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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

In defence of Donald Trump

How does one write about the indefensible? A person, so ****** brass and
egocentric lusting for power; Yes, I think of Donald Trump, the impossible.
Why is it after being banned by the press and Twitter, he is now more popular
than ever before, it is, I think, because he speaks the language people understand
He knew his enemy and how to appease them by putting the embassy in Jerusalem
get the Israeli off his back, knowing how much power in America they yielded.
But Israel got a whiff of his thinking of them press betted on another horse,
America first, the Americans living away from Washington   Get it and will vote for
him at the first opportunity.
The majority of true Americans are not stupid; they know the reality of being prisoners
of Washingtons Jewish influence, America first, is a rallying call to make people free
of the poisonous influence of Israel.
They know this, the people of the plains, the prairies of America are not free before
the land is free of the occupations of the true America.

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.

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.

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.

Many problems

So many problems, Myanmar is no longer “democratic.”
the army staged a coup and the famous lady- I can´t spell her name
was arrested and sent back to her villa by the lake.
In India, the prime minister has borrowed Trump´s textbook
and has a profound contempt for Muslims and farmers who give us our daily bread and rice.
In China, a group of none Chinese are being re-educated
to become nice people keeping their trap shut and wave flags.
The sainted Biden will not lift the sanction against Iran,
following, no doubt, Israel´s dictate.
Did we know there is an autonomous Jewish state in Russia?
I think it is near the border China, and the wars of Europe didn’t
touch them, we are not told of this, not by newspapers, it cramps the style of Russia haters.
I cannot pretend I care about the many problems it does not keep me up at night, as it is, I think of Palestinians and the catastrophe that befell them.

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

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

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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

******

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.

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

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 Aspiration

The rose by the wayside was picked by a man of self-standing, and it turned modestly blue, alas the day wore on and the man
threw the flower off ifs lapel and for the simple reason it was
not as innocent as picked this morning.

Someone green left wing saw the flowers and planted it in
his poet of natural fertilisers. The flower grew and bloomed
pink not being sure where to belong I had only seen one lie
that before and that was in the black forest.

The plant was put up for sale as it had three colours by those
who had saved it and the longing for an upper-class life?
Expensive few could buy it but the man who had thrown it away
did and the flower was glad to be upper class,

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.”

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Catering

When the old man was young he trained to become a cook,
which nowadays is called chef, at the time not that many
wanted to become cooks, as it didn't have a nimbus of
working-class heroics; his friends became welders and so on.
The catering business is a simple science when you have
mastered the basic one is free to stamp one's personality
on the dishes. Restaurants was glad to get a proper cook
oops, I meant chef, the one they had was usually one that
smelled of drink and smoked a cigarette of over the food,
mind ashes don't show up in your gravy.
Yet, it was an uphill struggle as everybody –women- could
cook back then, but now that the skill is lost, the chef
is on TV, showing how it is done.

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

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

At the end of a fjord

The fjord was long and dark
on both sides, hard granite could not soak up the sun
it was like descending into hell.
But the fjord arm opened and at the bottom
could be seen a small village with red-painted houses,
the people here at been isolated from outside influence
for many years and everyone looked the same,
alas, some were giggling idiots.
I big piece of rock fell off the dark mountainside caused
a tsunami that washed the village away and there
were no survivors, except one who didn't have the brain
to tell what befell, at the time of the accident he
had been high up in the valley to get the cows home.
The village was moved higher up, and new people moved in,
today it has an airport and has joined modern life

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.

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 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?

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.

It will alright
It was peace in the valley a deep harmony of those who fled
to the countryside to avoid the foul air of humanity this lair
called community had fouled its nest and had to sleep in it
Then there was avalanche of thoughts which caused confusion
when it settled a gramophone voice from 1930 sweetly sang
“I love you, yes I do my darling.”
Back then when singers sang, they dressed their evening best now
women sing showing their wares- never mind the songs- but their
**** to the world telling us to win sympathy how they were molested
as children, the real noise began hunters in the wood killing rabbits
and often themselves in an **** of bloodlust
The avalanche has blocked the way to the lake where I used to swim
when young I accept that and find a puddle to wade in and should
I get tired bring a folding chair sit under a bush and cry

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

Timber
I was going to write something from my everyday
but got bored and changed my mind, instead, I switched
on the TV and I can now know how to build
a timber cabin in Alaska and *** Edam cheese is made
a knowledge that hitherto had not interested me.
I have lived in a house made of timber from a stranded schooner it was never painted and had the aroma of tar, soap suds, ship baked bread and dreams of home.
alas, the house was destroyed by a drunken British bomber- pilot who mistook the house for a tank but
there was a war and the Brits were our allies, no point
sue the liberators.
There was a screaming, arrogant lady called Judge Judy
who took great delight in insulting people who didn't
have much in the way of defending themselves.
TV, has the ability to bore me, every ****** news channel
copy one another, and the weather forecast is
a guessing game in a nice dress or suit, what the hell
I'm better off reading a book that is not too long

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.

The Failed Revolution


In my childhood's town, there was on top of a five-storey building
a neon sign “Jesus Saves,” I asked the mother what Jesus saves.
Souls, she said, without looking up, she was reading
the communist manifesto at the time, dreaming of the day
when workers would be the new upper class.
Mother tried to immigrate to the Soviet Union but was turned
down, she had no skills other to but sardines in a tin.
Mother made rice pudding that day, and I was allowed to
scrape the brown sticky residue in the ***.
A famous capitalist sits in jail somewhere in Siberia, but
is allowed to be in contact with the world via the internet
protesting his innocence; he was not stealing oil from his
own company. No, there is no revolution in Russia.

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