Syria's Children

He sat down to write a poem for nature
When he closed his eyes and saw bombed out buildings
Rain dripping from wrecked concrete onto
The street where it formed a muddy pool but that
Didn't stop the children playing captains of the deep sea
Another bomb fell and obliterated this harsh idyll
What was left was mist and fire where it once had been
A muddy puddle.

His pleasant poem about a track and olive roots trying
To trip him up, the shepherd, his dog, and sheep coming
His way the good small of wool like an obscenity today
And did little to assuage his fear for the future.

The Bug
Is Love a compulsion, the sudden idea that this person,
no others, will meet all your need and make you happy.
It is a moment, falling in love only happens once when
you are among the blessed and anointed by the gods.
For some, the illusion lasts a lifetime for others it falls
at the first hurdle of familial tediousness.
Luckily love is transferable you meet someone else who
will make you happy but it will not be the same as first
time, no matter how many times you try love is a gift
only given once, the rest is repetition

Abstract thoughts
See the world through a full glass of red wine
is to see the globe through blood dripping from
the galaxy as chalices of the wine of those who
paid the ultimate price for our folly.
When goblets fall and spill their lusciousness we
forget the fallen and start a new war simply
because someone must die to keep the carousel
going around and around if not the world will fall
into an abyss drifting in cold nothingness,  
surrounded by beer foam and the stink of a pub
Sunday morning before the cleaners come
with cleaning products that smell of industrial
perfume that is toxic and gives people cancer;
excessive cleanliness kills, the red wine numbs
the mind and blood run down the drain.

Edward Hopper Painting


Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
a man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.

Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and a smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.

The Last Day

When he comes for me
I will argue with the man in black
Open a bottle of wine.
When he tells me to hurry I will ignore him
I will open a tin of tunny fish
Never drink on empty stomach.
I will walk to my funeral
Criticise the flower arrangement  
Give the last orders burp and die.

The Lunch
Today I ate the worst meal for years, dry fried liver
and burnt onions with a salad that tasted of fish because
the cook had used a fish knife to cut the lettuce.
I didn't like to make a fuzz but left no tips and on the day
sun was too hot and I felt miserable.

There was a time in 1946 when poverty washed the cold
shores of my country that I would be happy for a meal like this
it was a time of mass migration and I remember a mother
and child I think they were Slavic dressed in rags,
there was no work and had to go newspaper rounds to make
a little money, yet she did the couple a few coins

Europe was awash with migrants, there had been a war but
people were protesting they had little food and didn't want
to share any of it yet there was no open hatred.
Is it not odd to think that my country that is rich now and its
people are full of hatred against migrants
and a right wing party shares power with a fascist one, yes
it is sad when we lose the ability to be human and show no
sympathy for those who flee wars in the Middle East and Africa.

. Today walking around town I met Alfred, my father, the pianist
he had gone very old his alpaca jacket was now too big for him.
Time is a cruel master he had arthritis in his hands could not play
Anymore, except in summers when he played the piano for the old.
at homes were where the washed-up of stream of life rested
before crossing the river Styx, he could have moved into a home
but preferred to rent a little room in town.
Alfred, my father, the pianist was often cold he could only switch
on the heating for a short time in the evening, and I remembered
a time when I followed him around town saw him cross the street
And traffic stopped when I did that I was shouted at; once I fell over
a pollard he helped me up and said: I'm not your father but since
you need on I can be one, and the strange thing was he only showed
up when I was alone. In a shimmer of tears, I saw him disappear
I knew I was not going to see Alfred, my father, again.

A tropical island

I went ashore early
It was dawn
Walked up a hill
That was impossible green
And snakes
I man sliced open a coconut
I drank its sweet
Fulfilling nectar
I saw the ship old as a *****
Misused by too many
I had nowhere to run
This was an island
Walked down the hill
The sea was crystal clear
Fins of sharks
Perfection had to wait
A man sells coconuts
By the wayside and
A green hill that is
Poisonous
And has too many snakes.

Haiku
We have an albatross
Hanging from our scrawny necks
We have no more fish

Haiku
It's about sardines
Fed to penguins at the zoo
We have got one too

Small birds leave the nest
Some never develop wings
Exhausted parents

Surplus to requirement
My wife was her aunt a lovely woman of forty-four,
then she divorced her husband a man with a title,
a baron, because she felt bored by him – he was
tedious all style and  a small brain- she took a
course and got a medical job that brought her far and
wide, in the world and she also got a new man and
we were happy for her, she was approaching middle
age entitled to some happiness

She stopped ringing us and when my wife rang her
she was always busy, she disappeared from view
and the silence became a chasm on unsaid words
But we know she is doing well has friends her age.
I said to my wife last time we saw her she looked
so remote we had become too old for her

The Bath-House
When I was twelve years old I discovered
a bath-house near the docks we didn't have a bathroom
at home only a toilet for four families.
In I went- I had my intrepid moment- cubicles were you
Could undress in peace get a piece of soap, a towel which
was  a novelty.
My first shower, god how I loved it warm water and soap
I might have, no, I don't think so that came later.
I had a shower as often as I could the bath-house was shut
on Saturdays and holidays.
It was incredibly  cheap but for a boy 1 Krona was much
I had to ask my aunt for money to buy sweets and shamelessly
used them for my secret vice.
Well, the bath-house has gone a block of expensive flats with
a view of the harbour. Everything changes but not always
for the better

The Watershed

There was a time when 45, I thought life had passed me by
I had spent too much time seeing the night train leave.
Through the rain, soaked train windows saw people reading
some looked into space and there were those who tried
not to cry. My friends had drifted away and my old mate
Trond had found God and to think we sat all night long
talking about books and in the morning we went out in his
boat fishing drinking cold beer and falling asleep as spring
the sun danced on the blue water in the fjord and wind from
the dark mountain didn’t blow.

The best women too lost patience and took the tram home
to mum and dad waiting for you to grow up.
At 45, your parents begin dying the impossible happens and
you are a floating iceberg lost in a glass of whisky.
And just as wheels on suitcases are invented you grow up
polish you shoes and find that little cabin in a hidden valley
it has a leaking roof and has been waiting just for you.

The Boxer  

  He had the saddest eyes I have ever seen
  hands trembled like drunkard's
  after a fortnight's  ****** but dipsomaniac
  could always have another drink
Ali could not Parkinson's disease saw to that
This poet of the ring a victim of success
egged on too long, just another fight my love
Honours and medal they bestowed him
it came too late his voice was but a whisper
In the glade butterflies fly as Ali once did
Not as fast as Mohammed Ali.

Haiku and more
Soothing rain on slates
Heal nerves torn to tatters
By unforgiving life

Haiku
Rain is decanting
A transparent carpet of silk
Untouchable beauty

Haiku
Rain chased by gust
A mad dance around corners
A day fit for heroes



The festivities

The nauseous time of year
When ***** is handy
Sentimentality
Silly hats doesn't touch me
Safe inside a fog of disbelief

Fat woman in a tree

The old carob tree by the roadside had grown big leaning partly
over the road and trucks often brushed against branches which
caused the tree or the person in the tree to scream.
We didn't know a fat woman lived in the crown of the tree it was
chopped down and its timber used to make headboards and
kitchen tables: the fat woman who had lost her tree took abode
in cracks in the wood and she was vengeful.
Those with a wood kitchen table found their food disappearing
and plates unexpectedly fall to the floor; it got so bad that many
got rid of the table and bought a plastic one, which is the nearest
one can find in a soulless product.

For those who had bought a headboard of that tree, it was worst
plagued by nightmares they struggle to get out of and the evil woman
sat on young men's chest till they suffocated.
Not all trees are like that only on those where a fat woman lives and
since she is invisible, it is hard to tell which tree.
( Philippine fairy tale)

Horse Story
Whatever you do a horse will not be accepted in
bar or an inn, our horse after hours of ploughing soil
was give beer to drink, this because the home made
beer the farmer had brewed wasn’t any god.
The horse drank deeply but after a rest it got truculent
and refused the harness, The farmer gave it more
beer to mollify the horse, but no this was a day when
it said no. The horse trotted to the nearest town
found an inn and asked for a beer, deep silence, drinkers
joined AA, no good for business the innkeeper called
the police and got a the horse back to the farm where it
had to sober up in a field tied to a tree, and the farmer
had to pay a fine for giving alcohol to an animal

Just a day
The day is partly overcast, shadows and light
chase each other up and down a hillside,
where I came from nature is hardening
and there is already snow in the air.

Tiny lilac flowers grow under- don't know their names
( do I look like a botanist)
Only the almond tree is bare of leaves, unpicked leaves
Hang like baubles that have lost their shine.

I take a walk on the road it is cartwheel wide and has fallen
into disuse, but for generations to come it will be a healed wound
across the landscape.

In front of me, a bird blue and white has fallen
out of the sky; I pick it up- its beak is grey
It blinks and dies gracefully.
I place it on a stone its soul is still in my palm
and gently blow to set it free.
A breeze makes the leaves tremble.

Tourist in Bruges
I was in Bruges, in Flanders, once
Saw beautiful old buildings where the patrician class
The merchants and charlatans lived
Where the poor lived in the past has been erased
The poor now live in high rise flats.
We rented a carriage with a bored horse that did its round
On streets too clean to be true; animals peed on canvas.
We walked around took the pictures as did others.
We had lunch at a café too expensive for its food, but the beer
Was good and that is worth remembering.

Looking for Gumbo  

He had wanted Gumbo, the local café was out
he had to seek a broader horizon at home he couldn't find it.
He took the coach to the end of the country, but no
the further away he got the less Gumbo, he got the blues
and bathed in the river, which was natural for him to do,
moved into people’s home, but they didn't have Gumbo.
At a bakery-café where mostly women sit and drink tea
eat creamy cake and talk about their weight, he found
a lady who had the recipe for Gumbo; followed
her home, she really had Gumbo, but wouldn't let him sit
on her new furniture, so he took the coach home, where
to his surprise, a new café had opened selling what
he needed for free, and he didn't have to pay for it.

Skeleton

My hands have excessive skin
Blood vessels like roots on an old Carob tree
And I try to think of them when shorn of flesh
Folded on my rib cage
Space where the heart used to be
And the hollow soil filled middle
I say to myself what a sorrowful day.

The farm-hand


As I was writing words, I had strung together
trying to stack them neatly and make a small story
not a poem I care not about the touchy feely stuff
but I had formed an iron- clad ending when
the electricity took a break.
Not that I complain we live inland and with a bit
when rain makes, things go wrong
but I had this killer ending and wouldn't let the flame
of inspiration die out. 5 hours later it came back, only
when you sit In the dark for hours thoughts fly so much
to remember that the killer line was quite forgotten
As I said, I'm not a poet just a worker on the field of
words doing a bit of sowing, weeding, and plowing  
I'm a farm-hand and not expected to worry too much
about the harvest but nevertheless take pride when
the cabbage is big, and a carrot is long, no exotic fruit
or rare orchids roll a cigarette sit on a stone fence
and sigh over a job was well done

Parents
My father hung in the belfry
so many called him father
but the old woman in the house where I lived
said he was my father.
When I met Mother superior her eyes
softened for a second
The hanging was an accident
at his funeral came the bishop attended
to stop any rumours of suicide.
The old woman and I watched the proceedings
at a distant  
I did see the face of the prioress in the window
it was unblinkingly stern but in
afternoon light I saw tears in the corners
of her eyes.
The old woman cackled and said, she gave you
to me to look after.  
I had a silver cross on my bedside table
the old woman said it was a gift in case I wanted
to become a cleric one day.

A Glorious Moment

The bedroom was in semi-darkness your body glowed
I kissed every part of it now I licked your ******, you stopped me
Didn't want the moment to end.
Now you wanted me to take you from behind this silky
Smoothness I had to stop, we lie still till you moved and I moved too
Faster and faster we ******* at the same time.
You turned around embraced me, and thus we fell asleep.
When we awoke it was dusk we had been in heaven, but now we
We're back on earth and someone had knocked on the door.

The rule of law

There was a storm over Sahara; waves of sand flew up, up, up
– I wrote "up" thrice because my grammar checker tells me I can't
it tend to be intrusive,- transformed into white dust it mixed
with indigo clouds, drifted to Algarve and shed tonnes of dust
layers of dust everywhere the morning village looked like
a ghost town, we scan the sky hope for proper rain the type
that clean and makes you wet, but it is a perilous wish, a deluge
can last for days inundate the basement and drown a family
of mice that live in accord are so discreet I have not seen them;
more than can be said about the eleven million illegals in the USA
that with the blessing by rancorous Democrats that let them rules
the political agenda and give lawbreaker a safe heaven, where  
they are free to insult the president and the rule of law

law

The Last convict
I sit in the front yard it has a high fence that
make the privacy intense I have created
a prison and now it is too late.
I see the top of a Cypress it looks like
a Christmas tree blowing in a bad tempered
Nordic wind. I think I will go to Norway this
year, mother died at that time and I hope it
will snow, overcast and rain make me sad in
a way that is morbid. I will bring her flowers
and I will cry, she was a lousy housewife but
a great mother.  In the chair next to me sits
loneliness and says: so this was your dream
to flee, find freedom yet shackled to the past.
You will die alone not as a whisper in the wind
and you will not be on the plane going north

The Cowhand

A cowboy has thin legs and a leathery face, if his horse breaks a leg,
he can’t walk, puts his saddle on the ground plays his mouth harmonica
waits for a new horse to come trotting along.; cowboy lives in Texas,
in Montana, he is a  pretend movie cowboy

A cowboy isn’t gay, but likes masculine things such as loud farting, wrestling another cowboy to the ground and make love the same woman as his mate when going to the ***** house; and talk about it in the bar. That, is what
the manly thing to do, for a blue-blooded Texan cowboy.

Restless Love

It used to be like this,
when you were away, I slept on your side
you have away a long time
perhaps too long
the dent in the mattress of your body
is no longer there
we grew tired of each other
I blame the language the way it is spoken
When the silence grows too long
You drive off
to visit your family till tiring of them too.
Now it is like this:
life is  more peaceful without you
I wish you to stay away
and only visit me on holidays.

A friendly Story
He the modest farmer was cutting green juicy spring grass
those that had spring flowers entwined it was for his donkey
that had been in the stable in the winter
He put the fodder in a jute sack and when it was full carried
it home to the donkey now in the yard
The animal ate and ate alas there can be too much of a good thing
its stomach full of gas it took flight over the mountain to Spain
where it landed outside the famous cathedral in Seville
Its arrival caused some uproar the believers looked up and said
but where is Jesus?” An *** and Jesus they had read their Bible.

For one day there was not a word about presidential election
In the USA, but a story of a beast that had eaten too much spring
grass and was full of gas but the story ended well the donkey was
sent back to the unassertive farmer in Portugal

Is Platypus a ******? Or is it quacking duck  
Not proper as pet
What to feed this bizarre thing that is odd as
An Australian, strange people the down under
Half criminal half saints
They used to be impossible British Say, 1922.
Their diet was egg& chips, now they are sophisticated
Chips with curried sauce
Always willing to fight for the USA proud soldiers with
tropical hats that make an easy target.
More sheep than people so what do you expect they shear
sheep and like it, chips fried in ewe fat.
The platypus takes no interest in this can it be made into
a Vietnam duck, a country the Aussie were lured into invading.
Australia is in a way a Platypus can't make up its mind whether
it is a far eastern country or a European settlement.

The Cuddly One

I sat in a café minding my own business trying not
to order a second chocolate éclair when she entered,
a cuddly woman of a race called the children of
the wind, her I gave the second éclair.


She invited me home, she lived in a house where
the forest begins, and on her duvet sat 35 teddy
bears which she lovingly moved, putting them in
in the hall for the night.


When I awoke a big teddy bear was sleeping next
to me; and as bears, so I’m told, tend to be grumpy
in the morning, I silently dressed and tiptoed down
to the kitchen, the cuddly woman wasn’t there.  


I ate breakfast alone, rice pudding with honey,
but when I heard the big bear getting out of bed
I hurriedly left not wanting an argument about
the empty jar of honey left on the table.

Tuesday Rain.

The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.

I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders,  was sable coloured too.            

Now they are  all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.    

During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.  

In colours everything tends to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.

The Big Lie

My daughter rang from Spain where had gone to see her mother,
to tell me she would never speak to me again for telling her mother
had disappeared in Spain under mysterious circumstances.
She had met her family, uncle, and aunts, who lived under canvas,
that was what I didn't want her to know.
I tried to explain that there was a better world waiting for her than tent living had little future, she needed an education. But
she wouldn't listen and slammed the phone down.
I remember her first day in school when I had to stay outside
so she could see me and when we went for walks in the forest
and saw all the animals I conjured up.
Has she forgotten all this?
Unbearable silence in the house, my dog is sad and sits behind
the sofa, shall we never see her again?

Empty Trolley

The supermarket
Has got its own
Bell tower
Like a modern church
For capitalism
Hundreds of shops
Selling the obvious
Garish colours
An ice-rink
Many restaurants
Selling
Unhealthy food
There is no art here
Very little to see
If you do not care
About
High heeled shoes
And burgers

A Youthful Texas Sojourn
At a feeding barn near Houston Texas, we drank lone star beer
and ate giant size hamburgers and king sized hot dogs
Perhaps it is the Stetson hats, but Texans appear bigger than normal,
but they were engagingly civil towards us and to other patrons,
armed people tend to be polite.
As beer bottle after bottle were sunk into
prominent stomachs  that wearers thought
of as chests, there was this mechanical bull to ride
….3 seconds I lasted on that blood bull.
An enormous woman with a hat big as
a life- boat, took  a shine to me and
dragged me into the dancefloor, whispered promises of a lustful nature
something about she riding me till dawn,
am I a horse?
The lady had to go and powder her nose; she said that  
That was the change for me to get out, take a taxi; she had a gun in her purse
not a lady to let down.
Somehow I ended up in Mexican neighbourhood and had great fun
till the rangers came, bulky men oozing of authority   light grey suits and
the ubiquitous hats were checking papers.
A woman of short stature and big heart named Rosita took care of me
we made love on her mother's sofa in the living room.
She drove me on board when the air was still dawn chilly and I polite as
ever promised to marry her, she kissed me gently and didn't
believe a word of what I said

The Long Sleep
I had been sleeping too long hours lost
in a dream of deep dissatisfaction down a well
lined with failures
Its depth had silt of regrets and self- disgust
getting back up was a slow progress an eagle flying
In a vacuum, reluctant awakening like visiting death
and finding it hard to leave.
This time of the year makes me nervous it is called
the festive season, where to eat Christmas lunch,
will there be a hotel that will take us in
this fake friendship with people at the next table
cheers for the New Year that begin with arguments
at the taxi-rank.
Dreaming would be so easier with a log fire at home
something to eat and a glass of wine and the believe
next year will truly be a better place

Nothing to do

It is Sunday
I have run out of
Fire-wood
The House
Is unfriendly
In a bad mood
It is raining
Waiting for it to stop
I will never
Be happy again

The Semitic People
I Like the Jewish people lived among them
in Wavertree, Liverpool like me small shop- keepers
and they often came to my café for coffee.
I dislike Israel, because of the brutality and
reluctance to give their brothers the Palestinians
Independence.
I like the Palestinians I have met quite a few in
Portugal and like the Jews they believe in education.
But I dislike the religion Islam
I find it intrusive forever pushing complaining
wanting Europe to be more Islamic, do not take
up this religion keep it to your heart  
Europe needs you, but Muslims have to accept that
they live here and must respect our laws.
I look forward to a merger between the Jews and
Palestinians but it is a long road and
much suffering before they get there.
As it is I defend Palestine as my family once upon
a time defended the Jews

The ending of a year

New Year Eve
Never fail to
Make me depressed
Tonight I will go  
To a restaurant
Eat overpriced food
And keep up pretence
At midnight
Clink of glasses
And bleating as
The dumb sheep we are
We have survived
This year too
In a crazy world heading
Towards war

It will be alright
It was peace in the valley a deep harmony of those who fled
to the countryside to avoid the foul air of humanity this lair  
called community had fouled its nest and had to sleep in it
Then there was 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 when singers sang, they dressed their evening best now
women sing showing their wares- never mind the songs- but their
**** to the world telling us to win sympathy how they were molested
as children, the real noise began hunters in the wood killing rabbits
and often themselves in an **** of bloodlust
The avalanche has blocked the way to the lake where I used to swim
when young I accept that and find a puddle to wade in and should
I get tired bring a folding chair sit under a bush and cry

Fake News
News not from the Department of news
Are fake and opinions not mainstream are
Russian propaganda

Robot for cooking and cleaning needed
Six hours per day; lessons in Russian and  
Lubrication oil is free

No Pictures Taken
I see the pictures sent to me on my Facebook page of places
I have not seen yet in countries I have been to as a ******
who join the sea out of poverty at home and offered
an education no importance and factory pipes spewing smoke
smelling of sardines and cod liver oil
I recall Costa Rica a small town in a bay the jungle appeared
near and lush ready to hide the town should be human activities
stop. And the cockerel crewed as I got up from Maria's trafficked
bed running down a winding road to the docks and on my ship to
the routine work with sleep -walkers who like me and only saw
the beauty of the land in glimpses of dreams a Paradise lost.
Saddening, there were never any lazy days to walk around and
to take pictures we were not tourists.
Part Two:
Alone in a beautiful park and felt like the eternal wandering Jew
hoping to be accepted by the locals. There was never any time to
know anyone;  guiltily I found my way back to the bars, the music,
the Marias willing vulvas' oily route; ***& coke sleep in a woman’s
arms inhale her scent another Paradise lost before the **** crewed.  
I look at the pictures of contentment, actors on a stage of life playing
happy to play the tragic roles they need a bit more experience.

The Muse
I remember it well when in the summer evenings
I went to see her we drank wine and made love
Embraced we slept to morning light.
Stay with me she said to rest a bit longer I will serve you tea
No, I wanted to go home savour the night in privacy
Feed the dog, go for a walk and write about my love for her.
It ended like a morning dream; she had found a man who
Drank her tea and stayed with her till he was too old
And she sent him to an old people’s home.
She had been my muse lives in my poems, but no,
I didn't want to stay with her a painter rarely marries his model
But she will always be there hanging in some gallery
Or on the wall in the lobby of some hotel.

If you…

  If you see an old man with an unsure gait
Coming your way, do not pretend he is a bit of fluff.
If he looks at you it is because you are lovely
He admires the beautiful you looking like his granddaughter.
If he nods and smiles do not be offended
In his eyes, his wife is beautiful too.
If he says good morning, do not act as you do not hear
Say good morning also and it will gladden his heart.
if the old man has a glint in his eyes, it is because he remembers
all the women he had met in his life.

Haiku ten years old

Wet leaf in a pond
Ants abandoning sinking ship
Shore line yonder

Tsunami brewing
A child wades in a muddy pool
Escaping tadpoles

Ornamental pool
Red plastic bucket afloat
Eerie silence

The Harvester

On a patch of land not far from here
There are lit candles at night millions of them
A man I don't know his name
Walks around and snuffs out light, sometimes
He hesitate changes his mind the light he was going to
Extinguish flicks brighter
With his thumb and index finger is corned by this arduous
Work and he sits on a stone to rest as new light springs up
Behind him; his task is endless.
He walks to the part of the field were candle light have burnt
Out, if one still burns but has no wick he helps it out
Then it is morning and the field has golden grains

Some Doomsday
The heaven is held up by eight boa constrictors, when they shift
positions cause thunderstorm and blizzard. They feed on stars and
sometimes when you see few of them it is because the snakes have
been eating too much, luckily big snakes can go for month without
food so new stars can breed and if the Christmas night is clears we
can go on the veranda and admire the stars and be filled by the bliss  
of sleeping to ten tomorrow. Every year the heaven descend a bit
the boas are getting tired, some are dead and rotten pieces of them
fall down to earth with an almighty splash usually in Siberia.

One day earth and heaven will be a pair has long desired one
another and in their deadly embrace all life will be extinct except for
polar bears and there will no one around to ask why them, but
I think they will be the new crab louse on the Venus  berg of earth.

The Typewriter

I didn't drink much till I was thirty-four
Life was not getting any better my writing ambition
Was rejected by my family as a pipe dream
I drank –the refuge of the feeble - and dreamed
While fantasising lost house, wife, hare& hound
Ended up in a cot on mother's loft.
A dusty typewriter in the corner took it out and cleaned
It with my scarf and wrote something behind an unpaid bill
I loved the ping it made at the end of its limit
Ping!
Wake up you drunken sloth I had found my Metier
Who wants to sit with losers in a smoky bar not me mate.
Writing has not brought financial reward but that
Was not what I was aiming at it was just to give thoughts
Wings so they could fly where the fancy took them.

Saragossa Sonnet  
There is a place in the mid-Atlantic an island made of sea tare
and the mist never lifts sea and storm avoid this island
that in the middle has a pyre that must be kept alive and old men
sit cross-legged around the pyre and feed it dry bones
of sailors who have sought shelter but end up having their throats slit  
hung up like stock-fish to dry on the eastern side of the island.
They never talk about this but it is well known that a salted thigh
bone lasts a week and is delicious with boiled sea-tare.

You can't see the people who live there clearly they are  sons
of mist and fog an unholy alliance *** without pleasure, but they
must go on the pyre must be fed, if not the sun will break through
and they and their home will disappear as it never existed

Aleppo and Mosul
It is interesting to read how newspapers
like the Guardian changes the way it portrays the war
The Russians are bombing Aleppo they want the rebels out
hence civilians to get killed and it is the Russians who are
The criminals. In Mosul the USA is bombing
and they have troops on the ground
many civilians will be killed, but that is
the fault of IS so we are understanding of this and will dream
of calling them criminal

Fall and intoxication  

It was autumn the big trees along the lane had shed
their leaves filling the road as carpets of a summer past
I was going home from the bar in a pleasant mood
remembering songs no one sings anymore, but the old
that sternly refuses to sing anymore, think it is not
what an elderly dignified person should
in protest, I sang “underneath the stars” and since
I didn't know the word, made them up; I don't even
know if there is a song with this title.
The dogs, as we are told by scientists, are quite musical
they became the chorus and I banged two stones together
to make it rustic, but how long was Adam in Paradise,
a wind blew up made the dead leaves into dervishes dogs
took flight, imps are no good dance partners smell of burnt
embers. The squall stopped but the fun was over I thought
you pathetic old man goes to bed now, but it is a wonderful
world … sang Louis Armstrong