you,” he murmurs
                                    “I would truly be alone.”

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

Epiphany

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

The Great Detective

Hercules Poirot stood alone
the lovers he had saved from the gallows
had departed.
He had tears in the corners of his eyes
and said: I, Hercules Poirot, the most famous detective in the world
I cannot understand the nature of love.
I concur.
My wife and I have been together for twenty years.
I love her dearly; she does not care about my writing; it might
upset people.
Her female logic makes me knotted in despair, but what can I do?
We have grown old together, and my nightmare is to live longer than her.
She is the practical one. I see conspiracy theory everywhere.
When Hercules Poirot could not solve the problem,
I give up too and go on loving her.

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.

South Africa

The rainbow paled in South Africa
the end of apartheid has ended, freedom for all.
Not quite, the poor in Soweto are getting poorer.
The difference it now consists of white poor as well.
The new leadership behave like the old one corruption
and shade dealings.
South Africa is practically a democratic one-party state.
Or was democracy and equality brought on too early?
It takes time.
What is there to say when people riot and burn down
the places where they buy their daily bread and have to walk for miles
to buy milk for their children, other than an act of despair.
Big business is doing well, thank you.
But nothing has been done to alleviate the suffering of the poor.
The rainbow state has lost its lustre.
If you wonder why the poor ran amok was the jailing of Jacob Zuma
Despite his failings, he has an African heart, which the new elite, dipped in white culture,
failed to see.
He is the chieftain dethroned and Africa bleeds.

Driving home
Driving back to Algarve we took the long road
more cafés and restaurants by the roadside and not
so many crazy drivers.
The restaurants were full of Portuguese people on vacation
they like their lunch in this country
Grilled chicken
Grilled meat
Grille the unspeakable innards
Stewed meat
Bacalao with cream
Red wine
Fresh fish
Beans in its many variations
Water, cold from the well
The worst of the summer heat had gone good mood prevailed.
People talk in this country
at the same time.
The din of happy, eating people was symphony of summer time
a few weeks of freedom, the paying of bills could come later
I love this country called Portugal even when I’m in a hurry and
the women in front of me and the check-out person talk about
grandchildren.

The two-timed

I know of a man who drove his wife to her lover in Faro
when it rained as she was afraid of the dark.
He waited in the car reading a paper when she came
out from the house of tryst she purred like a kitten,
he was happy too she would make him a good dinner
She died, the lover and the two timed stood by the grave
mourning her in their different ways and since they were
both alone, the lover moved in he does the cleaning and
lit the fire while the two- timed makes dinner and cakes.
Together they grew old and died in their sleep.

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.

Night Rider  

I was riding around a pan- handle flat landscape
and as far as I could see it had millions of coffins, some expensive
others looked home-made.

The sun was forever going down but threw rays on white clouds
making them pink as a ballet dress on a girl painted by Edgar Degas
the ground was covered with sheets of black plastic which undulated
slightly in the mild zephyr.

The horse’s hoofs made holes in the plastic and up sprung bushes
that for long had been living in darkness; they were pale now but
would soon be greening by the setting sun.

I came to a small town where houses had false facades to make
them look imposing walked into a bar were Hollywood actors
was shooting each other take after take.

I found a bath-house after stabling my horse and in the tub
dreamt of crisscrossing this landscape of death till it became
green again hiding the coffins, perhaps then the night would
be full of stars and the sun that arose from the east

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.”

Whistlestop
There used to be a train station here it was busy
and many came from the village to see who was leaving or arriving
that was ok; it is nice to wave goodbye or
welcoming a relative that has been away too long and might have
picked up big city manners.
Then the ghost of privatization came, and the line was closed, but
there is a bus arriving twice a day, but lack romance
bus travel is so common everybody facing one way and no stretching
and pacing in the hall.
The train station was sold off as a dwelling and the terminal a garden
where, as we speak, a tourist was told to leave
he was pacing waiting for the last train to take him home and to
the airport; he had waited for twenty years.
Not that the wife of the house minded, she was a good hearted woman,
as long as he stood still he kept birds away and she
didn't have to take him in when it rained he had an umbrella and was
happy when she bought him leftovers – she didn't like dogs-.
Then a twilight day it happened a train stopped the tourist boarded,
a whistle-stop you might say, the train never came back.

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.

Lower class

When children we were poor, and that was ok,
we knew  hunger,
it was not so much not having much living in unsanitary houses
no bathroom we all lived like this and thought nothing of it,
it was that our life was staked out by authority
our job after
seven years schooling was to man the factory, some went
further and became welders and others electricians which
the nearest we could get to being middle class.
Most children when young accepted their future life and
after long years  in a factory got a watch from the administration
and a picture in the local newspaper.
There were many losers some became drifter didn't want to
we called them lazy some became ****** while other sank
into alcoholism and they were the clever ones
no one saw their talent, and the gifted didn't know how
to set themselves free living in boarding houses walking in
the shadow, luckily many of them died young.
Life is better now we have a better chance there never was
a time of the good old days.

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

Dark Forces

There is a sense of ennui the déjà vu after a feast
life is not what we thought it was, the banner of battle
no longer flies on top of the town hall.
The hero is not a hero but a figure fluctuating in the wind
and ruled by outside forces where he is only the visible  
to fool the world into a shared vision of bravery.
There are so many other problems the scourge of pest
the sizzling heat burning human skin crisp
and rain that kills and sea that floods the landscape.
The undertone is getting louder; we have been lied to
dark forces seek a unipolar world, malleable people
into enslavement, where words are no longer truthful
but lies are endlessly repeated until lies are the truth.
It is late in the day, but there is a rumble of a fightback
the freedom of the individual precariously wilts like
grains of life die if not rescued by the rain of revolt.

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.

Blindness
I think I'm going blind
Have walked around the house blindfolded
Having lived in my hut for a hundred years
I know where everything is
I can put clothes in the washing machine and
And put a capsule of liquid soap into it
When it is finished, it bibs saying it is done
The tricky bit is to open the gas oven I tried today
And burnt my hands I kept it over the ring
To check if it was hot
Having a shower is easy I know my body intimately
The problem is how to call the gas people when the bottle is empty
My wife wants me to move to her flat on the seventh floor
I will sit on the terrace and not see the view of the bay
The sailboats and ship at anchors and I will never be able
To talk to friends on the Facebook
She and her daughter will be tired of me and push me
Out of the terrace and for two seconds I will be flying and
Be incredibly happy to be able to fly and in a trance not
Notice the impact; they will when looking out see the dent
I made in concrete and ask someone to resurface the spot.

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 first dance

My outing into the big world was to go every
Saturday to the local cake shop eat cakes and drink coffee
But now I had to go to a dancehall
I noticed there were several women no one asked to dance
I asked one of them she said no, I asked the second one
She said not too, totally destroyed I looked for the exit.
Surprisingly there was a woman by the exit who said yes
Without being asked.
My dignity restored I danced with her several times
There was an alehouse near she wanted to go there
And I was only too happy that a woman spoke to me.
She drank several beers and when I asked to go back
She told me to *******.
I walked home alone

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

The Ballerina and the *******

The Ballerina, at the left in my Degas print it hangs
in the hall and I have neglected to look at it for some time,
has moved to the centre stage where she goes through
her warm up routine.
She teaches little girls to dance now that she is married
and have three children; she had to go back to work
as her husband was a sloth; but she is still graceful as
a leopard when r it is chasing lesser pray on
the Savannah, or gliding up to kiss the Popes ring.
She sees my argumentative mien, but will not be drawn
into a fight when I suggest Degas was a *******.
My dog, although it has no business being there,
enjoy the attention it gets from girl ballerinas that
crowd the print with chatter and eager sincerity.

**** Time
Uniformed men with ice blue
crystal eyes marched up and down
our street.
Bomb fell, the earth shook
and I was two years old.
An officer with steel rimmed glasses
and thin cruel lips said; this child is an Aryan.
Proudly clicked my heels and ****** my thumb.
Went to sleep, while mother sang
sentimental leider and dreamed of becoming
the Kindergarten's Fhurer.
To my regret peace broke out and life
became rather dull for a while
until I was circumcised and could pea
higher up a wall against the wall
then the other boys, this made me
a natural leader

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

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

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.

War & Peace  

We agree most of the time war is caused
By capitalism, nationalism, in fact, any isms
Demagogues and murky propaganda
These entities can't fight wars without soldiers
And there are too many young men who
Simply love the idea of wearing arms and fight
They go to war the survivors are veterans
They know now they have fought for nothing
In despair, they take to drink and drug and sink
To the bottom of the human heap
Aldous Huxley spoke of something in the water
That takes the aggression away….Good!
Only one has to be careful not making them into
Zombies with no ambition to the point the world
Disappear in the morass of apathy.
We can't stop wars happening but we can try to
Prolong peace and make wars more infrequent.

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.

A flat in Town

Tomorrow most of the time there is one, but for some, the unlucky
who died the day before, and rest in a coffin in a cold church, the tomorrow came too late,
I will be moving into a flat on the fifth floor in Loule.
See many roofs and if I stand on a ladder also see the Atlantic Sea and with binoculars
catch a sight of a passing ship.
Life will be so easy take the lift down to the street walk into
a café and drink coffee; I usually make my coffee but what the hell.
There is a park nearby with pretty flowers and tame trees.
The bank manager shakes her head did some calculation asks me about
my age and before I can push the question away with a joke my wife stepped
in and told  
What I cannot tell anyone if the loan I need is refused, I will look mournful  
yet relieved that I do not have to write poetry  about the colours on flat roofs
and the sea is forever green I do not need a ladder to know this.

Walls
And the foolish enemy, sons of fools and grandchildren
of idiots build a wall in the desert to protect them from
The horde of poncho-clad hombre In sombreros seeking work
Taking with them the culture of a failed state with Salsa music.
The enemy of freedom forgot about nature and over
The desert sand flew stopped by a 12-metre fence, it blew and
blew and sand dunes grew and grew, buried the wall
Till it was forgotten, the Salsa music won.
Jericho’s wall blew down too was rendered into a parable, yet idiots
And the fearful defend this continuing building of walls by
Those who have forgotten history

The Repairman Cometh
It was the sweetest of morning all I had to do was to pick up
a car from the garage nothing is simple in the Africa’s stranglehold
on Portugal, its relaxed attitude have seeped into the very corner of
what is called the Portuguese endearing soul
The car stopped I called the garage, alas it was lunch time which
is sacred,
oh yes they promised to come,
the man I spoke to was
chewing on a bone, I waited for three hours which is the time
a lunch break takes.
I was left sitting on a road far from a nearby café, but that is
beside the point, many call this attitude charming folkloric even
I think it demonstrate a lack of regard for Fellow man especially
if he is the foreigner and it is a well-known fact the Portuguese are
fine people,  they tell us so in every booklet you care to read
But there is another picture of Portugal on my mind
The atrocity their army committed and the following cowardice
By the leadership is forgotten in a common amnesia and the young
will ask a question; Father: what did you do in Angola besides poring
cement down hotel drains out of pure spite.

Mean Machine

The locomotive was an old mean machine
only used for carrying gods at local stations along
boring flatland. Once it had been a young and
the President of Portugal rode on it, not only him
but many other high up all the way to Lisbon.
And now? It wanted to go hiding somewhere dark,
but where does one conceal an iron horse?
The train passed near the parking lot in Faro
I was out with my dog, and there I could let her
run free. There was a hole in the fence were
the tracks. Naturally, she jumped through.
She saw the train that seemed to speed up with murderous intent when she jumped clear it
was too late. I had her buried and the following
days were long and full of sadness.

The first Flower

The first winter after a long war was cold
but today the snow was slushy the beginning of spring
It was a poor street house had not been
painted for years, not much food and the ice was
reluctant to let go of its pale grip.
It was then I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.

The Lady on the Island

She lived in a big villa with servants, on an island
connected to the mainland by a bridge, she had house arrest
wanted free elections and democracy.
A hero of the west and she got a medal for her tenacity.
The military junta set her free yet kept their power, she accepted
after all, she was a general's daughter.
As a de facto president, she turned out to be a racist, didn't defend
The Rohingya people who their villages burnt to the ground and
had to flee the massacre by the army, she stayed silent and lost
credibility, she was just elite racist didn't want to be a leader of
people who were not of her blood.

A day in a Market Town

The café had a big window facing the street, it was almost empty
except for three scientists, they were talking about trees
I noticed a dog running up and down apparently it was lost and
tired of listening to the- none of my business- I walked out spoke to
the dog, come with me to the park plenty of trees there it followed
Me at a distance. In the park I sat down, I had biscuits in my pocket
gave them to the dog, it was thirsty, so I lifted it up so it could
drink water from the fountain, quite happy it ran around and peed
on trees leaving its marks: saying I was here with a human.

The scientists came into the park also now they talked about the string
theory until one said he would rather discuss marine biology
The dog was chasing squirrels as the day seamlessly slid into evening
I walked to the car wondering what to eat tonight would it be
meat cakes with stewed cabbage and boiled potatoes.

The Maniac  

This day has been one of great terror of the mind,
My illness made me hallucinate; my head was exploding
****** bit of brain everywhere
People are calling this a spike, me calling it a step-down
The ladder into the grave without the dignity
And around my grave, they will throw soiled napkins
The padre will giggle laudable and do a jig and
Read from a funny script, he is a stand- up comic
When not moonlighting as a padre.
She, the dictator of the domestic scene, tells me I'm
Hallucinating, me? One of the most normal people
I have ever known.
You only feel sorry for yourself, says the cake munching
Ogre, I get up, but my voice is too weak for words  
But I manage between heaves of fear of imminent death
To tell her of the wood I have carried to the house
I give myself another shot of insulin, wish I had a cigarette

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

When Alfred was witty

Alfred, the pianist who insist he is not my father
Told me he could walk on water,
to prove it we went to where the water is shallow
he sank slowly, legs, torso and his head
I was not unduly worried,
at the bottom, he walked back to shore
and I gave him back his alpaca and French Beret, but I said nothing
he hadn't stepped on water only walked on it.
He borrowed my shoes to get home I; his son had to walk barefoot
and he never returned my shoes

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.

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.

Demise of my Horses

I had been a way for a few days
visiting the aunts of Cascais, and
found my stone horses gone.
Just three cheerless holes were
They had been tethered.
The widening
of the road, they said and for
that beauty must go.
If they decide to make a motorway
close neighbours will be divided.
Sun and rain, spectacular my horses were
before turned into grit.

Equines
One really ought to start with the beginning only it goes so long back
That it is impossible to remember.
I remember being born but that was just an interlude, cold and
Unpleasant and being kissed by strangers.
I like horses though, but that has nothing to do with my inception.
But then was anyone ever born, we are just a part of a bigger
Broader picture where we but an unconscious number
But I do like horses and would have loved galloping across some
Grassland and jumping over brooks.
And now we have emboli fever which is either over-hyped,
Ten thousand dead by September or it is the new plague coming
To reduce our number ...and yet, and yet I would like to be a horse.
As I wonder if USA will ever be able to live for a whole year
Without starting a war somewhere

Reflection in sunlight

I'm sitting in the sun in the yard it is getting its strength back
and I try to get a tan, you see when I was young I blushed easily
this was because I lived in fear of being found out be sent back
as the intruder, I was the one who escaped poverty.
On a royal navy ship, they had six trainee officers from Ethiopia
who had their own quarter but had no one to cook and look after
them; racism was audible back then, it still is, but it is the Arabs
who get it now.
I, having been brought up by my communist mother, had no such
qualms took the job.
Mind, I also saw it as an escape from the mess hall. Beautiful people
I grew fond of them; the work was easy as they only stayed on board
four days a week. Talking about skin colour having had skin cancer twice,
I no longer sit in the sun, but use a self- tanning cream – it is not only
Trump- but what the hell I look healthy.

Too much Peace

A car stopped outside we closed doors and
Windows switch down the light and TV hiding behind the sofa
Knocks on the door we're silent
No one in a voice said, they never are we only want to read
The meter we have to guess how much water they use
I tried to get up; my water bill is high my wife pulled me back
It is a trick they want you to open the door.
This is what happens when you live in an isolated village
The peace gets so intrusive that ghosts appear at high noon
And the criminal fraternity stops robbing Jewellery stores,
Banks and so on, no they come to rob you my water and
Electricity bill is getting higher we have to move into the city
Listening to police sirens screeching down the street and
Know we are safe; of course it an illusion our fear is death,
Gets the best of us

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

A friendly Story
He the modest farmer was cutting green juicy spring grass
those that had spring flowers entwined it was for his donkey
that had been in the stable in the winter
He put the fodder in a jute sack and when it was full carried
it home to the donkey now in the yard
The animal ate and ate alas there can be too much of a good thing
its stomach full of gas it took flight over the mountain to Spain
where it landed outside the famous cathedral in Seville
Its arrival caused some uproar the believers looked up and said
but where is Jesus?” An *** and Jesus they had read their Bible.

For one day there was not a word about presidential election
In the USA, but a story of a beast that had eaten too much spring
grass and was full of gas but the story ended well the donkey was
sent back to the unassertive farmer in Portugal