Nature wonders

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

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.

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.

Every Day Philosophy

I'm not a thinker deep as the ocean more
like the depth of a puddle, but then again
seen from the stratosphere an ocean is
nothing more than a shallow puddle it has
to do with perspective
The tiny ant that walks across my desk is big
compared with gnat they are mostly obscure
except when they walk across the computer
screen and leave behind a minuscule bit of ****
And that was the lesson for today

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.

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

The bird of hatred

A bird with enormous wing span is darkening
the sky over the Middle East and there is much
bloodshed as always when a new nation is born.
A good example is the birth of Israel it cost
the life untold by the losers in camps far from home.
Thousands of young men are finding adventures
and the order they seek so fervently waving black
flags knowing their nation will win no matter.
Who many headless corpses it makes take, but that
will be forgotten; we only remember the winner,
the Caliphate, which altered the map of the world
and made it a haven for an undiluted Islam to sink back
to the middle ages shifting sand.

Abortion

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

The cobwebs of dreams

It was a clear day…Too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen,
sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked how old she was,
ninety-two she said; knew I was trapped in a dream she didn't
live that long.
By the slow river I saw furniture drifted, my brother said it was
people who lived downstream but bought furniture upstream
and to save on the transport dumped the stuff in the river and
relatives picked it up further down.
Sometimes a table or a chair got lost a risk they were willing to take.
I knew this too was a dream.
Walked along a soft road in a forest, but something was wrong
there was a strange red light emitting from trees; I was trapped
inside a painting by a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife.
I think it is morning, perhaps not, sometimes the line between
and the subconscious emerges, maybe yesterday is today.

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.

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

Catherina Deveraux


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

Dreamy spring

Spring sun, I sit in the yard surrounded by high walls
for privacy, alas, it is to hide my fear of people and
the boredom of ordinary, talkative life.
Nevertheless, my view is splendid the sky, and clouds
making faces of people I knew, sometimes into ugly
monsters with sagging flesh and a toothless grin-
cirrus cannot make visible teeth- a plane overhead
makes a pale jet-stream.
“Are you using sun-cream” a voice from the inside
hollers; spring sun is a friend it warms does not burn
the August sun does that.
A tank regiment of grey clouds hides the pleasant air
I feel the cold and scan the sky for drones, hide indoors
till I see, through a crack in the curtain, all-clear signals
time for a walk before lunch.

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.

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

A Middle-Aged Love Story  

Both were in their late forties when they met he had a good job
chief of something important in the world of oil exploration and
they fell in love holding hands and kissing so much they needed
treatment for sore lips.
He grew tall, and she swayed like a palm tree in a tropical breeze
this was love they both been married before and felt like the god
of amour's arrow had shot them again painless they thought.
She had grown children he had none when he was 52 the mortality
knocked on the door he wanted a son she could give him none.
There was young woman nearby and when his wife was visiting her
he fell on the threshold of her door into her arms, and she became
pregnant, a love story came to a screeching halt.
The woman he loved left, but he had a son with woman he didn't
care for, he found salvation in work she – the woman he loved-
lived with her mother in Cote de Azure stuck with an arrow stuck in her
a heart that no other man could remove.
Then a knock on her door, he stood there with his child of, she could not
resist and forgave him loved his child too and they both lived long and
when full of years were blessed with a beautiful death.

The Spell

Does pure evil exist or is made by the religious
to scare us and fall into the embrace of a god
that may not have our interest at heart.
It began a few days ago
when I noticed someone or something was
trying to take over my mind.
When parking I scraped another car,
I broke the mirror driving too close to a bin.
It was then I saw it, malevolent eyes
painted outside my house,
I looked up saw the shadow of Satan on a flagpole
his laughter echoed and echoed on my soul, but
I shouted back, called him and his imps ****.
I knew a spell had been cast upon me and took action I painted the eyes yellow and green,
the water leak in the kitchen stopped.
I had won because my mind was much stronger than
the person who had cast the spell.

The painting
When she left it had been snowing but she
Left no footprints, that is many footprints but not one
I could recognise as belonging to hers.
Years passed like a stable of wood waiting for winter
And I finally saw her in a painting by Paula Rego
So many suffering women abused by men over time
They had survived while I sat in the ***** of a strong
Woman ******* her ******* like a little pig
And in her eyes, I could read her deep sadness and hands red by
Endless cleaning floors and serving men when young.
She cared not for a son he would have abused her too
Yes, it was her she had left no footprint in the snow
She had painted the misery of men her hatred of humanity
She had reduced me to a little man in fear of ghosts
And I could no longer reach her with sweet words or tempt
With my moments of lust.

Afterlife

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

Friendship
Jim and I were friends all the days
from we build castles in the sandpit
Jim was always happy and his eyes
were wise one who knew life was short.
When at fifteen he became ill sat in a wheelchair
and the sun shone on him.
At twenty he died holding my hands told me
to be brave.
Jim was happy all his days, but I was the lucky one.

The sandy walk  
On the long and wide beach,
I can, at a distance, see an elephant, an unusual sight
on this Nordic Shore;
but as I get nearer it retracts, and become sea mist
Overhead sea-gull resent me being here October,
humans are not supposed to be here now.
Coarse grass grow on sand dunes, forever defying
The wind that amuses itself by creating beautiful
ripples which it sends galloping to the beach and
they die unable to re-create itself I’m cold and scared,
alone, there’s no one here that wilts me well;
Feeble, against a nature that’s ready to devour me;
The “I” has lost its self-belief. Far above me angry  
Clouds congregate.

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.

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?

August night


Dark, starless night sky, a sliver of the moon
golden scythe is mowing down the old.
Harvest time, forgot to close the window,
a chill settles in ancient lungs evil coughs.

Church bells toll the day; the day is hot and
gives nothing away, the old priest is on holiday.
The locum is clumsy, hasn't had a bath for months,
a murmur of discontent.

The cleric sweats there is a smell of *****
a church’s reject; they do take care of
their own. This isn't swine flu nothing to
report, the old dying as they must

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Inheritance
                          My ffather had a stammer
And lonely drinker
Sat under bridges
                           Those that span quiet canals
He drowned
Dog came home alone
Wimping  
                            Mother, tired took to bridges also
This pleased the dog
                            The canine came home alone
This was an inheritance I didn't want
But could not avoid I sit under bridges now
                             The dog's   too old
I walk home alone.

The Meat Industry    
  Artificial meat is genuine meat.
    I look forward till it is fully developed
    And we can stop killing animals
    I worked as a boy at an abattoir my
    the job was to stir blood from slit throat into a bucket
    so it didn't coagulate the blood was later used
   to make dumplings, which I refused to eat.
  We will, however, have to reduce the cattle stock
  and the farting cows in Holland will be no more.
  There is something deeply immoral the way we
   use animals for food they are living being capable
   of thoughts – if primitive- and feel pain and pleasure
   artificial made meat will set us free from our tendency
   to the mass slaughter of the innocent

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

Just a word in your ear

The USA and Israel, here you have axes of evil,
Will take out Iran who has not occupied anyone
Or stolen someone’s land

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

A New Love Story
I had stopped at the rural cafe for a coffee it was a day when I was
not feeling a day over seventy she was around fifty and incredible
young her waste was that of a waif at the beginning of life.
She was so beautiful and she smiled inviting me to sit by her table
and I was only drinking coffee. I told her amusing stories of my life,
mostly lies- and she laughed, not a bored mirth while looking at
the time thinking of the right moment to slip away the clutches of
my unwanted attention. Good time has me has a limit, so much and
not more, her husband came in he had been to the garage, had the car
fixed and he told me all about it down to the smallest dreary details

A nice man with oil on his hands and I hated him, but I could not **** him
and claims his wife as mine, the thought faintly amused me,
and they drove off. I loved her immensely and she reminded me of
my wife's niece I love her too, perhaps it was her but I was too old to see
as handsome faces take on a mask of a smiling Janus

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.

Almost a killer

The window was open the puppy balancing
On the sill and fell it wasn’t a long fall buy it screamed
I cradled in my arms till it stopped whimpering
Through me an enormous fear I could **** it if I wanted to
I held my hands around its throat its fur soft and silky  
The puppy continued to sleep safely in my arms I was ten
And thought, no one should have that power, but it had surged
Through me, the compulsion to ****
My hands shook my body trembled violently today I could have
Become murderer. I told my brother he shook his head and asked
Why I had to make a drama out of everything
Later I worked on a farm and saw animals killed
But that was for a purpose feeding humanity and not for pleasure I know
Had I killed the puppy my life would have been an endless night.

Sea and people
An island came up from under the sea
And soon it became green and pleasant
Fit for dairy production, and cats that
Took care of the rat plague.

Man, and animals in idyllic harmony but
For the rats and attacking seas-birds.

Roaring sea appropriated the island
Occupied and flooded the land,
Simply retracted and made the island into a reef.
Endlessness of peace but dangerous for shipping.

The tree of ages

There had been a storm, not a squall making it difficult
to walk from the supermarket to your car leaving you
with tussled hair and breathless, no this was
the real thing and the holm oak crashed to the ground
roots and all blocking the road.

It was an old tree had lost weight, and bark slung around
it like a poorly fitted mechanic's overall, so it had to happen
it was what ensued after the fall, and it had to be moved
still alive they cut it in half and pushed it aside with
a fork lift truck no ceremony here no kind words, the tree
was blocking the traffic; not a word of regret, you see,
hadn't it been for the storm the tree was well enough to
stand by the entrance to the lane for 100 years to come.

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.

A New Beginning

Think of this, the world has become too hot heat waves
following heat surges.  People leaving their cars succumbing of
thirst waiting for the coolness of evening that will not come.  
The stench of dead humanity and animals are foul of decay.
On the highest building a man fine tinned food, eats and falls
asleep and wake up months later to a world where he is the only
survivor.  No lift he walks down the endlessness of stairs and is
met with a hush so loud he has to put his hands to his ears.  
He walks and walks the stink has gone, but he senses something
behind him it is a lone rat it is as confused as he is and together
with the rat on his shoulder, they begin the search to find a mate
to make the world inhabitable again.

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.

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.

Dark Forces

There is a sense of ennui the déjà vu after a feast
life is not what we thought it was, the banner of battle
no longer flies on top of the town hall.
The hero is not a hero but a figure fluctuating in the wind
and ruled by outside forces where he is only the visible  
to fool the world into a shared vision of bravery.
There are so many other problems the scourge of pest
the sizzling heat burning human skin crisp
and rain that kills and sea that floods the landscape.
The undertone is getting louder; we have been lied to
dark forces seek a unipolar world, malleable people
into enslavement, where words are no longer truthful
but lies are endlessly repeated until lies are the truth.
It is late in the day, but there is a rumble of a fightback
the freedom of the individual precariously wilts like
grains of life die if not rescued by the rain of revolt.

The huddled masses

They came here
from war and starvation
to seek
freedom from religion
and  ethnic
disharmony.
But some came
to sow
disharmony
turn time back
to the
time of war
******
and
no freedom of speech

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.

How long is long

We live in a society that
No longer believe in an afterlife
We, therefore, strive to live as long as possible
Even though, it might be detrimental
For our or others well- being.
What is the true age of man? I don't know but
I think when the memory is erased
When we become a burden, death is not an enemy.

The Alternative

We lived on the third floor the loo was in the basement
I saw my aunt peeing in the sink while mother was out
It took days to figure out who she did it, I asked my sister
She wanted to know why so I told her, but females speak
Told my mother….trouble.
I often peed in the kitchen sink at night, what else could I do?
Ghosts on steps and landing fat rats having a bath in the bowl
I never told my mother if she came into the kitchen I pretended
brushing my teeth, I also masturbated into it but that was only
when I was sure to be alone.
My mother was strict with the hygienic routine we had a big towel
And since there were four of us we had a corner each.

An old dream surfaces

Today I have watered my wife's garden; this can be
misconstrued, well she actually has a small garden
at the side of the house, we have cleaner who comes in
once a week and she does the watering, but she is on
holiday. I'm not keen on flowers they are so useless
I like to plant cabbage and potatoes something practical and
filling, if I only had a patch of land and a donkey I could
sell leek asparagus and tomatoes on the farmers market
and I will be a friend of many, as it is I sit and write
Not the best thing to do and win friends

Parallel Lives  

Is there such thing as living two separate lives?
I lived in a vale called the “Valley of the cobblers” were everyone
wore wooden clogs, a dead giveaway if you have been out late,
I have many friends there know me by my first name.
Have a homestead rising  donkeys of the sturdy, strong type,
also sold miniature donkeys,  children especially liked them
I had a man who looked after the animals when I had to return to
city life, but as time passed I came to believe my real life was
in the valley, because I feel like an intruder when I walk amongst
modern man – it could be the clogs- people stare at me
think of me as an abstraction a painting once seen on the wall of a café.
Went on a bus to get back where my friends were, the bus drove and drove
and when it stopped I hadn't reached my destination.
Have to try again I miss my real life and want to come home.