The forgotten memory
Years ago I received a video from a place I had left I put it in a drawer
where it languished for years, yesterday I played it an eerie a part of
a history I had forgotten, yet it didn't stir my emotion seeing me when
I was young and all the other people in the street it appeared abstract
most of the people moving about talking, dancing, and laughing were
with a few exceptions, long time dead.
Later what I had forgotten floated up as broken pieces of a puzzle that
made no sense . A beautiful girl why did he behave so bad towards her,
screaming a glass with high stem broke in my hand I called her a *****
my jalousie was a crescendo of uncurbed rage, I try to remember more
but only see blood on a table cloth mine?
The embryo not born had upset the galaxy and the blessed amnesia
Descended, the first act was over my first love had gone, streets are grey
after rain. I threw the video into the fire I don't want to shed tears for
the hopelessly lost.

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.

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.

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

The Whites

It is not easy to be white these days, the whites
get the blame for the demise of the Red- Indians,
by students who do not understand history.
When a mass of poor white came to America, it was a population shift
of great dimension, a tsunami over the prairie and
the local tribes who, in a way, were stateless suffered.
But the whites worked hard and made America great, with the help,
in the beginning, of black slaves who became disadvantaged
and have not been able to rise above it and develop.
The whites didn't invent slavery, Africa has always had slaves,
And here is slavery in many parts of the world that is not white.
The history of the whites is one of triumph, alas, also of
cruelty, but we must come to terms with our history it can't
be eradicated by attacking statues,

Jogging
På vein til landsbyen så jeg ville orkediers
men en joggene kvinne hadde også sett dem
Når det gjelder bloster er alle kvinner tyver,
*** stopped plukked blostene og fortsatte å jogge
antagelig på vei hjem til å sette orkidene in en vase
å beundre dem for noen dager.
Jeg var sint ville blomster bør stå i fred til glede
for mage andre som gikk denne veien.
I en butikk så jeg kunstige bloster de ser naturlige ut
kvinnen kunne ha kjøpt disse og latt naturen i fred.
*** var mager, middlealdren med an liten rumpe
og små bryster, *** jogget i ett fosøk å se ungdomelig
og ansiket hadde forstennet utrykk som følge
av en ansikt løfting, og det er jo ok, men *** skulle
ikke ha tukkled med tidens gange.

Boca do Inferno

There is a small narrow inlet
on the coast of Cascais, or rather a scare
in the landscape the sea comes in has nowhere to go
churns around like a witches’ brew it is like looking
into a watery hell.
A man jumped into this dervishes dance and vanished,
other suicide victims are typically washed
Out to sea. In this case, the man was pushed into a cave
no one knew existed the floor was thick with gold sand
and the walls were studded with diamonds
The man was ecstatic he was suddenly rich
the wealthiest man in the world; then he fell asleep.
In the morning he was hungry walked further
into the cave found a lake of pure water and drank
and drank till he stomachs almost burst.
On the other side of the lake, he saw a light, swam
across the water was freezing, high up there
a sliver of light narrow as a ******'s ******.
He knew he was doomed, back on to his riches
he sat down and cried could only think of a slice
of bread with blueberry on.
He sat there till he died of hunger and the world
would never know he was the wealthiest man on the earth.

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.

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.

The Refugees
The west was a result of its constant interference and war in the middle east
has created the refugee problem we see in Poland.
two autocracies, one is Poland sliding into a fascist state
the other is a communist state Belarus.
Between the as a buffer, hapless refugees, freezing and hungry
waiting to be let into Europe.
The EU leaders are in flux, their incompetence is glaring
and their lack of vision is none existing.
The refugees don´t want to stay in Poland or in Belarus
they have had enough of tyranny.
The EU has a duty to open up a corridor for the migrants
so, they can walk to Germany or France or some other countries
all they want is work, bread and peace.
We in the west created this problem we which must come up with a solution.
It must be done now before we lose our common humanity.

At a Private Clinic
I went to see the eye doctor -can't spell it- some tests
I had to do it used to be free at Faro hospital
They are farming out work to clinics if you
Can pay but if you are poor farm worker you are ******
And they give a white cane
The doctor also wanted to have cataracts done but
That I could do for free in Faro for now
Health service should be for all whether you a rich or
Poor, but no it is a business now
And the doctors’ female or not look the same tanned
Faces pristine I suspect the use the same self- tanning
Lotion- do it is to look healthy and fooling no one
The woman in the reception tried to make me by a medical
Insurance, she had lips like a giant ****** but sharp teeth
Not a good idea to try anything funny.
250 euros I paid for being looked at in the eyes and to
Think Portugal had revolution equality for the masses.
I think I will go to Spain have family there they will
Take me until they see I'm a grumpy old man who has
Been faithful to the idea of socialism and will not
Shut up about it.
C'EST la vie.

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.

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.

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.

The Occupier

A wrong type of rabbits have invaded
the woods they are aggressive, intelligent
but lack empathy for those not as them.
The rabbits that lived before were smaller
the blue of colour and happy in their modest burrows
thrown out thrown out by the grey ones that
took their holes or made them inhabitable.
The original rabbits live in the corner of the woods
a place too near the road and are often run over
by cars and tractors.
The intruder rabbits originally came from Europe
but there was an attempt to exterminate them
so they moved south and had become a curse
hateful, murderous and intolerant.
The smaller animals in the forest recent this
but they have the boars on their side so little
can be done, but being psychopathic by nature
they eventually destroy themselves.

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.

Afterlife

They came
Men with sharp axes
chopped down
the old oak.
It's shadow
stood there
out of habit.
At sundown
it disappeared.

The Cake Shop
There was a small cake shop near the bath-house
If I had money went in there for a coffee and a cake
the girl behind the counter smiled I fell under her spell
and my heart beating too fast made me dizzy
Her name was Berta and the loveliest thing on earth
I must invite her out for a walk in the park.
She closed her shop at five I borrowed brother's tie and
used his after shave. Alas outside the shop stood a man tall
and handsome I walked by and into a deep shadow.
When she came out, they kissed and walked hand in hand
down the road, she said something and he laughed.
Devastated I sank to the ground and bitterly cried how stupid
I had been the burning shame, couldn't go into her shop again
had she told him about me when she laughed?
Found another place where an old lady of thirty served I felt at ease
with her, she laughed and often kissed me.
But life is not sweet chocolate I had to work and with no education
I joined the merchant navy a place for poor boys who didn't want
to work in factories, and left dreams behind. Or did I?

War and music
The two clouds that limply hung on a blue sky had dust on
and reminded me of the worthless nick knack people put on mantelpieces.
People can’t bear empty spaces and stillness, they have to fill it
With useless objects and bland music, like wiener waltzes that is easy to
The ear and can be to dance to, even by men in uniforms;
But do not demand much of the dancer or listener other than jingoistic pride.
It gone darker the limp clouds had been but spies,
Bulldozer louds came ready to fill in war trenches burying hapless soldiers
Led by officers that didn’t now of modern warfare; and in drowning screams
The music continued loud, clear and from a younger
continent, Souza marches I think.

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

A Rat

By the tube where the town's sewer ends in a bay with no name
a mother rate sat enjoying the afternoon sun.
Thinking of her life, she was quite proud had eleven babies six of
they had survived to be healthy rats.
She was also quite full an embryo had floated her way, she had
much to be thankful for, and deep in her consciousness there was
a stirring perhaps there was redemption for rats.
She heard human voice people like to come here killing rats,
into the tube of filth she went and, anyway, her babies still needed
her for warmth against the unforgiving night.

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.

Nightmare?

I struggled to wake up
But sleep was pushing me back
Into a deepness unknown
Tried to open my eyes
Fear of sleep mounted within me
I was being held back
By forces of satanic strength
With my last breathe I screamed
The anxiety- ridden holler
Awoke me to consciousness
Exhausted sat up
The craving for life had won

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

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

Under a Stone

The twitter and other news organs are full of women
who never made it big, but come out from under a stone where they hid
tell of ****** exploitations they have suffered, some of it might be true,
but for a chance to shine they make their case grotesquely gruesome,
while it is about a pathetic man who wanted them to ******* him,
and how they rebuffed him, preferred to hold on to their dignity and lost
the chance to become famous stars.
Balderdash!!!
You didn't make it to the top simply because you didn't have the talent
and the tenacity needed, to suffer hunger and rejections, as many
stars have undergone, so you found an excuse for your failure and pathetic
creeps like Harvey W. was perfect; it was his and men like him fault's
that you took the easy way out, blaming someone else.

Thoughts and Democracy

When I was a boy, I was naturally left handed but was forced to
write with my right hand, and I put this down for the great difficulty
I have written in my language
English is better for me I know I often mix words together that is,
but having been laughed at I give a **** my problem, often because
The brain works faster than my hands. When we had writing test the teacher
usually –with the correction- read my work nevertheless I got low grades
because of my spelling mistake but no one ever said continue to write
You have talent. I didn't write anything before I was fifty and all the people
who had put me down was safely dead.
In my head live several persons some are nice give money to the gipsy outside
the supermarket another one hates them they smell.
Then we have the most pompous of all the pretence to be intellectual
because I have read many books –hundreds actually- not to forget the great
a psychologist who understand mind but know not what he is; the weighty
books were mainly read when on a ship to stave off boredom No forget
the communist he once as a child wrote a couple of lines from the manifesto
“The Dictatorship of the masses” we know how that ends the party rules over
the people day and night. I will not mention the other voices in my head only say
that a voice says the safest bet is the democracy, not the way it is practised
now when it is good for those with the money we the people are ignored, and
that was why the Trump victory pleased me not for him to be like lukewarm
Obama sitting in the basement deciding who to drone **** he may stop being
a policeman and concentrate re- building the America of yore and in case you
wonder this is not a poem

Blood Oranges

On a hill top I saw the sundown, but still, it made clouds
like blood -red oranges: in my childhood when there was
a rumour that a fruit shop was selling them there was a line of people
wanting to buy, they – the oranges- were sweeter than normal.
The sweat from Palestinians brows- one might assume- but we were
not to know this exploitation we thought the fruit Israeli and knew
nothing about Palestine.
The Jews had suffered much and deserved a homeland far away as
possible, anyway the Arab were not trusted the newspaper said; and
they were lazy, but know, we are aware a different story and the blood
in the oranges are tears of those who were evicted from their land to give
room for blood thirsty settlers.

Chicken and Fado

They eat a lot of roasted chicken with chips
in Portugal, once it was a rare food now it is eaten
with gusto most days, it is cheap and filling.
What sets Portugal apart is Fado,
I know of no other country with music that grabs
your heartstrings and makes you cry evokes
memories of yore, bitter and sweet.
I don't know the origin of Fado but to my ears
it has a mysterious Arabic undertone.
On TV there is a “Festa” from one of the many villages
in the interior of Portugal, the faces are dark brown
from the outdoor work, accordion music
is played, quick tunes the women sways and the menfolk
stay in the background drinking wine.
Here the old and the young mingle there is no drunkenness
only good humour from the land of harmony.

Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, ***** and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.

Lost Space
The room is bare only a chair
still warm from the woman who sat there
she won't be coming back.
The room is stuffy needs airing there is
a sofa in the corner with a sleeping bag.
A faint aroma lingers.
Curtainless windows, grey dust on sills
the ceiling is yellow by cigarette smoke,
white squares where family pictures hung
I leave close the door, it creaks
the last fear-ridden dissent the room can
keep its sadness of broken dreams.

Sunday Evening
It is getting dark but in the west the sky is pink
The setting sun is beautiful to look at
I sit outside the church waiting for someone
For whom the mass is important, a father is coming
Out with his little daughter, she couldn't sit still
She sees the sky and asks her father why the sky is
Like this, he says something, and she giggles
It is six o'clock more people are coming out of church
A couple of beggars wait by the door
And there she is her African face smiles she wears
Bright colours as always
I start the car, and we drive home in good silence

Visitors

I was walking around with my camera
but its eye didn't find anything of interest
only olive trees, bushes and ploughed    
I have seen it a before in all seasons and glory
and sun dried straws.
I'm into people now
that is the problem there are no one here anymore
only inbreeds and you can't make much sense out of them.
An English family are on vacation.
                                            Laughter
                                            Music
                                            ***
                                            Wine
They are so young not much meeting of the mind and as
for music, my interest stopped at the beetles and if I'm
some girls called Spice.

                                             I will be a Vogue photographer
                                            be famous, paid well and look at nice girls.

Algarve

The cold northerly wind has died down
if it wants to blow it can do so in July and August
when the heat is unpleasant, and the birds and I sit under or in trees
the time of year when the sun is an enemy.
It is the immense clear sky in Algarve that attracts me, not
the beaches, and the smell of suntan lotion I can do without.
No other country has such pure air it brings the best in people
even the Nordic become mellow and malleable in Portugal.
We are having lunch in Albufeira they tend to cater for
the English palate, food without garlic and onions are not food,
I rather drive to Almodovar and eat Pernil with cabbage
and inhale the aroma of garlic, but not today, perhaps next week
if all is well with the world

The price to pay
There is a problem it might appear as a sideshow
Now that Europe is averting their eyes
Thinking of Brexit.
Prime minister Modi of India has the plan to turn India
Into a Hindu state, this sounds remarkable until
We realise it is fascist by nature, pure race and all that
Hatefulness that follows such thinking.
There 180 million Muslims in India.
Modii’s thinking is inviting civil war by two nations
With nuclear capability.

The bar

Red plush stools neatly at the bar waiting for opening time
last night had been tiresome
restless people getting up or sitting down
some had fallen off, and there had been laughter.
Now the silence is deep of those
Who does not care for garish colours and mirrors?
Empty bar smells of yesterday’s despair
speak nothing in particular and contains no memories

The Sea of the forgotten
At the restaurant eating liver with onion gravy
I looked around a busy place lunch in Portugal
is a jolly affair and it is ok, with children about.
In about hundred years’ time, not one of us in
the room would be alive those who lived long
would be rotting like the rest of us skeletons,
memories of good lunches lost in the big zero.
We are the lucky ones great statesmen will get
a statue in a dusty park on which seagulls crap,
only cleaned on national days.

It is so difficult man to fathom that death is
end of time the world does not exist, history
is only good for dates when kings were born
and the day they passed away, zilch about you
and me because we are the lucky ones

Just before dawn

It is late at night, almost morning; the silence is as noisy as high
tide washing over the pebbled shore. Gloom hangs in the air like
a horse blanket covering a nag's rain-sodden back.

Tomorrow is the first of October; years have been piling up on me,
This quiet messenger of spent youth and yesterday’s ghosts I have
done my best to ignore, are back mocking me.

Dawn, a cockerel crows I hope my neighbour will **** it and eat it
for his Sunday lunch. The intrusive unvoiced is like watching
a black & white reel of my life, a litany of failures.

Sigh, I didn't get to meet Marilyn Monroe. This moment when I
Should take stock of my life, all I can think about is to buy
for the fire Monday morning

Life is a thread
When my aunt
Told me when
Mother
Was pregnant
With me
I was not a welcomed
Addition
Mother had been
Told skipping
Could bring on
A spontaneous
Abortion
She was rather sedate
Soon gave it up
I was born
There are things
We should
Not be told
I never forgot
But she was
Working class
And poor
Life or no life
The line is
As precarious
As a skipping rope

******

I get irritable over emails about ******
the pill that is about extending the natural evolution  
from stud to an old workhorse.
Everything comes to an end and to make love with
the help of a pill is artificially pressing the body to go through
acts it can no longer do alone.
there is some unethical about it as it no longer gives pleasure
only proving the old horse can still gallop.

Algarve

The cold northerly wind has died down
if it wants to blow it can do so in July and August
when the heat is unpleasant, and the birds and I sit under or in trees
the time of year when the sun is an enemy.
It is the immense clear sky in Algarve that attracts me, not
the beaches, and the smell of suntan lotion I can do without.
No other country has such pure air it brings the best in people
even the Nordic become mellow and malleable in Portugal.
We are having lunch in Albufeira they tend to cater for
the English palate, food without garlic and onions are not food,
I rather drive to Almodovar and eat Pernil with cabbage
and inhale the aroma of garlic, but not today, perhaps next week
if all is well with the world

The River Flows East

Behind the houses, a deep tear in the earth, a permanent scar,
a memory of the past, “ten million white workers have been
abandoned by political leaders and are voiceless, for now.”
This sentence flashes through my mind, as I climb down this hole in the earth.

Petrified bushes and crippled trees, ghosts of a time of plenty now covered
in pale talcum; hot and arid no breeze blows through here to shift the dust.

A river flowed here I pick up a smooth flat stone it burns my
hand and leaves a crimson irate mark; twigs split, once big
yellow cats lived here preying on antelopes that came to drink;
whoever is watching me now, doesn’t wish me well.

Overcome by sorrow
  
   There is so much misery in the world the bees are dying out
   the bumblebee has disappeared, elephants are sot for their
   ivory, the rhino for their magic horns, fish is being farmed in big tanks
   when are we going to farm sardines?
   So many wars in the Middle East, Africa starves among plenty
  IDF shots small children for the hell of it.
I have no strength to read all of the tragedies, must prioritise
try to feed a starving dog or feel sorry for a mule,
I don't know what to do the suffering is overwhelming I cry
for the small child's death, I shake my head but soldier on there
must be a let up; but no, I can only try to make those nearest me to a bearable day.

The visitors
A knock on my entrance door, I opened up
and seven people came in one of them looked at me
like she should be in love, perhaps she remembered
me 40 years back in time. The house had been rebuilt
the steps leading up to the second floor were outside
the girl when they marched out kissed my hand
and I thought: am I a pope now?
She looked like the Palestinian girl – unarmed- had been
shot by a female ****** who did this foul deed in
the name of her country she had been told  Palestinians
were out to **** them, the female shooter was defending
her blood dripping country.
I knew the six others too one was my brother
the other my sister and the rest old friends but none
of them recognised me.
The ladder up to the second landing was long I saw
them disappearing into a cloud closed my door I was
suddenly cold, went in and sat by the fire.

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.

Alfred and the addiction

Alfred the pianist is my father who denies fatherhood
had stopped smoking, he had a golden cigarette holder
which he gave me I also noticed he hands trembled
this because he had stopped drinking. Usually,  had a glass
of wine at noon; for a fortnight Alfred avoided me if
he saw me on the street he walked another way, this naturally
made me feel hurt, my father avoiding me.
He came and asked for his cigarette holder, needed it like a prop,
so he was an actor now I sarcastically said to myself.
He had successfully stopped smoking he could leave it alone
as he was no longer addicted, to prove it lit up a cigarette; he smoked five
while we sat in the park and there was a whiff of port wine in the air.

New Dawn

Darkness at the edges of my vision
Blurred as time erases contours of the past

The evoked is as sharp as a lone tree on a hill
The dark shadows at the foot of the mountain.

The loneliness of walking on a road where no one lives
Knowing you are the last one of your tribe

The memory has shed the execs burden of triviality
Distorted remains float out of reach to make sense.

A new morning is a mere comma in the vastness
In the end, life is a dream of no consequence.

The Nordic Dilemma

There was a time in the sixties and the seventies
when the idea of social justice was taken seriously even by
the elites, the shipping tycoons of the day,
who paid (more or less) the taxes like everybody else.
But times improved for everyone, oil was found and
people were quite prosperous and lived in a cocoon of
self-satisfaction, and when people from poorer nations
knocked on our doors, the found the same door
only half ajar, and the people why should we to share
our wealth with the poor; the transition from equality
To unfairness was complete. A nation that thought their
riches was based on hard work when it was based
on a commodity called oil needed to drive cars and keep
The wheels of capitalism are running. In the process
the Norwegian bought houses in Spain because it was
cheap to buy at a place where wages were low for
the workers while the bosses made fortunes selling
that, in the long run, turned out to be substandard and
Only the low-cost material was used. The Nordics felt
racial superior to the Spanish people and made their
own small society a waved their flags on Iberian soil,
and yet they feel they have not done anything wrong

Failures' hiding place

I have done a lot of work even been an officer
With shiny buttons but never succeeded in the world
Of practical work ended up on my personal skid-row
Sleeping rough people look at you with contempt some
Ignore you other shouts hurtful remarks
Poetry is a good place for losers of the race here they
Dream, write words on paper build a shiny citadel and
Have the key to unlocking wonders.