War is Lovely

It´s a hell of a war, soldiers running between burning buildings.
It is a great war good for *** feel the strength running through veins
blood oozing out of bullet holes and onto the sand that is the other guy´s
the person called an enemy.
Was this their finest hour defending whatever they have told to defend
Wonderful war brilliantly red, and women dream of joining them
only to find they are out of place; soldiers will rather ******* in a fox-hole.
Glorious war, something the survivors can talk about in the park playing card,
name the buddy who didn´t make it out lost in reveries and full moon.
Do they see the green leaves on trees or the flowers; is it all death and ruined buildings?
Forever etched in their crippled brains.
Oh, I´m so tired it is hurting me, endless wars and commentators explaining the murdering
of the innocent according to what the think-tank pays them.
I long for the autumnal colour in Portugal, a place to heal the abused body so distressed,
facing away from the TV, screen that drips of blood or failing that of football boots.
To walk on old cobblestones and fallen leaves and remember that we live in a beautiful world.

Kitchen drama

We were poor
Shared our kitchen with the woman next door
She was in her thirties
I was fifteen.
We met in the kitchen
It started with a kiss
It ended with full ***.
Mother found out
Called our neighbour a ***** gave her a slap
Across her face.
To me, she said.
How could you with that woman!

We the Humans

How sentimental
How cruel too is humanity
Buster bombs.

A dog asleep
Near its master's casket
We get tearful.
Faithful dog
How sweet.

Children's death
In deep tunnels
Isn't photogenic

Quiet despair
getting up
Sitting down,
We are leaving tomorrow
open a bottle of beer
It ain't cold
The fridge is defrosting
I'm old.
Have lived for 30 years
Am I excepted?
to be joyful?
Big flat
wooden flooring
                       I should protest
be a stubborn mule
seven floor up
not a mule in sight
I can lose the car keys
say I will arrive later.
Just now I adopted a cat
it can't come
I feel sorrowful
cried for no reason
this afternoon,
they say I'm a fool
I agree, but know
I'm right.

Parenthood

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 moment.
The hanging was an accident.
At his funereal, the bishop attended to stop rumours of suicide.
The old woman and I watched the proceeding at a far distance.
I did see the face of the prioress in the window
unblinkingly stern, but in the afternoon glow,
she had tears in the corner 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.

The maggots

One morning in the village, millions of maggots
At the cemetery appeared protesting about hunger.
They merged into a big fat pink ball with tiny feet
chanted: we want more corpses, the supply side
has let us down
It had been hitherto a healthy village few people died
those who did were elderly with meagre flesh
The day after the covid struck, the supply was fine
despite nurses and doctors valiant work to stop
this avalanche of untimely death.
As for the maggots, not a pip from, say, complaining
of too much to do.

Sunday Haiku

Dust on bookshelves
tells of life lived, stillness
Spanish bluebells tolls

Among old olive trees
flowers as yellow as butter
distance is hurtful.

A framed photo
mother hangs on a wall
wordless she speaks.

A white coffin
her face was in harmony
beautiful the peace.

to stop caring

I don´t want to know of the six million dead
they came back and endlessly take revenge on the innocent.
I don´t want to know of the suffering world
I will sleep in my bed and dream of harmony we can otherwise
not obtain.
Why should I care about dead and starving children in Yemen?
There is nothing I can do about it shaking my head in dismay
when feeling nothing about their plight.
Why should I care about hungry dogs begging under the table?
Cringing animals who deep down hate us for what we have done
robbing them of the pride they lost once upon a time.
To survive this suffering, my heart must be made of a stone,
and my soul be of gleaming steel.
Wars have been our destiny; I live it to you, pining for peace.

The son I lost

  
My sister had three sons she was not in good health
and when her oldest brother was 16, she died and left them
to a father who was cold and distant.
Since I didn´t have a son, I thought of the oldest, Earl, like my son.
Earl worked hard and studied, and moved out as soon as he could
to a flat of his own.
Of his two younger brothers I have little to say as they succumbed
to the narrow confined of a small town.
Earl married too early to an unsuitable woman, but the marriage
produced a son the divorce court gave to him, which set back
his studies for a few years
Finally, he got his diploma and worked for an oil firm designing
rigs and the mysterious world of the techniques I know nothing about.
When he had a difficult problem, he came, stayed at my house
sat on the terrace to late-night till he found a solution.
Years went by he grew and became a leader, although he was naturally
shy, he put that aside when working.
Suddenly, it appears to me that everything happens at the same time,
It was time for him to retire.
I have lost him as a son, he doesn’t need me anymore, and that is the way
It should be.

Life as we know it

I think we humans suffer from a death wish
we destroy nature, a heatwave in Siberia
burning down down the Amazon all in day´s work.
After this pandemic, the next one will be worse
we may be the last humans before we go up in the fire.
I´m tempted to throw off my mask, kiss people
and mingle with the crowd.
Apart from wearing the mask, I'm into hugging strangers,
but I can change.
Yet, there is always a yet, life is the only thing
we know, death is a foreign existence we now little
about and we fear its appearing nothingness.

The Greek Poet

I’m trying to read the work of a Greek poet
I have tried to read it before until overcome by tedium.
I’m trying again.
I read slowly while pain is dripping, an awful lot of flowers
In her verses, heartache and all that.
Some of her poems are good but they suffer from being placed
Among mediocrity and it is painful.
Her book is too long and that perhaps is the problem with
All poetry is “too long” twenty pages are enough
To keep reader interest, but publishers want longer books
For their own reason. Too many poems spoil the cream
Of poetry.
I've put the book back on the shelf of dust, pick up
Another book of poetry that is mercifully slim, after lunch
I will try to read it.

Too big a flat

Who are those people whose idea
of posh living constitute a cavernous apartment
filled with unused rooms.
Someone could be murdered in one of these rooms
and not be discovered before the firm
of spring cleaners entered.
No identification on the skeleton and teeth
never interfered with by a dentist-
unsolved crime, the apartment is up for sale
the owner left for Brazil.

The man remembered

He had been a popular TV entertainer, written a book
and sang his songs we could all understand.
He was tall, looked heroic, sort old Vikings we hoped
they had looked like.
but most of all he had a left-behinds song called
“Amanda”
Which was about a motorboat but had to come
to symbolize the suffering womanhood of the world.
He set out to find the song up a mountain of bad
the poetry he climbed, through a plateau of forgotten
Musicals, across a lake of a petrified sea- shanties
And rhyming verses,
He found Emma in s grotto, in a globe of shiny
Diamonds, the immortal words a honeyed song
of a motorboat.

The day I refused

I was joining an old ship like old ships they have been
around the oceans a few times
and survived because they were built to ride the waves
They gave me a cabin smaller than a wardrobe
I had to go out into the hall to change clothes.
The bathroom had a shower that only gave salt water
I mean cold water from the sea
The captain tried to make me drunk
filling a glass with gin topping it with tonic as I have said before
I dislike gin.
The captain fell asleep I walked back on dry land
someone on the deck shouted coward!
Yes, they were right I hate living without dignity.

Pets

  We should only keep pets we could eat, say, rabbits
  Or miniature pigs when we get tired of them in the ***
  they go.
  In the hinterland of Alentejo, I once had rabbit stew
It tasted strange but was edible later I suspect it was
Cat meat.
I have been thinking of becoming a vegetarian. Have tried
But it never tasted like meat.
There is now artificial meat for sale, alas mostly as burgers
When they come up with a good steak that doesn't fall
Into pieces, I will eat that meat.
As for now I will have fried sausages for my lunch and
Baked potatoes

Story of an entry

A man,
good with his hands
lived at the bottom
of a dale.
Made a door and
a frame.
A beautiful entrance
made
of mahogany.
He carried his
masterpiece up
to the top of the dale
fastened it to the frame.
Opened the door
and walked out
of his life.
The door stood
on the top
of the vale
in case he came back.
The door blew down
in a storm.
In the blue hours
of the day,
a man was seen
looking for his entrance.
This was spooky
no one goes up there anymore.

Am I a snob



Going for lunch at the downstairs restaurant
the staff was busy and had no time to greet us
the food we had ordered beforehand arrive an hour late
I had a glass of wine but only took one sip put the wine aside
my irritation was palpable, and I wouldn't say I like being ignored.
This happens when you visit a restaurant too often.
the food, when it served was good but complained about the wine
I was offered another glass but declined.
Made note not to go there for sometimes.
At the building's reception, the new porter didn´t bother to get up
he was dressed in a T-shirt and wore jeans continued to read his newspaper, his presence cheapened the building which has a splendid name.
I dislike rude people, the lack of manners I sometimes encounter.
Please and Thank you, are not swear words.
I read a bit fell asleep when waking up I thought never mind
they can go and *******.

Some mornings

When you are over eighty, the medics lose interest
in your health, I used to see the heart specialist every six months
and check diabetes every three months
now they have stopped seeing me.
It is like they think, what the heck he is old enough anyway.
Not that I care sitting all day indoors looking out
of the window seeing life lived as a spectator.
The phone doesn´t ring anymore and the few friends I had
are dead or in the ***** of AA, their life has been reduced
going to meeting keeping their morale up.
Listening to the endless yammer of self - obsessed people
talking about themselves their goal is sobriety, and they spend
rest of their life cocooned in safety while dreaming of whiskey.
We old people are so ugly we walk ungainly, and we have
forgotten to live in the day.
We have lived our life lost the zest and our laughter when
we laugh, is a scream of despair

The beginning
Adam sat on a bough of a tree waited for his friend
The gorilla, Eva, sat in a cave tried to make a skirt of palm leaves.
The cave was warm; a burning bush had taught them how to make fire.
They lived on fruit mostly, when not stealing eggs from nests
Eggs that were about to be hatch were the best
And they had chicken and thus became meat-eaters.
Adam´s friend, the gorilla, when they played card made out of green leaves
The animal was sentinel without a moral compass.
The gorillas had thick fur which, made them look dressed,
and Eva liked to cover exposed parts. Adam didn´t get it.
He should sit with her and listen to her problem, a pity she
Used to say, God had made men so stupid

The gift Horse

I'm a sensible person
get easily hurt,
when I offered
her car because
because I was leaving
she refused,
had wanted a more modern vehicle.
I sold the car
When she asked for
the car, it was too late
her tears meant nothing
she had made
the cardinal sin looking into the gift horse's mouth.

The poverty of self- loathing

The of the cloak of poetry I once wore
does not protect me against my insecurity
the fear of being destitute.
Nowhere to hide when the northwesterly blows
and happy people dance at a restaurant
to the music, I composed in my heart.
Steamed up café windows people eating broth
gesticulate with forks to get me away
to eat their food in peace.
I have enough money for a cup of coffee but
they will not let in the drowning cat.
Never mind I lost my nerves
but it will be better when I write this down
and my notebook is dry with self-loathing.

Counsellor

For a short time in Liverpool, I had a job driving
to a house (always working-class) where the man of the house
according to his wife, had a drinking problem.
The man sat in the living room his wife was in the kitchen crying.
The man said, I like a whisky after work, and I go to the pub,
what is wrong with that.
Every day, I said.
Yes, a man got to have his freedom!
I suggested he should not drink for two weeks and see how he felt,
then I left an address for people he could contact if he wanted
to stop his alcohol consumption.
The houses I visited was sad because (not always alcohol) the people
involved didn´t talk to each other.
Sometimes there was a meeting when the whole family surprised
the man in the living room airing their grievances, it always ended in tears
from the man accused.
My thought was to invite the crying man out for a drink it is a brutal way
to attack anyone this way.
No, this job was not for me as I tended to have sympathy for the victim.
My advice would be to get the hell out of the house and find a place
where he could get some peace from interfering with women.
Of course, alcoholism is real, but to get help, they will not get it at home.

To my heart

Beat my heart but not too hard
Don’t get upset when time is against your
Your wishes and when your ambitions
are thwarted, and you feel let down.
Dear heart you are my best friend
Carried me into old age, but now you need
The help of a second heart.
Yet you carry the most onerous duty as you are
Connected to my emotions.
I have promised you not to be sad but smile
A little more, pleasantly smile to impatient
Drivers, how are they to know I protect you.
When the day comes, and you have had enough
I will follow you.

The clown of life                  
  
Sadness fills my mind
perhaps it is time to go home,
but that would be hopeless
meet with the country I no longer know.
I had a home, but now it is being sold.
Looking back on my life as a zombie,
like an autumnal leaf in a stream
Someone else lived my life. It was not me.
Perhaps there is nothing like free will.
We are just born, and what happens
to us has been foretold.
Am I the result of thought?
That began hundreds of years ago,
eternal life of unconsciousness.
I accept who I´m sad will always
be a part of me; I try to make into humour.

The choice


I could have been a farmer that was not a choice
the authority sent me there, I think as punishment for being rebellious.
I could have been an academic, but no one like me went to University
so choice never came up as an alternative.
I´m only conscious of a choice born out of necessity becoming a seafarer
instead of working in a factory the very idea of factory work
still can make me shudder.
I spent years at sea and was promoted as an officer,
it was not what I wanted I was a leaf in a stream with little will to alter
where life took me.
Tired of the sea I opened a cafe, not by choice, but I could be my boss
but I had not reckoned with costumers and talking to them, like a barber
who talk to his' about football which he privately hates.
For the reason that had little to do with me, I was a counsellor at a clinic
telling alcoholics how to stop drinking, I think of my stint at the clinic
when I have my evening whiskey.
So my only choice in life was to sit in a library all my life read and eat
a bologna sandwich, while life was going on outside, a decision that
could not be fulfilled, I blame the women for that.

August Promise

Every year I say, come August and I will go to Norway
but every you’re the flight ticket goes up, when mulling this over
it is suddenly, September wonder-full is the weather
of the sun, clouds and occasional rain.
The rain in Spain does not fall in my vale the lake is dry has for years
nevertheless, in September, there is a new spring
green grass and flowers more demure in colours
So, what, I hear you say, and I agree beauty does not need to be explosive
as we have had enough of car bombs and other colourful devices
killing people whose only crime is a lack of dress sense – a black bra under a white blouse
and tasteless golf pants.
Long walks for us elderly we look up and for a fleeting moment
Ask rather banal questions,
something told at bible classes we endured at school
“who created this wonder?”
God never gets the blame when storms sink ships, and there is landslide
volcanic eruption, not to forget the endless war the smell of cordite drifting afar.
We have the fallen angel (the devil) to blame for that.

Banned man

So, it finally happened, of course, Trump gets the blame
but I think this, not the whole story.
For years the workers have seen their wage packet shrinking
and their rights being ignored, no health insurance
nor trade union to look after their interest
As the common man gets poorer, the wealthy get richer
they live with the fear of needing surgery or losing the job.
The two ills go together if a sick person stay away from work
too long he gets fired anyway.
The people revolted Trump fanned the flame that already
was lit.
And it gets worse the big tech firms have banned the president
of the united states and that is an outrage that belongs
to a dictatorship, it has a sinister implication that doesn’t bode well
for us civilian when only what suits the big tech get a hearing
this includes anyone of us at any time.

The retaliation

the faithful wife came into her husband´s bedroom
he was propped up by pillows and had difficult breathing
I have always loved you, and she said I will help you now
stamped him with stiletto through his heart.
Law is the law she was found guilty of ******.
They sent her to an asylum for the criminal insane even
though she was perfectly healthy,
No locked door she could come and go as she pleased
everybody knew he had been a philanderer, but she
had forgiven him out of love.
What no one knew or suspected she hated him and
this was her revenge.

We are all familiar with the traditional relationship
A young boy meets a girl, Like Romeo and Juliet –
It must be added Juliet was 14, today this romance
Would not have gone down too well,.
Sometimes love happens at the most strange places
Like when I met a girl at a house in Kingston and her
Took a shine to me.
As we undressed in her room she said:
“My ***** is full of water,” I told her she better have a wee
First, but that was not what she meant.
In the morning she clung to me and I promised to come
Back next time when in Kingston.
Our love was real I thought of her often, alas my ship
Didn’t go back there.
Love, you see wherever it happens is a wonderful
Moment, for us there as no repeat and that was sad.

Haiku riddle

tons of garbage
left by those who want peace
the right to be ******

people like to march
to the tune of pied piper
social conscience

when everyone concurs
they are usually dead wrong
bombs are exploding

consensus are fakes
foisted on naive people
thinking in unison



beware of peace traders
they want you to agree with them
dark hearts of hate

His first love

No, it was not a dream there was a war going on
of which he understood little only that the German soldiers
that was camped nearby gave him chocolate.
He had met a little girl and was in love they sat under
a wooden bridge, the water trickled when he asked her to marry him.
She said no and he bit her arm.
She cried and ran home to her mother.
He was told not to be so aggressive, the little girl´s new boyfriend
was a farm boy his contempt was absolute.
The war was coming to an end the German army surrendered and was marched to the railway station, he waved they had been
good friends, was told not to he waved anyway his streak of protest.
Enemy and friend, it is difficult to know when you are four years old.

Olive trees

with warming
of the land
a plant appeared
to thrive
the olive plant.
where do they get water from
the morning dew
or the memory
for better days.
Near the house there
are a forest of them
look like an army
of ancient soldiers
who have stopped walking
gnarled and crocked
will not march no more.
Every year they are full of olives.
Hundred of years old
they have seen it all.
Love has been made
under their soft ground
but an olive tree
tells no tales.

The Escape

A man coming home from work saw a shadowy figure
leaning against an olive tree.
It was death sharpening his scythe polishing his hoof.
Them and said, no, not me, I´m too young to die
furthermore, I have to go to Madrid and work as a solicitor’s clerk.
In Madrid, he knocked on the relevant door, opened and the devil
sat there smiling.
The death said, from now on, you are my little helper,
go back home and **** your parents their time has come.
Greatly disturbed, he took the first plane home, and there
leaning against the same tree death stood like a shadow
in the autumnal evening.
In the house, his parents were crying they had buried
their only son, but they didn´t see or hear him and he was truly
the devil’s helper.
This story is based on a Syrian tale of a man riding to Damascus
across the desert to Baghdad to avoid death.
A drone pilot mistook him for a jeep and fired a rocket.
The man had to walk to Baghdad, but without water and dates,
he perished.

The Crown
I had the opportunity to see “The Crown.”
and was thoroughly disgusted by the inhabitants
In their moth-eaten castles.
Never before have I seen such a group of useless peoples
talking about their duty,
The only obligation they are concerned about is their survival.
Many snobbish nasty people thought they were above the people
and feared the working classes lest they should wake up
and demand a revolution washing away ancient banalities.
The only person who came across as slightly human was prince Philip, but he was a bigoted racist
and would do well as concentration camp commander.
The sad thing is that the British people admire this dredge of humanity
(hence Brexit). The poor workers of these Islands have been duped into thinking they are somehow
on a higher level than others. I pity them.

Big houses have tall walls hiding the guarded behind
keep the beauty for themselves
Insects have no problem nor have birds, and cats go under the wall.
It is about keeping people out of what once was their garden and in the shifting political wind they became expelled.
The expelled people do have olive trees if they are not set afire
by a people calling themselves “settlers,” an incongruity.
Sometimes the people on the wrong side of the fence
get their homes bulldozed; yet, they cling on despite degradation.
They wait for the wind will turn in their favour.
One day it will.

Crossed lines
Why are quiet evenings not enough
the mind will not slow down or make sense
in the blinking light of thoughts.
Wine is of no use the brain turns into ruby.
I must hurry, catch thoughts before they
turns into banalities.
The night waits for me to articulate the mystery of art.
I have to nail down words that are always
a bit paler than the ones thought of.
Once again, I have given birth to an ugly duckling
but I will not send them into the abyss of delete,
I will wait till they can walk unaided before sending
them into the world.

Hunger and horses

Spring 1945
A horse collapsed
In the street
Of hunger.
Skinny men in black
From doorways came.
Long knives
Tore into
Shivering flesh.
Hyenas.
A shot fired
The horse was dead
The hyenas
Would return.
An officer
Who loved horses
Released
The animal
From suffering.

Higher education

Learned knowledge doesn’t
Doesn’t replace the truth accumulated
During a lifetime.
Everything you learned at school,
The certainty you had, falls on the wayside.
They tell you about wars, but doesn’t
Explain why it happens, if they do
It is mostly some nonsense that suits the nation
And you are left with no knowledge
Only an ex-student who loves to impress
By citing Latin.

banned

So, it happened again
I called a prancing woman dancing  
Happy that Joe Biden won the election,
“a silly ****.”
I'm glad Trump is going, but I fear.
The new president has unfinished “democracy.”
Like Syria, Iran to bomb into submission.
His for of “American Democracy” leads him.
On the warpath.
We are so happy that Trump lost although
Seventy million voted for him.
There are too many of them, and they are not idiots,
Well, not all of them.
It is about collar workers who have no union to protect
From arbitrary dismissal, it is about sick pay and
And a proper pension, Joe Biden will do nothing.
He is a man for the big pharma and other corporation.
The USA have a racism problem that will be unsolved.
Until the mighty country can learn it has to change,
And Joe Biden is not the man to fix this problem.
Hence my irritation to jubilant ***** who have not
read a newspaper for years.

Wild Horses

In my youth the still used horses
especially for the wealthy.
The leading funeral bureaux had two
lovely black horses, that was too
full of life for the job.
They got the smell of a mare in season
and took off the driver often drunk
lost control and through narrow cobblestone streets
they galloped the wagon scrapped walls broke
shop windows and the casket flew off and finally
the spectacle came to a halt at a blind-road.
They put the dead one back in his casket, got hold
of a sober driver, and somewhat damaged got
to the cemetery, but the dignity was gone it was
more like a comedy show, and we the town's poor,
had something to laugh about for weeks.

Man drinking beer

At the downstairs café on its terrace
a man in an overcoat drank beer although
it was not yet ten o'clock yet.

he looked lonely a doomed friendless
person wondering what happened
to a life that started out encouraging

I could have been a winner
hadn't it been for the ****** divorce
in the hour of need, he was deserted.

Ok, so he hadn't been at his best
but he contributed to house and home
he was not the cuddly kissing type

trying wife, he had worked much overtime
to avoid going home and often stayed
too long at the bar.

Nevertheless, he had been a dutiful man
paid all the bills
and this what he got loneliness.

The romantic poet



The evening light was dusty
the poet wrote, and he continued
saying the dust-covered roses.
was like a silk scarf flung around
a woman's shoulder.
Over this, the moon shone brightly.
He walked along the beach got wet feet
but admired how dunes dances
with the incoming waves.
Then a big white-topped roller hit
the shore he got soaking wet.
He sought refuge in an old cafe that had
a proper fire-crate, and with a glass of
red wine in his hand continued to write
about roses and a silk scarf, the sea
did not interest him.

Buying a car

I have read and published some of my old poems
what I write these days is more about the everyday
Gone has the mermaid in the forest´s lake.
Sheep endlessly grazing and calling their shepherd
at the first darkening of the sky.
The sheep have lived in peace so long and fear
shadows dancing among olive trees.
The animals graze inside a fenced-in field for security
And for this, they have forsaken freedom.
I´m nonchalant, my dog too takes on the mien of indifference.
She has gone, but I keep her bones in a black bag
when driving around.
On roads covered by asphalt and decaying flowers on sidewalks.
Someday I will write a book of my deleted poems that are forever
circling in my mind.
Perhaps I gave away my best work to the cold stars.
Since you wonder about the title, yes, I bought the twenty-year-old car
It purrs like Walter´s cat.

“Time to Say Goodbye”

When I hear this Beautiful song
I smiled wryly of my foolishness so long time ago.
She had left me,
And my youthful emotion was on overtime
Sleep was impossible,
Then came thoughts of revenge
If she comes back, I will spurn her, how childish!
I walked in the night
But most things have a breaking point, and I went to bed
Slept for 12 hours woke up,
was hungry and didn’t think of her.

Sunday and sermon


Sunday morning Tv is full of Brexit ad Trump
I switch off. The computer has cartoon time not much
Different from TV but funnier.
From the living room, the drone of a priest talk *******
Some ladies sing mournful songs.
Why this seriousness the message of hope should
Be joyful clapping in God's name.
A ritual that was set down a long time ago is still the same.
The congregations consist mainly of od the elderly and
Of them mostly women.
The few young ones look solemn to even when they steal
A glance at the wristwatch.
The message ends in gold and glory they are fancy-dressed
The men of God and like to show off.

The exile
    No matter how far
    To the other side of the moon
     if you like
    Sadness follows an exile.
    Never at ease
    Thinking of what is forsaken
    Finding it impossible
    To find the way back home.

Choices
The wind has been blowing hard today
telling of winters to come and high heating bills.
Now that I’m old and walks like a sailor on deck
of a ship in a storm I ought to be reflective
think of the life I lived and do some repenting.
“I did it my way” Sinatra, is a bit egocentric.
What happened to my life just happened I didn't
plan anything more severe than having a bath
first thing in the morning putting oil in the car
checking the tyres.
There is the death, of course, it happens to Popes
and ******, mind, in various forms yet the thought
holds no terror in my heart, I go on living till it stops
because I never planned a thing.

Suicide

I have lately been contemplating taking my life
The question is, how?
I live on the seventh floor with a veranda
The falling is not bad I shudder by the impact
Also, upsetting people.
A shotgun in my mouth blowing my brain out Is too ghastly,
Ernest Hemingway did it shoot himself
Blood and gore all over the place.
A 22-calibre pistol should do it, but I dislike
Weapons.
To take a handful of pills will not do I would
Throw up and sweat profoundly.
I wish there were an injection that made me
Disappear from the face of the earth.
No funeral
No flowers
Few tears
Only an enduring question
Where the hell did he go?

The elite poets



I have been watching a program about poems and the creator of poetry,

what is typical of younger poets they are an upper middle class, university educated and know everything about the craft.

At the end of studies, they feel they have to write a book of poems hungry as they are for literary fame,

having read the old master think they have to be dramatic and write about experiences they have not had yet,

nevertheless, they get favourable mentions in the Guardian and the rest is hype and *******.

October manifesto

I came across a paper on it was written” October document.”
no date, nothing at all.
This prompted me to look in the mirror at the face looking back at me
an elderly man with sad eyes.
A man I didn´t know who carried my face or was it my face?
The inner me looked pretty different, more youthful, I thought.
In my old house, I had no mirrors except the one in the bathroom
that mirror was always steamed up; I preferred it that way.
A woman moved in, and suddenly I had many mirrors.
It is difficult to know oneself without illusion, it helps to have a friend to tell us
the truth as she/sees it.
But are they telling the truth they don´t know what you think?
October is a strange month, it can be mild, it knows what
is coming. Sleet and winter storm, with and yellow leaves, it accepts the fate,
check the roof and firewood and waits.