Tired Angels

He was a lucky man by his side angels walked
or perhaps flittered a little jostling as they all wanted to be near him.
Absentminded, he came near the fiord walked across.
He was out cashing ***** that clung to the sheer cliff wall, yes, and a plastic bucket.
He got five ***** and walked back the same way the angels sweated he had trusted
(unknowingly) their blind faith in him,
to the point when some of them were at a point of giving up.
Looking after this person is hard. One angle sighed; the others mumbled in tacit agreement.
The angels watched him boil the ***** and eat everything, not offering them anything;
how could he?
We should have let go, one angel said, let him splash about with his bucket.
The thought of this made every angle laugh; one took out a harp and beautiful music-filled sea and
land with everlasting peace and the satisfaction of a job well done,

the video

He received a video from his distant past
he played the video to his amazement
people long since dead and forgotten
Walked, talked and danced in the street of his childhood.  
Eerie it was, he knew the people he had overlooked
where on the way to the future?
Later that day, he remembered more, why had he so beastly
To the little girl age, boys do not consort with girl
he couldn’t tell that.
At night the video became a panorama of past lives
he saw a truculent boy and asked why was I like that.
He knew the answer, as a child, he was abused
by the stigma he carried in his heart, suspicious of friendship.
He woke up, didn’t want to remember the past is dead
and can stay this way, nothing more to see.

Hunting for sport

  It is hard to be a little fox
They have many natural enemies in the forest
Where they live in the hole of an uprooted tree
They have no umbrella for when it rains
No sofa and a TV, but they do have a loving mother
That tries to protect them till adulthood.
Now men on horseback and howling dogs try
To **** them for sport.
Who are these unsightly people chasing a fox?
Till it can run no more and is torn to pieces by
“Man’s best friend “
For this sport, the hunters dress in a red coat
At the table boat how successful they have been
And no one calls them stupid.

Loving thought

Love is a delicate Spanish bluebell
In a field of thistles
You pick the flower at your peril
It may die in your hands and leave you
With a prickly **** of regrets

When we're young

When you are young, say, twenty-five you, say, things like
I hope not to be old not meet girls have ***, with a group of friends.
we didn't have any, sitting drinking
There used to be five of us we were at the top of the world
death was so far away.
Then the group shrank, one becomes a Jehovah witness,
one became a drifter two got married I was drinking alone
and somehow live was no longer glorious.
They are all dead now, but for some reason or as punishment
I lived on, although in another country.
Yet, I have no religious hang up, I believe that in death.

Armaments
  

Now that the debacle of Afghanistan is behind us
we have to find something else to keep the war machine going
“Aucan,” an alliance of Anglophone countries are formed
A defence of the Chinese who dares to build
their navy.
Canada was not included too many French speakers live there
and they talk about peace with the enemy which everyone
Is too polite to answer.
I can´t see why Britain is here, but they do speak English
and has a long history of meddling in far-east countries.
Nuclear submarines, to counter any attack, after all the Chines
are fine trading partners,
we poor people buy our shoes and socks
in Chinse shops.
This; is about money and the stupid people who run our world
hopes a nuclear war will never happen

The Genetic pool

I'm my father's son I carry his genes
He is a part of me this is inescapable
If I hate him, I dislike myself.
Now that I'm older than my father
He is my son you can't help but loving
Your son
Once I saw my father on a bus going
Into town, he reached out to say halloo
I, misinformed, looked out of the window
I saw his tears.
Wish this moment would come back
It is my eternal shame.
My father is my son I think of him gently.

The Nothingness

All live forms end in nothingness
That is not negative but a spent force.
What was said and done continues
Like an echo through time.
That force springs to life when time ripe
And continues in an altered form
Till the end of humans ability to invent
And renew her; therefore one can say
“Nothingness” is the hidden life form
Whence live springs.

The acting lover

When I was fifteen and a galley boy on a ship
The cook was over the top gay and couldn’t
Help to pick up some of is manner like smoking
Slim cigarettes and waving my arms around.
Many women thought I was gay which was a bonus
As they were teaching me to be-ungay,
They succeeded every time and we're happy this
Had saved me in time this ploy worked until I looked
The working class was big and muscular then I had
To play the shy one fearful of women.
Of course, I had to come clean be my randy self
Looking for *** yet behaving with decorum and not
Like a brute, this has served me well till I got
To the age I was too old, now I’m the granddad
Who knows to too much but keep quiet about it,
But I still smoke slim cigarettes

An oil port

He is looking on to shore and sees an oil terminal
waiting for the pilot, he may arrive today or tomorrow.
Well he is not going ashore at this Arab port it is
usually boring full of men smoking water pipes talking
excitedly about the next revolution and he knows
as a white man, he viewed with suspicion.
He never understood a culture where women are cattle
sit indoors and wait to be pregnant again.
This is a society of men, and as such, they make a mess
of daily life.
It takes 12 hours to load the ship with crude oil, bound
for Antwerp, which is more like the home he understands
the people there can have a beer in a bar and not starred
at with hatred.
Mind, he knows well the white people have done much
the harm in this part of the world, nevertheless he dislikes
their culture, but he doesn´t care to understand them.

Shibboleth

It includes our political parties
Distant past their prime when they had a meaning.
Also, Christian theology is passé
As philosophies anchored in old thinking are
Like rusty ships waiting to for dismantling
A new approach for our modern question about
Life and dead must
be written in a language
That reflects the time we live in
It is not about old ideas being dressed in jeans
However, a fundamental rethink that if not breaking
From the past entirely, find a new expression
Because the structural problems will always
Be there the question, what is the meaning of life?

Trying to sleep
I will lie down make no fuzz think of nothing
And relax, the past is a foreign country no need
To go there, it is like raking yesteryears leaves.
So, you feel hungry too late to get up now anyway
No food will not **** you have diabetes shut up go
Sleep, and before you know it a nice girl will serve
Breakfast…oh yeah!
Try not to remember any jokes you brother told
it was thirty years ago back then you laughed
At things that are not funny now.
Can you think of an example, (shut up and sleep!)
We found older adults funny the way they walked,
And you think that was funny?
No, not know that I’m old and walk funnily too.
Well, I don’t think much of your sense of humour.
Are you upsetting to me now? No, shut up, sleep!
“tell me a story, tell me a story before I go to bed
You promised me you said you would…”
A bit of a song I heard.

The cry

A warm August day
A child
Drawn to the ornamental pool
A surface of lilies
A mother calls
Her child
A face
Whiter than the lilies
Floats in the light
A scream
Pierces a hole in the sky
A fraction of a second
Nature is silent.
Then it gears up again
Ad nauseous

Critical thinking

We are all tame liberals now we speak the same language
we believe in niceness and the brotherhood of man our way.
God is a liberal too, and the great ghost will not strike us down
if we sin but forgive us as a matter of liberal routine.
You are free to express yourself if you follow a few guidelines
accept the political drivel the newspapers serve you as truth
and stop believing you are better than us.
If you do, we have our way to bring you back from your rough
ideas, you cannot be a contrarian in our world.
We'll ban you from writing, we own all the outlet cannot tolerate
any views that do not follow our democratic ideals.
Critical thinking has no place in our wonderful world.

Sensual Haiku

With a lump of clay
Her hands erected a vase
Sensual flowers.

Experienced fingers
Squeezes the cow’s teats tenderly
A dreaming milkmaid.

Skating


Two skating sisters, one was brilliant
The other just middling and that was not good enough
In a world that demands perfection.
The average sister raged planned retribution and had
A pair of skates made of gold, but with a hidden flaw
They broke on the highest jump.
So, it came to pass at the skating finale in New York
When the brilliant sister took the highest jump
The golden skates broke in half, and she fell, so hard
On her back, she could nor skate no more.
Now it was the mediocre sister’s hour; she came in the ring
To finish the act, but the cruel public booed.
The evil sister’s fate was to push her brilliant sister around
In a wheelchair, the rest of her life.

Wherefore

There are a question philosophers and goat herders
has in common with the rest of us the modest multitude
the query is, what is the purpose of our life
from a single ***** cell to fighting it way survival and life
and we ask for what purpose?
We know the outer shell of what we are is based on
the environment we live in, such as education. friends
we meet and dreams.
But the question remains, why are we survivors and what
is the purpose of life that often changes unplanned by us.
The cynical among us have an easy answer,
but they cannot tell you why they become suspicious and
why Adolf became ******.
The nearest answer I can think of that life is a prelude
to a new existence an astral life form free of ego, and ownership
will not be asked, we are free truly
liberated of the life that weighed us down on earth.
God is not in this picture, an abstraction we give thanks to when a war ends
and pray to during a new war which is like wildfire
there are always conflicts that are not planned but just happen
on life on our planet.
Humanity is like a lost child in an amusement park, the colours
of the blinking light are a warning, and outside the park it is dark we look for guidance but cannot find the answer.

The Russians are coming.
Listening to Portuguese Tv, there is talk of a third wave
of the coronavirus, it is not a wave that flattens out like the calm sea.
It will strike when people get careless and insist on celebrating
X. mass (Jesus can do without his birthday for once) can you?
Then there is the pesky New Year, food, alcohol and dancing
oblivious of the virus that is looking in ready to strike.
The best we can do is to wear a mask, stay indoors and
If you must have a drink with Facebook or the skype.
The Russian has a vaccine that is good and powerful but
we are so Russia phobic we think of lies told by the press
that extoll an American vaccine that the makers of the
the vaccine is not sure of if it really works.
Coronavirus has become politics, and that is gloomy
For us all.

Wonderland

Dreams have always been vital they are the wing
I fly to a consciousness of old truth.
Now I do not dream much but when I do
I visit places I have been before in earlier dreams.
Meeting people say hello we have not seen for a long time.
The landscape is thorny and cannot be shared by those
who are ignorant of hidden tracks?
It is strange to see familiar faces of those of old dreams
they remember I was a cobbler who worked for free.
My phone does not ring it has s modern chant.
While is asked I by the lake when I'm moving in always.
But will I leave when you no longer stroke my hair
tells me you do not love me anymore?

Hong Kong

Should you be in doubt
it is Chinese through and through
not a British colony
who reluctantly had to give it back?
They introduced democracy which as
false as the American kind,
China is not a democracy.
but they
have got rid of poverty and corruption is a hanging offence.
The students in Hong Kong have led
people astray, they need a good spanking,
dreaming of an independent nation was
criminals can hide like it should be Israel.
So, let us repeat Honk Kong is Chine.

The games we played

I was busy when you rang, I said, I will ring later.
When later came around I rang you, but you were busy too
had no time to talk.
You will sit by the phone waiting for me to ring,
but hurt by the tone of your voice I will not ring before tomorrow.
So, when I ring you will say something sarcastic
I will slam the phone down.
Sleepless and restless, something has to give
I finally ting you to say “I love you.”  
Empty words, what I would have liked to say was this:
“*******, you silly woman.”
Pretence never lasts our love fizzled out.
So long ago. I can´t remember her face.

Winter 1945

Shote in the night.
White faces
Snow fell
On cold bodies
Killing field.
I knew and didn´t want to know
Someone
Took me by the hand
Carried me home
Innocence confronted
By death.
In the night, I vomited
Must be something
I ate last evening.

The killing of a poet
  There are many sorts of poets those who
extoll the sitting regime tell of order it has brought
their words are recited they win prizes but few, today remembers their names
Federico Lorca was not one of them.
He wrote the truth of the brutal fascistic nature of the state and what
it had become.
He was a man they had to ****.
He tried to flee but on a side road he was stopped by assassins, at the time
he was in the company of a one-armed priest a communist
They had to dig their own grave.
Since Lorca was gay, they shot him in the rear “you like this sort of things
they laughed, these cruel people were killing art.
They also shot him in the groin: squealed like a pig they later said.
This was a Spain of old but the ghost of fascism is still among us we have
To be vigilant.

Getting over an obstacle
It is uncanny when I’m prepared to drive home
Something happens it is delayed
This time it is the hospital I can’t go there
Since it is free a new appointment takes forever.
The hospital doctors try to stop the Whale from
Swimming to Greenland, the water is too cold.
All animals and fish seek back to their origin
I seek back to where I was reborn were, I grew
up in an ln landscape of olive trees and vine
bushes, a place was the roads were narrow and
silent only disturbed by the bleating of lambs.
The small dwelling my dog and the walk we
Had in the mystic forest of dreams where everything
Was possible.

Critical of a poem

I never express a critic of a poem, because I don’t know
what the poet was thinking of when he/she wrote it.
No one, to my knowledge, sets out to write a bad poem.
Therefore a poem written and published is a good one
even if the penmanship might be a bit shaky.
I do not care so much about spelling I can correct it
in my head, the only thing that angers me is if
the poem is dishonest in its intention, but I let this
pass, since I might be mistaken and it may be something
unresolved in me I have reacted to,

The Human Dilemma

   We say children are born innocent but not for long,
   waking up in the nursery alone and in the dark night
   it naturally cries the baby get attention this discovery
   is not and for parents' sleepless nights.
   A baby's first thought is born.
   With it, a personality evolves, darkness or light
  a conflict that will always be there; when it is an adult
  and darkness sometimes overshadows the lighter side.
  There is an inner voice in us all tells us when we have
  been wrong a voice we too often ignore.
  If we delve too deep into this mystery, we end up
  in a sort of religion that will not give us a proper answer
  other than being a follower a disciple of a sect.
  We must accept this dual personality within us and try stay on the light side and be honest about our failures.

Alright then

It was peace in the valley, a deep harmony of those
who had fled the air of a town´s inequity?
Then there was an avalanche of thoughts which caused confusion
when it settled, a gramophone voice from 1930 sweetly sang
“I love you, yes I do, my darling.”
Back then, singers appeared in suits or long skirts.
Now it is about tight trousers and ****, never mind the song.
female singer elicit sympathy telling of an abused childhood
The men, do tell, of poverty before they made it to fame.
Tomorrow the peace will be broken by shooting, hunters
will fill the valley and bath it with blood lust.
The avalanche has blocked the road where we used to bath
I accept that and find a puddle to wade in.
should I get tired can find a folding chair
and play my turntable and hum along with the old tunes.

Horizons

I sit on the verandah look at the sea no ships in today
open view until the horizon after that, on the other side
there are new limits
I have seen many horizons, some of them are blue or green
but have in common stopping me from seeing what is beyond
What if I met a horizon that had no new horizons?
A blank nothingness that has no dreams.
I look behind me and see an island before the fog sets
obscuring its coastline.
It is getting cold on the verandah, suddenly it becomes
the loneliest place on earth, breaking my spirit.
The island I saw on my endless quest is called Saragossa
I steer my ship there to meet friends long since departed
they will tell me what I need to know, the unsaid.

The Greek- Orthodox Church
The church has deep roots in the Russian soul
The church is powerful the President listens
To the church who want Russia to be a culture
Not infected by the West's corruption of faith.
Where everything is forgiven to the point of
Taking religion for granted.
We in the west being emotion finally dishonest
Is baffled by this worship, but to keep our faith
Clean we must embrace the Russian concept
Of conviction, if we are to find salvation in a cruel
world, understanding that man is also a soul.
I have been watching popular American comedy
If you listen well, they are full of *******
And disrespect of what we need to know
For ensure our survival as people with spirit.

No inspiration

If you on your walk
Around the landscape
And lost the impetus
To write
Do not despair.
If you are lucky you might
Meet Pegasus
With a broken wing
Feed it books
Till it is cured
And words will come
From nowhere and
You will
Be whole again.

Future
Trying to write about the future
Is almost impossible without the past
Intruding talking about yesteryear.
Perhaps the future is like a thousand
Mirror reflecting itself endlessly.
I know there will be wars it is our burden
The opposite coin of love.
There is no vista opening-up
A panorama of beauty, but there will
Be moments when the glam of war stills,
When sea and sky meet in an embrace
Of utter tranquillity, and for a second
We think life is worth living.

A lizard Sonnet
If you travel to escape the small lizard on your back
you eventually are outside your parents´ home
to find they have long since gone.
Someone else lives there perhaps a child sleep in your bed
dreaming your dream.
You will walk down the street where you used to play
but no one knows and the sense of loss is overwhelming.
Swallow hard not to cry because your memory is untrue.
You left a small-minded town, poverty and screams in the night.
but it was worth returning to remind you what an awful place you left.
I have a small lizard in the kitchen I have tried to **** it
Because it is grey and without redeeming colours that I could use as a pet.
It is also quick and hides behind the fridge where I cannot reach it.
I will let it live for now.

Early one morning

It is early morning the boars are back in the woods

The prostitutes sleep in dingy rooms, and rats are back

In the sewers and cats sleep on a sofa looking cute.

Soon cars will fill the street the traffic lasts till six

Then it dies down but remains until midnight.

Now it is time for the nocturnal animals to shine there

Is much food about the leftovers of our disrespect?

For nourishment which we take for granted.

Two pigeons land on the window sill looks they talk

To themselves, no bread crumbs here, fly off.

The building is a being, comes to life, I hear the flushing

toilets and voices, all are well in the land of humans.

Â

What stones tell

I followed a track in the landscape, rocks dug up
clay clings to the stones unhappy and exposed in the daylight
need a good shower, but it will not rain for a while.
Not that it matters, stones will be churned into grit this year.
They have been in a dreamy limbo for aeons; the dream they
dreamt is a whisper in the wind, walk softly and listen.
TV is full of triviality photogenic politicians who talk loudly
are our leaders of tomorrow.
False promises, forgotten like the grit.
Dream time over, what is left is the stark truth giving light
in the walk of the life destined for us, the human race
as the stones murmur in the wind.

Wherefore
  
there is a question, philosophers and goat herders
have in common with the rest of us a modest multitude
the query is, what is the purpose of our life
from a single ***** cell to fighting its way to survival and life
and we ask for what purpose?
We know the outer shell of what we are is based on
the environment we live in, such as education and friends
we meet and dream about.
But the question remains, why are we survivors and what
is the purpose of life that often changes unplanned by us?
The cynical among us have an easy answer,
but they cannot tell you why they become suspicious and
why Adolf became ******.
The nearest answer I can think of is that life is a prelude
to a new existence, an astral life form free of ego and ownership
will not be asked, we are free
liberated of the life that weighed us down on earth.
God is not in this picture, an abstraction we give thanks to when a war ends
and pray to during a new war which is like wildfire
there are always conflicts that are not planned but just happen
on life on our planet.
humanity is like a lost child in an amusement park, the colours
of the blinking light are a warning, outside the park is dark we look
for guidance but cannot find the answer.

The new language
It is not the blatant lies that bother me, the truth has become weaponized
In the form that lies are between the lines become a new way of speaking.
I read what RT has to say their news is often the truth with a slant to give readers.
a negative impression of the USA.
The same is for newspapers, say, the Guardian articles about Putin, have an echo of truth mixed with fantasy. that newspaper mentioned has yet to
remark the sputnik vaccine, it did once when it was on the market, but wholly
in an undesirable form saying without saying, the Russian can´t be trusted.
We have now a situation where truth and lies are put in a washing machine
until it is white as snow, the lies are not what one sees unless we the question
is asked what is the political affiliation, with the said speaking or articles?
When we find the answer, we can separate the ***** socks from the clean ones.

After a storm


There was a storm in the bay,
blue waves crashing ashore
and flooded the coastal road-
Today the bay is calm but look
at sea, it is grey anger
doesn’t becomes it.
The Haar is coming in a shawl of mist covers
the cargo ships
that moves lazily on a temporary tranquillity.

The Conference in Davos

Davos, men in classy suits, speak fluently
about the ills of the world-
They tell Greta she has to study economic
and coal will be phased out but slowly.

The young wonder why should they study
to get an excellent job in a multinational firm.

Davos, men in elegant suits, speak glibly
of growths, we don’t want more; we like less.
The young know this, we poor elderly too
and it is their future; those in silk suits fail to see.

Goodbye Donald Trump

He has gone now, are you sure thought I saw his shadow.
On the wall just before sunup.
No, no he has gone, and a script is ready an actor, Clooney.
is playing him.
Donald Trump has gone to Florida he is a golf fanatic and
the presiding 4 years has nothing to do with him.
Well, he built a wall the Mexicans refuse to pay for,
it´s an ugly wall, and it doesn´t make the landscape more lovely.
Kind to his friends though pardoned them all.
What will happen next? Not much at first but, he has left.
A legacy of right-wing- extremists.
One thing to his favour he resisted Israel’s pressure to
Obliterate Iran he had no stomach for a real war and,
The question is, will the new administration resist a war too.

A place of note

  There live in Cascais many older adults,
some of them are wealthy widows (but I have yet to meet any)
they sleep late the internet doesn´t begin before 9-10 o’clock
and I'm up at seven, the habit of a lifetime.
The redundant royal lives in a posh hotel I think they are paid
by the countries, they came from to stay away.
Some royalists dream of bringing back the kings
Queens (not that sort) princes and princesses, better not
to upset any of them as they have friends in high places.
The mask we have to wear id a blessing hiding ancient lips
and gold teeth, wearing a mask makes people look younger.

Mock Poem

A man I knew who lived in Vilamoura which is a ******
Replica of a real Portuguese Village, decide to walk
The whole length of the land, he came upon an old
a village so aged that houses collapsed by too many years.
A few people belonging to a sect didn’t move.
No, they were not Jehovah witnesses who prefer ringing
On people’s doorbell at Tv time.
They were ****** people convinced the world was
Coming to an end and it was their duty to be the first to go.
And find a roomy place in heaven.
Intrigued by the steadfastness of their faith he bought
A cabin and had a toilet and shower installed.
It was a mistake the dwellers thought bathing was a sin
set fire to his cabin, nothing for it to resume his walks.

I don't know why I wrote this

You must remember this, a kiss
is not enough I have to pay the maid
as time goes by.
Tomorrow she will be back and do my den
it's full dust flying in the breeze like half-forgotten dreams and projects never done.
You must remember this I was not good at dusting shelves
this because today I feel old but tomorrow I will be like Tarzan and not believe
that life will ever end.

War Memories
We see the pomp and circumstances
Old soldiers with a modest medal, the queen
And Donald Trump.
The real winner of this war Russia is on
This day overlooked, and history as we see
It displayed is a historical falsehood.
The old soldiers fought ok, kudos to them
In a war that was real.
The war didn’t end it continues in Palestine,
Syria, Iraq and other places, democracy
In no longer on the agenda- unless we
Talk about as a total subjection as a  democracy-
It is about oil and power.
It is sweet to think the only nation who tries
To stop this Middle East carnage is Russia we
Hesitate to get them as the enemy.

The slaughter

850 cows stuck on a ship for months could be made into a joke
but it is hellish damnation of how low we have sunk
in our utter callousness towards animals.
A veterinarian says they must be put down the animals
have suffered enough.
A massacre of the innocent.
Once the shipping was an honourable trade, the ships
had an owner; we ****** knew they were individuals.
Now shipping has become a soulless corporation
run by the incompetent whose only goal is profit.
They say the world is better now than before, I disagree
we are going back into the dark ages
when the life of animals had no consequences.
When we behave with cruelty to animals, it is contagious  
we lose respect for all life and let cynicism rule.

Sputnik and other vaccines

The pandemic is a time when humankind is attacked nations should work together. Instead, it has become
a business propositions.
Who will sell the most vaccine (not necessarily the best)?
Who makes the most money for the Pharma industry?
And not the cost to the people who need it.
In an article in the Guardian several pharm/chemical
industry and to my amazement the Russian vaccine called
“Without irony” Sputnik was not mentioned, here politics
enter the stage while we wait for the ending of this scene.

The aftermath

If Russia invade Ukraine
The invaded country will get no help
From the USA who knows about “my back yard.”
NATO but it has no army to speak of
Only generals we can call desk riders.
The big nation will see invasion as a free for all
The USA will attack and occupy Venezuela
And Cuba as a pretext to stop the Russians
Possible bases.
And we are back to a cold war again.

The execution

The basement, where cars are parked
in neat little boxes in a row, is cold and creepy.
It looks like a place where the fascists can
execute dissenters those who go on about
liberty for the masses.
There are bloodstains on the wall and cars
are silent witnesses to the massacre.
From the roof of the garage, blood drips of
the tortured on the first floor.
A black and white western on another wall
drown the screams of those who finally realize
there is no escape.
I sit in my car; it is ten years old and is not
forgotten in this horrid time. I sleep a little.
Wake up, start, the vehicle and take it out for a spin.

Home from the cinema

We were going home from the movies
It began raining I had an umbrella and shielded
Her from most of the cloudburst, I got wet.
At her home, she said I had to take my suit off
I did but felt silly sitting on her sofa in my ******.
She came back from the bathroom wearing less than me,
We kissed and cuddled and ended up in herb.
We made love after she fell asleep, I watched
Her serene face she looked lovely.
I was tired too, but before falling asleep I thought
hope my suit will be dry in the morning

Lost Chances

On a crowded Christmas Street, I saw her
something of the way she walked, I sensed her perfume
I hurried after she touched her shoulder, alas
it was not her, not the woman of my dreams.
I said sorry; she smiled and said that was ok.
in her brown-warm eyes, I saw a hint of invitation
alas, I was in love with the mythical one, said sorry again
flapped my wings and flew into the night sky
to seek her among the stars.
In the cold outer space, I realized she was a seraph
and I, earthling; I flew back to earth looking
for the brown-eyed one, but she was gone.

Human cannon
They shot him out of a cannon and lost his legs
He flew low over a forest that took his arms
And torso, his head landed in a hexes’ glade
From trees dripped gore like strawberry jam
They flew up with their brooms collected what
Was left of him and made a stew, and he
Thought what a blessing they didn’t get his legs.
Children out, picking blueberry put his head
In a plastic bag, which the gave to the doctor
Who put him un a glass jar? And when
The last patient was gone had a few drinks
Asked question the head could not answer.
Eventually he- still the head-was packaged and
Sent to a museum.
A museum is a spooky place at night stuffed
With dead animals and there is no lion’s roar.
When the interest in his had abated
They put him on a top shelf where the head
Gathers dust while wondering why he is not
Thirsty or hungry.