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 *******.

Oddity of ***

The kitchen was cold
Switched on the gas making coffee
It warmed my midriff
And I thought of it, only briefly
Breakfast more important
Never thought I should think that
But there we are.
I knew of a woman who only wanted me
To look at her ***** and no touching.
I did but thought of other things
how many millions of stars are the in heaven?
has anyone counted them?
Suddenly she wriggled like a worm in damp soil
*** over.
she covered her body in a sheet
And she fell asleep.
I took the bus home.

The past is a dream

I'm going back to my village
in Mars, there will be flowers everywhere
welcoming me
“see what you have missed”: they say
moving into town heavy traffic, statues
of men who are forgotten, looking heroic
shamefully hidden by seagulls muck they
are no respectful of man’s endeavour.
The problem is I have been ensnared by
a woman I love, she likes to live in a town
near all amenities as they say.
I like to live with her forever.
So, the cabin in the dale walking among
trees with my faithful dog and loneliness
a dream of times gone by.

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.

The Farmland

The mid-west of the USA flat plain many farmers
tilling rich soil; red barns under a blue sky.
The community thrived, cows and horses in the fields
the Amis people lived nearby in peace with God.
There was harmony here and whispering grass.
Agricultural – business moved in, bought up land
the farmers could not compete and sold out.
Empty barns, fading colours, falling into disrepair
No cows in the field, no horses or dogs
Silent despair of ruined homesteads hangs
In the bitter wind telling of failure.
This is the way we live the strongest always wins.

The strange

If I knew you loved me, I would have killed you.
A sentence that makes no sense keep swirling around my head.
William Burrough could have said that perhaps he has.
I met a woman, not the first, and fell in love.
She was and could be my soulmate with her I felt at ease
not straining to be entertaining.
Dragged into a black vortex of love, it could only end in hurts.
I cut loose and had many sleepless nights.
I met another woman who was not a soulmate who needed
a place to stay near where she worked.
That was a long time ago, we are now two lost souls
comforting each other in the midnight hours.

The Imitators

He has worked in the garden of poetry
Forty years gone.
The soil is meagre and the plants are eaten
By boars, they applaud him with grunts.

To find the roots and transplant them on a page
Or in the garden of literature, is not easy.
The gardener is famed for his genius or a charlatan
Of rose bushes.

Truth rears its ugly head, there are doubters
Who will not be silent, he knows when his plant’s
Has been purloined.
Better than not be read at all.

Once a dog


my dog has
has been dead a long time now
but I think of her every day.
I have to give her eternal life dogs have no heaven or a saint by the gate asking:
have been a good dog
and eat the leftovers the humans gave you?
Woof.
I big lie of, course; she slept on the sofa when I went to bed.
What about the hairs on the couch,
she looked another way as to say, nothing to do with me.
Fifteen years we had together she spoiled me rotten.
Took me for walks in the woods kept me fit a fine figure
of a man, she could be proud of.

camel and roses

Fresh bread still moist, spread a thick layer of butter
On the slice, few foods in life can taste better
Until the medical profession gives us a stark warning
It is no good for the heart and blood vessels
Guiltily I make another slice I will stop tomorrow.

Camels are with humps of water are cumbersome
Once I rode on one, its funny walk made seas sick.

Resolving the problem of too much milk is not my concern
Over drinking can lead to obesity or lose stomach
Specially for adults imbibing “white Cadillac” (***** and milk)
Exponentially much stronger than beer.

dreamy landscape

I followed a narrow track leading up
to the mountain that has a flat, earthy soil.

The dog refused to follow.

On top the sun was  hot had a dizzy spell I saw was a patent donkey
before I fainted.

Someone carried me to a stream with clear water
I drank and found a lump of sugar in my pocket

when I looked around, I saw no one, went to sleep
I used a soft stone as a pillow.

When rested, I walked down on the other side found
a nice bar telling what has happened.

No, no leave the little people alone
we need them more than ever.

They sing for us when nightfall and unafraid
we sleep well and live long.

When coming out of the bar, my dog was waiting
she found a track around the mountain

she led the way looked back to see if I was safe
I had been too long in the bar.

Now I could hear the murmur of their voices so blessed
that dog stop barking.

I slept all night and had no nightmare of a coming war
the scent of thyme seeped down into the valley.

tired morning


This morning a song from a film
filtered through my mind “what was it all for Alfie.”
I had no choice but being born, played no part of the proceeding
but had to bear the brunt of the aftermath.
The emptiness of poverty, the view of the sunlight from an opposite wall
in a back yard.
The dread of the midnight flight, bare rooms, linoleum floor doomed to endless boredom, no expectation of a blue sky day.
We, children, played in the street a window broke, they, the boys, disappeared
so quickly I was left holding a ball that wasn't mine
the policeman was so tall, my denial was a tearful whisper my mother
had to pay, and she slapped my face. Yet there was a moment of happiness green grass and animals that I had to forego.
What is life for?
­

A fluff of life

He sensed something on the window ledge
it was an insect of the summer past
its hue was grey totally exhausted it could not fly anymore.
He took it inside. put it under the lamp
slowly its colours appeared it moved dreamy wings,
a residue of spring.
He said I like to call you a rainbow.
He left the light on when leaving the room
The Rainbow had tried so hard.
In the morning the battle was over
a piece of fluff the draft from the open door blew away.

The rotting of a socialist


I knew of a young man a rebel who wanted
his country to adopt the Scandinavian model of socialism.
He was elected to great acclaim by the people,
to do what he wanted taxes had to go up especially among
the wealthy and upper middle classes and they rebelled
by slurring him in the newspapers, lurid tales about *** ******
and a luxury living, people turned against him he was not re-elected
After some years’ people found he was not a bad egg
and he was elected as president again.
Now he was a changed man didn't care less about the Left
or the right, he just wanted to be president in his self- belief
gave tax relief to the rich prices went up, people
protested they wanted him to go.
He refuses to do so, many people are killed he doesn't care
turned from a good man into a ****** dictator
who will keep his power at whatever cost and has to
be removed by whatever means.
Viva Nicaragua.

Contemplation

Resolve the unanswered problem gone
Overmighty is the task, for one who lacks the courage
Sever is the lack of self-knowledge
Extraordinary is the failing of others feelings

She doesn’t like young cleaner find faults with them
They remain her of her lost youth.

Quite a reflection over time that will not return
Life lives in hatred and love, now it is
Meaningless whether it is summer or winter
As seen inside a dusty window of old age.

Discovery

If you find a rusty nail you are halfway there
all you need is cabbage, carrots and a bit of meat
Soup is ready.
Genuinely made from a rusty nail.
This is also a way to write poetry look for an idea in the darkness
and not falling over tables and chairs,
This is an unfortunate mishap that occurs when writing
my eyes are old.
I have between my thumb and index finger a cork from a bottle of wine
from this humble start, I can conjure up a cool bottle of wine.
Jesus did it once when feeding the five thousand
when all he had in his hand was a slice of a day-old loaf.
Imaginary friends, I have many, can be helpful when remembering
their antics, and I can be absolved of sin.
Stick to a rusty nail or a horseshoe, friends are hard to find

The apartment
  

No, I don't miss my old home the one I rebuilt
from a stable till a house, although its soul never stopped
being a stable a place for those who have no voice.
Thick walls made by stone from the small land windows
animals do not need light.
But walls talk I still hear their murmur and the hoof of
the mule scraping on the floor as it was dreaming of still
ploughing the field and in pen, the pigs slept unaware
that in the morning one of them would be slaughtered.
I still hear it squeals when the truth dawned.
So much history and no one will ever know what I have
Seen and heard.

no point waiting


The ugly head of the pestilence
has risen its head in New Zealand
so, go and buy a white sheet covering your body
go to the nearest cemetery and wait.
Whether children go to school or not are of little
and the white smoke from factories
a defiant scream on the oncoming.
Humanity has finally met its match in the destruction
what took us 200 hundred years
the pest can do in two a couple of weeks.
Throw away the face mask mingle with thee sweaty people
people on the dance floor.
Run naked through the town, roll in the sewers
it makes no difference we are doomed.
A pity about the dogs we leave behind they are too weak
surviving in the insane the jungle the world has become.

The tremor
I had forgotten the ink
For my computer in the car.
Took the lift down
Retrieved the ink
When there was a slight tremor
More like a shudder
Or Was it a shake or me
Having a panic attack (it happens)
I stood there and waited
And there was silence until hysterical people
Come running, started up their cars
Getting out of there.
I stood by the lifts, ink in hand
Seven floors up. I pressed the button
Opened the front door,
She sat sleeping in her chair,
Soon her phone would ring someone telling
About the earthquake.

English Village

It was a beautiful spring morning.
Nothing I know of can be more harmonious
then an English village.
Sycamore trees dripped morning dew like honey
and rose bushes sparkled as ruby.
On an open field, a lone horse came to the fence
I stroked its flank and spoke softly.
It was morning moist and exuded a delightful aroma.
On the other side of the turf, another barrier opened
and a flock of sheep came out.
The horse trotted over I was forgotten.
Continued eastward towards the sun and memories.

The final hour

He was as pale as a corpse floating in an icy Nordic sea.
Motionless in bed he opened up his eyes
don´t know if he knew it was me, but he stared at me for a long time
I became dragged into his death.
He closed his eyes.
No one could do anything for him, except holding his pale hands.
He entered into a coma, and the nurse says it could take some time.
There was no doctor in the room he would appear when the nurse called
him the patient had died, he listened with his stethoscope
nodded and left the room; his profession sees death as a personal failing.
At home, I had to tell my wife her brother was gone.
A relative came to organize the funeral like the size of the casket and
what mode of disposal she wanted, you need a cool head for this
and I couldn´t remember his name

What's going on

Watching TV flicking from channel to channel is surreal,
one moment a casket is lowered into
a perfectly dug grave, umbrellas go up as fine rain falls
The next moment is about men riding horses
that have no idea what is going, the riders have been
on their mounts for days and must be stinking.
The next is about some old detective who is solving
crimes that are surprisingly easy to unravel.
Back at the graveside after false tears have been shed
all hell breaks loose who is getting his priceless
album of rare stamps and more murders are committed.
In the meantime, the riders are having a bath in a river
fully clothed in leather and armour. The horses are just staying there looking beautiful and dumb.
I switch off the telly and drink a glass of beer.

A newspaper and a Widow

The old widow across the hall
has been coughing loudly during the night
I thought of knocking on her door.
Decided against because of the virus she might have.
Well, she is not coughing now.
I have read the guardian newspaper a confessed
paper for “the educated middle-class” I should not
read it as I´m not their class of people nor do I wish
to become one. I used to write comments to there
but was barred, so I use Twitter instead
but it has some good writers, so it is worth reading.
There are times when the paper is left-leaning,
but it easily panics and hurries back to safe middle ground.
I´m worried about the lady across the hall, her husband
had been a high-ranking officer in the army, she is
too quiet, perhaps she is dead, I better speak to the porter.

While we wait

  The terrace of our flat is a place for retired kings
  the sun shines humbly not burning my nose and
  the sea is calm as a full glass of water left
undisturbed in the kitchen during the dark hours,
outside in the streets, the pest is raging, closed
shops and full hospitals, death is aggravating,
caused by people refusing to wear masks or go to
parties and illegal revelries, the pest is demanding
payment, nothing is free if you are not prepared
to dance with death not dressed for the occasion.
In the interim, we sit inside and wait for the vaccine.

In afternoon glow

I ought to take an interest in death
but I don´t find it a stimulating subject
it has to do with acceptance.
This is comforting since I’m not religious
but has a strong spiritual streak.
I believe in the mystic.
What we fail to understand in normal life can be understood by
a second sight.
I can see the near future
based on experience.
I believe in the existence of ghost
they are people who have not accepted they are dead
and are, generally speaking, unhappy.
Since the devil does not occur, he doesn’t care
about sad ghosts.
I have seen my dead dog on several occasions she lives in my mind
and appears happy, especially when it rains and I can´t leave the house.
Here I manly laugh, look at my wristwatch
my god, it is nearly eight o´clock
time for a glass of red wine.

The deepest sleep

He had been sleeping deeply
woke up tried to be awake before the sleep
took him into the depth of death.
He struggled to open his eyes, couldn't.
Knew he had to make it, was able
to put one foot on the floor, the coldness
of the floor made him open his eyes.
He inhaled intensely it had been a close call
had he slept five minutes more
It had been too late.

old times and knew times

  I was thinking about how I live now in a big apartment
with four bedrooms and their bathroom, and I study for me.
As a child, my mother and two other siblings had two
rooms and half a kitchen; the other half belonged to a woman
who had one room and two children.
She often had male visitors, and the children had to sit in the hall, and I told them stories, when my father and I crossed the Sahara on camelback, not that I knew my father he was always absent.
We had no bathroom, but there was a toilet in the basement
it had rats coming up from the bowl, one had to flush several times
before sitting down hoping the best. Peeing was done in
the kitchen sink.
We were poor but didn´t know it as everybody was poor it was
the way it was, but we laughed a lot the slightest thing set us off,
and my brother was great joke teller, and we enjoyed ourself hugely.
Living in a big apartment, I ask myself what happened to mirth
I know, I think, we just got old and our sense of humour,
think I have to go out and look for it-

The Silent invasion

IKEA, the furniture giant
Is invading all homes
Wherever you go
Homes look the same
No pictures, no books
To disturb
The hideous harmony.
Here no individual taste
Dares intrude
And the world is IKEA!

The lucky ship

I sat on the terrace at the enchanting hour when the sun has gone westward
but it is not dark yet and saw a long sleek cargo ship in the bay.
A well-kept ship manned by professional seafarers who have s contract
and get to go home on vacation every three months.
The cook is often referred to as a catering officer, sits in his spacious cabin
reading a book by Hemingway.
He stops reading and rest the open book on page 48 and think of all those
who have never read the great writer and are only interested in his private life?
It is a pity he would be remembered for the wrong reasons.
The cook gets up takes a shower, since he has been up by six o´clock there
is no time to shower.
In the morning he has to set the dough to bake bread and there is breakfast
to be seen to, and the preparation for dinner at twelve.
It is dark now, the ship is well lit she looks like a princess of the sea,
but the crew have no fear she will bring them safely home.

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 her bedroom.

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
I hope my suit will be dry in the morning

Suppress women
And you get a society
Of men shooting holes
In a dark cloud

Driving on the left side
Of the road
Makes a nation somewhat
Intransigent

The Trolls

Several storms came outside the building
they had argued out there in the Atlantic
about which way to blow and now a fight broke out
screaming around the edifice, but mainly outside
my windows trying to get me to take a stand.
They were trolls that had been made homeless
when they built a railway tunnel through
the Dovre Fjell in Norway and the engineers had
spoken badly about their homes said they were filthy
and was full of goats bones.
They knew of me since I befriended a troll who sat
under a wooden bridge waiting for a kid.
I had shown the troll how to fish for trouts and salmon
a change of diet become the trolls well.
I´m too old I said, you have to find a boy of eleven
years old, he will help you; you see, they don´t believe
in trolls in Portugal.

In Ceuta

A Senegalese sat on a stone near the sea
he had tried to get to Spain but didn´t make it.
A nurse spoke to him hugged him.
God smiled down to both of them,
this moment of tenderness.
Not so the monster calling itself the social media
they purred scorn on them.
Not only was he black and she white,
racism is alive, he was also a refugee who had sought a better life
which millions of Europeans had done when persecuted?
when seeking work in the USA
and freedom from oppression.
Europe has become a haven for haters intolerant and obscene
a place where right-winged populism will bring us down the path
to the stone age of ******

Sunglasses

We parked around the corner from the ink shop
I wore sunglasses, they are no good for seeing details
didn´t see the shop.
I walked and walked till I could not walk more
no shop, I had to walk back whence I came.
Mild panic set in, am I so old I need a label so people
people can take me home?
I rang my wife, “I sit in the car near the ink shop and can see you
sitting on the shop´s wall.
Then I remembered.
“What took you so long,” she asked?
I witnessed a collision between a horse and a mule, the horse
broke a leg and a police officer had to put it down.
-----long pause. “you got lost!”
With all the contempt I could muster I stayed silent.

Would-be writer

I hate living in a rented room
Meeting people in the hall
Waiting till the hall is empty
Hurry out sighing.
Walking for miles to find
An empty bar, where no one
Knows your secret that you are a drunk.
Paper and pen I wanted to write
A great novel.
Strong ***** blurred words
Walking home
Hoping the hall would be empty.

Ages
When I was young my youth lasted a long time.
When someone said next year, it sounded as it was forever.
I remember the long summers
but realize it is the sum of many summers.
Since in our estimation summer lasted long into autumn
and mild winter.
The real cold season lasted a month, and since
We didn´t sit still it didn´t feel so cold.
Now that I'm old the seasons whirl faster and faster rapid
I get dizzy and have to sit down or hold on to my cane.
the tremendous speed is accelerating towards doom and the hope
of another spring.

lonely days
He came home early
Switched on the news
Which was read by a man
Who fell several times, over his own words
There was only one channel.
After the news, a lady played guitar
End of evening TV.
He took his bike out of the shed
And cycled to the nearest pub
There was only 3 of them in the town
And they closed at eleven.
Cycling home was difficult so
He pushed the bike uphill.
Since his wife had left the flat
It reeked on loneliness
He fell asleep on an old chair in the shed.

Spoken Poetry

I woman was reading some of my poems
They sounded like mine, but not sure
I thought they were too good, I have never
Regarded me on the top shelf of poetry
But occupying a crack between poetry and prose.
The voice made for poetry came from
Poetry hunter, I tried to thank her but she
Didn’t wanted comment.
Perhaps I was wrong
A wish to write as good
As the poems she read was wishful thinking.
From my part.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed her clear, impeccable voice.

When women rule

Today at the hospital my walked
on crutches ten meters on the way and the same
Distance back. Her swollen ankles were slim and downright **** thought of patting
her on her ample *** resisted
she said this act was gross.
How am I to argue we live in the century?
Of women in charge woo the man who did something
that could be construed as an act of invasion
he will be found out even if it happened 35 years ago.
The best he has to get a job as a street cleaner hopefully
or a prison warden, not a judge.
So think well all you masculine men what you did
when a mere teenage, hope no one will remember.

Useless war
Red crosses on the graveyard near the battle,
bled, corpses of dead soldiers flew in the air
soldiers killed twice, for the enemy once is not enough.
A skeletal hand land near him, he shuddered but had
to advance over the field as ordered.
There was a lull, he sat leaning to a boulder wondered
what he was doing here in a war far from home in
a country, not his, he had been told he was fighting for
his country but didn't believe it anymore.
This was a political war fought influence and greed it
had nothing to do with defending his country but
he was stuck in a deadly quagmire.
When the artillery struck up again, he got up advanced
and stepped on a landmine.

The view from a parking lot
  
No seagull is flying high
in the bay today, no ships at the anchorage
waiting for the pilot.
It is a day of stillness under a grey sky that
holds no promises of a tomorrow.
The supermarket's parking place is looking
down at the cemetery in more than one way,
one is selling food, the other is storing death.
I see people walking among the gravestones
Some stones are significant others modest in the end
it doesn't mean a thing in time the dead will be
forgotten and a new supermarket built to sell
food in new variations and alluring packaging
wrapped pretentiously but is the same old thing.

The Govemouse


Govemouse is a seal shaped animal, friendly
and they were plentiful often used as Sunday steak
and a must at Christmas when their meat was
used to make sausages and meatballs.
A villager, who had spent many years in France
brought sheep, and a few donkeys to help
carrying the harvest of carrots and cabbage down
from villagers fields.
Wool and meat make a sheep.
The Govemouse, no longer needed migrating down
to the coast, the few that stayed became pets
for the children and cared for by elderly women.
A road up to the village was built and many tourists
thinking it was romantic, but the strange man who
had lived among them took his knapsack and left
for the coast, where he noticed a ship in the bay that
had been abandoned by its owner and the crew had
not been paid for the last year.
They had nothing to eat and since they were paperless
could not go ashore.
What saved them from starvation was the Govemouse
that was happy to be useful again.

Palm oil

when one writes about minorities
no one wants to know, the next page about knitting, please.
We do not like to read about losers
and our responsibility for their failure.
A tsunami came rolled over the landscape, changed it
and the language, unstoppable misery for the people
who lived there, but it brought us the automobile.
The Palestinians have lost most of their land and now
they are losing more, except their dignity.
We don´t want to know, the next page about knitting, please.
Let us read about the super-rich, their yachts
and Rolls Royce, we like to see the pictures of them
in magazines, their villas and life mode
we dislike the truth, and it demands us to sit up straight
and think about the world and the orangutan losing
their habitat to palm oil.

New driving license

Going to the doctor make me nervous
I was renewing my driving license and feared they would say
no, you are too old and have many illnesses.
It was not so bad
I had to read the letters from a chart on the wall
the doc whispered something I had to repeat, And that was all.
Except I can´t drive faster than 90, that was no problem. as
I'm a slow driver at the best of times.
If stopped by the police, I will ask them for their tattoos a new rule today is that police have a tattoo that can be construed
as being of a racist nature( one wonders if this also include
naked women) have six months to remove them.
I have in my life at sea, never had a tattoo done this is because I'm not too fond of needles.
Now that I have diabetes, I use a needle every morning one gets used to what one dislikes.
We live at a time when everyone takes offence for bagatelles,
like throwing statues into the sea, it will not erase history which
when all is said is not flattering for the white man, if we keep
a narrow historical view on these things.

Wishing your well

I woke up early thinking it was New Year  day
and marvelled how mild it was.
The watch told me it was four o'clock and
the first of July, which is a festive day in the USA,
that is not as festive as wished this year.
Last New Year, we did not go out, the food is on
that day, usually third rate and overpriced, not
to mention the wine that is plunk
I'm not too fond of firework it makes me nervous and brings
memories of sitting in a basement while bombers
flew overhead looking for the airport.
On the way back they dropped the load, usually
over the sea, but accident happens.
I wish the USA well, and they have had some difficult
years, one hopes it will soon be over and
normality can sit in the White House again.

Mattress and roses
A great day in Cascais sunlit and moderately cold.
We are changing a mattress the new one was easy to handle
But the old was too heavy we need someone with
Arm muscles like Hercules and he was healthy.

I was thinking of getting a canary bird, let it fly around,
outside it would be killed by wild birds.

Resolved, the lair, angry disputes that were sealed with love.
Objectified as burrow were children didn’t enter.
Someone, homeless can sleep on it before it rains.
Eventually, the old mattress will end up in a landfilling-

Melancholy

This is a blue day it is like having a ring
of steel pressing against my head.
Nothing matters there is no outlet and I want to go home,
anywhere, to get away from myself.
I sit on the terrace look at the view it is ******* boring
****** sea like I shouldn’t have seen it before
after thirty years as a mariner.
This morning I saw athletic people running along the promenade
I sat in my car looked at my considerable stomach,
so that is what has become of me a fat old man sinking into
the woollen atmosphere of self-loathing the hatred against
the world only a loser feels.
Sexless, useless old age has made me a ****** whatever this
means I might have got the wrong spelling of the word and
my own poetry is not uplifting, too harmful to be read by anyone
who isn't contemplating suicide?
**** it all I will write no more, go sit in a bar till they throw me out.

Elderliness

Closer and closer they came
old women with faces made of lava
and stinking volcanic mouths.
Bodies of soil after years of drought,
dead oasis simmered
between thin thighs and haloes
of brittle hair.
They slowly stomped during ancient dust
covered their bird claw feet.
I turned and fled through a thorny bush.
Stumbled into indifference time.
Fell into a muddy lake
and drowned in a cascade of ages.

The Inn
Many years ago an uncle of mine
told a story what happened at a small hotel
near the sanatorium, the guest had been visiting loved ones.
The evening meal consisted of meat cakes in gravy with
stewed cabbage an boiled potatoes, Norway is not
famed for French cuisine, but they ate well.
In the end, there was only one meat cake left
and the landlady urged the guests to eat all,
no one wanted to so she switched off the light.
For a moment a stunned silence, then a high pitched
scream alarmed she switched on the light
a man sat there with five forks stuck in his hands.
On reflection, the story has a tinge of sadism,
and I cannot vouchsafe if the story is true.

kismet

A strange sound in the village, not an alarm
It went on in short intervals
Perhaps they were tasting something we
We were not a part of.
After some time, the sound went on me
Nerves it frightened me it was
The doom-laden telling of times to come when
Our world is aflame and hurtles through space
And all gold melts.
Ashes to ashes that is the way it goes

The future
There are moments when I wake up at night
and think of my death.
I know I will be instantly forgotten like
the great journalist Christopher Dickens
who died suddenly in Paris.
His friends will miss him but they
too will talk less about him as time goes by
I think it must be like this to be forgotten
as new people inherit the world
often for the wrong reason.
This new time frightens me although I shall
not be there and see it.
My hope had been for a friendly world, but
it looks like worse is to come and I see before
a spent globe hurtling through space.