Identity

What a strange word
It exists for those with longings
for the mystical past.

The world has many cultures
it is easy to get lost
in the wilderness called identity

without, one is a cloud in the sky
varies according to the weather.
Wouldn't that be wonderful
to belong to no one but oneself.

Summer evening  
The day is gone
Darkness is moving in
My day
Correcting poem
Writing new ones is over
Time for TV.
I have read the news
Not uplifting
Seeing Trump
The elected dictator
Triumphant boasts.
Why are the Americans
So stupid
Can he not see
He s shyster
Dragging you into
A new war
Marching happily
Into war for his benefit
Thousand of your soldiers
Die painfully
For his honour

Adam & Eve

If a koala bear had been sitting in the apple tree
and Eve had asked Adam to move the animal
to the appropriate tree so it could feed and sleep
there would be no need for religion and snakes
would have no poison.

It was Eve when she had her period, which got
the idea to cover her distress with a palm leaf,
Adam liked the design and the garment industry
was born, but it was Eve who wore and made
the first hat to protect her hair from the sun.

How it commenced

Some fish found it difficult to breaths
Underwater, they swam ashore and rested
Later they crawled to the garden of Eden
Where grew hands and feet

The post office is an oasis of harmony caused
By women staff who work slowly.

The fish now transformed into humans
Expelled the weakest link they got no hearing
Or discharged into the jungle of mangled words.
Those who lack intelligence suffer ignobly.

The disgrace

She lives in a shack
five children,
the sum of five broken promises.
A TV station
gives her a bag of food
and a washing machine.
To help people in need is a duty,
but poverty as entertainment
                       is ****
                      to make us feel good about ourselves.

The love impossible

The cafe was full, a young woman
was looking for a table, I told her to sit at mine,
she did, she was Irish and, yes, had green eyes
and I fell instantly in love.
We exchanged phone numbers I rang her the next day
her phone was disconnected, she never rang me.
I was devastated felt as fate had robbed me taken my true love away, and the five children we
would have had. ( had given them names)
if I remember right, she wore a sheepskin coat and an emerald ring, and I wonder if she still has the ring?

The Dolphin
He sat on the terrace thinking of his four children
their mother was a dolphin who lived in a pool behind the houses.
She begged me to set her free, I did and saw her swim away
jumping of joy
Her children were obese full of blubber, and had small arms and feet.
When we went on my boat fishing, they, when catching fish
ate them raw.
When old enough, my children joined their mother had settled
near the Azores, where the sea was mild.
I was on a ship passing the island when they swam alongside and waved.
The transformation was total. They had flippers.
The captain asked, “do you know them?
Yes, I said they are my children.
You are mad, he said, yes that is the price to pay for loving
a dolphin.

Old dogs don’t like change

I once had a dog
But I had to go abroad
For a month.
She stayed at a luxury kennel
Got fed and groomed and
Given cuddle by the staff.
When I came to fetch her
She was overjoyed
After licking my face
She jumped into the car,
Home James.
She inspected every room
Nothing had changed.
We old people are the same
We are not impressed
By a roomy apartment
We like to live where we belong
Among cobwebs and
And old furniture.

The Apprentice

Every morning he took a short bus ride
to the factory where he was learning welding
a thing to know if you are building a ship.
One day he missed the bus got lost and began
Walking, took the wrong turn and the vista
a new life of adventures opened up.
He has done many jobs, like being a cowboy
in Montana, a tourist guide in Peru,
a short-order-cook in New York and running
Errands for the local  Mafia.
He sailed on every ocean, worthy of its name,
been in love a hundred times, yet he hankers most
for the girl he met in Honduras, her father was
the fisherman Hemingway wrote about.
50 years learning curve, but sad to say he
can’t weld two pieces of iron together, and guess what
my life has been a hell of a ride

Newspapers

I read a few people read the newspaper anymore
I have in the shed the English written publication going back
twenty years also have some copies of the Guardian
which no longer sell their broadsheet abroad.
Regarding the local newspaper that first was run by a Canadian
It was fun to read they even printed my eccentric views
but it has – the paper- gone down it
is aimed at the affluent
and those who play golf and the little they have of news
is invariable right winged and that is sad, and I think of any more
good dammed self-satisfied than the English community here
but the paper has its use some supermarkets give it away
for free and it is an excellent way to lit the fire in the winter.
But I lament the passing of the Guardian as broadsheet it was
more liberal than it is now and it wasn't Russia-phobic
I read the Guardian in line every day as it is their politics
and their harping harridans aside a good newspaper.
But I'm getting off the point which is that what is written
on papers endures what’s on the Internet disappears in a cloud.

My dying friend

Today I met a friend
at the local café.
He had lost wight
his days were numbered.
No, he was not
afraid of death
it held no promises
of everlasting life.
I feared he might
say something stupid
as forgiving
his enemy, why should he?
Or say I love
to someone
he didn´t love,
because it was expected.
His hopes were
to be left alone
in a room and only
talk to his past
and perhaps laugh
a little,
Life had for him
Always been ridiculous

SATURDAY MORNING

The alarm bell has a modified
Saturday tone
And I murmur
give me 5 minutes more.
A good night’s sleep
A peaceful morning
I doze off.
Give me 5 minutes more.
I get up, make a coffee
The good feeling continues
The world is wonderful
Until the phone rings!

Lone Ranger


Three days are gone, alone in my cabin
Not a word is written in these rooms of silence
Writing in a vacuum does not behoove me.
I need an input someone with thoughts of their own.
Reflecting my own thoughts in the mirror
Are unbreakable cycles like a troll under a bridge
That can no longer see the difference between a goat or sheep.
Starve it does not being able to catch rainbow trouts
As laziness seeps into his bones.
Sore is my head from trying to burst out of this encircling
Of the stale, fearful of the new, I must read more,
Work by writers I don’t care for, but has something
Different to say or a new twist of words. I’ve tended to
Read too much, Hemingway.

Careworn sun


It was early Sunday morning.
I saw a red sun struggling to get over a mountain range
and then it was morning.
A cat jumped up on a car roof, the vehicle's alarm
sounded, blinking light that stopped after a little while
no one came out to investigate.
The silence was profound I could hear the town breathing
rhythmically in and out, a dog barked but thought better
abruptly stopped.
The day with its opportunity, pleasure and grief began.

Echo

For those who are dead
the planet does not exist.
must we assume
life on a lone planet does not  occur
but is it a dream?

Writers and poets
think they are immortal
by ink and pen.
But everything ever written
will rot as autumn leaves do.


Heat cracks the phone pole
lost voices turn to tears,
but dries in the sun.
White streaks of intense longings
a lover´s word goes unheard

The mystery

The mystery of life is enduring
what is its purpose?
A couple having *** on grandfather´s sofa
while he is out milking his two cows.
The consequences of this brief union
was far from the couple´s mind.
So, I ask again, what is life´s purpose?
Was there a plan behind it?
Winning the toughed race and be born?
Or was it only a happendash?
Something a spur of the moment encounter
Was the newborn destined to become great?
And leave behind the immensity of the human mind
So, the individual could understand its meaning
“what was it all for, Alfie?”
The devil had a good day bringing forth another loser
doomed to the lowest rung of the ladder
and bring the idiot´s genes further down the abyss.

Black liberation


BLM is a good and timely thing that happened
it freed black- America from the stigma of slavery
and freedom of the psychological burden
of being second class citizens.
But it was not meant to be a liberty to do as one pleased
upending statues and robbing stores.
This brings us to the police that must have the right
to to arrest trespassers,
But I fail to see why the law have to **** people because
they refuse to be arrested.
Let us bring back how slavery came about, it was
not a gang of white men running around catching people,
they could not have done this without the connivance
of the leading chieftains who had no hesitation
selling their own for a hefty profit.
I think this is important for the black-Americans to take
this into consideration before all white people are
brushed out of the true history

the psychiatrist

I saw him on the you-tube he was elegant and forceful
and worth listening too although I found his views unbending
and he brokered no opposition.
His view on marriage was ideal but totally impractical
did he not know that women often instigate divorce because
to twerp or a wife beater.
I wonder if he is married to his wife to prove a point, it could be
his wife agrees.
A stern father raised him, and that made his success full.
Well, I was raised by a mother who thought me about literature.
His reason that women go for nursing is that they are caring, this balderdash,
the reason we have few female architect and engineers is that
this road to success has hitherto been closed to them.
His lectures are aimed at the educated middle/class and only them.
He looked a fine man dressed in an expensive suit and wore
shiny brown cowboy boots.
His vanity shone through he looked like a can man by referring
to what weighty medical journals had said on the subject.
I have met his type on the internet by conmen telling me on the web of a new cure for diabetes.

Visiting her mother

The cemetery was white, flowers and light.
Her mother's coffin was in glass-covered hole in the wall
there were plastic flowers and a dusty picture
Of her mother, before she got old; my wife opened
the door, she is the key carrier in the family and dusted
the coffin, but also placed fresh cut flower
in an empty vase; it was such a beautiful and thought
I wouldn't mind dying here when time was right, to this
my inner voice sarcastically said: is there ever a right time?

fortuitous

A tiny ant was crossing the kitchen table
I was going to squash it with my thumb,
Hesitated, I thought to let it pass first then **** it.
I was distracted something my wife said
When I looked back on the table, the ant had disappeared.
Our life is like this, say; you set sail at sunset
Then you have to turn back the dog is at home
The boat is fastened you walk home
And since it is dark decide to sail in
The morning. In the night a storm blows hard
the ship is smashed into winter wood.
Just a fluke you might say, or was it?

Garments

Opened the wardroom’s door, suits and jackets worn
so long looked like sad copies of me.
Gave all my clothes to the salvation army, which gave
them to people not unlike me.
Too much textile is a heavy burden one becomes and
snug in old suits losing interest in adventures.
I bought a pair of jeans and a matching jacket, walked out
at dawn’s first light, began looking for a horse, failing that
a mule to transport me when I traverse the landscape
of imagining, I’m a cowboy lassoing dreams.

Man ****

In the charming town of Mertola
there was a painter, a pleasant little man
who painted flowers and tree and augmented
his living by teaching foreigner Portuguese.
A man came wanted to buy a painting, the painter
was glad to show him his work.
The man had evil in his heart and brutally ***** the painter
left his atelier and slammed the door shut.
The painter of a pleasant landscape, whose gentle heart
was now full of hatred.
He took an axe, followed the ******, who, when coming out of the bar,
was hacked to death by the *****.
The painter went to the police turning himself in.
The law, upon hearing his story, had deep sympathy for him.
He got 15 years but didn’t have to sit in prison, they gave him an ankle bracelet to stay at home.
His painting had a darker hue, there are untold dangers behind every tree,  
the flowers are venomous, and the sky is dark.
The art world being what it is, loved his work, now he is famous.

A Friday from hell

I was writing about consumerism.
What is the point when people get up at five in the morning?
buying tumble driers that use plenty of electricity in a country
where the sun shines nearly every day.
A new computer when they can upgrade the old one is such
a waste of money.
I'm missing the point people like buying shiny objects
like crows drown to the sparkly buying new yes, the newness is the future.
When most of the products are made elsewhere
it does little to stem the mass- unemployment in this country.
The earth minerals to satisfy the useless.
I hear you laugh derisively; he knows nothing.
So, you can have your black Friday, and black it is when loans are served
at the end of the month.
The people are fooled and seduced by capitalism,
therefore, banning credit cards, when paying cash, one is more careful.

there was a man who invested heavily when Bill Gates
started Microsoft and he became a multi-billionaire.
Looking at a picture of Bill and his wife, Melinda
both had pale indoor faces spending their time writing
checks to Africa.
The rich man decided to become a farmer of the old school
but since also remembered muddy boots from his childhood,
he made a mechanical, a big horse that could plough
six furrows at a time all he had to do, was to sit in a corner
and direct the horse which when coming to the end of a field
turned and ploughed in the opposite direction.
One day he forgot the on and off button and the horse
continued over total road destruction, and into a nearby
housing estate creating mayhem.
The rich man quickly had to rebuild and compensate his
shocked neighbours.
But people didn´t want the ****** wonder horse an
at a town hall meeting, he was banned from using it except
for an exhibition on how to be a modern farmer

The alcohol problem

They say the scientist, alcohol shrinks your brain
and is a cause for violence.
I’m not so sure, in Muslim countries, they are quick
to ****** people, and good humour appears
to be lost in oil-wells and sand.
In Pakistan, alcohol is forbidden and what a mess
the country makes drowning in hatred against reason.
Banning alcoholic drinks is to stop people
seeing the truth, and using religion as a weapon
What shrinks in the brain is the banal, the trite
what is left is sanity pure as ***** on the rocks
and cold morning beer.

The gentle precipitation

I was not aware it had been raining all night

it fell so silently and still did, the gentleness

of all things precious, the intense beauty of

of an earth and plants soaking up the gift

and not splashing the rain down making furrows

and rivers full of debris. Mind it had been a strange night

When I woke up during the night I walked

Like an athlete to the loo, and thought is God telling

me something letting me have a happy day

before switching off the light. Even though it was night

I decided to make it a morning than I fell

asleep with the sun on my face and it was ten

in the morning and I could still walk like an athlete.

How not to fall in love

A turntable by the slow river banks
Playing the banal music of the day
We were in love yet like in a dream
This was not real life
A bubble of illusion we loved each
Other deeply.
Towards morning it got chilly we
Walked home and parted with a kiss
That held no promise other than being
A kiss on tired lips.
The rivers up north freeze over in winter
We had left the turntable on the bank.
I remember it well it was long ago
The illusion had stopped working; I love you
Had lost meaning words uttered in cold air
So we parted then but I remember her well.

The working day
  
It was dark I had been to a place I should not
have been, when I saw a river of men coming out
of the subway filling the street with silence
and decorum.
Daylight came, neon light shivered and died
this was not a time for frivolities and false promises.
at the end of the day, it was like watching a movie
running backwards, the river returned filling trains
with packed politeness.
They are going home to the mysterious suburbia
and the stress of family life in small rooms.
Some, however, take a later train go to bars drink
beer and sing Karaoke and for a few hours
Forget about the drudgery of tomorrow’s office hours
A tiny ***** in the wheel of commerce.

A North Westerly town

It was an okay town when you got to know the place
a well-lit main road a hospital in one end and the docks
at the other end.
it was equality sat in system everyone had the right to a small
house made of bricks, this led to a maze of housing with roads
so narrow it only had place for bikes, the fire department
used bikes with a motor and a hanger for hoses.
The police used roller skates which the citizens were forbidden
to use.
In between the narrow housing, the were small cafes, shops and a place for,
mostly men could get a massage.
If you got lost, all you had to ask for the main road everyone knew where it was.
The language sounded like the sea slapping at the molos built
to keep the town from flooding.
I nearly got lost once I had asked for direction to the boulevard
as it was called, but I turned south instead of north and ended
up near the hospital and since I was in a hurry
hired a bike rickshaw and got down to the docks just in time
before my ship, that was slipping its mooring I had to jump
to get on board.

The princess

I don't understand the British
when Diana died the county went into an unseemly
mourning a mass hysteria of grief.
She was divorced for a little **** called Charles
they had two sons who are both going bald.
I didn't think much of her going on holidays living
The kids at home, if a working-class mother had
done this the social people would have knocked
on the door.
Diana took up living with an Arab and Charles
married a horse, hadn't she died she would
by now giving hampers to the wealthy at Christmas.
And no one would have called her
a people’s princess.

Oil and the conceit

I remember a country called Norway
it was not a rich country, but it was socially fair
and had employment for most people and those
who were not employed had a benefit
that kept them afloat until a job came along.
Then oil came along it was a curse the biggest
merchant fleet in the world was flagged out.
The social cohesion tore the rich became richer
the poor left behind in the wake of the disappearing
A fleet of ships. And slowly almost unseen
the NHS service was replaced with private hospitals
and worst of all the people became arrogant
tried to stop migrants they wanted the wealth for
themselves and didn't see the country was falling
into chasm self-importance, it was not a becoming
sight, luckily, a bit late in the day, people understand
what they have lost, and there are forces who
tries to rein in excess and bring the ship into the right course

rural ceremonial

open casket
his face was covered in a silk cloth
I removed it he looked grumpy
this was not the outcome he had wanted
I replaced the cloth
sat down thinking if it moved
it meant he was breathing a ghastly mistake
I concentrated hard, but I´m not Jesus
can not decide between life and death
my faith was not strong enough.
I looked at the mourners; they had the expressions
of deep sorrow
although some looked at their wristwatches
they had other things to do like taken the cows
in for milking at five o´clock.
Cattle wait for no one
the padre came he had gravy spots on his white robe
I thought here is a man in need of a housekeeper.
The padre nearsighted blessed everyone
we watched as the casket was lowered into the ground
an ocean of flowers
why was I here I didn´t know was asked to go
to make up the crowd of mourners.
I shook hands with many and murmured words
of comfort in times like this words are not needed.
Profoundly dismayed I drove home
wondering what life was for,
the dog was waiting it was hungry, and no walks today
a program on TV I want to see.

Writing on the Internet

Before the internet
Killed off
The small press
He often sent poetry around
And was thrilled
To see his work
Printed on paper.
A book to collect.
Poetry/short stories
Are not the same
Published on a computer.
The work disappears
In the vast maze
Never to be seen again.
When he switches off
The computer
It is gone
Like it never existed
What is left
Is a blank screen
that needs dusting.

Paris Sonnet
I visited Paris for a few days I have been here before
but this time I came alone.
Walked into a café selling delicious cakes had a piece
of cake, a big piece, and had a crust on top
for my untrained eyes it looked like petrified snot.
with tiny footsteps on done by a cook with a fork.
I put a napkin over the cake and drank coffee,
I could stir the coffee with tiny sticks that looked
like sugary rat tails.
The river Saine ran full that year.
Discerning rats prefer cake shops, and why not.
Who wants to live in that ***** river?
Perhaps blind lovers that only see one another.

the dance of the dead

Forever and ever
You will be my love.
Eternity.
On green meadows, he walks.
Held up by skeletons
On land fit for horses.
White cottontails
Burrows underground
To the bones of the dead
But they bring
Nothing up
It is not food.
Forever and ever
You will be my love.
Eternity.
The stream has clean water
Filtered through
Human bones.
Endless wars
In Europa has not ceased.
Forever and ever
You will be my love.
Eternity.
The victims
An inferior race.
Today it is
Palestine that pays
Red is the sand.
Peace is a world
The void of humans.
Forever and ever
you will be my love.
Eternity

Legal *******

  The young man had the ability to get an *******
on demand, but to do this he had no *** life, as he had to save
his ability, but went around with constant lust
At the drawing class for ladies, the door was locked to protect
their blushes as they tried to draw a **** body with a creation
A lady - in a trance- got up an touched the man's member,
once, twice, trice and he ******* all over her face, the hounds
of ******* broke down the door and ate the woman's head.
blood on the floor and an orgiastic copulation; on the You-Tube
it was viewed one million times.

The weight
He had written two short books
Wanted to show her, his work,
Not now she said, I’m watching telly.
Around the beam that keeps the heaven’s roof from falling down,
He slung a rope fastened to a scrap iron drum using
Himself as a counterweight.
He hoisted the drum up, but he was too heavy
He carried too much weight of pride.
He cried in the night struggled to get rid of unwanted feelings
The drum becomes lighter, descended until
He was lifted to the top of the beam feeling free
Of false pride and ambition.
Why did you cry so much in the night? He was asked.
He smiled, was at ease with himself, but didn’t answer.

Algarve

The future for the tourist industry is not uplifting
because the future points to fewer people travelling
and that I think is a bonus, the very idea of moving
ca mass of people from one destination
to another but not teaching them anything disturbing
like the countries they visit have a history
of tyranny.
A good example is the Algarve, once the most impoverished region
in Portugal, it was where politically suspect people
was sent, but then it was discovered and the region
became flush with money and hundred of apartment
blocks were built, if not of the highest quality.
the Co-vi virus is not going away and when it does
it will be replaced by a new pestilence.
I think to save humanity we have to consume less
and nations, people should stay where they are.
The tourist industry was not made to educate anyone
but simply a way to make money

Manufacturing dissent


The distance from Kirkenes to Murmansk is a bus trip, the Norwegian
often travel there to buy wine, ***** and other necessities.
The proximity of the two people has always been amicable,
it is not forgotten it was the Russian Army that freed northern Norway
from the German **** occupation; the job was done the soldiers marched home.
Lately, though, one read in newspaper both in Norway and foreign press,
a tendency to scatter conflict between the two countries to inject dissent
where there is none. This is manufactured and, I think NATO inspired
It is also contagious this will spread to other parts of Norway as people
tend to believe lies told many times until the lie becomes the truth
The amicable friendship must not fall prey to propaganda and destroy
the good relation Norway has with Russia.

The end of a friendship

I sat in the kitchen of the flat mother had left me,
trying to write a poem, when heard my former friend
coming up the stairs, I had locked the kitchen door
didn´t want them in or talk to them anymore.
They knocked on the door, let us in Joe, we know
you are in there, I didn´t answer.
When the knock stopped, they stood in the communal
hallway, cursing me, calling me **** and much more.
Once I had been one of them drifting through life
that has no purpose other than sitting in cafes drinking beer
wasting time with idle talk.
The kitchen was my den, my interest was writing.
I had lost my train of thoughts and switched on the TV,
It was in black and white, turned the sound off watched
people on a stage being funny and people laughing
with the sound off, it looked ridiculous.
I fell asleep but woke up early, in the Nord the night
is short in spring.
I made a cheese sandwich, drank coffee, grateful that  
I was not like my former friends.

books

A book of vignettes, I think, is sent
too late for regrets, some of the writing has been
denied by several poetry sites
because they are rude and ****** but right.
Not being famous I have to pay for the printing.
Like my other books, it will not sell
a single copy but wash around the internet
like pebbles on the beach, the murmur is not
sorrow but the sigh of resignation.
I have not always been like this there was a time
when I was full of romantic poetry
sent them to small magazines, before they were
eaten by the internet, and sometimes
I had a poem or two published, and it is no longer
this way, that´s OK I like writing.

The *****

You came into my life the day I was marrying my dog
like a sandstorm out of the blue, it blinded me somehow
You came into my life, and the took second place
handled it well but loved me anyway till the day she died
And a new sandstorm blew me clean away.
I know to live in a place where the wind blows from the sea
sometimes I do think the salt spray in my face is tears
of regret that I should have married my dog.
And no matter whatever they say it had been the right thing
to do but love billowed in my face but despite this of all
you loved me all your life and had a place in my heart
No one can replace, a sandstorm in my face it is no excuse
I should have read you right, but now it is too late yet

Thought in the night

The wind was terrible, raced around the outside like
Drunken dervishes hollering in the night
When the wind tired of this needless validating
Of its masculinity it became quiet.
Now my thoughts and worries took over
Often idle should I have put the chicken soup in
The fridge or leave it out; this morning it was
Off I blame the wind.
Of course, the soup was a ruse to stop me thinking
About what worried me like my declining health
Nerve-pain makes it challenging to walk yet I struggle
Walk 45 minutes a day it is suitable for diabetes
As my doctor says and reluctantly, I must agree
But I am still annoyed with her insistence about
The ****** pills.
All this is a prelude my thoughts go to my death
Not that I mind not living anymore, will it be painful
Struggling to breathe, or will my death be a friend
Switching off the light of life while sleeping; but this
Brings on another problem I will not feel it coming
Why should I write about it anyway?
I get up, write a poem about a friend who is alone
At the hospital and the nurse's sleep.

The fear

Looking out, the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in the corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded gave birth to a scream which
Shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped became petrified like
were fish eyes glared as the day was punished down an abyss.
Of black, shiny boots trampled all fragment.
But the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside
on my mind.

The river of Benafim

A long time ago (everything is in the past)
a river ran near the houses its water was calm and fresh
it came from the upland.
Parts of the river runs quite deep
we could swim a little and frolic about.
I had a dog back then
she preferred the shallow parts looking rounded stones
like an egg, she gave them to me.
I thanked her patted her head and put the stones in my bag.
The river is dry now, only an ugly scar in the landscape.
Smallholdings must drive further up to find water.
Bigger farms have small man-lakes that fills with rain,
but it doesn´t rain so much anymore.
By August they too have to go upland for water.
The toilers of crops, tell me it was like this in the fifties
what do I know, I say nothing to keep the peace.

Breadcrumbs

When we were children, we used to go to the park
that had a small like and feed the duck. A trivial pursuit
a the park was for the benefit of the people
and the local authorities paid for its upkeep.
This couldn't go on everything has to have a purpose,
so it was bought by a private firm fenced in and a gate
it cost to feed the ducks.
I should know writing poetry which is trivial and few
publishers take me on, then my risk of losing money.
As few poets make money and have few readers
yet poetry is the few places left where one can express
thoughts not accepted elsewhere.
Success is judged by “best seller books”, they might be crap
but reflects the time we live in.
As for the ducks, they have mostly flown away to find
a less obnoxious place to get their breadcrumbs.

The Creator

Lately, I think it has to do with ageing
have been thinking of religions, one can say
Exploring them for the best option, they all fail miserably
To the point, I will call organized faith humbug.
The idea that someone has the key to the truth and
If you don’t believe for them, you will go to hell.
My contempt for religions in all its form is contempt
And assault on people’s intelligence.
We know now there are other, planet somewhere
Not unlike our and if they are human life with the same
The problem, should we ever get to one of them it would
Be like coming home.
I can believe in a creator of this, call It god if you like
But if the creator has not any conscious thoughts the idea
Becomes meaningless.
Yet, religions have always been their peoples in the deep
Forest of the Amazon had one, the believed in nature
In trees, flowers and animals in what they see and hear.
The missionaries came and preached their god as the only
True faith and by doing so destroyed the fabric of what
They had believed.
I don’t know how the universe came into being it is an enigma
that has little to do with the right sort of god.

political
social-democracy is a dressed-up capitalism
And you can’t have it both ways.
Sooner or later capitalism will take over
By transferring the utilities to private hands

Water is a human right issue so is access
To see unhindered the wonder of nature.

Socialism is about sharing recourses
Capitalism is by taking it and selling it for profit
The two beliefs cannot mix as human greed
Takes over if unchecked

The lonely ship

Crossing the Pacific Ocean and into The Indian Ocean
is tiresome even for a ship, days of calm ****** water
we have been abandoned.
It is beautiful but, it is like watching Mona Lisa for, say,
two months without getting fed up with the lady.
It lifts the spirit seeing another ship coming up of the horizon
in front of us; positioned near close enough to see the crew
wave or criticize the rust and colours.
Blue and yellow have they no taste!
It was enlivening we were able to talk and smile again lately
we had fallen into a sulky silence, no good for the moral
and the chief steward told the cook to fry more eggs for
the evening meal thanks to the visit from a ghastly ship that
was so badly colour- coordinated.

A small war

At the outskirt of Europe a war
has broken out in countries where everyone drives Lada
mothers interviewed are proud of their sons
defending their land.
Should one son die, a big picture will appear in the living room
neighbours invited to coffee and cakes
his proud mother will tell what a good boy he was
and he died with honour.
I suppose in **** Germany, mothers said the same
until there were no sons left.
There will be peace, and everyone will claim victory
life will go on among the semi-literary people
who are doomed to live among high mountains and not learning
from past mistakes