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.

Mare Nostrum
On the coast of Augusta, in Cecilia this wonderful sea,
the bluest of turquoise, transparent and I saw fish play.
Blood and bloated corpses have made the sea less pretty
and fish nibbles on cadavers of those who tried to cross
the sea to escape the lunacy we created in Libya.

A president short of stature but with inflated ego plus
philosopher idiot, two men were responsible this disaster
of a war just to get rid of a dictator one of them had lent
money of the other who should not be left out of his confine
of academia, he should have in hidden in a university writing
books only historians take a passing interest in.

As it is the impossible vain man get feted, all because he is
an intellectual and wears a velvet jacket and clean collars.
My old Mafia friend Thomas the knife, has invited me to
Augusta, I will go there but not swim the hazy sea, but we
will eat langouste, drink child wine and talk about the days
when philosophers and presidents left us alone to **** only
when needed and never the innocent.

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.

Murderous Laughter
From world famous violinist to a murderer was the headline of our newspaper.
I knew the man a musical genius but so shy he only made recordings and appeared
on radio. You never get famous unless people see you in the flesh so magazines
can publish a picture of you shaking hands with politicians and see the blessed one
with movie stars, he was persuaded to give a life concert. The hall was full as he
entered the stage applause broke this was a highlight, no doubt a musical genius.
As his music filled hearts with the immense beauty, he became taller and his
trousers fell to his ankles. Dead silence, then nervous giggles that ended with
hysterical laughter from his audience who could not stop laughing, concert over.

He went to live in Alentejo in Portugal; no one knew him, got a job as a shepherd,
had a room next to the sheep, but took his meals in the kitchen. One day a tourist on
a walking holiday came to the small farm asked direction looked at the violinist and
said:” you are the one who lost his trouser on the stage.” The tourist told the story
of this to the farmer and his wife and the all laughed, dogs, cats and the mouse
in the corner. The musician got up went to the barn picked up a pitchfork and stabbed
the poor tourist to death and, at last, the laughter stopped.

Truism
An axiom is a sturdy plant
You can asphalt it with lies
But it will always be an axiom
And break to the surface in
Time for reckoning

The Talent

He often wonders where it comes from this need to tell stories;
there is nothing in his upbringing or schooling
to give a hint, he can hardly write it is a struggle to find
the grammatically right word.
He thinks of water trickling up from the ground running
along the stony earth on a mountainside, falling on a lemon tree,
beautifully yellow fruit, not for the roses.
Sometimes the well dries, little rain has fallen, the groundwater
is hidden in a deep cave and he accepts that,
the world changes, but he has always got the almond tree
while waiting for the sound of trickling water.

Beware of Poets
Don't trust a poet' s declaration of love
it is the words he means, the turn of a phrase
you just happen to be there as he looks you in
the eyes thinking; I have to write down that
before I forget it
Sometimes he finds a serviette borrow a pen
writes down words you thought was meant for you.
Drinking coffee with you, he appears restless
because he wants to go home and
fill out the poem he composed, alas he is not
thinking of you but of a wider audience

The Pyre
“When the moon, kiss the sea,” was never my line
but I once saw the sinking sun painting oak leaves Auburn
and olive leaves green as old gold
The mules in the field had eyes of onyx, and the sky was
Nursery pink to please the children and me.  But this sort of levity
was not on my mind it was getting cold the man who delivered
short sliced wood could not come this year he had moved into
an old folks home
and his son did not deliver a small amount of firewood I remember
him when he was a lad eagerly helping  his old man, just waiting for his turn
to make it big, we are all capitalists now an agency has offered to
sell my books, no problem they say 40% of everything
they give a **** about Auburn colors on leaves and old gold unless it
is cash they often rings my wife answer the phone I'm not in she says
but sometimes I'm caught unaware the thought of parting with
my books are too much they are packed in plastic awaiting my death and
then the horde will come and burn them in the garden a pyre of helpless thought
pathetic attempt writing something beautiful, pathetically failing
I cannot fly on romantic wings I’m not a poet only a smithy

A Day of Reckoning


Forenoon, it had been raining during the night
the wizened winter landscape was now green
and amongst olive trees long-legged sheep grazed;
their pastor and, on occasions, executioner, sat on
a boulder casting dreams into the future; man and
beast, rustic peace, pity I hadn’t a camera.

On my way to the village to buy the papers, a sheep
had been run over by a truck, with its stomach burst
open and its content glinting in the sun, it was still
alive. Ah, you dumb animal abandoned by everyone  
it looked at me without any hope of deliverance,
so I reversed my car and ran over its head.

As the skull was crushed its eyes popped out, landed
in the middle of the road that now had eyes to see
with, the shock of this made it shudder a long rent in
the asphalt ***** black tears trickled. Quickly  
I threw the eyes into the thicket which was instantly
transformed into a field of tinkling bluebells.

From nowhere a road gang of small, denim- clad men  
with big hats appeared, they were badly paid lived
on road kills. Expertly strewing soft sand on blood, filled
cracks with healing asphalt, and off they drove with
their dinner. Empty road it had no knowledge of what
had just occurred, it was up to me to remember.

The good Baptist

Was coming out of a shop in Roma,
I knew it was him,
Long hair and trimmed beard,
The ladies swooned
The Vogue wanted him on its cover,
he wore an Armani suit
a white silk scarf
carelessly slung around his neck.  
Scintillating angle wings quivered in warm anticipation,
will he gaze at them?
No, he had loftier things
in mind, he wasn’t going to
get seduced by beauty yet again,
hailed a taxi:
“To the Vatican,” they heard
he say, “I have an audience
with the pope.”

Not hearing

The old Canadian poet of Jewish ancestry
tall and elegant, wore his hat in a jaunty slant
reminded me of Alfred, my imagined father
the poet had a winning personality.

Remember the comma, they told me and write
about love, beautiful women and wine.

I used to wear a six-pence; Alfred made fun of me
learn to play the harmonica, he said
and leave your depressing poems; that was long
time ago before the Canadian was famous.

Philosophy Giants  

So here we are motley crew of Facebook writers
We rattle our cages spew our anger on the Persian rug-
In our imagination- but, in reality, spew against the wall
Of an Indian restaurant staying open late
Catching any passing trade.
We think we are so clever expressing words with flourish
While we are on dimly referring to Nietzsche, a man
So scrupulous he thought truth was his domain, and we
Refer to this man from the safety of our democracy.
The books we read,
pulling us in the different direction
seeking our ear till we think they speak the truth
“Let God be dead” in the philosopher’s day so daring.
Philosophy is only needed for those who can't let
Go, the end of life means nothingness.

Dresden

As the war was winding down
it was decided to bomb Dresden
It had no industry and had no military target.
the bombing was vengeance
Ten thousand people were killed that night
mostly burnt to death as the attack created a firestorm.
This was ******.
The killers got medals.
With the war on the thought was a dead German
is a good German.
I think this outrage prolonged the war.
It took years before the atrocities saw the light of day,
excepts India and Kenya, few knew Britain
could be party off mass ******.
The Albinos has been revelry to many carnages and
gotten away with it.
It is time for an apology to Dresden and her people.

The summer Island
On the island in the fjord where we use to go bathing
there is now a bridge over, a parking lot and you have to pay.
There are toilets- no peeing behind a bush- and kiosk selling
soft drinks and cigarettes, asphalted lanes to walk on and
signs, plenty of them, telling you what you cannot do
Last time I was here with my aunt and her lover the island
had bunkers and rusty iron bits from a long bitterly cold war.

A marina had been built and had a restaurant but you needed
to be a member and wear a blazer with golden buttons and
a white sailor cap; they resented local bathers it was no longer
a place for us workers, they strive to make life better but end
up privatising what used to be free

The football dream

Jesus, the famous trainer for Benefica
football club came to me in a dream
said: I didn't stop drinking beer he
Would not endorse me to be the club's
next goalkeeper.
After a week not drinking sitting on
my training bike in my den, Jesus
Appeared again: said I was too old
for a goalkeeper, thought to play
in the midfield would suit me better.

Bremerhaven  

Bremerhaven, 1957 was a stunned town
Illegal bars and whorehouses for the many sailors
Who brought material to re- built the town
It was a summer and in bombed out neighbourhoods
There was accordion music
And patriotic songs from the war were sung
I was so young back then, and the ****** spoilt me rotten
So many ships coming in they were busy and
Then there was the American base to service, but even
Then, at my tender age, I could not stop thinking
How efficient the Germans were they had lost but were
Strangely happy re- building the lost years, the war
Had cleaned their souls.

Wool backed

On top of the green hill,
Sheep stopped grazing
Looking at the sunset,
Eyes reflecting pink tint  
And stillness.

As the orange sun went
down behind the horizon
painting the sky burgundy  
the sheep began grazing
once again.    

The Shepard is ignorant
the sun is the only god,
sheep know that he doesn’t  
now this drinks wine and
feels alone.

The Rising Sun
There was a place in Curacao not far from
the town of Willemstad you could stay there till dawn
when the ****** had gone to sleep and the pigs in
the ditch full of human detritus didn't grunt.
When the beer was drunk enjoy the cooling moment
of time well spent take a taxi out back to the ship look
back and remember: Campo Alegre (the happy camp)

Discontent
Dissatisfaction, perhaps I need a drink, driven by jealousy
they are so successful live on a green branch
of the new shoots of the tree, I saw burning on
                                            The pampas, I got sot on my hands.
Do I write because I have a talent or is it desperate holler?
from a man alone in a landscape, not his, and wants to;
                                              go to a pre- natal place or simply someone to talk to,
as it is I have the echo of Twitter and Facebook help through the long silence
before bedtime, I have been lied to, her daughter was in town they had
dinner and that is ok, but why keeping it a secret.
                                                 What do I know of the bond between a mother and daughter?  
                                                 I like to converse with to someone who speaks my language
                                                 Whom I can listen to or argue with if needed
A pity really they haven't got a speaking clock anymore, but
A donkey’s mental ability is quite clear first food 80 %, making
Friends is 20% and that is how they survive, yet you can never
get an *** to pole dance.

Working class Poet

It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break he jotted down a few words
and during the day it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home told his wife
I wrote e whole poem today I think it's good
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village.
His wife went back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad.
The poet came out of his cocoon, said to his wife:
all my poems are about you, my muse with you at my side
I can't write about the old tree at the entrance of the village.
They kissed and made up they both lived long had good death
blissfully unnoticed by the world.

Old man looking back in time


He remembers it well when the Mediterranean was
rich grassland had many lakes and the people
living there never starved.
A mountain ridge between Spain and Africa kept
the Atlantic Ocean away, but a seer had been on top
of the ridge and seen the mighty ocean, and felt the strain
of the mountain and took to warning people to move
upland; only a few listened and moved to Cadiz.
Earthquake, big fissure in the mountain keeping the ocean
at bay; it took forty days and forty nights, only a few people
with their chattel escaped.
The new ocean was now called: “Between Land Sea.” and people took up sailing,
trading and warring, later tourists came who
had no interest in the passing of time, and that is ok, I understand
that most goats ended up in Spain and the donkeys in Tripoli.

Grateful


The club was called the checkers, painted black
and elephant tusk, two middle aged Spaniards stood at the bar
talking to a hard faced barmaid.
The talk was amicable enough, but had an underlying tension,
something about lust and the price of love's pretence.
Two birds dressed, in yellow feathers came down from the loft
told the Spaniards how much they loved them.
The barmaid asked if I was lonely too.
No thanks, I came here for the beer.
My answer impressed she shut the club for the night.
In the morning I said: I'm sixty today.
she cried a little and gave me a milky coffee.

There are forces

That tries to plunge us into a war
A super- natural energy
Who wants absolute power?
Enslave mankind to be sure
They cannot
Be challenged or obey any law
Their dark heart of hatred
Is based on lack of confidence
They envy our ease
Has an inner hunger that will not
Be satisfied
Before it destroys them
They cannot live
In harmony
With themselves
Or others
Are they of this world?
Or the work
Of beings, from another
Planet
Trying to look, human
Wanting to go home

To see clearly

Over a cold Nordic coast a seagull flies
between the island and the mainland by ferry 20 minutes
but time is of no interest to a bird.
It was an old seagull it knew me when I was a cook on
the ferry and it waited for me to throw scraps overboard
it shrieked fiercely I took that as a thank you.
The ferry was sold to an African state after the bridge was built
they used it for contraband, and I think of my spotless kitchen.
The gull moved to the outer island, and anyway scraps of food
thrown into the sea is against the law.
Waste food is good for the life at sea I can't say the same about
plastic wrappings were floating about the inner harbour.
The day is clear I'm a seagull and can clearly see the past but
need glasses to see the future I see those who took up arms
against the tyranny of the exceptional capitalism.
Falluja is the name the downtrodden took up arms, they lost
but showed the world we need not buckle under USA's
weaponry, you can't **** faith.
The old seagull flies beside me now harshly shrieks the way
we seagulls greet each other.

The Merchant seafarers' war

When world war two started Norway was
neutral but unsure which side to stay on.
The English thought occupying Norway
but they were too late the German army had
done the occupation.
The British sent a ragtag military force to Norway
trying to cut the country in half to stop further
advances but were told to pull out.
Norway had at this point a big merchant fleet
It was sequestrated and used bring good and weapon
for the allies.
This left thousands of ****** nowhere
to go those go tried to flee was arrested and sent
back as crew members of any merchant ship.
They the crew lived under a constant pressure
(one out of ten) never made it home can you imagine
how they year after year lived in constant fear
a tank ship full high octane for planes with the enemy
U-boats lurking about. When the war ended and
they could go home they were treated with indifference
like shirkers who had avoided the war.
These seafarers where heroes of the highest order
but the government ignored them, they let down the pride
of Norway, one can say without them the war might
have lasted much longer

Underneath the lamplight

There was a time I danced under street lamps
The music was in my head and pole dancing
had yet to be invented
                                      I didn't dance in moonlight the sky overcast
                                     Or I was life sober and in bed
My jubilance over life sometimes tired me out
Even a clown needs his rest when not blowing
His trumpet and take his funny trousers off.
                                        I never dance anymore seeking no audience
                                       My stepping was better than Fred Astaire.

Alfred and the wilderness  

Alfred, who with the greatest of ease tells,
Me he is not my father and I went for a walk across chlorophyll filled field.
Alfred who is a musician and never ventures out in the landscape
saw some grazing sheep and wondered if they were dangerous,
no, I said they are sheep and born friendly
as God created them, to this Alfred called me a crypto-Christian.
A little Lamb came up to my father it was so sweet,
as only a lamb can be he lifted it up which the ewe disliked,
and it butted him in the rear.
Alfred was shocked, got up and demanded I bring him to safety
in the nearest town; never trust animals they are all out
to get us he said while limping to safer ground.

Elderly tourists
  In Alte, today buses were full of elderly people
  enjoying the fine weather, some wore shorts which they
  for the sake of good taste, I wish they wouldn't.
  Alte has higher up the hill a posh hotel with swimming pool,
but they weren't going there like me they had a modest
pension and preferred the cafes that sells tea and cakes,
taking pictures of the church and admiring the charm of
a small town tucked away in the hills before Alentejo begins
and away from the tourist traps by the coast.
I enjoyed the tourists’ gladness I used to be impressed by
by the same, but now that I live here the allure has become
an everyday occurrence that at times, bore me, because
with so few young people here, they mostly find work abroad,
the town may be petrified into a postcard.

Traitors

The red roses over there,
yes those in the blue
ceramic vase on the table,
are eying me hungrily,
they could so easily
grow roots in
my belly and
produce black and green roses.

Till I had no more
nourishment left and
was a skeletal being drained
of a useful mineral, and
petals would fall off seeds
blow in the wind to
other hosts, the last indignity done.

At the surgery

Here we are at the clinic's
waiting room,
a fat lady with bandaged big toe,
and an old man leans on his walking stick
he lives alone.

An ancient couple from the upland,
dressed in their Sunday best,
hold hands and look endearing,
a youngish woman who keeps rummaging
through her bag, and me.


Six pairs of feet in a slow shuffle,
Electrocardiography doesn’t
mend tired heart, only tells
us we are mortal

The has been

He sits with his hand folded and unfolding
the only part of his body that moves
his face is in the shadow.
His eyes are watery and blank
he appears tired looking for the dream which escaped him.
Sadness cut deep lines in his face, that of a loser´s
a coward that never took the final step.
It doesn´t matter anymore; life cannot be re-lived.

The Stroll
Walking along a long road in a 1950ish industrial park
high walls and closed down factories; dark brown,
And no green weeds in pavement cracks.
At the docks all ships had left, cranes stood in silence each one
ensconced in the terrifying loneliness of the soulless that knows
of no existence.  
I found the office I was looking for, needed someone to stamp
a document, it was empty I waited till light faded from pictures
of stern-faced men on photos on walls.  
This place had no real sunshine; a haze hung over here
making summers a pale affair, only in August did sun
penetrate drowning shadows in a white unpleasant light.
Outside, in the street going south, there were many me,
young ones, middle aged and some were even older than
I, which I thought was a good sign and secretly smile
For a moment I felt nostalgic wanted to look back, but
desisted we had, all of us, agreed that we must walk on
Never look back as the past holds a fatal attraction.  
sooner or later the road must end and open up to a vista
of olive and almond trees, lemon coloured straw, faraway
blue mountains and pastel painted summers.

Idle Thoughts


When I write of a rose should
I add the adjective beautiful
I have never seen an ugly rose. Therefore, all roses are stunning
But we can argue about whether we like red or white ones.
When I kissed her tender lips was
It since she had kissed a lot before?
I held around her waist tenderly- a new adjective- and she gazed
At me likewise well I'm not a Russian given to bear hugs.
Her ***** was like a fairy- tale
I ask you, not a moist ulcer then.
Fairy tales is about *** starved princess's with long hair in a tower
A prisoner of her father's idea of chastity and no knitting needle  
The curvature of her lower back
Struts out like ski-jump in the Alps
Petals falls of roses one by one and blinded by irrational by love
We see again after an operation cataract and daylight seeps in.
The road surface too potholed
No one asphalts my road anymore.

In need
When I feel lost and in pain, I think of the armless man
who came into my café he needed a *** badly
Everyone looked up to the ceiling I had hoped a nurse
would stand up, where are the nurses when one needs one.
I'm no hero, but I helped and since he was armless
I washed my hands.
Later I gave him a coffee which he drank with a straw,
they were going to fit him with artificial arms, he wore
his belongings in a rucksack and he smiled to everyone
as ****** dared people often do who wants to help them
I hoped he would leave before he needed to evacuate,
but I should have asked him why he travelled  alone.

Catherina Deveraux


It was a Sunday in August, late at night, there were many rats
                          eating left over from a chippy
when I met my informant, she said the revolution was imminent
they were going to take over the town of Faro.
I warned about it in an email, and it was ignored,
Catherine a famous French star warned about it a few days later,
while my email was ignored, hers became a runaway success
And that is the difference if you have named the public
listen, if you speak the truth as an average Joe you will
be utterly ignored, but then I'm quite used to have an opinion
more illustrious figure adopts that is pleasing.

A Sonnet to Women
I woke up one morning and was free of my intrusive sexuality
for years this was a problem when viewing glorious paintings
of women and not thinking about having them, the wonderful
statue of Venus didn't escape armless and helpless she was still
ogled upon by my eyes of unbecoming covetousness. Freedom
at last, I can now talk to women without  feeling a hankering to
see them naked committing immoral acts in my bed.


I love women I have a friend who paints women as they are not like
the dumb blond some want them to look. But beware they can be perilous
if thwarted and cheated in love, they can tell a man what he wants to
hear they are great in acting having been subjugated by men for too long,
they even got the blame when Adam and Eve had to leave the Paradise

A dog’s day

It’s not that I’m lonely I like the beauty of the landscape
without having anyone to interrupt my thoughts, telling
me how nice it is.
My dog sees my mini-Savannah as enemy territory
barks and birds take flight leave her in the car with
open the window and try to take a few pictures.

We are going out for lunch, my wife and me, food
is not as great as nature, golden grain and green vines
it is about forks and knives looking decorous talking
about nothing and chewing in silence

The door to the yards is ajar so the dog can go into
the living room when we are out.
She pretends to be distraught it is an act, she knows
I will bring her leftovers; when we return, she great us
theatrically, I know she has slept on the sofa, drinking
water in the loo and barking at noises outside.

Nirvana Beckons

There are times when overcome by tiredness
not because of artistic dejection one live and prosper on that
but to have one's old age pension diminished
and not being able to travel anywhere because the money is
has to go to paying another person's bills.
I lived in the illusion that in old age I would get help when needed
by family near, but I find myself burdened down by people
that are not of my blood, they tell me I don't care but without me
they would be living in the street.
I try to be free of them as a dog with ticks now is the time to escape
drive to Spain find a room it doesn't need a view wake up alone
not listening to a woman peeing in a ***
The freedom to die alone not have vulture watching my last
breath the machine showing a straight line, the nurse
who unhook the apparatus that served to lengthens the agony
the squabble about meagre belongings  
I know of a cliff near here it is smooth and I can see my Savannah
To be able to fly if just ones and welcome Nirvana

Unforgiven

The house was surrounded by a tall wall that had broken glass on top
the gate was made of clunky ornamental iron and easy for a boy to negotiate
we did and took apples from his well-stocked garden.
The man had been a **** and was shunned by the public so in a way
Stealing from him made us feel quite heroic.
He, the owner, had constructed his own Spandau
Years later I peered through the fence the garden was overgrown
He sat on a bench looked up and smiled like he knew me, he had paid
a heavy prize for being politically wrong.

Dysfunctional Family

When we came to my brother’s house,
the family was out, but the dinner was
still on the table and warm, thought of
the mysterious schooner, Mary Celeste.

Slamming car doors and my wife’s shrill
voice had alerted them of our arrival

They were now hiding under the vines
that grew sour grapes, but were red and
nice to look at; the garden looked dry, so
we turned the sprinklers on before leaving.

A lonely house

Waiting for someone to occupy it
It is facing bog land
And the farms behind
An old lady lived here she stood
By the window dreaming
About the man who had promised
To wed her
But he somehow faded away
Long after she died
People said they saw here in
Afternoon light
Waiting
As the house does now

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.

The Oppressed
Time is churning us in a mass of confusion
But something is forever the need to side with the downtrodden.
Two of my uncles, ordinary working class lad,
Spent time in jail and tortured because they helped the Jews
because they were in need.
Israel today doesn't want or any use for men without education
Help was not political it was just human.
When I see the endless cruelty committed by Israel, I take side
With the Palestine people and try if not by heroic deeds but by words
To help the oppressed people, not for a political agenda
But a human one.

Nothing

Two o'clock this Wednesday afternoon protected by high walls
the sun is too hot I will have to wait till three before going back
out sit for half an hour getting a tan, my vanity knows no limit.
I do not want to write today weaning myself of this feverish drug
this internal conversation argumentative as an old Jew I once knew
in Leeds.  I will think of nothing but sadly fail to stop this stream of
lava bubbling from its crater the smell sulphur of rejected thoughts
that will one day prove me wrong and plants shall grow.

But I stray from the subject thinking of nothing, what is it like? since
it can't have any shape, form, smell or colour. Get up from my
chair in the sun too quickly collide with the door and fall unconscious
into a void, so know I know that nothing looks like nothing.

Let the bear sleep  
On the sunny side of the road going down the hill
An almond tree dressed as a bride and I thought what will
Happened to you when the frost from Siberia comes  
The bridegroom will not arrive in time, and you will be left
In a cold church a vicar with a cold, and shivering guests
Fortitude I say the wedding cake will last to spring
Living in the corner of everything we hoped winter somehow
Had forgotten us but its rage encompasses the best
The nicest person and the apple thief with an ulcer
We are entering a new world that is highly dangerous whatever
We do we have to do a slow waltz and not upset the bear
An animal that does not attack but reacts to our aggression not
Wanting it to eat blueberries in peace

Morning before daylight

The summer is waning, still hot
But daylight takes longer to appear
it gets dark earlier than a week ago.
The Twitter this morning is full
Of Jeremy Corburn, the fightback
Has begun and bless him for this
He is a great man dedicated to
To the people.
Should he win there will be a mass
Exodus money flying east or west
By birds of prey that had money
to spare by plundering the people.
I sent a poem to twitter about dogs
It drowned by other voices.
In our time, poetry is not on the agenda.

Nature wonders

The morning was ice blue
Cold
Wild animals
Freeze
Whish, they had
A human overcoat
The sun thawed
Raindrops
Big as balloons
Exploded on impact
Damaged cars
Drowned cats
The sun
Dried its tears
Dogs barked
Came out of barns
The day
Continued
As nothing had happened.

They **** Horses too

Spring 1945
a horse collapsed
in the street
of starvation
from every door, men in black
with long knives
cut into the beast
before it was dead
meat any flesh
would do
soldiers came
shot in the air
the black-clad men
scurried back
A shot in the head of
the still alive animal
The soldiers left
their officer loved horses
During the night
the civilians came back
at dawn
blood and gore
on thawing snow

Abortion

A pregnant woman can do as she likes, yes, I too believe
In a woman's right; but a pregnant woman has the responsibility
of a new life growing inside her and it is paramount that
the beginning of life has the right to be born.
It is often single, uneducated women who get into the predicament  
instead of making her into a killer, we should help to give her
economic help so she and her child can live with dignity.
Women who are busy breaking the glass ceiling when finding
themselves pregnant have an abortion as a matter of course, and
in the name of success commit ******.
I'm also against adoption it is a capitalist invention, take from the poor
and give it to the rich, and it is of no help, as the birth mother will regret it
and the child when an adult will ask, why did my mother give me away?

The terror
I had just finished my new collection “007 licenced to write”
And I was going to write a sunshine poem about peace when a bomb
Exploded in London killing 22 children.
The sky darkened I could think of nothing but their poor parents
Whose dread came true, to wait through the corners report who
Had to find out which limb belonged to whom.
The atrocity was so colossal that I have not been able to write
A tribute for the young life lost.
But in the back of my mind a question remains; how could it come
For this? I feel as we created an ogre a lump of cancer created by our
Interference in the Middle- East now it has exploded
And we the people bear the prices caused by exploitative capitalism.
In this, we must take a side and eradicate this headless violence.
Perhaps it was wrong of me to write this as the last poem but we
Must not avoid the truth that sometimes summary execution is
the last defence against evil.