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.

The Smallness of things
There are not many elephants left on the savanna
Near the houses graceful nature has made them
Smaller with tusks not bigger than an oxen's horn
And can hide in the bushes or look like a tree if
People come near.
They are hunted by people who would like  
To have an elephant's head on the wall.
With so many humans being killed everywhere
Why should I care about elephants, it is just they
Are my friends and when leaning against a tree
That is an elephant’s flank there is a contact
Between us and an understanding that we are
Both a dying breed, like tigers and lions
Cute Vietnamese pigs and flying genii that will you
No harm, it is not it’s their fault having black wings  
And screams as when a barrel bomb hits its target
Startled I wake up and there is blood on the carpet.

We, the conjurers

The USA wants Venezuela
And the worlds' press follow suit
demanding an undemocratic coup.
We have been here before
we remember the vilifying of Iraq
and Libya those two counties were lied about
before being invaded and occupied.
Our compliance with this crime is staggering
and do nothing for peace in the world.

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

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.

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.

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.

Workless Future

We are fast approaching the time when robots
can do 98% of the work, the middle classes will disappear
altogether; and here is where a universal pay will
kick in someone has to buy what robots make.
But if you think you will get a pay packet every month
you are mistaking it will be in the form of stamps you
can use to buy foodstuff and the more expensive things you
buy, the more stamps are used.
There will be two types of stamps. Blue and yellow the last
for entertainment such as going to a restaurant, if you
use all the yellow ones it is possible to bribe the waiter
to accept the blue ones.
Driverless cars are for monthly rental; you can also save
on stamps and buy one that way.
There will be no election as there are no parties
to elect and the authorities will be a remote entity that
cannot be reached: I wish you well in a life of no work,
except if you are a chef, robots only makes bland food.

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.

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?

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

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?

When all is Ocean

I have been looking at the map on the wall
Most of our world consists of salt water
In time to come when the sea level rises
Britain will be a rock that steadfastly refuses
To join EU, and that is ok, since most of
Europe will be under the sea.
The far and near east will consist of islets
And Swiss will have a seaport.
If you think this will bring peace, you are wrong
They will fight over religion and fishing rights
And threaten war.
This reminds me, I have to learn swimming.

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.

Beer Sonnet

I have a bottle of German beer in the fridge
and naturally cloudy, first brewed in some small town
in Bavaria in 1624.
They didn’t make the beer clear and decided to call
the brew Dunkel (cloudy), PR, yes it existed it worked
now it is a world-famous beer.
It also cost a bit more, which never fails to attract snobs.
I opened the beer dislike the colour me, a Budweiser man
of the type brewed in the USA
A band of clouds was, obscuring the sunset it was Dunkel
a sentence not spoken but sensed even a child could get.
I drank the beer, let the tomorrow keep its secret.

A trip to Wales

I was driving among hillocks; the landscape was green
it was spring and sheep-dipped in coal dust, grazed
with their offspring
Parked near a pub in a hamlet, it had a name
I could not get my tongue around it and enter
into a dark interior.
The few customers ignored me yet eyed me
perhaps they thought I was English looking to buy a cottage.
I drank powder coffee in a sea of Welshness
my foreignness disturbed me
and the locals.
I left.

Goodbye Europe

Driving along I saw at a distance what looked
like two dark shadows holding up a smaller wizen shadow,
and I thought without Africa, Europe would have been a more miserable place.
We stole their people from working in fields and factories
we took their minerals and gold and left them destitute.
Now they are coming here, and we offer them a tent,
If you are not a wall climber, a fast track runner or football
hero, we don't want to know.
I the meantime, the population – white tribe- am dying out
We have reached the pinnacle of our evolution, the glass siling  
has broken women prefer driving Mercedes cars and
men turn to each other for succour to be gay is the new normal.
We older and another race must take over our delimitations we are
dying out, we are a curious vanishing race in a sea of colour and strange
manners. Unless Europe wakes up and produces own children
we need immigrants on a massive
scale, if not we become a historical footnote.

To be the best

My husband is Europe's best salesman
she said proudly.
What does he sell? Things, she said.
What things? Well, many different things.
Putin is a good seller of hopes, I said.
Who is Putin? A man who sell dreams
and other things, I have never heard of
him does he sell houses too.
Reflecting upon “things” Brexit came
to mine, people didn't want to buy it
founds “things” a burden importing stuff
they could produce themselves.
“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” she did
And found it had many rotten teeth
needed a dentist to extract them.
I like fish& chips a man chimed in and for French
Cheese! I never bought one, what's wrong with
Gouda?  (Geography not his strong suit) and for
wine, I rather have a pint of lager.
So it is settled then (never mind the street talks)
we are half out but also half in.
Can we say Theresa May is a great salesperson?

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

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.

The Catering officer
Once upon a time, I was a ******; I began as a galley boy
and after six months was promoted to the second cook,
What dizzying height. At home, I went to a catering school for cooks
and later on, a course to become a chief steward.
For three years I slaved as a chief cook on ships it was
hard and boring and then I was promoted to Chief steward
they use “chief” a lot in the merchant navy, this to make you feel
important, but in the end, you are a ******* slave.
My job was that of a purser doing the books buying what was needed
as cheap as possible and see to it the cook was reasonable sober.
This new job gave ample opportunity to read I wore a white shirt
with three silver stripes on which caused me endless embarrassment
as I dislike uniforms in civilian life. The first ships I was on had a selected crew,
proper people saving up to buy a house with a big garage when
I was dreaming of going ashore and meet exciting people.
This entire nicety unnerved me, and I tended to be rude one can
say I didn't fit in, so my next ship was less posh and from
there it was downhill all the way until I ended up on rust buckets
that birthed at small ports in South America, and I loved it.
Gone was the uniform, but I used a blazer over my T-shirt when
the officials came onboard, served them whisky till they
staggered smiles and handshakes ashore.
But it didn't last the old ships were replaced with container ships
which is nothing but floating barges, so I jumped ship
swam to the Algarve in Portugal and stayed.

A lover's lament

By austere shore
I linger.
Look skyward
try to read the pattern
of a rapidly
changing sky.
Light and dark
painted the sea
first grey
and then blue again
I call your name,
because you are
where sea and heaven
merge.
To read your silence,
I must first understand
what is in my heart?

The oddity of the truth
To shift through information
And false intelligence
Delivered by men in suits
Paid lackeys reading from a cue
Semitic voices
Feeding the air way
With hatred
Compliant press repeat the untruth
Rill, we believe
Wax lilies in the pond is real

Providence
When
They tore down
The statue
Of the dictator
Left
Was two
Rusty tubes
Hanging
in their
What happened?
To the tube
We will never
Know
Perhaps
They were used
As drain pipes
Pipes

Alone in the night


During the night I had no angst
but my teeth hurt and sleep had gone truant
Time is relative the clock on the stand
appeared to have stopped checking the time
in the living room, it was 2 minutes faster.
Four in the morning too late for a glass of wine
not a common drunk, got nothing to hide.
When awake the toothache had gone for now
it was overcast nine o'clock and gloomy

The Food & Drink
I read about onions it isn't fattening
only it smells so beautiful when fried it is tempting
to add a burger or sausage and that's fattening.
Fried onion added to Thais soup is out of dreamland,
I'm hungry but had to wait two hours, because if I eat it now
I will be starving later. My dream is to eat and drink what I want
and as much I want, alas, life isn't quite like this
Excesses are lovely and we ought to do something
extreme once in life before we end up eating soup for lunch
with water and no wine.

My Lovely
I wrote your name
On an autumnal leaf
And let it blew away in the wind
Now you are forgotten
But only your name
I hear your whispering in my ears
On cold brisk days.

This the day I will be lazy and not read and not even attempt
   to write about  spring flowers they will soon disappear and bathers
   who come to stay have sun and sand on their mind
   Flowers do not make themselves beautiful for us but to pollinate,
   attract bees which we stupidly try to **** with pesticide and we'll know
  the shrivel up of nature and hunger.
  I know of a colony of bees in the back yard but I leave them in peace,
  but fear their sting: a bee will never be your friend
What happened to the bumble-bee I saw one big as a helicopter circling
my house it was looking for a place to rest but the sparrow wouldn't let it.
No, I will do nothing today except making a mental map of the world on
the cracked wall on the house opposite mine

Alfred like dogs

Alfred, my father who steadfastly refuse to be one
had bought four sausages, and was frying them when I came in,
but papa I said you are a vegetarian, yes he said two are for you
and two are for the dog that hangs outside the restaurant
where he plays the piano, it needs reassurance and food.
Alfred chuckled to himself, and I was not sure if I should feel
offended, but let it slide seeing him wrapping the sausages
in tin foil, for the dog that doesn’t belong to him.

The Nordic Tribe

There is a great movement of Scandinavians
going to the South of Europe, they have their church,
cafes and shops selling the type of food sold in
the North. The Spaniards, say, accept and ignore them
because these strange northerners came here for
the sun and not take anyone’s work.
You can call the economic refugees, it is cheaper here
and that also keeps the heating bill low.
The people of the North dislike refugees coming to their
country a place to live and they protest loudly.
One day, when the economy in the south is par with
the Nordic one, the will leave, or seek other shores
where they can live as kings among the poor;
the Northerner’s are racists by nature but do follow
the money and its fluctuations and they have the ability to
see the local people where they have temporarily
sought shelter, as foreigners.

An accidental old man

A very old man fell down a hole when he was out
walking looking at the pattern of the clouds.
The earth was loose when he tried to climb up, kept
sliding down, so he sat waiting, and it was evening.
He fell asleep and during the night water from
an ancient sea rose and filled the hole so he could
float holding onto a root, and when the water was
level with the ground he could get up and get out.
The sea that had been trapped so long kept rising
and the valley became a lake and his house which
had been on the high ground a sought-after property,
and he could afford to buy a coffin of mahogany  
with brass handles.

Modern Transport

The new silk route is exciting
from Pekin to Paris takes a week on a train
fully laden with shoes, dresses, toys
and tightly packed wads of dollars for politicians
The travel is free but you must be prepared
to eat canned soup and Peking duck, for a week,
but you can take pride by doing
the passing of solid waste in 15 countries.

Mortal Man

The water broke
Jubilation
Soon a child be born
The pain
Has gone
The battle
Is done
Can't see or speak
Slowly life
Ebbs
And a life
Is extinguish
Sometime
The unspoken
Relief
Is etched
In mourners
Faces

Sobriety
In the beginning, it is like walking on a narrow track
With olive roots over the ground to trip you up and branches
Of trees slapping you in the face, if you fall get up and
Continue to walk to be tired is not an alternative for a rest
The track gets smoother and wider, but it rains muds up to
Your ankles and you have to cross a stream.
After the ordeal you look back and wonder who helped, you inner
Strength the id it stepped in when most needed
Ahead is a shiny asphalted road waiting just for you.
I can't promise you happiness and Hallelujahs,
But promise this when at home and the day was long you
Will smile feel contentment for you have walked the walk,
Your feet are dry and life is not as bad as you thought.

Skirmish

                            It turns so fast
from happiness to sadness,
yesterday
was a warm spring day,
then without warning
Cold.
Winter beddings
packed away
we fought
over a blanket
I lost
she is blaming illness.
Today is miserable
a clumsy time
doesn't know whether
to cry or shine.
No internet
that's a ****** shame.

Julian Assange

Julian Assange has been arrested
For telling the truth about the crimes
Of the USA's war crimes.
Wimpish Britain will send him
There to face trial
“What Trial?”
The USA can only accuse him of computer hacking
And nothing else
If they do their crimes will be exposed.
Personally, I have a dislike
Of Julian, he is a self- righteous man who
Hate the idea of being wrong.
He should have gone to Sweden and faced
The ***-charges there
And might have been freed for lack of evidence,
The Swedish are not enamoured by the USA
And ignored its request.
His vanity, a simple accusation of improper
****** conduct was too much for him
To tolerate, his lack of humility
Has brought him where he is today.

History of the people

At the Newmarket, it was the oldest one
in town,  the farmers came with horse and cart selling their produce
Their women folks sold thick long underwear,
handy in winters when the North-westerly blew.
Over the scene of banter and friendly business hung
the aroma of horse and the whiff of a wee dram.
The change to modern time came slowly at first some farmer
had bought trucks it was easier that way and warmer too.
Then one day there were no horses left exhaust fume and rain
time was going a little faster no time for a chat, and I was
fifteen and had other interests.
It was the work- horses that made the Newmarket more pretty.
Oddly enough the iron rings on the fence where horses
were *******, are still there… waiting
for the warm breath of a steed.

Donations
  
  Every week I'm asked for donations
  for worthy causes although my sympathy
  is for the reasons such as the plasticization
of the oceans, the vanishing bees and etc.
I find myself unable to send money firstly
because I have only a small pension if I could
I would have sent money to everyone.
My only offer is to write about the havoc
we are causing to our world, and I shudder
to think when our excreta becomes packed
in plastic and the fish drowning in our
pollution that so quickly can be stopped.

Feral cats

After a month of rain, sunshine and blue sky, I have removed
the plastic sheet is covering the fire wood so it can dry better.
A cat sits on the top of the wood and hisses if dogs came near,
it's a smart cat has noticed the village dogs are cowards
when met with resistance. The feline around here feed themselves
catching rats and mice, mind, they eat your food too but
will not sit on your lap and purr.
I have just been feeding an elderly dog left behind by hunters,
shouldn't do this when I go to Cascais who will feed it?
It is tough for a dog to have no home.
Have lit the fire; the wood emits an intense aroma of nature,
think of the curtailing of freedom in Europe; the press has been
tamed, they can print whatever they like as long as it is not
The Truth on how we are ruled; then it is called treason, what's
left are soft **** and TV quiz.

A conceited restaurant

After the health clinic visit in Cascais
We had lunch at a restaurant nearby
Where the outdoor market is
It was overpriced and pretentious
The food, so and so.
Had a glass of wine it was undrinkable
Had a cold bottle of water instead.
There are many proper small restaurants
In Cascais, they appear not to be
Near the centre.
A few days ago, near the post office, we had
Splendid meal and it was reasonably priced
With not too many tables and people I have
fear of crowds this inane nattering about
Nothing, just meaningless noise.

An accidental old man

A very old man fell down a hole when he was out
walking looking at the pattern of the clouds.
The earth was loose when he tried to climb up, kept
sliding down, so he sat waiting, and it was evening.
He fell asleep and during the night water from
an ancient sea rose and filled the hole so he could
float holding onto a root, and when the water was
level with the ground he could get up and get out.
The sea that had been trapped so long kept rising
and the valley became a lake and his house, which
had been on the high ground a sought-after property,
and he could afford to buy a coffin of mahogany  
with brass handles.

The Enigma


Some children rescued from the hell in Syria
came to the west where the got a good education,
which made them realize their rescuers were
also, the enemy who had bombed and strafed
killing their relatives.
The rediscovered they were Arabs and the culture
of the west was contrary to the Koran, so they
thought of bringing the war to us with a vengeance.
What we have done to the Arab people, even giving
them the bleeding wound called Israel is not and can
not be forgotten; the decision made by the few to
wedge war in the Middle East is a price the man and
the woman in the street, are paying.

The people prevails

This day dark clouds are hanging over us they didn't move
making the day into night. The old people say they have never
seen a day like this, as God Catholics make the sign of the cross.
The end is near. Women wear scarves tightly on their heads,
to protect their hair against the sun and the weather.
The Queen of England used to wear a scarf; she doesn't do that anymore.
Lest people think she is a Muslim.
The hate against all thing Islamic has not reached our village yet.
Jews and Arabs used to live in harmony in Spain, then came the Christian
horde and brought ****** and disharmony.
Who is going to rule?
For the people, this means little they till the soil and pray to God to tell
and pray to a god of their choice to lead them, which now is a God
of dubious morality, a pope and empty promises.
In the end, the clouds parted and the night was starlit.

The lion man

There was a gang of thieves in Napoli made their living
stealing at night, they found themselves in a basement of a big house
and found a smallish lion in a tiny age, they freed the animal
that turned out to be friendly and followed aroun
They let it sleep in the garage; having such a big can't bein the house
as lions have little sense of order.
They began taking the lion with them at night using it as a guard,
this was noticed and the press called them “the lion gang”
The chief of the police got the idea of killing the animal and thus
demoralize the gang, and one day when the young thieves
were cornered the lion was shot.
And to their shock the lion underwent a change turned out  
to be a naked man with broad shoulder and long hair
and no one knew who he was since he had no identification
The chief of the police was sacked and other officers disciplined.
There were anomalies as the skin of his hands was that of a lion,
he was buried on unsacred ground as a John Doe, and as most
of the gang was behind bars and could not attend his funeral.
Next day the grave was open, no lion man
he had simply disappeared, perhaps become an animal again
gazelle hunting on the plain of the Serengeti.

New Time

Temporal tears dripped off the wall clock onto the floor,
in a pool of time, I swam to the bottom to find the light where it began,
but I didn’t have the stamina or the will to find a new illusion.
When I surfaced, it was late afternoon, and soon the sinful sun will paint the sky pink; afar,
by the foot of the hazy mountain, a pair of leather clad cowhands gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Caravaggio

  
A painting of Caravaggio has been hanging on a wall
in a modest house when it was discovered, it was painted by the greatest
Painter of all time.
I gladdened my heart. I´m a great admirer of this robustious man
A misfit that didn´t fit in the company of artists but walked his road.
No, I have no Caravaggio on my wall, only prints of his work
his original belongs to the millionaires and collector who byes the great man´s
art and hide it from view.
Art should be available for all he speaks to us working-class few other
painters ever did.
A museum is a suitable place for him, not rotting away
in the mad people´s world
who thinks art equal money?

The road
It is a long highway
Trees on both sides.
I walk
No cars or busses my way
The road seems never-ending
Will I find
My approach to the little cottage
Also, happiness.
A vista opens
A warm summer day
With my tribe
We understood the unsaid.
They look at me
From a hazy distance
Moreover, ask
What took you so long.

Participation

I like to observe people, and the way they talk and act.
My dog observing me, knows when she has done
something wrong I’m angry, she also knows
my anger I mixed with love.
As a talented dog, she reads other people's minds also
baring her teeth if she thinks they are antagonistic.
I was a member of a Scandinavian group my dog
didn’t like them, so I quit.
I’m not a real poet if I sound like one it is entirely
by accident; however, I have written a few books
of vignettes, they serve the distinctions of not being read.
I never bother about this side; what is written stands
like a beacon that tells me I also participated.

People of Utopia

In the deepest less open forest of Congo
a tribe live in idyllic greenness the have cattle but rarely
eat meat their diet is plants, milk and blood from their animals.
They are naked, bath in a stream and walk with a natural charm.
Is this Paradise, the nearest they come to fighting
is jostling with long sticks and no one is hurt.
But wait, isn't there something wrong the absence
of middle-aged or old people?
The people die at forty, don't know why, the program
maker didn't mention it he just waxed lyrical
about a life without stress and overlooked the obvious.
Had the program maker hid the old away for an esthetical
reason? But it appears people die early in this Paradise
I will not join the tribe in Congo just yet.

Writing a poem

You can read hundreds of books by famous writer
and learn of their stories how to write.
You can read other poets work and learn the craft
of poetry, there are so many styles, in the end
you can sit down and write a perfect poem and
it will be admired for its style and perfection,
yet by doing so, it is still not a proper poem
because the poet is hiding his emotion and honesty
in aptness that is a barrier to the truth
For without the integrity and passion the poem
will be a perfectly executed poem, it may win laurels
and win in a competition, but it is still words that
will remain so as a demonstration of the art of writing
but it will never be a poem.