The Trance

I sit on my stationary bike for half an hour a day,
it is incredibly boring if I have nothing to occupy my mind.
Today there was a stream of thought I waded out but
found it full old junk – junk can also be new- so I built
a wall of numbers to keep the rivulet away.
I fell into a trance, or think I did; an hour had past
when I looked at the watch, an hour had gone a new record.
The pressure of the flowing thought broke the wall
and sceptical I was not sure if I had had my exercise or
been asleep on the bike?

she was giving birth, a surrogate mother, to a rich childless couple. she had been instructed to not look at the baby, did and relented, she had given birth
a wonderful newborn how could she give it away?
sensible people told her it was for the best, the child would get a good education, she the mother could not give her.
Under pressure by the righteous, she gave the baby away
but she will forever regret her decision.

Sunday Morning

Puddles on cobblestones
Had a film of spent
rainbows,
clouds rested on rooftops
and tear streaked windows misted;
dejected curs  
sniffed the air as a damp army
of washing hung limply on balconies.
Church bells peeled  
the faithful prepared for mass,
unseen and
under arches the tormented
waited for the bar
to open and release them
from the agony of
their lonely inferno.

A River
It is a river in the middle of the landscape
not a famous river it has no university buildings
and it doesn't appear in ancient books.
In winters it froze up in spring it was deep to
cold to swim in, in summers for a short while
It was a place to go bathing, and then it became
too shallow, a yellowish dribble not fit for
anything but drinking water for sheep.
And that is the life we get what we deserve not
what we want, and no over-top lyrics is written
about it, just as well we can't have its banks
crowded by poets.

The race

Yes, yes I see it coming around the corner
we see the goalpost and the run becomes
a slow walk, those in electric wheelchairs
pretend the battery is flat this is a race
no one wants to win, but the wheelchair
bound are pushed forward by the crowd
those who have not seen the goalpost.
this isn't fair I have always been a loser
why should I be the first to the finishing line?
As a boy I won a bronze medal, was proud
of my feat, this time I don't want a medal
let me rest and see the almond tree flower.

Depression
I sat in a glass house
With a rose in my hand
The glass broke
A hawk
Took my flower
A broken window
It is getting cold
Soon it will snow
I think
The summer
Has gone
Yet I felt free after
Stumbling
Blindly in the cave
Of depression

The meaning of Christmas
In our multi-religious world and lack of Christian faith
I no longer call Christmas by its name but prefer
to call the festive season “The festivities.”
The meaning of “Christmas” was to celebrate the birth of Jesus
but commerce has highjacked the season
we are pressured into buying presents for family and friends.
The JUL is a good word that was celebrated long before Jesus was born
it is on the day the sun turns; spring will soon arrive.
The Jews have their day, so has the Muslims we
are not suggesting they should change this.
We in the west should not be ashamed of our cultural heritage
where our Christian faith places a big part.

The rich
Are resentful
Of the poor
Feel
They have to
Pay more
Taxes
Then the poor
Hence hide
Their
Money
Yet still
Salute their
Nations
Flag
And show
A hunger for wars
It is profitable
And
The poor
Can do
The soldiering

President Kennedy

50 years ago, how young we were I was on a happy
Little ship that had crew enough so no one got overworked
The ship ploughing blue water on her way to Jamaica,
It was a wonderful day and after the Cuba crisis, we felt at ease.
The peace was shattered through a crackling radio came
the message, President Kennedy has been shot.
It was like losing a brother, he was our generation he was
different from the other old men, he was the future our hope.
The work and voyage continued, but there was no laughter.
We tended to be pro-Americans back then, this has changed
As we read more and understand politics.
Ok, with this said no other politician has inspired us as Jack did.

Twitter is going nuclear.
PC rules.

Serene Putin
Camara's smile at him
He winks.

Aleppo is ruined
Captive civilians killed
Rebels have gone.

Mosul and ISIS
Iraqi army of quitters
Behind sand dunes quiver

The Amazon

The Amazon rainforest cries and the mighty river senses the doom.
The inhabitants of the forest are beleaguered in fear of losing out
the logging, the clearing of land, estates for cattle, future
hamburger meat.
Those who try to help the people of amazon are murdered
not by the rich but by the deluded poor who fear for their livelihood.
A tragedy is enfolding the world watches helplessly, wring hands
and write learned articles about the plight of the Jungle people.
If the rainforest dies, the river will die as well
A new desert where nothing grows except scorpions and snakes
and the nature will suffer the people who lived there
will be extinct, in the name of democracy where everything
is legal if you are mighty; in the end, the globe will die.

Poets and intellectuals

A big white screen I look at it and type a few words,
utter banalities about a washing machine, the brain has nowhere to go
but to think of the near things.
There was a time when I sat on top of a mountain feet dangling high
above ground when I thought if I tried could fly; everything was possible
now I’m dead inside. Death starts when the mind goes numb
and you forget your childhood, was I a Child? I don't know wish I was
a giraffe and could see life from a lofty height.
The TV bores me, I was never the poet I wanted to be I don't want
tomorrow to happen it is too difficult to write anything sensible.
The thing is to break new ground plough pristine earth and produce
something that doesn’t look like carrots.
But up from the earth sprout old clichés written over and over again
by respected intellectuals and famous poets, except for Oscar Wilde
they are just boring old ******* dressing up their ordinariness in
words we had to look up the dictionary to understand, but it is still trite.
But their reputation a great thinker follows them into perpetuity.

Unwanted thoughts at night
“We are sailing along on moonlit bay.”
There is a song about it, but I prefer to look
at a painting of the inlet without people
sitting in a boat singing disturbing the beauty.
Last night when going to bed a twelve
I tried to think of nothing but a myriad of thoughts
got in the way, strange notions of how it must
feel to be a clog maker in a valley where everyone wore sandals
and the people steadfastly refused to wear anything else.
How to convince those clogs are better, I wear clogs indoors
but they are Chinese made and made of plastic and when
it is hot they smell I have to put them on the terrace at night.
Clear your mind and try to sleep.
I was thinking of Fado music that pulls at your heartstring and
makes me cry, sad music of longings without names.
Clear your mind and try to sleep!
Then it was morning the reached my duvet and never mind
the moon I  need a coffee,

The Balfour


Today in London
They celebrate the Balfour declaration
A historic shame
Israel by its existence
Is a momentous theft,
A catastrophe for the Palestinians

The mourning
It was an early morning
The day before Christmas
The phone rang
I reluctantly answered
Your mother is dead.
I couldn’t get a flight
Took the dog for a walk
In the woods,
But this day she walked close to me
And didn’t hunt rabbits.
Coming home
I sat by the bed and cried.
At Chrismas Eve
I gave my dog a cream cake
When thinking of my mother
when she was at her best.

The song of resignation

Memories are not crystal clear, a broken mirror on which the sun shines
The residue of the imagined, what ensued or will happen of equal interest
as time doesn’t, a time within does.
Past and future are the same pains me; I shall not see my savannah again.
No pictures, as a proof it existed, in the tall grass, see no wildebeest
my motorbike is sold, I can no longer pretend to be an adventurer.
What I do remember, through a haze, is my enduring remote happiness
perhaps that was an illusion too.
A vision of human disappointment, to try but never succeed.

The Doubt
People around here died twenty years ago
But no one told them they had had their funeral
And back behind the plough next day.
The Internet is foreign to them as is radio and TV
Spend their evening talking about burials and how
Many people turned up.
It is frightening since I know they are dead I must
Be as well only I can't recall my funeral and no one
When we sit by the fire telling anecdotes, mention it.

If alive how do I know I tried to turn water into wine.
It didn't work the water to cold.
I will now go outside fall flat on my face if it hurts
I should be ok, but it worries me that I can fly

A Good Lunch

They didn't have a good cook at the restaurant
on the first floor, they have got a new one now
and it showed, we had a Stroganoff with rice
it was so good we had a glass of red wine each.
It proves my adage you can make a restaurant
with posh sitting and décor but its reputation
depends on the food served.
In my youth, this was not understood and you
got a resentful, rebellious character smelling
of drinks because he had to serve the cheapest
dish, again and again, this didn't matter so much
as people came to drink wine and sod the food.

The facets of love.

I love you, and your face loves itself
for its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The way you walk, the pavements adore you
Rain shies away not to make your hair wet.
I love you, and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street horn bleats
by themselves, white cars turn pink
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The sun doesn’t burn your skin makes
it golden glows in the dark
till one day the mirror tells of a wrinkle
you know years are ganging on you
your enemy is time, wait in the wings
The furrows settle on your forehead
I love you but your face doesn’t love itself
Car horns do not blare anymore
Get off the road, you lazy old woman.
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure.

The beginning
When I went to school, it was only on religion
Christianity! Jesus with his cross and Danial fighting
a giant ogre, none of the pupils, believed any of this
yet it was entertaining stuff while we wait for
the school term to end so we could jump on our bikes
and play cowboy and Indians.
But what though as a child sticks lately, I have been
thinking of the origin of religion it must go back
thousands of years long before Christianity is there
a beginning, or is it all man’s fear of death?
Perhaps not, once a word was spoken but mankind
forgot, the memory persisted, and we have been
looking for the truth ever since.

The Heat elsewhere
  
It is hot think of switching the air-condition on
but I think of the refugees from Syria waiting for a gate to open
Israel will not, want to become a nation of ******.
Jordan like ways has a million refuge and political problems
but if Europe pays them enough can take in some more.
The refugees are sweltering in the hot sun many have not
tents and there is no shade in this no man’s land hell,
I hope the Red Crescent and Doctors without Borders have
the courage to help, all I can do is send money and
not switch on the air-conditioning.

The passing

It is so long ago; the memory is fuzzy as an old photo,
the room was warm, the coal fire burned lustily
I looked out of the window the street lamp swayed,
and snow fell. I turned to my grandmother and said
If the snow continues, I will take out my sledge.
she was still her reading glasses had dropped on the floor,
oh, yes I knew but kept looking out it looked
So peaceful I will stay here and admire snow fall forever.
I picked up her reading glasses placed them back on her
face, we had no phone I had to put on an overcoat  and
tell our neighbour, but before living, put more coal
in the oven, a helpless gesture, but I didn't want her to be cold.
Many people came; they took her away while I looked
out of the window watching falling snow

stillness

On this calm day
the reflection of a ship in the bay
a mirror of tranquillity.
Meanwhile, not far from here
A lost war continues
the order is to hold on.
Wrecked cars litter streets
of battle
like broken dreams.
So, many things flying through the air
the heaven weeps.
Is the calmness deceptive?

A Day of Precipitation

A window is a good place
To look out
When it rains beautiful to see
From a warm room
A bookshelf of old friends
Some remembered others
Rediscovered
So let it rain, rain, rain.

Dropping bombs

During the World War 2, there was a town in the west of Norway
that also had a passable airport where German planes could take off
and shoot at things near the British coast.
RAF tried to find and bomb the airport, but they didn’t but dropped
their bombs over our town on the way back.
Some people were killed some were maimed for life.
When people get bombs thrown at them, it is reasonable to think
they get angry, with no understanding of the war effort.
The enemy was, as far as the town dweller was concerned
the British, so much so when British troops came, they were met
With stifled smiles.
That is why I think Putin should stop his attacks on Ukraine
whoever noble his aim is to get rid of fascism, he will forever
be seen as the enemy by bombed-out people.

The rulers

The poor rule the world, live in badly built flats
buy plastic ******* for the children as toys.
They can't cook and their diet is fat and disgusting,
but without them, the rich would not be wealthy,
fewer cars on the roads full of potholes as there
would no one to keep the road drivable.
And their big offices would stink as no one cleaned
them, which really doesn't matter as lifts would
be out of order, and no janitors to change light bulbs.
So you see, the poor are privileged they are
the rulers of our modern society the opulent can't
do without them.

The drunk

When drunk he is expansive tell jokes
Others find insulting give vent for his opinions
That is not asked for; suddenly he is offended
With what someone said and with drunken
Dignity leaves.
When he is sober, he much regrets what
He had said the day before and walk
In streets strange in the hope of not meeting
Anyone he knows they will see him for what
he is a rather modest, shy man who never
Grasps it is what people prefer, his likeability
and not the opinionated drunk with a bottle
of beer in his hands.

They told you a lie

It is said money is not important but love is Balderdash! when you are old you need money as never before,

your house is falling down and you can't do anything about it because you are too poor to get a builder.

Sitting on a settee hand in hand watching dripping, dank walls while watching a white & black TV fluming in a dank corner,

and you will regret money spent on frivolities when young

And lacking the talent needed to make money when you could and never mind about

the memory of women you loved most of them got on married rich, powerful men who died and left them with money

enough to paint the house and fix those pesky water leaks

The oldies blog
I know of a writer/poet who has dedicated
His blog to old age, being considerably older
then him, I think he is on the wrong track.
To write about a poet who couldn't find his
Specs, his wife saw them in the freezer beside
The ice-cream is chuckling, but overall people
Don't want to know about infirmity.
To write down what happens to an old person
On an everyday basis is not what young
Readers care about, say farting and trouble
With peeing, they want to hear about love and
The falling of love and the heartache it brings.
To see the object of desire talking to other men
The jealousy that gnaws holes in their heart
Old men should sit on a park bench, play cards,
Domino which is suitable for them but leaves
The rest to the young poetry belongs to them-

The Great War and India
Thousands of soldiers from India's interior
(I.5 million) were sent to fight in the Great War
Many of them died and were maimed just
so Britain could keep its hegemony.
When books were written, and history told
somehow the Indian soldiers were mysteriously
forgotten erased out, until now.
But disquiet lingered India became restless
they served the British grudgingly formed
a political party but the Brits arrested, tortured
the leaders and threw them into jail, but
the idea once fomented didn't die and 1947
It became a reality, India was free.

somewhere

It is a beautiful morning in Cascais tourists are still asleep, as is my wife
A police car hastens through the Avenida and the young officers
who likes to drive fast through the empty streets?
Yesterday was a great day in Moscow, so many beautiful uniforms,
blue and gold
When young, I wanted to be a general but being petrified of things
like bullets flying through the air, I donned a white apron.
My days as a recruit in the royal navy were not a success: I do not
handle being given orders without protest.
So long time ago, now I sit on the terrace a seagull lands sit on
the railing and shrieks let it be nosy at it, wants, bravely I ignored
It demands of me not to sit where I sit.

The way it was

I lived on a farm, and one day I walked
down the lane to get the horse in as it looked like rain
a man in a dark suit walked towards me
I said good evening, but he didn't see me.
Later that evening an ancient lady who lived at the farm
it was customary for small farmers to take in old people
and get paid by the state, was feeling ill.
A doctor was called for, but we had no phone, so I was
sent to a farm that had one.
By the time the doctor showed up the lady had died.
The farmers put her in a wooden box that was
used to keep the milk urns it had a lid, this to keep
rats away they smell death.
Next day an open-plan car came they had a coffin
put the lady in a plain coffin and off the drove
to town and that was the last I saw of her.
The farmer got another old person to take her room.

Religion versus culture

If the Dutch had adopted the Koran
made churches into mosques would Holland
be different for it is today?
I don't think so. Because of
their characters
and culture would have reminded active
travelling the world for a business opportunity.
Been Moslems in name only as they are
Christians in the name just today
The Islamic rule that works in the backwater
of, say, Pakistan could not be applied
in Netherland, the people were too educated
to swallow wholesale the Islamic dogma
in the end, culture is more important than religion.

Guns in Sweden

Sweden has problems with too many guns
shoots hole in the night.
Many refugees came to Sweden, who thought
when the refugees discovered a Nordic paradise
they would become Swedes overnight.
The inhabitance of this Eden has a discriminatory heart.
The glance of an eye tells the truth.
There was a clash of culture.
People of the same philosophy likes to live close to each other,
for them, Sweden has a cold heart.
No work no education, guns are easy to buy.
I don´t know the solution
Perhaps the Nordic people, are too regimented
and it will take time to change this attitude.

The ending

A **** heap collapsed with the speed of a Mercedes
with two batteries hurtling down a motorway in
an industrial landscape, grey as a Vera’s lonely life
amid crime and poverty.
On a night like this, how is it possible not to despair
battling a mass of sluggish dreams of endless harms
in a world bent on nuclear destruction.

For a small poem


Night rain falls softly
On a cobblestones
Seen by a streetlamp
From roofs rain rolls
Down like tears and
Not a word is spoken.
                      
A little nothing
                      
A cat sits on
                      The steps
Not catching rats
Admires
The moon

Family drama

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A couple, in their late fifties, is coming out of the supermarket,

he sits in a wheelchair, she is pushing him along.

He is grumpy swears at her perhaps she had spent too much

money on groceries

She loses her temper parks him on the pavement and drive off

While he sits there smoking a cigarette.

Five minutes later she returns helps him into the car, fold

the wheelchair drives off.

On his lips a smile quivers, triumph or love?

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Le marriage est plein

De grandes esperances

Irrealisee.

The Birth of life

I was born by a woman, this because I'm human
and not a horse, my mother had many faults as a housewife
but she instilled in our honesty and forthrightness
and not stay silent if you have an opinion that is not what
everybody else believes, and I have followed her rules.
I happen to think that abortion is in principle a crime against
nature to end a pregnancy for any reason that is not medical.
I'm the lucky one we lived in poverty yet my mother gave me life.
When pre-born my soul had lived aeons of time and
seen how countries had withered and taken over
because people lived in luxury where wine, *** and lust was
more important than giving life
nations who had forgotten their future and imported
children from afar lands which altered a culture
and replaced it with chaos and failure.
The slave is stronger than the master.
Now it is happening again; women have been lured into
thinking that they are not equal to a man if they  
bear children, which is the highest anyone can reach.
Women are our future let us not forget this simple truth.

**** is real

I have an intimate connection with effluence
or **** of the animal kind.
I could, by aroma alone, which animal
had passed the track.
Most animal dung smell sweet, except for dogs
they have lived so long among us
they crap like us,
Dogs love their excrement and eat it.
A horse evacuation is like rare wine you promise
yourself to buy a horse when you have a garden
Vines that have been fertilized by a foals
morning *** is divine.
If your hands have been in the muck
nothing in the world can offend you.

My lie is bigger than yours.

So it is Sunday early afternoon light rain
and I'm not a weather forecaster, and   no one pays me
for this observation, perhaps the seagulls do
they are flying low today.
The journalist who bravely fought 15 men, was put him
in a rocket that exploded when high enough, I found
a finger that looked Arabic, but the dog snatched
out of my hands before I could examine it more closely.
The world is so full of lies we grasp at nails
to accept the lie that is implausible yet has a ring
of bafflement enough so it can be business as usual.

Cats
We are looking
after a cat
it is white and yellowish.
I feed it and clean
the litter box.
The catwalks around mewing
and shedding hair
on sofas and beds.
I hate the ******* cat it is
not friendly, sometimes the cat
go on the veranda on
the seventh floor
and it isn't falling down.
I like a dog can bond with it
take it for a walk and they will not
hide in empty boxes
or in your cupboard.
The lady ‘cat owner
will come and pick up the moggy
her little wonder
today and it will not be missed.

Musical chicken and an old man  

The old man with too much time on his hands
tried to get a chicken to cluck to music, he played
a tune on his mouth harmonic and fed it grain,
nothing and he came to the conclusion that chickens
are stupid, only a fried one is a good fowl.
The bird belonged to his neighbour, who has a chicken coop,
scrawny looking lot with matted feathers,
While the chicken
he had tried to train was fat; the neighbour killed it
for his dinner, and didn't even give the old man a leg.

Alcoholism and Family
  
His wife has been ill but is on the mend
and is cooking her first lunch for the first time in months
All could have been well for the daughter
who suffers from the illness of alcoholism and it is getting worse.
He used to drink too when a ****** but can see
the difference between drunkenness and alcoholism.
He has confiscated the daughter's car key and can't keep
Alcohol at home (he likes a glass of wine in the evening.)
She refuses to go to Alcoholic anonymous but has agreed
to see a psychologist; she will tell lies and the good
shrinker will give her pills and tell her not to drink.
When her daughter is sober, she is a sweet, kind person
but intoxicated she turns into a devilish being who sometimes
try to strike her mother, she never tries to hit him, because of she
knows he will hit her knock out without punctuation.
All we can do for now is to hope she will understand her problem
and hope for the best.

Mystery
It occupies my mind sometimes I can't think of anything else
walking on old tracks were many walked before me some of them barefoot.
Death is surrounding me.
Leafless tree no bird or insect visits them n planes
among spring flora their useless boughs and branches
are unwelcome truths I take pictures of
a rare flower not yet discovered by a botanist and made
academic with an unbelievable Latin name.
The small bush so delicate it will be taken by the zephyr
in the morning while the sun is still cool.
Sheep will eat them and I will not fret except
black pellets were wildflowers stood.

Flying things

I once saw a flying pig
there was a hard wind blowing from the east.
over the bay of Cascais
The wind slackened and dropped the pig
that was alive and swimming ashore
alas, where men with knives waited.
Every café was serving pork in all its form
a pig is versatile for human consumption.
Can't say the same for my little donkey
on the terrace, it costs me a fortune in carrots
but it has sweet-smelling droppings which
I dry and sell to rose lovers.

Santa Claus

Now that Christmas has become irrelevant but is a commercial success story,
isn't it time we have a female Santa.
The first Santa I saw as a toddler was the neighbour
a rather stout lady, with a false beard she was Santa,
I hid behind my mother who whispered
don't be frightened it is Mrs Strom, which disappointed me,
I wanted so very much to believe.
Going home, it was snowing, and I asked: is there a real Santa
mum, is he a friend of Jesus?
Not wanting to disappoint me she said something about beliefs and faith,
of which I understood nothing, but I had
the feeling they were make-believe, and that was ok for me.

Night frost
  

Last night I wrote a poem in my mind
didn't write it down on paper as it was like a spring flower
coming from the darkness of my awareness.
All I had to do was to get up in the morning and
write my masterpiece down; it didn't happen there
must have been night frost the flower gone?
I have struggled to remember it although I'm aware
That few if any are going to read it and for me it
doesn't matter I'm perfectly able to enjoy what
I write without admiring myself too greatly.

Boby Fett’s adventures

I used to be a friend of Joseph when he was a bank robber
when he robbed a bank in Tbilisi, I helped him to get away
the money he said was to help his cause.
One can say he owed me a favour, which came in handy.
There was a revolution and Joseph became a president
that was ok, but he became brutal and one evening
when we sat drinking Georgian wine, we had a discussion
I called him a butcher.
I thought I was going to be shot, but since he owed me a favour
I was sent to Siberia with a bag of potatoes.
Luckily, I had a box of matches in my pocket a knife hidden
in my shoe, therefore able to survive to the last potato.
A wandering Sami people with their heard of reindeers on
the way to Scandinavia saved me.
For the Sami tribe, there is no border.
I took my old name back, Harry Finkelstein, a name I had kept
secret from Joseph, my friend from the bank robber days.
I got a job on the Manhattan project keeping tab of screws
needed to make a bomb, the rest is history.

The weakling
As a small boy, I had tuberculosis and all
the other illnesses one can have, I was thin a weakling
no thought I would live long.
The doctor had prescribed a half a bottle of cream
I could only gulp a handful and gave the rest to my sister.
Then when about thirteen all this changed I ate well
got the energy to run, cycling and football, I also tried boxing
which I was lousy at.
I grew taller than my siblings and thrived.
When in my twenties my brother died of a brain tumor,
and a few years later my sister.
My mother sank into a  depression she was unable
to get rid of her loss was.
I had the time of my life  and thought it was going
to last forever.
I’m in my eighties now and ponder why should
I live so long when the strong perished?

Looking for words.

Pink and blue billows on the poetic sky drip of eager words
Alas, towards dawn, a westerly wind blew cleared the sky
In the morning blank screen lit up when the sun shone.
But the sun passes as it must, the screen greys while waiting
To be written; to be dreamless is a curse, slow death.
Listless looking at the sky, finding blandness but also words
Like other poets, I cannot steal but wish I could.
I end this poem so I can say; that what is written here is mine.