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 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.

This crazy world
Steven Hawkins is dead his contribution to science
was magnificent, even though I do not understand.
In the meantime, we pollute the land big cities are
running out of drinking  water and future wars will not
be about oil but fresh water.
We continue to fight wars that are about ism and power,
yes, the isms that by its nature is hateful and
only good to make those who live here dislike into ogres.
Space is full of debris, our ocean so full of plastic
that marine life die, but still, we carry on over a cliff
and down the abyss, icecaps are melting showing
Islands we want to use for oil- exploration can we not
Delay this haste to our doom,
Perhaps Steven Hawkins’s had a point!

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.

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 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 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

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

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

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.

007

On the train going west, a snooping man asked questions
asking about other peoples but saying nothing about himself.
I told him a tale so violent he paled and left at the next stop.
Believed in my story when the train stopped in Liverpool
had few pint looked at my visit card stating I was a bookseller,
but that was a ruse; I was a Russian assassin sent to **** some
agents that had turned and they sat in the pub.
When the smoke from our revolvers cleared, they were dead
and the landlord refused to serve me, and the game was up
Yes, your Honour, I’m in the book trade.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 carafe

Bought a bottle
Of posh red wine
I look
It looks at me
I look
It looks at me.
I get furious
It is empty now
Threw it in the bin
Who wants to?
Look at an empty    
Bottle
If you are not
A collector of labels

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

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.

The farewell
She had to see a doctor once a month, uphill most of the way,
"When I'm grown up I'll buy you a car so you don’t need walking there
She smiled, patted my head knowing well I was
not practical or very smart.
I was forty-five and mother was eighty when I finally bought a car,
an automatic, easy to handle but I had no license. For that, I needed to
learn many new rules

Ok, carried her down from the second floor flat, she was feather
light hoped we would not get stopped
So we drove to the coast, she wanted to see the sea.
Down a narrow lane and I was worried how to turn and drive back.
On the way home we stopped at a café, we drank coffee and had a
creamy cake each and everyone was kind to us.

Mother was tired, went to bed, in the night she called me, She wasn't well:
"drive me to the hospital," she said.
I did. the staff took over, they gave her a room of her own,
I sat by the bedside, looked at her folded hands; like a sparrow's folded wings.
She closed her eyes - we didn't speak
and after a while when the sparrow didn't flutter I knew she had died,
for a long time I sat there pretending it had not happened;
mother looked so at ease I was glad that she had had a good death.

A Holiday Photo


Remember Pula, in former Yugoslavia, thirty years ago,
I have picture of you in my blue shoebox, smiling look
Pretty, the people around you are incidental just locals
And other holidaymakers who don’t know they are forever
Caught by my camera, getting nowhere in my box.
The plane ride, back to Liverpool on that old aircraft that
Shuddered and had wings that moved as a seagull’s,
We were so glad we landed that, strangers spoke to each
Other till they came back to their senses and shut up.  
I know you must look different now, but what I recall is
Your smile since it, for a moment, hid the problems that
Made us part. Looking into the mirror I don’t think I have
Aged much, a grand illusion, of course, that make old age
Tolerable; I wonder if you when looking into the mirror
Think the same as I, or are you delusion free, if so I do
Feel sorry for your bitter reality.

Meatloaf

The old man had bought minced meat it wasn't much
he had to friends coming for lunch, so he added two eggs
maizena- flour, white flour, and milk and mixed well.
He left the dough in a bowl by the sink and had a coffee,
when he came back tiny ants –very tiny- had covered
his food, perhaps a thousand of them, as he didn't want to
throw the dough away he mixed the ants into it and
added a bit of colouring to make it look darker,
he then made a meatloaf and served it with mashed potatoes
and fried onion.
The three old men ate well and as one of them remarked
this was indeed a meaty loaf.

As the time of spring beckons
                        

We all have this moment of clear-sightedness
when we see we are of little importance other to the world
and clear-eyed grasp our smallness.
We can in our tiny ways push the world forward an inch
perhaps to a fairer society where children do not die under
the rubble of concrete.
We can do nothing to stop these people who will push
us into an Armageddon, and will they somehow think
they can avoid the calamity when there is no one to blame.
There was a time when one could travel unmolested
in the Arabic world, then the smell of petroleum and
the white man came and destroyed the peace for greed.
No, not us the lesser people, we are victims too of their
hunger to dominate and enslave us in mortgages and loans
that can never be paid; so we watch and wait and when
the day of disaster comes shall I help the ruffians to my lifeboat.

Street Walker in Oslo

As the black-winged night occupies my balcony
and spread its wings in triumph and shop lights
try in vain to illuminate and gladden a grubby street
I see you leaving your flat and begin your night shift
As you walk past splashes of yellow light,
I can see your white powdered face has not yet
settled into its customary inviting grin and your
lips are a machete slash where blood has coagulated
into lumps long ago.
Dressed in red tonight in the hope of attracting
rampant lust, but since you are an old bird
you are reduced to service those with a putrid need
for violence, but even in your disgrace I know
your heart is pure.

Random Journey
Is the inception of a voyage the end of an abstract nothingness
and beginnings of conscious life like driving to town and buy the papers
I remember a song: “set sail at the sunset” can hum the rest but have
forgotten the words I see in front of me with eyes closed
A red sun and calm sea, this is not the crossing of Styx after sundown or
is my immaturity making fun of me again you can't sail to Afghanistan?
I could sail there on a balloon and land when the Taliban shoot hole
in it and we can drink coffee smoke American cigarettes and laugh.
The problem is you can't look at women in in Afghanistan it is a shooting
offence, they do read the Guardian newspaper in Afghanistan too.
So I will sit here and wait not to cross the river but to sail the oceans.

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.

Ageing dictator

The dictator is entering old age
his face is taken the appearance of a shrunken apple
but he still likes to look masculine.
Sitting wide-legged in a suit that is too tight.
He is not able to hide the beginning of a girth
he finds this annoying and swims several times a day.
He reads a lot but often draws the wrong conclusion
his anger toward the west is understandable
the broken promises of NATO and the USA
fills him with wroth he regards this as a lack of respect
for his beloved Russia.
The war in Ukraine is to say, will you respect me now?

Clouds on Dreams
To believe what we see is often a fallacy on a video
a rat attacked a cat; the moggy scared ran away but was it so
I think not video and pictures can be doctored so we are
left with a sceptical mind
Yet in the Sahara, I saw in the sky a ship sailing upside down
I know what I saw yet it was a mirage so therefore I can
talk about it without being made fun of like the day I saw
a flying elephant it was slow and met a crocodile
that loved me, of course, it was a mirage
That is why I'm fearless telling you this; you will think mirages,
was whisky involved?
There mere suggestion will send me into a rage and I will
never speak to you again.
The cat ashamed, turned around and killed the rat, just in case
you were curious. In the world, the strongest win just looks to Brazil  
and what the heck was I doing in the Sahara?

Baltimore.
They came here, the black population, from the south, to get work
In factories and the rate of pay for them the poor from the south,
Was good and a neighbourhood evolved, there was progress and
Peace thriving working class districts. Capitalism is not about safety,
Shifting luck the industry moved abroad where wages are cheaper,
And where should the people go? Boarded up shops, factories and
Broken windows, where should the people go? Restless youth no
One has given them any education, where should the people go?
Being black and suffering the stigma of having been sons of slaves to
Break out of the stigma of inferiority is not easy and often its ends
In frustrated and depressed violence.
The black people of Baltimore are suffering the same contempt as my
Parents did in Norway simply for being working class. Askew is
The capitalist foundation, force into life a socialist party, a force if needed
Without compromise, a political transformation.  When politicians say
they work for the middle- class people; we know the black working- class
is blissfully excluded.

Fleece a dream

The man with thin shoulders and a sack
slung on one of them, used to stop outside my house
open the bag and strew a handful of feather light dreams,
and some dreams landed on the window ledge.
I remember she said, be careful don't fall out when
trying to grasp a flake of a dream so easily forgotten.

The man with the thin shoulders has disappeared from
the street no one knew where he had gone, so I went
out looking for him all I found in an empty pond with
a rusty tin of castor oil a product long since in use.
I left the can in the garden in the hope enticing the man
to return with his sack of visions.

Leonard Cohen

The elegant poet
Has died
I good looking Hebrew face
I admired his hair
And stylish nose
His enchanting voice
Singing the same poems
What people like
I read a collection of his
It told me nothing it was
When he sang
His poems
Chorus and suitable
Setting
Came to life like
A late blooming rose
This old charmer I liked
To watch him
Singing his poems
A poet
Ought to be an entertainer

The Enemy among us
The western world has lived in peace for sixty years
mainly because of EU and shared horrid memories.
This has not been the Palestinians case who were
shooed away to give room for a colony called Israel and
those who object – freedom fighters- are called ISIS.
The USA have dropped bombs in the middle -east for
a long time and produced more ISIS fighters which now
is a common name of all who do not like being bombed.
Ex-president Obama sends drones they are intellectual
from the out- set. Trump drop a bomb the biggest in
the world it made a terrible noise, and 36 Taliban were
killed, they too are called ISIS.
(In Trump's case one wonders if he suffers erectile dysfunction)
China and Russia is ISIS in disguise, as are left-wingers
and those who do not believe in the American dream.

The Night Goat

Through a sooty canopy, stars gave light, but not enough for me
to see where I was going; fell into a ditch, so deep that I couldn't get up and
spent the night fighting off giant rats.
At dawn the canopy broke, like spider's web in a storm; when the new sun
dried wild flowers a nanny goat came lowered her head so I could grab hold of
her horn and she pulled me up.
We walked to where the sea begins; we parted she back to graze in the glade;
I swam in till cured of my melancholy; a frothy mare came, and ******* I rode
to the end of the horizon.

How it is so insane

There is a hardening of empathy in the blood vessels
of the Western world has peace lasted too long, if we
regard bloodletting as a natural cycle like the seasons
and now it is blue frost winter in the heart of man.
We have always been killing each other, the USA was
born by eradicating the local population and indeed
in Latin America, the conquistadors killed 90%
of its people and now we have Israel repeating
the long history of ******; not to forget the Rohingya
people escaping being slain by Buddhists in Myanmar.
Now we see a crescendo of mass eradication of plants
and animals, the very foundation of human life it is as
we are at war with self, committing suicide in our quest
to dominate others and thereby us.
There will be no place to hide whether we live in a castle
or in a cave when the world is red-hot bullet hurtling through space, and there will be no history to tell.

The Big House  

I could not live in a house with many people
Voices at all hour of the day no privacy the precious moment
When the world rolls slower and I can hear time's clock tick
In a house full of people there is a din of violence to come
And whispering sin at night
Flushing toilets, subbing feet
The tears of the misbegotten those who are cheated on
Drunken brawl screams and police sirens.  
TV that is full of banalities
Every news programs from the same supplier.
To live in a house full of people must be very lonely
With no time for reflection

Interlude

The air was still, and trees in the forest stood in frozen silence.
A rare day, animals listened to the echo of last summer.
Hare trails in the snow made without haste, the persecuted
has nothing to fear the day when the mountain lion dreams.
The bear is in its den deep under an oak, dreamless sleep
whether still or storm, but do not wake him before spring.
The tranquillity of peace is only a brief interlude, **** or be killed,
eat or starve are wild life's merciless destiny.
The Calm cracks as the cold identified; there will be a toll to
pay if spring is too late with its promise of continuity.
Behind the forest where the blue mountain begins, a pack
of wolves howl to the moon, the soul of the hunter lied bare,
in an endless nocturnal dream.

Tanka
Under the church's floor
Hundreds of rotting coffins
A Jesus made of marble
The priest shivers when alone
His flock had sought new pasture

The Land we loved


So the USA dropped the biggest bomb ever made
on an empty space and become overnight
the biggest terrorists
in the world. A weapon like this is mass destruction and
unless it is dropped in a city, quite useless.
The neo-liberal that hated Trump hates him less now since
he has shown some muscles.
It is spring, but with a MOAB hanging over heads it feels
like winter has come early.
Once in the fifties we uncritically loved America, it was
back then a welcoming place but it lost the sense of proportion
now it is a terrorist state with a madman as President.

http://rochakpublishing.blogspot.in/2012/10/jan-oskar-hansen.html

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 rain that fell on the night was of the type *** plants like,
it has stopped the air is mild, and the flowers smiles except the lemon tree
that is born grumpy and bears bitter fruit, which incidentally is good
with fried fish and it refreshes otherwise lame dishes, say fish cakes with
boiled potatoes, a meal crying out for something bitter to hide
the Norwegian boredom food like seeing Oslo's municipal building
ten times a day. My wife has watered the indoor plants that were green
with envy not being allowed to go outside.
For lunch we are having soup, it has too much pepper in it and again
I have to ask the lemon tree for help as roses are pretty but useless.

Changing weather
There was spring, flowers and green grass, leaves
on trees , the lot, and I thought of immortality.
God has thrown everything at me and I had been
prodded by doctors who all had eccentric opinions
about my illness and I had survived.
I looked heavenward inhaled without coughing
and saw darkening clouds coming from the north
an incoming wind had the icy breaths of Siberia
and the rain came like cold showers given to boys
at the home  who could not keep their penises
just innocently hanging there.
I came home, was sent to bed, not for my ******
prowess but to stop me getting a cold; I thought of
Stalin mother liked him he looked so cool, not that
she would have said that it is me picking up words
from Facebook and I know how to give five fingers
not one, I used to give passing motorists; we live
in an age of overdoing things.
Tomorrow the sun will shine again I can go for a walk
and pretend it shines just for me, the winter had tried
a com back and failed

The end of a life

There were many flowers on her grave
from family, friends and foes.
They feared her lashing tongue.


The evening and night were cold
in the morning the flowers looked
white and bloodless.

Why does it end like this?
The utter silence it is as she never lived

The morning traffic is heavy
Friday, the week is coming to an end
and no one will ever know here wisdom
the suffering she endured.

If remembered, she was an old woman
who spokes the truth?
No one wanted to hear.

The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep,
on your surface, I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights,
mountainous waves when
my only defence was luck;
romantically thought that you had secrets to divulge
when hearing whispers in the tropical night.
Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be,
endlessly wet you are Saragossa ****, fog and
terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced
pollution    
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing,
late in the night, I wish I were skimming your surface
again.

Hyenas
Hyenas are untameable they are the Bannon of the evolution
plotting their own course on how to sow destruction and enjoy
the consequences. If you are a fisherman and throw a hand grenade
into the  sea, you get plenty dead fish, but  fishermen who follow
rules will hate him for it; the world belongs to the one that kills
the most but you end up eating the mutilated and waste.

In Africa, I suspect Ethiopia; a village accepted a group of hyenas living
near them a working relation the animals come into the village at night
and eat the leftovers in the roads, job done they go back and rest in
the tall grass outside the village, one can say man and beast practice
toleration, why can't we do the so instead of threatening other nations
nuclear hell that will also, in the long run, **** them.

Of men and plants
  
The endless growing of new leaves
in my indoor plants, the shedding of leaves
all over the floor, like discarded dreams
getting in the way of the day.

Female hyenas are good mothers teaching
Their litter how to scare off lions.

Restless minds are no right as leaders of men
Overthink everything and has a nervous breakdown
Sits shaking in the corner of the bridge of warships
Excellent dancer in the ballroom in peacetime.

The Sober Seraph

I had been to my doctor is always a female I have no choice
Said I was too heavy – her words- I had to slim down a bit
Skipped lunch had soup in a café where everyone sat
Starring at their I-Phones and didn't see what I saw and angel
Stopping a man from going into a bar
I could see they were arguing the man took a step backwards
The angel won the argument and disappeared, the man
Came into the café and drank orange juice, his mien was dark,
But then lightened up he was safe…for now

He is one of the unfortunate for whom a glass of wine is one
Too many and a bottle is not enough if he listen to what his
The angle says, the inner voice of love, he should be safe.

Domestic Landscape


There used to be many small farms or homesteads around
Here where I live, they are abandoned now,
Except for some wretched relics unable to move, acres so
Small earth could easily be ploughed by a mule.

Nostalgia is the name of poetry.

Carob and olive trees grow unseemly branches
Looking like a film set in a horror movie.

The neglected has mystery by itself.

Nature is moving back in, animals the kept a respectful
Distance from man, like shy deer
, and wild boars have been seen crossing the road at night.
Housebound flowers too has felt the freedom
Leaving ceramically confined, to the delight of goats.
The hares that people thought had been eradicated,
are competing with the blue rabbit in some clearing.
Beauty beholds, there is the talk of a golf course so players can be close to nature.