The ending of so many things

Soon it will be January, and the is uplifting
soon I will be dead, and that is down sinking.
A life running into the sand, Sahara need to bloom
it can´t do so on camel dung alone.
My next holiday will be in Morocco.
I was walking past a crematorium it was smelling
of burnt sugar, and I was thinking of my mother
she used to brown sugar in a frying pan put it on
a roll paper she has put sugar on
When it cooled it, was delicious?
I scolded myself this not a moment to think of sweets
took off my hat when the mourners came out.

Depression

I wrote a poem that made me depressed
it took out me my natural sense of optimism
left me with the reality of the truth.
I never was a poet, only a lone man seeking
solace in an imaginary life.
Someone said my work was about my self
this is not so I write in the “I” form write
what I have read, what people have spoken and
what I think about the incredible life lived
at the outer edges of society.
Friends I had, only a few, have died
leaving me waiting for the knock on the door:
come now you can´t postpone it any longer.
I shall not go hollering into the good night,
passively submit, offer my heart and wait
for the axe to fall and I say let it be over quickly.

To be and not to be.

My respect for life is profound
I try to become a vegetarian, but when I visited a restaurant
it was wildly expensive,
mind, it looked posh with livered waiters and haughty diners.
Ate soup and a glass of water
what I’m looking for a place that doesn’t charge the earth
for carrots and beans even when artistically served.
I don’t ask for much, just a platter of greens that taste
almost as good as goat chops with salad.
I bought something at a vegan shop it looked like meat
fried it tasted artificial but ate it all since I have no dog
and hate to waste food.
In the evening I eat boiled cabbage with Portuguese
smoked sausages, to give the soup zing.
So, when not swatting flies, I’m respectful of life.

The tower of hope.

I think of the Vietnam war as the poorer classes war.
Soldiers were drafted, and they could not get lose,
in-growing, toenails or not. The war was lost before
it began on one side the US Soldiers who wanted
to go home, against those who wanted them to leave.
In the USA, war is fought, not for freedom
of the oppressed but for mineral and oil therefore
they end up on the wrong side of history.
The people of America have the freedom to argue
what is right but have no right to act upon their view.
It has not always been like this but the capitalist
the system got the power and smashed workers- unions,
the wages got lower and deep poverty was blamed
on the poor, the victims of the system were lazy.
The USA is a profoundly unhappy country who see
Washington as an enemy, hence the selling of arms
ready to act when the dream comes crashing down.

The office Desk.
The office desk made of solid oak
And the top was shiny as an ice-rink before showtime.
It is not shiny no more, coffee stains and drops of mysterious
Substances, could it be wine?
This desk was once where a judge sat condemning people
To hang if they didn’t conform to the politics of
The dictatorship spoke about democracy and other words
Of treason.
The drawers on the desk are full of unpublished manuscripts
And will be so forever, after all, they have had the distinction
Of being written, what more is there to ask?

Dreaming right

Watching an entertaining a program on TV a talk between
an Astro-physicist and a biologist, the astral-man was loud
given to interrupting the biologist, who was mild-mannered
English gentleman, I had read one of his books.
“how do we know we are not dreaming? Said biologist
Perhaps wishing he was.
I went for a walk when coming back home, I wondered
If I had been dreaming the walk, as I’m not fond of rambling.
To be sure, I took another walk.
Coming home, I was tired, but sure I had not been dreaming
or had I? but I was not going for a third stride.
I switched on the TV to watch the “outdoor man.”

The March

The best-designed plans
have the tendency
to not materialize.
Plan B and plan C
is the smoke of despair.
Overcoming obstacles,
try a new plan again
that doesn´t include
a third individual.
Postponing your journey
until the sunlit days
turn into fog and
a miasma of precipitation.
It rains on your parade
the triumph of the will
not yours
has won.

lights

Sitting on the verandah looking across the bay
he noticed all the lights blinked in the dark they had an amber hue
and the ship at anchor had bluish light
but the street lights near the building were still and cast light
in the darkness,
He thought the light across in the bay were busy talking to each other
after all, they had been none communicative during the day
and wanted to share the experience after a long silence.
the blue light from the ship that gets its current from a motor
in the engine-room were talking about the bad rain last week
or reminiscence about stormy nights in the Atlantic ocean.
When I came to the village, there was no street lighting, and we had real light except a lamp showing the way into the village.
The dog knew the way and nudge me when I was walking the wrong way colliding with stone fences.
Nevertheless, it was a good time, and there was peace in the land-

Black life matters


The world is in one mind,
“ Black life matters.”
we wholeheartedly agree with the downtrodden
and we must remedy this inequity.
With books in hands, and not guns.
To pay, like we paid the Jews for the holocaust
is to reduce suffering down to cash.
For the black race, it is about dignity and equality
nothing more nothing less.
We the working-class brown or white are slaves
under the laissez-faire economic system which
has brought poverty and death for a majority
of people: who is going to pay us?
There is only one way, change the social system
that benefit us and let us work together
to the road to racial tolerance.

The king and democracy
3.
king of Norway sits in his living room watching TV
and thinking of the old day when they lived in a big castle
which is now a museum and a nursery on the first floor.
The problem is the pesky democracy where everyone is equal
so much, so his wife left him for a shopkeeper.
His son and daughter live in Lisbon, Portugal is also
a democracy only less so, and the people address them as princess and crown-prince.
The king speaks to them on Skype, he is getting old and
remind his children they are royals, his children laugh
how can you get respect when you are not allowed to use
your titles and when they walk in the street, no one takes their hats off.
No, socialist/democracy makes royalty impossible.

Time is looking up

Today, for the first time in months
the restaurant was opening, and we had a proper
meal served
by a real waiter, although they were obliged
to use masks.
good food on a big table not too man people around
we had a wonderful time with a glass of red wine.
On Sunday the beaches were full and no one respected
the distance of two-meter,
I wasn´t there I dislike walking on sand and the voices
of young people reminded me of times gone by,
and of course. I do not tolerate sunlight after skin cancer.
But it was pleasing to get hot food, and not too something
served in boxes and left outside, warmed in the micro
still smelling of paper boxes.

Raindrops fall in the lake a ring of embraces
Soft and shy as a maiden’s kiss,
Welcome back my lovelies you have been a way too long.
On big leaved plants on the lake’s banks, pearls
Large and small glitter in the evening light for now
They too will fall roll into the lake, which will be whole
Again, after a summer with no precipitation.
The lake had become muddy and most trout died out.
Now it will be full and blue, admired by the sky.

the big lie

I surprise me the wrong choices we make to stake
our living in the tourist industry which has no future
and consist of bringing  some people from a to b,
instead of farming and smaller industry
I rather make holes in a horseshoe than being
an airline pilot, this useless occupation I can
think of.
We have sent our viable industry to China and
a created hole for ourselves so the bosses can make
a few pounds more it is tragic our shortcomings, we
have been side blinded by false promises and we walk
to the precipice for a day in the sun.
we have been hoodwinked into thinking a holiday is a human
right it is not, but work is, then a holiday nearby.

The whisper in red

I had been watching TV
And as often happen when I watch
A minute sleep only
A wisp of a young woman in a red ballerina dress.
Sat on the floor leaning her head at my leg.
When seeing I was awake, she got up
And disappeared silently as a falling leaf.
Later that evening I watch a French art program
And the lady in red was painted 120 years ago.
Was the one, the expert, spoke about
They knew it was Degas but none knew who she was.

Massacre
In Paris, the police fight firefighters
the press is silent, perhaps a small notice
on the back page.
Had the same thing happened in Hong Kong
the press and Tv commentators
would have had a great day, going on about
the dreadful Chinese.
The holocaust was a terrible time, so was
the killing of two million blacks when
the old king of Belgium had Congo as his private
playground.
This, of course, is forgotten, time moves on,
As the atrocities against the Jew will be gone  
Into the past, where everything is equal.

selling a dream

I like my little house in the interior of Algarve.
It used to be a stable for a mule and several sheep
and at the time, thirty years ago it was cheap.
They tell me those in the know I ought to paint the house in case I want to sell me.
I have no wish  to sell which disappoint real estate agents
who knock on my door and offer me a precise which is
an offer was made by the people of not knowledge, other than turning a buck.
People who think newness is is what people want.
It is not what they want is a place where they can feel at home and not
be bothered by what the ads tell them to like.
The house has cane roofs, and a prospective buyer said if he bought the house
he had to build a new roof.
I told him he was wasting his time I will not tolerate vandalism by people
whose dream is pedestrian.
I will return soon and feel the peace of honesty.

Not listening

The old poet, a Canadian of Jewish ancestry,
Was tall elegant, wearing a hat in a jaunty angle
Reminded me of Alfred, my imagined father
He had a winning personality.

Remember the coma they tell me and write
More about love, beautiful women and wine.


I used to wear a six-pence; Alfred made fun
of me, learn to play some music, he said
and read your North Pole stuff; that was a long
time ago before the Canadian became famous.

The forest we planted

In the flatland of western Norway
where the wind has no hesitation rolling sheep into a woolly ball
horses turned their **** to the wind hung their heads

Refusing to plough, something had to be done.
Trees were planted and to our surprise survived but crooked and
strong because the soil was fertile.

When the trees grew strong the shielded fields, the land was plough-able
again and no chicken was carried away by the wind
except for ducklings but as we know, they are brainless.

People began erecting small cabins in the woods it was not legal
but the moist hands of the law lived in the towns, and there was a beach
nearby so white it blinded you.

When the law, awoke from the task of checking driving licenses,
they came but could do little except given the cabins a permit which was a bonus for the middle -classes who bought the cottages.

Got permission to build them more significant with white painted fences property
is essential, and gates were set up, no authorized people here,
this proves that money takes preference.

When it rains

I look through my window at the star on the night sky
without them, it would have been like being blind
and I would have to look at the petrol station up the road
it is painted green and is not a wonder of architect wonder.
Sometimes rain heavy clouds block the stars,
I like rain it is needed, but not when it falls on me.
I walked in a night forest in the rain, looking for a lake that
has an inner glow from there I could find my way home
as the battery of my flashlight had gone.
I know what the animals snug in their burrows was thinking
what is this thundering fool doing here? A rabbit said he is looking for a lake to cure his heartache. We can understand
that a fox said hadn´t it been raining I would have guided him
with that the other animals fell about laughing.

The virus bites

I was going to my cardiologist tomorrow
her secretary rang and said it was not needed
the doctor would call me at noon.
I know as she, that I’m at an age where
if I get the virus the likelihood of survival is slim.
I know she will urge not to go out for weeks
I agree but will not obey totally.
As I write this Macron is speaking, he stresses
the importance of industry must survive.
Those who have nowhere to go, sleeping out,
will most likely not survive this is not spoken
of but it is there and the idea of this
Is not of concern, but we cannot say this,
we are humans and every life are equally vital.

Personal ghosts
       I don’t believe in ghost
because it doesn’t make sense
so, my logical brain tells me, but then what value my logic?
There are times when a shadow crosses my room
but when I turn to see what it is
it is gone.
A friend of mine said if there is a ghost, the Fantasma doesn’t
it is a Fantasma, but it is a residue of the past
that has yet to be erased into the forever.
This is good enough for me, but I once saw Neptune
he had a wig of seagrass and big ***** in his ***** hairs,
but that was long ago, and I was young and easily impressed.

Corona Beer
At the local supermarket, I bought a bottle of Corona beer
the market has shelves full no one buys it because of the name.
So far no one is wearing useless masks, but I try
not to touch my face and wash my hands as much of the people
who die from the virus are people over sixty- five?
When children get infected, it is mild like a cold, but they are
are spreading the illness to older adults.
Well, I don’t know any children if I see a child, I can cross
the street, but by doing so I can be run over by a car, every year
thousands of people are we going to ban cars?
Life goes on, we take our chances, and some of us survive.

America

I used to love America we never said the USA
as a young ******, it was the place to buy T. shirts, jeans
and white I never forget the name, Arrow shirts
the people full of optimism everything was possible
and the workers were relatively affluent.
the racial aspect never bothered us; we saw black workers
and white workers toiling on the harbour.
I was reading much back then and discovered I had lived
in a bubble.
In New Orleans, I came face to face with racism I hat
met an enormous black foreman he invited me to
the town centre the restaurant I liked he said we could
not go into, you see, they don´t want people of my colour.
OK, we went to a lesser place had a splendid meal
listened to jazz music.
He insisted following me to the ship, and I remember some
white shouting ****** lover. Onboard I read a novel by
James Baldwin, I didn´t sleep that night
Years later coming back to the USA, it had changed was
a more challenging place and there was on the radio,
endless talk
about the peril of socialism and the need to go to war.
I was older now and self- educated, knew it was no point
arguing with people who had been brainwashed.

The real poet
“I have miles to go…” David Frost.
Thinking of his beautiful poems as I walked
the corridors of the parking place
at the bottom of the building.
No, I’m not David Frost my life is too mundane
to fly on poetic wings.
Around and around five times makes one hour
all I get is smells of parked cars.
Still, as I walk, I think of poetry others have written
Not my own they are too practical
They sound like carpentry, and nails hammered into a plank
building a cabin on a mountainside.
That is the way it goes, and some are blessed
the rest of us are poetic cobblers.

Fear of rats
When I came to my friend’s house,
Doors were open he sat crying in a corner.
What’s wrong, I said. I think I’m going mad
Saw a rat on the kitchen table eating butter.

Some animals have a streak of humour
They often laugh of our antics.

I went into the kitchen and saw many vermin
Feasting on butter sandwiches, I ran
Out of the house and shouted to the crier
I’ll be back but have to go and buy bananas.

A president’s sad ending

Speaks into the empty office he hears an echo which
repeats his words, I´m the president.
His wife lives in New York and the only visitors he gets
are sycophants and from a pale sickly-looking man
who is as deluded as him?
All rooms are bare, and furniture moved to storage he
sleeps on a sofa in the office takes his meals in there too.
His valet helps him having a bath and change his suit.
The valet is black and has to endure the brunt of his rage about black people not voting for him.
It will all be Ok, Mr President the hapless man, whispers while helping the president to comb his hair.
Outside the police awaits the order to drag the president out
of his big house and his valet has signed a book deal.

long is the day
I went to bed at nine a bit early, but I was bored
fed up sitting in all day long, only punctuated going to the shops
where everyone wears a mask like they should be nurses
at mealtime.
People, in general, have stopped smiling no relaxing time
the distance between people deepens us more than physical
we are becoming strangers to one another.
A happy nation is becoming grumpy when waiting in line
at the pharmacy, a place of entertainment for the elderly.
Every TV station goes on about the coronavirus and which country
Leads in death numbers.
The USA has overtaken Italy on the fatality list, so it back to JB Fletcher
And old western movies.
We are becoming a nation of introverts. We are not Swedish
But Portuguese.

Reading the enemy

Chaos, a whirlwind of dreams and laughter
I read a conservative paper full of hysterical lies.
Trying to defend the rich and well to do.
Pathetic, their uproar became comical.

Goats like tobacco they chew and chew and
Ask for more, the swallow too quickly.

It was good to read this paper showing them
Contempt against the working-class
It is through the enemies’ writing we can find out
What a horrible lot the wealthy class are

Corona-19

Got up at eight this Sunday morning
switched on the computer and the Guardian
was full of the virus and how many had died.
I switched on the TV and watched a cartoon.
I follow the rules, wear a mask and clean
my hands, the rest is up to chance I refuse to
live in fear.
While writing these lines of homespun wisdom
a pigeon sits on the ledge if I wave my hand
it will flay away, and sometimes I wish to fly too
but I do not want to be a pigeon.

The long journey
I have been through the cosmos seen stars and planets
now I’m back to earth, I have seen so many things
right. Bad and ugly, but our world is the greenest, but
it is the only one that can’t keep the peace and the only one
that has religions pitting people against people.
Sadness is to think for every plant we eradicate and
for the animals we **** to make us weaker more soulless and robotic.  
The new virus might come from the earth itself a warning
To show some love and respect for nature
And all that habitats our planet.

The plague we created

There has been a virus spike near us
an actress died there was a picture of her
on the news when she received a prize
she a scarf flung over her shoulders
made her look artistic,
the garment appeared expensive only
for festive occasions and meeting the minister
of culture.
The virus is like the dust that flows on the road
it changes direction many times and might hit you.
The pestilence will disappear one day they say.
I don´t think so, where is it supposed to go
hiding in a cave or buried under the soil.
Perhaps we should stop eating jungle meat
or any meat, I´m thinking of chicken farming that is so unspeakable cruel we deserve what we get.
So, we wear masks only because it gives us the illusion of safety, and the chance will do the rest.

Handing Trump the election


I big cities in the Us people are running wild
this is not what “ black life matters” was about
a horde of people are running around destroying what is sacred
or should be, in cities of high crime.
We can argue the reason for this pointless criminality
to create mayhem for the sake of it, the fact many black people
live there and appear to gun-related gangs, not because
they are black but because they are uneducated and poor
living in squalor in drug-infested housing where only a few
survive by moving away.
The majority of letting us call them lost egoist people see
this lack of order and civility,
the high profile black leaders do little about this only come
out of their luxury home when there is a funeral
repeat the same trite words, but have nothing worthwhile to
say about crime and the woeful lack of education.
They the well off in the suburbia see this and not knowing
its origin, simply vote for Trump and so it goes on until
we live in in a failed state.

The new middle-class

I’m making a soup the house smells of garlic
they tell me, in building, I use too much of this delicious onion
here in Portugal were all meals has garlic as an ingredient.
But I do as I please, they can close a window or *******.
I do not belong here in an apartment building with snobs
who thinks they have reached, the middle-class status they?
Where striving to get a foothold.
There are three lifts two for people and one for cargo,
and workers I take that lift because it is mostly empty.
Many of the dwellers in this block are Portuguese and
have been working in France in a shared flat to save for
this, and kudos to them, but it is a mistake to look down
on the locals, by being rude; you are a stuck- lot
remember where you came from.

The blowing winds

As the wind blows from the North Atlantic Ocean
We are in awe by its forces but also scared us
Know in its power we are small dust particles.
Defeated, we stand and wait for its destruction.

Up and up the mountain wave the ship climbed
Down its *****, it raced, and we could only wait.

The wind can be a friend too when it blows
Ashore on a hot summer’s day and not forget
The morning breeze that gently caresses steers
Us to walk on roads the zephyr has dressed.

The skeleton
A hole was dug
In our street
The workers found a skeleton
Of a male.
Had he been religious
He would be an angel
Flying among stars
Had he been an atheist
He would
Continued to be a skeleton.

The king of a snowy country

the king sat on his throne in his underwear
his wife, the queen, was ironing his uniform.
The ambassador of Mongolia was arriving today
presenting his credential a word that made
the king giggle.
The king of Scandinavia is not well paid and
he has to pay for having a cleaning lady
comes twice a week, the good thing is he gets invited
out often as his presence lends kudos to a party
with plenty of food and wine.
The king sighs, his idiot son, is cycling around the park
dressed in jeans and disturbing the gardener.
The monarch has tried to tell his son he is a crown-prince
and should act with decorum.
The king didn´t want to be a king, a title he inherited
when his father died.
His wife comes in with the uniform he puts it on and
feels quite royal while putting all his medals to his chest.
His wife is going to a hairdresser, the king will open a tin
of sardines for his lunch.

The Avenue

it is a delight to get up early, say, six o'clock
the day smells fresh and the Avenue so busy at day time
looks comely and the many commercial banks look coy
as do the hair salons, nail bars and the yoga club.
it is is a wealthy neighbourhood, my wife cuts my hair
and she goes to a modest hairdresser in a part of the town
more modest.
Why I can´t understand is why people sleep so late
get up at ten when the best part of the day is over, dormant
under sceptical duvet breathing in the stale air
of slumber that has lasted too long.
Coffee is right in the morning I get mine at the petrol station
I drink my coffee and talk to no one
and the dogs taking their owner for a stroll have stopped
barking at me wagging of tails instead.

When death struck

I was rowing in a narrow fjord the sea was calm
Then rocks fell into the water disturbed the peace I rowed on
Until a part of the mountain fell formed gigantic wave
I was lifted riding the wave and saw a village disappear.
The boat splintered, but I was safe.
I looked down into the village people coming out not knowing
They were dead. I saw them dissolve becoming drips of water
Before they ran into the sea and was the sea.
I kept on walking and came to a valley of roses they know nothing
Of the tragedy that befell the people in the fjord.
I built a house in the belief; here, the sea would never reach me.

The socialist

Spilt coffee on the kitchen table
the liquid formed the face of Jesus, as painted by an artist.
The face has idealized the sum of we hoped for
handsome and not old.
Jesus was the Assange of his time, a contrarian telling
us the truth; we don’t like being told the truth.
The church, the capitalist of the time, adopted him
like he should be one of them.
They only did this when too many believed in his teaching
and the put quotes in his mouth what he never said.
Born in a stable by a lower-class family who was behind in rents
and thrown out, his father too up carpentry which Jesus
was no good at doing
He was more bookish walking around critical of the regime
which arrested him and then crucified him as a warning to
his many fans, but his equality talks are still around today
we call it socialism.

Spring

I was listening to Chopin’s “Spring.”
It was coming back, the spring I saw and felt
when I lived inland in my old cottage.
The flowers of blossoming almond trees,
the black soil and the greening of trees leaves,
the flowers on the roadside and
the intense aroma of nature.
Living in an apartment high up seasons come and go
I thought I had forgotten.
But Chopin had brought back memories.
Before I die, I would like to hear his music
again, it gives me harmony in my mind.

How to bribe

I like the mild winter evening in Portugal
the fire is lit, and my wife is preparing something to eat
while watching a soap program on the TV.
When driving home one evening, I was stopped by a village
police officer one front light wasn’t working correctly.
I thought of offering him a bribe, but I’m not
Don Corleone, so I signed the paper the fine would come
in the post.
The officer looked disappointed-they are not paid much-
perhaps I should have offered him money,
after all, it was near Christmas.  
I told my wife about the episode; she knew who he was
said he has his ***** hairs shaved every fortnight by the lady hairdresser,
like this has got anything to do with me.

Angst in the night

A nebulous soul was looking for a body to possess,
I was in a cocoon of dread pressed down
could not breaths
The thing, this being was stealing lungful of air.
Terror is a kitchen in a basement, with a floor made
of rough planks from sunken ships, white as the bones
of dead mariners
It has no smell,
Colourless,
And bloodless.
I got up and lit the night- light, the room was ice cold
the dog came with her body gave me warmth.
This misty being had tried to take my body its hunger
for life was endless.
In the morning sunlight warmed my face
my dog had come from the past and saved my life.

Memories and a farm

My mother had tuberculosis and sent to a sanatorium
I ended up in a home run by the local town and financed
by people who meant well
I made life difficult for the staff, and a tiny boy went on strike
they sent me to a farm, back then farmers were paid
by the community taking children from poor homes.
For me it was a beautiful place, the farmer and his wife were
a middle-aged couple and the demanded little of me except
getting up early milking the cows, they had five.
I have always liked animals and domestic animals
they had no reason to fear me.
The school was an hour walk away if I crossed the fields
it got shorter when I got a bike.
Years went by. My mother was coming back, although
she had only a small flat, and I had to sleep on the floor
I loved her and left the idyllic farm to memories.

verity


Truth is hard
bullets fly
in streets of poverty.
Gangs
pride,
getting even.
No work
no education
alcohol
drugs galore
slow suicide.
We can´t say
black
their life matters
The enemy
is the hatred
killing them
slowly.

this person you have never seen before.
If you saw Obama walking down the same street, you would
see him as a slightly balding man of colour, you certainly
would not call him a ****** unless you are bigoted racist.
If you see George Bush along the same street, you may
think he is a retired school teacher whether he was good
at his job wouldn´t cross your mind.
If you saw Joe Biden, you would think he was an old man
walking from a restaurant to his car, and not think
about his political past, and the wrong decision he has made.
If you talk about the merit of people in power, do so
by knowing what they have done, name-calling is an emotive
reaction and blind us for what good they might have done.

Sunday morning


I like to go home
to the village in the mountain
and the dog that loved me unreservedly
but she wanted to reinforce our bond
stroking her head whispering sweet words
I like to look back a whole lifetime for a dog
she was proud of me, a couple for a stroll
through her life.
Looking back I think this was my best moment
the creation of true friendship.

The actor

Tom Chance was an outstanding actor and friend
I saw him play a professor dying of cancer
The death scene was especially moving.
Tom had cancer too that killed him a few months later
I admired how he was able to separate
The role of real life.
Sometimes I wonder – I wasn’t there- when he died
For real he was able to see it as an act
He was going through.
Tom was not famous when “resting” he worked
As barman and mixed drinks with elegance.
I liked tom he was my friend but was I the fig leaf
Of his act, to give the impression, he wasn’t gay?

Not as Free as You think


We are free to have no constraint
Not so.
Our actions and words come at a price
And added responsibility.
Every word you utter, every act
Have echo that reverberates in
Some one’s mind
And can be damaging if not
The spoken is built on lies.to be silent
Is not an option when injustice?
Happens then it is a duty to talk.
You can be vilified, friends turn against
You but you have stated your opinion
And are truthful to yourself.

Looking inside the mirror

Rambling thoughts
Reflection in a window
Standing still
Frozen in time
Is this me?
Shall I not
Be anything
So many information.
Are my views
Mine
Or are other people’s
Opinions
Influencing me?
Is there charnel
Inside
That sifts the many viewpoints.
Are nothing
My original thoughts.

Madrigal

it is six in the morning
I get down and move the car from
the place reserved for vans.
This the best of times cooling before the heat begins
only a few people out walking their dogs enjoying
the peace of a beginning.
I could have parked my car in the space between
two cars, but I lose my nerves, this after 60 years of driving.
in the night the wind blew hard from the sea
tiring itself out, and me too I hate the wind it takes my breath away
leaves me a husk falling asleep in front of the TV.
Yesterday I carried water to the house, the porter usually
do this but my wife thinks he takes too much money.
Being able to carry bottles of water is better than not being
able to carry water, my heart does not agree.