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.

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

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.

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.

Abortion, an opinion.

  I sat on the terrace sun was flooding obliterating whiteness
 escaped into the living room, observing four ships anchored in the bay.
Through the binoculars, vessels with long lines made to carry bulk loads  
like grain, rice or coal; I spent many years on crafts like these.
This reminded me if abortion had been informal, I might not be born
in the time before World War 2 when abortion was hard to obtain  
not, relaxed, with a quick visit to the hospital and a cup of coffee.
My mother (before women’s rights, was all for women’s rights) such as
equal pay and respect, but she thought abortion was morally wrong.
Since we lived in poverty, her sister showed up with a skipping rope
that might help induce a spontaneous abortion mother was not
into sport and preferred to read lengthy novels.
I cannot condone abortion on demand; I know the arguments
about a woman’s body is her own can do as she pleases.
A better reason must be given before the purge of the unborn.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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 Umbrella

It was a rainy sort
Of afternoon, when I crossed
The bridge didn't notice
Half it was missing.
Held on to my brolly when I fell
Parachuted landed on a barge.
They needed a deckhand.

The sea was a black mirror, the cook
Was artistic and ****** we only had
Bacon butties that day
I gave the collapsible canopy to the first mate
It was green and covered
In seagull droppings

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Leave us Alone
A risky apathy is darkening our time emails damning
the Clintons never stop arriving and are left unread
The scandal that could have sunk a battleship barely
makes it headline news
Some newspapers are tired of WikiLeaks bring nothing
but unpleasant news; tell us a joke instead.
The Settler on the west bank and Israeli soldiers are
losing their humanity their cruel banality no longer
stirs the mind, we are tired of bad news, therefore
a joke must not have anti-Moslem overtones not make
the fun of religion and not be seen as anti-Semitic
We are tired of falling bombs and the dust they create
clouds of coarse dust drift over a depressing landscape.
Show us sweet pictures of a kitten and cute dogs.
We don't want to look into the darkness of the coming
the sufferers will have to suffer alone until mushroom
swirls make the humanity extinct.

Olympic Sports

There are several sports in the OL; I would like to see banned,
let us take winter sport, 50 kilometres cross country on skies is to
watch a paint drying if you are cornered in a room,
even worse 10 thousand meters on skates, around and around
they go will they ever get to the finishing line?
Summer sports, some men throwing a plate onto a field to how many meters they
made; and people with an iron ball doing ditto?
In Roman time one tried to hit a slave, which did the sport
interesting, as it is now it is boring and has no entrainment value.
Then you have synchronized swimming, wriggling feet above water
if it is done right according to the expert, everybody gets a gold medal
and we the public are none the wiser.
We must make the sport relevant to the way we live today,
ski board is a good beginning and chasing sharks in the Atlantic
and flying through the air as Batman is entertaining because they
can hit a ****** cliff any moment and if you only have safe sport
there is no point watching it.

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 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.

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.

Sparrows never rest
On the bush, I don't want to know the name of was full of sparrows
picking leaves for their nests; the bush looks like a balding man.
It is seven in the morning; the birds work hard
soon it will be hot, and their toiling stops,
but they will be back in the late afternoon working
hard to finish the building of nests.
The small thieves resent me standing on the terrace
twits in unison to shush me away.
It is too quiet I have dressed going to the local hospital
tor a test at the hospital, then I realise it is Sunday,
I'm hungry as I'm not supposed to eat anything
before the test. I go into the kitchen and the sparrows
continue working.

B&B

Vacancy sign, neon lit in the coldest blue,
cheap room, nylon sheets (easy to wash)
a wash basin, no doubt used as a ******.
commode with a mirror on top…Liverpool
is such a dreary place when it rains.

Lay on top of the bed reading Hemingway
I was boxer Olson the Mafia was out to get.
Steps outside I was full of angst
“Was it them?”40 watt pale light it was
getting dark.
I was only one step away to sleeping rough.

The poverty
It has been raining for days, but now the sun shines
the walls of the old ruin look whitewashed and with its pride intact.
Sunlight makes paucity look nostalgic, a whiff of the old days
when life was supposed to be simpler; a movie by Sophia Loren.
We go on romanticising time of need like it should be an honour,
and the poor are so funny they speak grammarless and happy.
Nevertheless, we give obeisance to the past, a ruin no one in
their right mind will spend money on.
Ah, but I was wrong, and English gentleman- if this adjective
comply, often it doesn't- has bought the dwelling, plans to
keep its front so it will be an old looking new house and will
live with a churning cement-mixer for weeks.
Whatever happens in the future is none of my business
today is a beautiful morning.

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

Bully beef

Twenty years after the war
I found in the attic of a small hotel
several cans of corned beef.
since the cans were dark green, I assumed
they had belonged to the German army
not that they were going to demand
the cans back I opened one the meat was
perfect and could be used in a stew.
No one wanted to a taste the meat I ended up
eating the corned beef over several weeks
until I got tired of the bully beef.
Today I bought a tin, it tasted good but had
less fat than I remembered.
I got an email, a friend of mine who also
liked corned beef had died, and it saddened
me much, I used to send him my books
he was working class but well-read and he
liked my books; mind he thought less of me
political stance.
Another friend has gone, not many left
of them now but
I will remember Alex Skillen, my only fan,
with fondness.

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.

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)

The Palestinians of Norway

The Sami people who have been living
in the North of the country herding their reindeer
on a cold plateau, are now in trouble.
The Norwegian government wants to let settlers in
and also build factories
The Sami who have lived here for thousands of years
protest and want independence, good Norwegians agree with them.
(Why anyone would like to live in the frozen north
is a mystery to me,) there are many other places in Norway
that needs people and factories,
unless it is political as a part of Lapland borders to Russia,
and they fear this part might be annexed
by a horde of Slaves who hitherto have had no interest
in this part of the land. There is an anti-Russia Propaganda
in the newspapers that are baffling, it was the Soviets who
came and freed the country from the Nazis and pushed
into the sea; has history forgotten this?

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.

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.

Sitting by the window

  “Come, Karoline, open your door…” I think it is
an old song was written by a soldier in the Napoleonic war
I have never met anyone called Karoline and why
should I remember now seven o’clock in the morning?
I knew of a young woman who always waited by her door
when I came home late, she lived in the house next to mine
I  often wondered what she was waiting for perhaps she
was a “Karoline” of the modern age.
Come to think of it many women stood in doorways or looked
out of the windows as the was pre-TV time and women
like to see what is going on while the husband is asleep on the sofa.
I have seen many women in seaports like Rotterdam and Hamburg
sitting half-dressed by a big window and dimmed light, they were waiting too
for any man to enter those who did didn't stay long.
This I think was because none of them was a Karoline.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.”

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.

The song contests

I came across an apple tree it looked like
a child’s idea of this type of tree, big red
apples and a blue sky; when I realized I do not like
big red apples have farinaceous and taste
like they were dreaming of becoming potatoes
and not picked at by bird.
I joined my wife she was watching the final
Of a song contest, the finalist were two women.
One was buxom and belted out a song with full voice
the other one sang sweetly like opening the window
and letting a songbird and sunlight in.
The ample woman won, but we loved the sweet one.

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.

A mountainous town

Lalitpur is a charming town among high mountains
the air is pure; no need to take a shower every day.
I was going there but, in Rome, I lost my passport
had to drive home to get a new one, which took
time and losing money.
Nepal is a small country often used as a tennis ball
by bigger countries in the region, for conflicts
killing thousands and condensing palaces to dust
covering mountains into a clock of sadness
Cry my lovely, I can only offer my understanding
when tourists evacuate on your sacred top
filling valleys with empty tunny tins, condoms and
the toilet papers flapping in the wind.
For tourists falling off cliffs, I only offer contempt
tourists that bestride and befoul a holy mountain.

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.

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