Chicken and Fado

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

Fado

What is there to say about Fado, this guitar sound?
And the guttural voices, that has a twang of
Arabia in its heart and is pure poetry.

Life, loss longing and finally death in songs
that celebrate love's unbearable sweetness,
our tragedy and the unobtainable.


Yes, sing me a Fado, let me hear the guitar
I will close my eyes, float in a sea of melancholy
and remember you

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.

At the end of rural Idyll  

                         It has been a long day
lugging water, gas and fire-wood
up to the cabin
I hope it is the last time having to do this.
We are moving into a roomy flat in Cascais
it has a panoramic view over the bay, the sea
yes, it was my first love even though I'm loath
to admit it, but I will miss the trees and
the greenery of the woods, but what the hell
my almond tree will look after itself.
There is a lunch café on the first floor they also
bring food up if I feel tired of being polite.
What I will see now is the shifting stir of the ocean
and much time will be spent watching the bygone.
I know I will cry when leaving I was content here
although the local doctor from Moldavia thinks I behave
drunken Yeltsin, she has a good heart, wishes I could say
the same about her receptionist, we had an argument
and now I have to go to a private doctor for my medicine.
I have an old seagull on the roof can't leave it alone to catch
it will be painful it will bite me, but when it sees the ocean,
it will be grateful to me.

The action is downtown going quickly there
are girls dancing on a pool symbolism not needed
this constant friction any ***** hair left
it doesn't matter it is in garish colours and
music that arrests free thinking and lap dancing are for losers
the only time the get an intimation of ***
and going home and pocket ******* and feeling quailed
drying your shoes on the mat, your mother saying there
are sandwiches in the fridge
not let her know you had dancing girls sat on your lap.

Beware of slumber
I had taken my tablets and gone to sleep looked at the watch
it was ten o'clock I fell into a slumber that was not natural
like my organs were shutting down one by one
I willed myself to get up stood facing the bedroom wall stood
there until the pain in my legs was unbearable I must not sleep
if you do, you will not wake up again, but I sat down in
my office chair and stared at a drawing when I was young hold on
to this, you must not sleep, endless was the night but as nearly
fell into Morpheus's arms I looked up at the skylight saw the dawn
I had been saved by the day and death hastily retreated
The whispering voice enticing me to slumber had gone I could
now go to bed and sleep until nine o'clock
My wife stirred and said: you are late going to bed, her Holly
innocence is saintly; I listened to my breathing it was easy my
organs function again I had won a battle but knew I would
lose the war, but I will not go submissive into the long 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.

The Piano

He let his fingers glide
Softly on the keyboard which responded
With a sensual murmur
The piano bar was not open yet.
When he hit the c-string to hard she mildly
Protested, he had been too eager.
Together they played faster and faster
Till crescendo of love-music filled the room
Silence!
The bar was opening and they had to play
The public wanted to dance to.
Tomorrow he would arrive early and together
Play songs of love

A dreaming journeys
  
  A leaf floats down a river
It never made a decision
“where are you going doc?
Back to the future?
No, I have been there now
We are going to the future.
From afar the leaf hear
a woman sings
“Let me call you, darling.”
What an idiot I’ve been.
What’s left is the ocean.

The loss of innocence

At a school sports day, I was running sixty metres,
I wanted so very much to win, didn't quite make it,
but got a bronze medal, which I bore on my lapel
with unseemly pride.
When joining the merchant navy, I wore it too; no one
had a medal like this. In bars, girls asked why I wore it,
they were not used to meet a real hero; I could not tell
them the mundane truth, but spun a story.
Alas, women want what a man has got, falling for her
charms I parted with the medal, my downfall,
never saw the medal again.

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

Retaliation  

The mate went ashore an afternoon,
                                  For the purpose to go to the bar
                                  and steal the cook’s girlfriend;
                                 the cook had to work till eight
and when he finally came to the bar his girlfriend
had gone with the mate to a hotel.
How they mocked him next day, but the cook smiled
showing even, wolfish teeth not his natural once mind,
                                 but nevertheless very white. It should
                               have worried the crew, it’s no good to
                               tease a man who can spit into their soup.

Autumnal Gloom

                      Sorrowful October, rain hangs in the air to mean to fall
a murky joker without a sense of humour, I don't care whether it rains or not,
it is just the persistent greyness makes my beard white,
my hand's thin so many rivers look like Bangladesh overrun by the stateless.
People born in October tend to be mournful, with the sudden outburst of ire.
Intemperate, I blame the weather, vengefully jealous of others success,
it is not the October's child's fault; it had two choices winter or summer,
but was pushed into late autumn, forsaken by god and man.
The rain didn't fall, blew westerly and the afternoon sun was helpful.

Headlines
He was going to write his masterpiece
“The road to London” but the coach from
The airport had a blowout.
When he finally came to London, and it was
Morning and reading the headline
which asked several coaches have suffered
blowouts, could it be the Russians?
Another more sober paper said the accidents
were due to poor maintenance but that is
not a word that makes headlines.
As for the poet he didn't like London and
never wrote anything about this great city.

Night in the village

                       The silence is dark and eerily quiet
every window is shuttered, and it is as I'm the only one living here
there is no sound of anyone has a TV low
I'm the single living being here.
I saw a bright light earlier I think a dark matter has vacuumed
them up, but somehow forgotten me it took my dog too
she was out and was caught by the subject.
I don't know what to do, call the police who will not believe me.
Come tomorrow they look the same but having
the mind of something horrendous with the mind-set of people  
from another planet, in the morning smile as trained to do but they
will walk in a mechanical way repeating the same word trained to be human,
I can do little only wait for dawn and make
my escape as I will not live amongst
people who **** at will when a strange signal from outer space
gives the orders to **** and there are no humans left.
Get him now before he tells what you are up to eradicating the humans until our robots
can take control and we will rule without people of free will be no more. God made an
error, and we have to rectify the idiotic belief that humans are unique beings.

What happens to rings?

Some of the are ****** made for decorations
Other rings are made off gold and diamonds
And have a serious implication.
I had a ring once but threw it away made
I feel hemmed in dislike the idea of
Belonging to someone, even in matters of love.
Still, rings keep circulating from finger
To finger, an endless dance of commitment
That didn’t stand the test of time.
The bond between us is our hearts unity
Which only death can erase.

Time for forgetfulness

He had been to my house often, like to come here and stay for a few days,
because of nature where he could walk along overgrown tracks and see
how life used to be lived before; now he could not find the house, called me
told me the name of the café where he had stopped.
After a meal, he went for a walk but didn't return, and it was getting dark,
we looked for him he has lost his way, we found him under an olive tree,
it had taken some time before he knew me, the game was up, he cried,
Slowly succumbing to Alzheimer. In the morning we drove him home,
my wife drove his car; he spoke little when he did mixed past and present
(Who doesn't).
When we came to his house, he thought I was Dali Lama flattered by
his visit. In a lucid moment he knew what happened and cut his life short,
he refused to follow the lane of the living dead.

Water Bill

Driving down from my eyrie – I only said this to
Sound educated- I thought that since there is no proof
Of god's existence, I have been reflecting about the man
Or is it person- in charge of the rainbows.
I want to do something about it not always the same colours
5 I think and when you get to the point where it ends
It is a miasma of vanishing tinges.
An Iris should be firmer and sometimes yellow or red
Stick to the ground so children could climb on it not all day
But say, once a month.

At the bottom of the hill, I crossed a bridge it was dry and
Looked like the tiny bits Palestinians are allowed to live on
I remembered I had forgotten to pay the water bill and
Sometimes in the future, there will be wars over water.

They had been angels sitting on clouds for
ten thousand years playing the harp, but
since they were in a timeless environment
They didn't want knot, only filled with a sense of
ennui that came from sitting on a cloud void
of touch, and they also miss not being hungry
and thirsty, and feeling sad for throwing one out
off the cloud, he had no ear for music.

They objected to god who took off his mas showing
A face a hole so endlessly deep that if it was white,
told they were his illusion now they had to make a choice
either continue playing the golden harp or vanish into the big
white hole; they choose the instrument. God put his mask on,
and bitter silence wafted like an ill omen through the galaxy.

The Old Couple
There is an unspoken acceptance you share a silence no need
to be entertaining and you are bore telling jokes told before
It is an easy quietness each one has their own interest
And to avoid problems a computer and two TV
I do this, and you do that, and I carefully avoid sarcasm
Which is arrogance badly concealed?
There is much to learn from Soap Operas such as Hair- styles
dresses are worn by slim actresses where a plot is easy to follow,
why complicated a play to be academic writers are showing off.
dense lines actors have to learn when it is about looking good
show love and rage in five minutes intervals
Always perfectly coiffured hair stays in place.
Our secret is she is not listening to me nor am I hearing her
this is what I call perfect harmony.
Yet both know there will only be one of them a new silence
that will be a burden on shoulders bent by age.

A New TV

The old TV, heavy as a cement block those pyramid shaped
they used to have in some roads of my childhood to stop tanks,
does no longer has picture only a voice and moving shadows,
it was a struggle to get it into the car and down to the bins where
a man with horse and cart will pick it up on Monday.
Now I have to buy a new one and that is ok, the modern ones
are light weight has young colours and a beautiful girl doing
the weather forecast, I think so I have yet to buy the TV.
I threw it out in a fit of anger, since my wife sat in the living room
watching banal love stories on the bigger screen, and I had
been banished in the kitchen. There has been a storm I have been
unable to get on the internet this is Portugal when something goes
wrong it does so a long time. C'est la vie.

On meeting Socrates


It was the end of the day at the old folk’s home,
he had spent the last two years of his life indoors, in this room
he had refused to take his meal in the dining room
together with the old people, this was at first refused, but
after a few days and fearing for his safety, the relented and
served meals in his room, for which he had to pay extra.
Lately, he could feel life seeping out of him; he had taken
to his bed, no, he wasn't hungry but drank some tea.
He thought about his life and as usual, could not make up
his mind, had he tried too hard, or had he not been serious
enough was he just a gnat seeking the lamplight or a tiger
prowling the jungle of words, he giggled over the tiger thing.
His feet felt cold, thought of Socrates who had been forced
to drink Hemlock, he said the death started with his feet
crept upwards till it reached his heart and sudden as a gust
of wind blows out the flickering light of life, he died, and would
never know whether he had taken himself too seriously or not.

Alfred and the wilderness  

Alfred, who with the greatest of ease tells,
Me he is not my father and I went for a walk across chlorophyll filled field.
Alfred who is a musician and never ventures out in the landscape
saw some grazing sheep and wondered if they were dangerous,
no, I said they are sheep and born friendly
as God created them, to this Alfred called me a crypto-Christian.
A little Lamb came up to my father it was so sweet,
as only a lamb can be he lifted it up which the ewe disliked,
and it butted him in the rear.
Alfred was shocked, got up and demanded I bring him to safety
in the nearest town; never trust animals they are all out
to get us he said while limping to safer ground.

The oncoming


So also, is the thinking of the enemy.
Millions of people will be killed and nature already
Devasted will collapse too.
It appears to me that the coming tragedy is ordained
That unknown forces will make it this way, it is uncanny
That we blithely walk around with no care in the world
As the Damocles sword has loosened from it ropes, and
Is about to fall.
What is left is scorched earth circling around the sun
The seasons will come and go in in silence and we shall
Not hear the joyous laughter of the young.

While we Wait.

Late October it has been raining now it has stopped
the landscape is green the air mild and gentle
but there is no jubilation.
No flowers grow.
The seed in the earth slumber.
The mules in the field look pensive and sad they are
of no use anymore, farmer keeps them because they
make the landscape more rustic.
Whoever loved a tractor even if painted blue?
The harvest of this year is done
sheep have been sheared and look exposed
grazing under olive trees
I can see it in the eyes of all living things: Melancholy
for the future to come.
Will we be here come next year?

Alone it dreams
The inner bay where the water is shallow
I rolled up my trousers leg and waded out to see
the small polished stones
With sunlight and the clear sea the stones had
the appearance of diamonds to **** for.
I took up a few but in my hands, they quickly lost their
lustre; threw them back, my feet was cold it was not
yet summer when the inner bay would be full of bathers
who wished the beach was sandy.

The God Thing
I often think of God but Samuel Jackson’s face get in the way
So know we know god is a handsome actor looking godlike and that is
Ok if he had looked Chinese I might have objected
Death is a conundrum we accept the physical death, but the problem
Is what is happening to our thought from experience?
After a long life, we like to pass knowledge it on but selectively as we
Cannot talk about our blunders and our ****** misconduct
I have lived a totally egocentric life and it is the only way I write
but if I have written something to anyone for whom the big sleep
means nothing.

Dance Nocturne


August night, is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind the blows was born in hell.
From open windows in their dark interior
the primal scream of *******,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first, it must
go to through the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of seed before sinking
underground spent and forgotten in the mass graves
of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates death to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest, while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.

Yesterday’s Time
The valley has been overcast for days
and in the night when we both are awake
tears fall as rain softly and sad.
It shouldn't be like this the sun should shine
and I should be glad to leave, the winter
was too hard it cannot be repeated, but who
remembers yesterday?
All those boxes filled with the past ready to
be sent by car to a place where people drive too fast.
And folks are busy to hurry on the day
that is longer now than before, ready meal no
time to cook anymore; is this my new life now?

Virtue

I wish
I could write
A love song
From the heart
About a mountain stream,
Were cynicism
Dare not enter
Not intrude
As sarcasm
Is banned
Sorry to say
Cannot have lived
That long
I know when hearts
Cries
For the loss
Of innocence

Crystal-like

It is sad to be a limpid snowflake
                                          look up and millions are falling down
and they are all around just like you.
                                          On the ground littered with snow,
Hard trampled cold snow
From solitary beautiful and crystalline
                                       to a minutia in a frozen landscape.
If lucky you can land on top of a wooden pool
                                        and hope the weather will hold.  
You will blow down from your perch, become one of them
                                       and later reduced to slush

Trust in yourself
If you trust others, they do so
Out of self-interest
Not what is best for you.
To be a follower is dangerous
When you wake up naked
And nowhere to go but follow
The stream. Give up.
Making you unhappy and discontent
A deep-seated irritation
Of a loser who lost his way
By not listening to the inside voice
That made others miserable, bur gave
Your peace of mind.
You dared follow your path
And are not riches but the satisfaction
Of doing the right thing.

The Mad Years
Years ago my first wife had left me for another man
I was crazy by jealousy she in another man's arms
intolerable.
A ghost walking through town in a haze of whisky
a meltdown caused by dishonest self-importance.
I didn't see how pathetic I was trying to end myself
on the Altar of love, I wallowed in the victimhood.
The bank took the house my mother took me in told
me to grow up. Sleeping on a sofa and no privacy
sharpens the mind to be constructive like working for
living. Slowly I was able to forget and let go, my
overreaction was of hurt my self-esteem had taken
a beating; she left me. My sister had a summer cabin
by the sea in a fjord, she let me stay there dry as  
a preacher- until feeling better. I did but got a phobia
could no leave, alone, yet safe from the world I could
think and stay here forever
I shrink handed me ****** held my hand as we walked
down the track to his car, it was white with red letters
I didn't mind full of pills I was safe, now I think it sure
was tough growing up

Story teller

Now as spring light fades into a softly
blue evening, I turn to you and ask?
If you can tell me more.

The river doesn't flow as rapid as before
the lake is still dry, no breeze blows
away dust of broken dreams.

If you can tell me more tell me now
Before light is a space and
The stillness has lost its echo

The movie Horse.

The mare in the yard is small, almost a pony, brown and white she used to be a fallen horse in western movies till she got arthritis in her hind legs,
lost her jobs no severance pay, the film industry is a tough place for
the less famous entertainers.
I bought her for a cowboy ballad I had written, but the song was never
performed since it was about llamas in Peru.
I had left her in the shady yard with a pail of water, and pile of straws.
The day had been hot she had slept standing up, shifting her weight from left to the right legs.
She was awake now could hear hooves scraping on concrete, neighed softly
calling my attention; took her to the far field,
where the grass is greenest, she galloped about a bit, then after rubbing her behind
against an olive tree settled down to do what
retired horse actors do, grazing and dreaming of the old days.

The ocean of dreams
  
The old man was still in his bed; someone said, is he dead?
No, not yet he says I dream of seagulls flying over the ocean.
Once I was a dolphin, my sons and daughters live there,
Now they are in the bay of Cascais, waving for me to join them.
They need a father figure.
Years ago, he swam ashore, and kind people gave him a suit.
Now he walks like Hercules Poirot, small careful steps.
He dreams of the vast ocean he knew so well, swam alongside cargo ships.
It was a fun time but not a place to write poetry.
My dear children, he says, I will join you later when I write the poem.
Of everlasting love.
Is he dead?  Someone whisper, no, he is only dreaming of the sea.
He knew so well.

Metaphorically

I'm a working pony
ploughing the oft
turned over the soil of poetry.
On the race track
of pedigree mounts
                      chasing medals and
                      honours, the  pony looks
                      bewildered
                      but in the end
                      we are Equus Ferus
and domesticated.

Ennui  
I sit on a high stool watch vegetables boil I use
a little water and when the pan is dry I add butter stir
let it brown and I add cold meat I found in the fridge.
Having been a witness to the murdering of food
I'm not hungry anymore, pity my dog was run over
by a train and if she had not she would be dead
of old age; she was still alive looked at me as to say
I trusted you implicitly” seeing how distressed I was
she licked my hand died and forgave me; her bones
are in a black plastic bin in the shed.
I live inside a cocoon of depression and elastic bubble
made of a cow's stomach, everything I remember is tinged
By the thought, I should have done been better.
Had I been a success, I would be happy and think with
A fondness of the daughter, I never had she only grew to be
an embryo, so many embryos lives that never got a chance,
haunt me in the night.
I open a can of lager, like the hooligans in the street of
Leeds do, all I need is a hood to hide my face from the world
and blame the society of my tribulations.

Biography

The wind blew hard last night
the bedroom window was open I was too lazy
to get up and close it.
I was thinking of writing my biography but found
my life was too tedious to write about it,
Anyway I have only come alive for the last thirty years
before that, I lived in a bubble of self-loathing,
Of course, I could have written about my many illnesses
but I dislike self-pity.
I used to be a seafarer and remember vaguely how bored
it made me after ten years; sea life is for losers.
I could have written about women there has been a few, but most of my affairs were insignificant, *** has no purpose if love is not involved.
I finally got up found a blanket and slept till nine.
Self-biography is mostly self-serving, and we only remember
the right part and our pretension.

Towards spring?

Days are longer now, here where I live
and despite the cold weather, the almond tree is in flower
stubbornly doing what it has forever.
It brings gladness to my old heart the survival of winter.
I have stopped watching the news TV stations are repeating
the same old mantra, propaganda and lies
making Russia the big Satan and I ran the devil.
Trump wants to upgrade his nuclear arms and threatens
North Korea for wanting the weapon too.
The Palestine people are suffering there is not let up in Israel’s
ill will and brutality against them.
So I will live it all alone and wonder if the almond tree
will survive the coming war.

The Master Sailor

Along the tourists jilted beach walked
saw a rope, thick as Popeye’s arms
sticking up from the sand.
I pulled and up came a schooner
with its crew onboard.

We set sail away from winter shores
it disappeared in a funky haze.
A dream had come true, a master
of my own vessel.
It didn't last someone
pulled the plug.

A friendly place
There are no catfish in our little lake
but it has giant frogs, and some of them die if they are late
and the sun warms just standing on stone unable to move
Fodder for the crows. There are no dangerous animals
except for boars with a litter and snakes slither away
there were rumours some years ago about a panther-like
like being and farmers cocked their guns
I went to have a look it was a cat that was glad to see me
took it home opened a tin of tuna it purred happily.
It was an independent cat sometimes it disappeared for weeks
then came home telling me nothing, after sleeping in the cupboard
all day it went out and never came back, perhaps it had met a fox
and I relived the struggle must have had before losing.
I had a dog once she lived to be sixteen years and I never trained
her to give paw and chase ***** and she told me when it was
time to go for a walk, I don't walk much now I have no one looking
out for me, my friends called her my daughter.
I have been offered a dog but refuse I think what will happen
to it should I die?

Coffee unsweetened

It is morning; the old man drinks coffee
while thinking about a dream he had in the night,
the dream, since didn't write it down is hazy
and soon it will be forgotten; the old man does
not write superficial love stories anymore.

The metaphysical, the abstraction of love that
transcend the physical aspect, has a god-like
quality in its understanding of the world as it
is, and it means acceptance of others opinion
even when it is a moth holed and trite one.

The old man knows he is a micro cosmos of
the world he lives in, this makes him shudder
because he given the right circumstances could
have been the incarnation of evil, but as it is,
his love of the living saved him from evil deeds.

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.

Flag Days

In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.

Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.

Bed Time
I should have gone to bed by now it I late
But when head touches pillow in the dark bedroom
I think of death
Not fear, but the feeling of helplessness, not an iota
I have done in my life has made the slightest  
Difference I have not given the world a thing of value.
I remember Liv Ullmann we were both seventeen
I danced with her but could feel I was in the presence of talent
and she became successful she is a someone.
She tells the newspaper in an interview she hopes to die
in Norway, a rather disappointing uttering when you are
dead it doesn’t matter where.
She will make the headlines have her obituary written and
there will be sorrow, but in the end, we will both be equally dead.

Vita Contemplativa
We do not live our lives in the now but remember
it as a passed and what we did not do when the past
was now and disappeared as an ant's breath    
as there is only one beginning- birth- we are shackled
to the past we didn't choose but was pushed on us as
we had no ability to anything in the now

Reward
To live in the misery of the past unable to let go
of childhood’s unhappiness but let it fester and
grow till adult life becomes unbearable, demands
of recognitions and compensations, because their
suffering must be taken up polished and with time
a jewel to show the world. This you owe us and we
deserve what you give us, although it will never be
enough even when the gem drowns in blood by those
who got in the way of the righteous path.
Never forgive or forget, let hatred be your leading star.

Vanishing flowers

On the bush near the terrace, the one sparrows
pick small leaves for their nests the red roses are falling off
they dance with dust on the road are run over
by tractors that have no soul.
A puppy tries to catch them when it does it spits
those out, the flowers are no food for it.
In a few days, the flowers will fly away don't
know where, but they will be back next spring.

Tanka like
we the classless
seek no revolution, only fairness
we like quality
a well- balanced diet
And cold German pilsner.
The stinking rich,
one assume they do not have bath often,
can continue to pong
we seek no egalitarianism
but cold German lager