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 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

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

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.

A dog’s day

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

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

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

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.

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 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?

B&B

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

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

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.

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 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 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.

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 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

Time.

While statues fall to dust and nothing is remembered,
we fear you not Ozymandias; it was a poet who brought you back into history.
Words survive the onslaught of time,
for each generation of poets words are written differently,
but the message is the same: Do not forget you are mortal!
Beauty and power are ephemeral.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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.

Olympic Sports

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

Accidently in Paris

From the bus station in Paris, I was taking a taxi to a posh
part of Paris, the driver a Moroccan didn't know the way, but I had a map
he could not read, so I navigated, first left, second right and so one.
We got there after three hours, I tried to pay, but the driver would
not hear of it, made a U. turn and shot at me, he was a lousy shot
I stood there in the street of houses ready to expel anyone
who didn't behave rich and since I walk like a penguin was accepted,
They say a blond girl has much fun, but I tell you a bald man has
more fun at Molin Roughs, (wrongly edited.)
Synchronized dancing and I was thinking when are we going
to eat? Someone a woman I was temporally in love with, arranged
so I could have soup. It was a feathery show, and I sneeze a lot.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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 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.

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.

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

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

The combat in Ukraine

I have a problem; we know that Ukraine is a corrupt country
we also know it has fought a low-level war against
the Russian-speaking people in the Donbas region, so Russia
intervened, so far so good, but what is the next step?
If Russia holds on to the territory gained without having
an army station in the freed territories on a permanent basis
because Ukraine will cry foul and attack when they can.
Russia has always been a magnet for intruders because
of its potential riches and vastness.
There was a time when Yeltsin and his cronies were popular
they grabbed the state's assets and sold them down the Volga.
This was abruptly stopped, to the chagrin of the west
once more; Russia was the enemy.
I’m not partial to the Russian government’s plan, but as I see it
Russia has to occupy the whole of Ukraine and install a regime
that is permanently neutral and let Ukraine be a member
of the Russian federation.
In any case, the war must stop as thousands of young soldiers
die for the wrong reasons and the civilians are bombed senseless.

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

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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,