Misapprehension

On my way to lunch
Drove the wrong way
Turned and followed the car's
Silhouette
In front of me
Speeded up to join it
The car caught up with its
Illusion
And became whole again
Lunch at the café
As usual

Yule and Monte Carlo

While I sit and watch circus Monte Carlo
and get annoyed by the undignified use of wild animals,
perhaps except horses, they are beautiful and dumb and get oats to eat after
the performance,
There is no peace for the Palestinians and their struggle to win
back their country and bullets sing through the night.
I watched a bland concert where Jerusalem was sung by three tenors
but having heard Placido Domingo, they didn't measure up.
Then the ads came on in Portugal they last forever, I fall asleep
and didn't see the clowns.

Epigram
I don't want to wait long patience is not my virtue
But when it does happens it will happen too fast
Just as I want time to slow down.

Rain falls on sea

The light from the porthole is quite clear today,
the garden I see is a memory of what it
used to be thirty years ago;
for all I know, they may give paved over and painted the lawn it green.
Styrofoam trees and plastic flowers, and there is no need for a gardener.

Do I hear raindrops falling? Is it getting darker or is it rats scratching to get at my inert flesh? I have been dreaming of rain for thirty years,
a tropical deluge foam on the sea, flashing lights, under; each man froze in a frame, no thoughts everyone only absorbed by the eye of the storm.
When the storm passed the deck was cold to walk on, a new clarity of ideas before routinely begins.
When we reach the shore, I will leave this ship to climb a mountain,  to experience everything anew. I’ve waited for rain and the eye of the storm to come and make me whole and young again.

Diptera and Writers
I was thinking of flies Wikipedia was no help
I wanted to understand why they existed, I remembered
a yellow fly not a good colour for an insect,
when I was disrupted by the thought of a famous writer
in Norway who at 75 decided to commit suicide.
He bought sleeping pills plenty of expensive champagne
and invited friends to witness his death.

For each mouthful of the stuff, he swallowed a pill, friends
just drank; finally, he fell asleep among empty bottles and
the smell of stale cigarette smokes his mates had gone home.
It despair he jumped out of the window land on an awning
and lived ten more years. As for the yellow fly it took to walking
across the screen I threw it out, but still don't know what
flies are for other than annoying a writer.

The huddled masses

They came here
from war and starvation
to seek
freedom from religion
and  ethnic
disharmony.
But some came
to sow
unrest
turn time back
to the
period of war
******
and
no freedom of speech

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.

Evening and horses
I'm walking on the bottom of an ancient sea
The bottom is flat and rich in grapes and cabbage.
The used to be a lake here, but it disappeared
What is left is a small stream that gets its water from
Water below. On the lake that was, and no longer is
Helicopter pilots practice take-off and landing
Some gipsy horses graze nearby and ignore the noise
The choppers make- I took a picture of one going in
For landing, it belongs to the fire department, many fires
During the hot summer, some fires need to burn
And some fires are caused by pyromaniacs.
But never mind I will see my doctor at the hospital tomorrow
She is like a beautiful race horse on the wrong side of fifty,
She is forever telling me what not to eat; she told me curry
Was fattening once and I said nothing on her desk there is
A picture of her husband he is a pilot.

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.

Who's Who?


“We're twins,” I said, the mirror looked horror
struck my image turned and fled, profound is
the indefinite glacial depth, the horrifying  
loneliness of a mirror that only sees itself.  

A gardener  wearing my shoes is pruning
a rosebush, while I'm a tree near the window,
living in fear of the logger's chain saw.

No image, I'll fall into a black hole of vacuity
and why is a hole always black? Can't it be red
or green? I'm a blue apostle, in a naïve painting,
forever walking on a lane flanked by fearful trees.

**** 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

Just another Sunday

On my travel along country lanes
this Sunday afternoon I saw a tree
on yellow sun burnt field, that had
its limb cut off by a crazed axe man
A surgeon named John, had put
a bandage on the stump, but sap
or white blood, had seeped through
the bandage and I could sense its
agony and there are no hospitals for
wounded three.

So much death on a peaceful day I saw an
old oak that had died from an enormous
tumour on its trunk, leaves had fallen off and
gray branches were seeking heavenward,
a gesture of futility. A car ran across the lane
and I spat twelve times for luck

Tomorrow's future

Christianity appears tepid I usually do not think about its
lack of centre as I dislike all religions they are fairy tales
that demands to be taken seriously.
Christianity can seem innocent enough, a bewildered vicar
and nice ladies bringing a flower to decorate the altar, till
we remember Bush and Blair; they invaded Iraq, not for
oil alone, but to prove their God was bigger than Allah.

The Christians have for hundreds of years fought in every
Corner of the world and foisted their brutal religion upon the innocent even
up to this day. The occupiers of Palestine belongs to the western conquering
culture and they – Israel- will be the biggest losers when the weakness
of our shallow culture is exposed and millions of Europeans
will flock to Islam that demands thrift, morality, and honesty.
Our culture is rotten; only Islam can save our soul.

The lunch

It was a beautiful autumnal day
The colours after rain was green and auburn,
I stopped at an inn had beans with
onions and bits of pork.
Great food, but I should have known it is
a food one ought to eat at home.
Police patrol, an officer with shiny boots
that appeared to reach his elbows, opened
the door, then quickly closed it
wishing me a good journey.

I knew of a woman

Who wrote a novel that sold 30 thousand copies,
there was a talk of making her novel into a film,
she bought a house.
She wrote several manuscripts they were rejected
and she had to move out of the house.
Her previous occupation was as a cleaner
but who wants a famous char as a house-help?
She changed her name, bought a bike coloured her hair
Auburn and got a job as a cocktail waitress at a dive,
fat sweaty hands were stuffing cash down her bra.
She wrote a novel about it, like going back to
her roots the street life she knew and tried to escape
She was famous again her photo in the paper and in
literary supplements.
She could not run away from her past
moved to a cabin in the deep rural, milking cows
sheep and idyll and wrote a book about betrayal,
it sold well; the intellectuals didn't know it was about them
and she knew well it was her sordid past
that attracted the jaded middle-class taste
and she had to write, and survive on a diet of disgust
the life she had struggled to break out of

The Missing love

This is the sunrise of your life, booming voice hollered,
what do you mean, silly man it is raining outside,
well – lamely now- you are alive that is something to
celebrate; you are right I have got everything, house
car and all that, but wish I had someone to love and take
care of. I will drive down to the lost canine place and see
if there is a dog that needs me. Not any dog, say, a puppy
I haven't got the patience to train one the dog must be
about five years old and preferably a house trained *****.
It must be an older dog because I’m old so when I die
The dog will hopefully die to of old age too.

Black Sheep
It had been raining all day the sky as dark as inside my coat,
but at six in the afternoon, it was clearing up enough for me
to go the shop and buy a bottle of wine.
On the way I had to brake hard a sheep was on the ground
it had given in to life’s harsh reality, I didn't like the idea of
it being run over, got it up it had a broken a leg…bad news.
Got it to safety not that it mattered to the sheep it lied down
its chances was zero; the farmer would slaughter it and it
would be dinner for days.
Not that my action altruistic I shuddered by the idea of
blood and innards all over the road by being fodder a least
it was useful, a farmer with 200 sheep can't afford a vet.

Drones
The agreeable weather persists it worries me sitting in the yard
I was going to read the papers, but cramps in hands prevent me
so I study two flies circling they could be miniature
drones sent there to spy no, stop this persecution complex now
the political editor of the Guardian is not spying on you.
There so many drones now the grey cloud one sees are drones
flying in formation and the sun is a giant mirror.
There must be a regulation the government will demand to fly
wherever they want for security, a word loaded of falsehood
and lies what they don't want you to know is called security.
We the people may get a small drone that only flies 50 metres
over the house and not be weaponized “the right to have drones.”
Is not in the constitution
Do not make love to your wife on the patio or in your garden the eye
in the sky sees you and you will pay a hefty fine for lewd behaviour  
We will have to suffer drones
till some clever clogs find a way to shot down drones with a laser
rays or turn the drones, so it goes back to base and blows up
the hut where the controller sits pressing abort, abort to no awhile
desperately throw himself out of the window and run.
The two flies – drones- have disappeared, this makes me annoyed
so I'm not worth spying on , is that it!
On the roof, sits a seagull it is one legged used to be the king of
a cliff in the outer sea, it was dethroned and came here  to live
out its retirement on leftovers, at night it shrieks in despair

In her world

She’s old her eyes have
the faded shade
of stone washed denim,
dressed in black,
“since my husband died,” she says,
sits in my café and drink
a cup of hot chocolate  
every afternoon.

Not married,
she has been alone too long
has invented her children,
sits and talk to
them on the mobile phone;
awful children
her mobile never rings,
tells me that one daughter is a lawyer

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.

Our Consensus
                                  
The moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant,
became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke,
but a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages,
the price of heating homes, electricity and food;
the only true
the issue in our civilised world.  
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 Vilamoura that  sells 21 flavours of ice cream,
now isn’t that nice to know and giggle about?

The applause

I had a drink before to a poetry reading and since I was nervous
drank a few whiskeys and spoke dramatically about the plight of the Palestinians
I needed help to get down from the stage since my glasses were at the hotel.
Next day we went to a meeting where the top of
The educated class go, I thought they were idiots they had erudition but no
learning, So I got up and spoke for fifteen minutes.
The silence was colossal, think of a needle falling from the galaxy
and landing on Himalaya I had committed the sin of saying
the global warming was a natural disaster and had nothing to do
with global warming.
The meeting was not reported in the local paper but what do
I know, I do not speak this Roman soldier’ language.

October

Dark, low hanging sky
October and rain
Not a good time to be born
Sunlight is what shines
Too sharply
When drizzle takes a break
Doomed to see
A fragile world
When peace on earth
Is the milliseconds
Between wars
When the powerful
Meets around a table
And tell lies
When churches are full
Of people giving thanks
To an abstraction
Thanking it for the peace
The world is totally
******
You know it as I do too
I dream of a world
Free of umbrellas

A Kind of Christmas

Screaming voices a decorated tree flew
though the open French window.
In the bedroom, a woman cried, in the basement den a man
sat with a bottle of whisky, the children
sat in the living room eating sweets and waited
for the storm to blow over.
It was like this every Christmas, it was so much better
when they both went to work when the parents had a few days free
they went on each other’s nerves.
Soon the booth would come out of their rooms, shower the children
with love, the man took the tree in from the garden
and the Eve would continue

****** love
What do you do when your lover is a thief?
What could I do smitten as I was by her ****** allure
she looked like Marilyn Monroe but lacked her
honesty and innocence while my lover as a taker Marilyn
was a giver, but what could I do?
She was a sickness a cold that would not go away, I often
left her in anger vowing not to return, but I did
despised myself as I sold my car to keep her in style and
expensive restaurant.
Every bad situation comes to an end she knocked
down by a speeding car, the one I had sold.
With my last money I bought a big wreath her mother cried
I was glad she had gone which brought on a depression
because no one had done it as good as her.

Saying
A fact is like is a sturdy plant
You can asphalt it with lies
But it will always be a fact
And break to surface in time

The Respect

I do my best have shower every day, keep my nails clean
And when I left the merchant fleet learned to speak English
With a modulated voice never would you hear me swear.
I have been a sailor of the seven seas got lost in the Saragossa
My middle-class manners is a fake not even an actor can act
Every day he needs a break. Sometimes too I fall out of my role
Let it rip to the great consternation of those who were my friends.
As a lad, I lived in a pietistic Christian society they didn't like pigs
But ate its meat (Religious Duplicity)
Pigs are not as many think *****, but you have to keep their pen
Clean and clean them with soap and water, it is a mistake to
Think they like to sleep in their own dirt.  
Nevertheless, a swine is a pig and as long as think along these
Lines nothing will ever change.

Birthday reflections


I have not written anything today because
it was my birthday yesterday, and that is rather depressing.
It goes like this when you are seven, and they give you a cake,
you can’t wait  to be eight, or in my case 80 and that thought
brings no joy other than marking the track to my demise with
fairy lights; and should someone give you a cake you can't eat
it because you have diabetes.
Enough about me!!! My dog died eight years ago she was
sorely missed a friend who always got in the last bark.
I once tried to commit suicide threw a rope across a beam
stood on my desk, for hours I stood there till someone knocked
on the door, it was the meter reader I was glad to see him
after standing on the desk for 5 hours I was beginning to feel a bit
ridiculous and the dog was sleeping on the sofa, not the slightest
concerned; so I go on living then that all I can do.

A story of a Mountain
                      


                      The mountain on the other side of the bay was born
before colours were introduced to make the world a jollier place for humanity,
mind it has three hues, black, grey and white, without these
shades the mountain would have been unseen, a shimmer of the morning light,
to avoid an accident, it would have to be spray painted every four years.
The mountain is not a place for a Sunday stroll; they say it is slippery and
if a bird overflies, it drops dead; and no plants grow in cracks.
But where the mountain meets the sea are crustaceans the size of dolphins,
and one lobster can feed a family of five, so in its sterile exterior the mountain has a hidden richness and looks glorious at sunset.

The occupied

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

The pseudo-science
    
Cooking is not rocket science but would be cook has to
learn the basic after this he must discover why some
food doesn’t go well mixed with the wrong ingredients
The rudimentary is salt, pepper and butter and then
spices depending on the dish.
The food on the plate should look appetising but not
over-decorated, a cook should not aspire to be an artist
for that, he should go to an art school and paint Pretty pictures.
To put a bit of full-fat cream in some gravies
Is ok, but the dish should not swim in grease.
Always serve fresh salad and go easy on the potatoes.

God as parent
God is worried about his son Jesus
Since he was crucified he is not his jolly self
There were no Psychiatrists back then
The profession was not yet invented now New York is full of them  
Jesus sits on a swing a harp player nearby
Tries to soothe his nerves
Sometimes god gets annoyed feeling as taking his son by the scruff
Of his neck and shake sense into him
The scars on his foot and heels have healed and his beard is black
God sighs, looks through a book by Hemingway he is so easy to read.
It takes time to forget and of that he has got oceans
He dreams of being with Earnest fishing for Marlins

The Cash Flow  

Money notes like staying in the bank
Where the meet and socialise with other notes
Of variable denomination
That is way I keep notes in my wallet as long as I can
Dislike breaking up a friendship.
Thrift has nothing to do with meanness it is simply
Not wanting to break up notes, hand them to
A stranger who has no feeling for the inner life
Of a money note.
The teller at my bank a fine man with caring hands
Thinks, as me he counts the money slowly
Often twice before handing them over with a sight

House ants


On the bare kitchen table a sugar lump,
suitable for a cup of
coffee it is looking like a gleaming rock of
marble on a large, bare upland plain
A few tiny scout ants had gathered around
the rock sending chemical signals
to their tribe and before long they came marching,
from all four corners of the kitchen,
an intense moving black mass
which collective goal was to get a holly lick,
then go home and tell about it.
A few tiny house ants frighten  no one,
but ten million do, so I the threw the sugar lump out
of the window,    
before they got the idea of turning on me.
They began marching back to their cracks
in the wall except for a few that settled
in a crack on the table,
not on I killed them with my thumb,
washed my hands with vinegar and
was absolved of my sin.

A July day


Twilight in the village shuttered windows
I’m walking alone, they have all died, dogs  
too and cats have gone feral.

Stale heat, as heavy as a stage curtain full of forgotten tragedies,
hangs in the air.
I take no pleasure of this walk, but I have been indoors all day waiting
for sun-fall and a cool breeze….

Back home I open windows, share my light with the night.  
Sit on the sofa move my toes,
a man needs exercise, and watch the news on TV

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

I sat on a rocking chair
On the veranda
The stone in the garden was
Covered in moss
The cicada sang fireflies lit up
The night as pilgrims in Mecca
Slaughtered lambs

Not About Elephants
I will not mention elephant even though they are
majestic looking bend to the advice of the Mahout  
who whispers encouragement in its ear like a joker
at the royal court. Sometimes like kings they rebels
- off with their heads- thrashes about until calmed and
there is no reason other than feeling trapped I used to
see rabbits when on my motorbike  I saw tigers, boars
and lions too but I had to sell the bike and hate it when
someone says it was for the best. Well, it was not for me
and how the ****! Do they presume to know what I like?
or not, we were out having lunch I wanted a glass of wine
But you can only have one she helpfully said, I didn't have
any wine she is not my Mahout.  I will rebel trampling down
cars; tomorrow I will go out looking for rabbits

The echoless  



Fallow land the old homestead is
Falling into disrepair

The last cow sent to the knacker’s yard,
There are no calves.

No reminiscence, nor a photo album
The silence speaks of nothing

A dog story

I had a dog she loved me; I also had a wife children named
Gabriel and Apple, she wanted to be trendy, and we lived
in the gentrified inner city.
When the twins were six my wife divorced me and got the house,
car and the dog, and I had to take the bus to work.
It so happened, the bus passed my former home, the dog saw
me and followed the bus, at work she sat outside and waited
for me to come out, I let her in, and she curled up by my desk.
This happened every day, so my wife took the dog to a vet
who put her down –or killed her- I wasn't very happy and
said so using a strong language which she recorded, and that
Was ok by me. I never see the children anymore she has
put obstacles in the way, and she used my strong language
as a proof, I should not see the children.
When she died, twenty years later, the children were angry
with me for not visiting them when they were small,
I told them the truth, but they thought if I had really been
interested in them I would have tried harder.  
I give a ****; they know where I live and can visit me,
If my new dog will let them in.

Disregard  
  

My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years
Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.
There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a being so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired
I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what hope
have we got to find deliverance?

Wide Awake

From my hotel window, I see a river of cobblestones
And cars moored by its bank for the night.
A cat runs across the river safe for now, to a litter bin
A squeal as it catches its prey.
From the opposite hotel a few shards of light that
Gives succour to the dying and those who cannot sleep
They wait for the radiance of dawn
Till they hear people talking cars starting and the night
And the dead is a memory so easily forgotten.

Vera
Death is everywhere this Sunday morning many dead trees where
I walk renewal everything has to go, but a dead baby rabbit blocks
my way the night had been too cold and her mother killed by a fox.
A steep track I stumble over an exposed root or was it death that
had a bit of fun, the sky and earth swivel I have to get up before big
earth ants carry me away there are millions of them ten thousand of
then dragging me underground starting with my gums then my tongue
fleshy ***** and reluctant ***** are reserved for the queen she will be
displeased and give my genitals for her slaves to chew on.
I have to bend down again to retrieve my camera full of ants I *** on
them and the scurry away I have to buy a new camera but why should
I record what no one will ever see, a reluctance to accept morality.
The track is too steep another defeat only nature witness my tears of
frustration, back home I watch a TV program called “Vera” this mad
woman police inspector wish I had her obsession to find the truth
I still struggle to find out what it means.

Lost Love
25 years ago September met April and
September fell in love; she was eighteen I was 52
…I know what you think.
At the post office, she worked, and I posted letters
to pretend friends in Liverpool and return address
and if someone opens them know they will find
an ocean of words about loneliness.
One day when I came there, she held the hands
of a young man, her eyes dripped of love and
I never sent the letter to a fictitious girlfriend  
at Beck Street number 12 in Liverpool.
You could not help falling in love with her she
was perfectly formed had long blond hair and
laughed like an angel.
It was the usual story she married had children,
then a messy divorce.
We are friends now I told her how much I had
loved her, but I never had the courage to say so.
She held my aged hands and said: I loved you too
but thought you didn't care about you many
girlfriends on the Merseyside

The Smallness of things
There are not many elephants left on the savanna
Near the houses graceful nature has made them
Smaller with tusks not bigger than an oxen's horn
And can hide in the bushes or look like a tree if
People come near.
They are hunted by people who would like  
To have an elephant's head on the wall.
With so many humans being killed everywhere
Why should I care about elephants, it is just they
Are my friends and when leaning against a tree
That is an elephant’s flank there is a contact
Between us and an understanding that we are
Both a dying breed, like tigers and lions
Cute Vietnamese pigs and flying genii that will you
No harm, it is not it’s their fault having black wings  
And screams as when a barrel bomb hits its target
Startled I wake up and there is blood on the carpet.

Reflectoid

The entrance fee to a heavenly life
                   Is often too demanding
Like a bursting cloud
                   Foaming gutters
                   Flooded streets
No one to complain to like un-tuned piano
                   The tuner has lost
His hearing
No comma or full stop needed

Sunday
The sun vainly warm white
plastic tables.
Sunday closed café.
I wrote my name in a dusty surface.

A nearly empty bus drives by,
inside two old ladies
vacantly looked into a memory.
A child sits on the curb,
plays with her dolls
while the subdued moped
leans against a flaking wall.
The day of rest in Iceland.

A voyage to Greenland

Greenland is the largest island in the world, but it is not a continent
I looked up Nuuk the capital up on the YouTube; it is now a modern town
with supermarkets and even cafes.
I was there fifty years ago. Back then it was a rather primitive place
with a million barking dogs and drunk people on the dirt roads,
they used to hang dogs slowly so the hairs stood out and it was
exported as pelt one hopes this practice has been outlawed.
I remember the coastline it was bottle green and for once, still,
we went fishing in a clear stream so transparent and shallow
but when we waded over to the other side, it was so deep we could have drowned.
It was the coldest bath of my life.
Greenland was beautiful, but it was then not a place to remember with fondness,
except for the trout we caught.

The Rose

I was born a beautiful flower
Up my stem a mouse climbed
To inhale my scent and sleep
In the centre of my rose bud
Alas, the raven knows of no
Beauty I was an innocent ruse
Stealing the beauty of sleep
And in my feeling of freshness
Self-indulgent caressing words
I saw nothing untoward
I should have seen.    
We roses are too beautiful
To be political revolutionary
A rose uproar in Portugal
But it was quickly strangled
By social democracy