Tanka

Tiny footsteps
Leading to a decorative pond
It had lilies and leaves
A scream tore the sky apart
Lilies and leaves

A life Time
How long is a lifetime it cannot be measured in years
my brother died young yet left behind five children
and I was born a weakling – he will never grow old
doctors said- weak heart and pacemaker, I’m kept alive
by modern medical science and have lived to get old.
I know the end can strike anytime anywhere, but I will
not think about it. However, long my life time it has been
short as I leave nothing behind to be remembered for.
“As my father said”, a made up lie, no one will have to
make up stories about me

Birthday

A day of sadness and wasted years a poet who
has to pay to be published how pathetic  is that?
We, my companion and I found a restaurant and
for lunch she ate something  African.
I had  a schnitzel that looked as the white meat of
a rat that had taken the pledge lost my appetite.
Instead, I had a double portion of fresh cut salad
followed by a tomato salad with a bit of mozzarella.
I lifted my glass of water saw the eatery  through
tears not shed, the few friends I had in Algarve
have all gone they could not stop in time.
The conversations, wit and bottles of red wine  
kept flowing, it had to stop so I took the bus home.
Now it is only my beloved and I left and every year
I love her more. At night with a heart full of dread
I snuggle up to her, she strokes my somnolent head
until I fall asleep again and sadness drifts away.

A reflection

Today is the last day of June and thanks
to a northerly wind and some rain, it has been a good month.
It is a Siberian airstream wonder if it knew
I was a communist until I saw it was just a dictatorship
where men in ill-fitting suit decided our future usually so old
they lived in another century their idea of freedom had
little to do with reality.
Today Russia is a modern state semi – democratic and there
is a freedom of speech if played by soft violin music.
But Russia is worried the mighty USA is spoiling for a war.
I will not think of the afternoon, enjoy the cooling wind
and let the world pass by.

After the Concert
…And now in the afternoon of my life
my thoughts are about love and romance
these pesky things that disturbed my tough
exterior and made me soft and weepy
when no one looked are now in the forefront
Yes, I'm a sentimental old fool
words of love and music for the heart makes
me cry it loosens the knot of old
resentments and tells me nothing matter in life
except loving someone and not to be afraid
to say so, love is freedom it gladdens the tired heart
and cleanses the dust that has fallen on the wisdom
and truth.

Meeting a Friend
I met my old friend Joao at the pharmacist today
a place we old ones go to buy medicine and to
meet friends still alive, it occurred to me the pharmacy
and the cemetery is only five minutes, walk away
from each other. Joao had gone thin he used to be
a house builder with a big muscular frame and now
before me an old man who had lost his ready smile
and a funny riposte to any argument.

But I saw something else in his eyes, a dread, it was
as he realised the finality of his life, a pleading to
to nature that he was the one who escaped to
the paradise island where the word death does not
exist in the local language of the tribe who live there,
but there was no succour; he had lost the battle.

A musician at Heart
The uphill farmer had three sons who were small
and had gnome-like features they sat in
the wheel -barrow he was exhibiting them at
local fair to make some money, they hissed and pulled
faces their father didn't care if he was lucky
someone, a circus owner, could buy them.
People like ogling those of odd shape and laugh.
The farmer had good luck that day sold his goblins for
a tidy sum bow he could afford to buy two more cows
sheep and a new horse, the one he had were for
the knackers yard; he could also do what he liked best
playing his fiddle at weddings and so on.
In the night, the barn without a goblin took fire and
burnt to the ground, but he was not down-hearted
he had been able to save his violin; farming didn't
interest him and now he was free of pixies and cows.

Forgotten ***
As we were eating an omelette with tomatoes
I asked my wife if we ever had *** because I had
difficulties in remembering it or rather picture it.
She said yes and said I was quite good at it which
was flattering like being a good driver, I was once
offered a job as taxi-driver but said no too boring.
Then slowly I remembered something I had to
do late at night when I would rather read a book
as there was no TV back then.

I remember it as a sweaty embrace, the fumbling
and the ridiculous positions and then to be careful
pumping along till she was ready and at ease.
She wanted to sleep close to me her hair in my face
and I was thinking if lucky it will take a week before
I had to do something with her peculiar needs.

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


Haiku
Experienced fingers
Squeeze the cow's teats tenderly
A dreaming milkmaid

Haiku
Yesterday was sunny
Today the sun also shines
Tomorrow who knows?

Poetry Reading in Oslo
Never had the lack of talent exhibited itself in so many poets.
I'm referring to a poetry fest in Oslo- years ago- for whom
Norwegian was not their first language.
On a wooden table booklets of third-rate poetry trying to
look invisible disowning the poet's feeble effort to make
words sing. The poetry reading was disrupted the readers
a military band next door a blessing for the listeners of
trite words of love. Among the naïve public, women looking
for *** with young poets thinking it was romantic.
What a moth-eaten group of poets assembled in this cold and
indifferent land, hope is when they came home sat down and
through hard work gave birth to poetry.

The Dead Awakens

The elderly man was on holiday up north when he realised
his wallet was at the hotel and in his other jacket problem
he had forgotten the name of the hotel.
Luckily he had a few notes in his watch pocket and loose change enough
to take the bus home, the tour took 12 hours
on a bus that was full job seekers and their children.
At home he remembered the name of the hotel, he rang
through Skype spoke to the reception who said “but you
died two days ago.” Do you remember me the old man asked?”
“Yes, said the man at the desk, but you're dead we saw you at
the morgue.” The old man took the first flight back to the hotel he was hit
by a golf ball were a famous golfer was
showed the crowd how far he could shoot from the Eifel tower.
The receptionist came out and said, “I told him he was dead, but he didn't believe me. “

Pegasus

I saw a plane coming from Lisbon flying high,
It was a clear night sky; I could see a horse flying
besides the plane “did you see that” the first pilot said,
to the second pilot. Yes, it was Pegasus delivering books
to those who cannot read.
We are coming back; something is wrong, the pilot said,
The chief pilot lit a cigarette, which is not allowed,
the second officer objected it was not legal.
When the plane was ready to fly again, it had another chief pilot
the second officer had reported the old one.

Execution
Shots in the night
The child asked at
the breakfast table
they hushed him.
It had
been snowing
the prisoners camp
was empty
but he saw bodies
on the ground
A sergeant
took his hand
led him home
said the prisoners
had moved
to another site.
Later that day
his friends
the soldiers
were silent.
The winter sun
softened
the snow.
Next day he saw
grass greening
it was spring

Dark is the Night

I wake up at nights
And think of death to the point
When I wake up and it is dawn
Now that Fidel Castro is dead as well
I'm losing the last link with the past
I was in Havana pre-Castro
Wild night of debauchery great for us
But I saw the suffering as the dance
Got wilder and wilder in our ignorance
As young sailors we thought was
Paradise; then the man came down from
The mountain and like Jesus chased sellers
Of dubious wares out of the temple he chased
The *****-masters away back to Florida mostly
And sent women to school
The price was high his sullen neighbours
Never forgave him for taken their playground away

The News Today
Louvre in Paris has closed its door the staffs stand
on the steps and sing the national anthem they have
no lifeboats and can't stop Louvre being filled with
the art of debris, cleaning up will be a headache
what is art and what is *******.
Meanwhile, 80 million rats have sought higher ground
occupying rich people’s homes sleeping and eating silk
sheets and Foie gras get drunk and aggressive on rare
wine and defecating on Persian carpets  

Also in the news, a boy in Japan has been dancing with
bears and eating their blueberry jam.
The boy says he will be a zookeeper when he grows up
to put his parents in a cage. The rest of the news is boring
the routine stuff about useless wars on sand dunes

Albatross
She has an albatross sits on her shoulder it doesn't
lay eggs. Grey-faced this burden
demanding to be fed. ***** floppy wings
and shrieks, her mother has bird droppings
on the back of her coat

Time and Doom

Time marches on Angels fall is not big, but a trickle
descending the mountainside like an old man *******
and the lump of ice in the sun's core is getting bigger.

The sun is the enemy sending rays of frost and make
statues of frozen cats, we have to tan our faces in
moonlight and twinkling stars in a night of silver light.

A tap on the door the man with scythe is a gardener
but don't  get fooled it is you he wants, not the lawn;
his eyes burn bright hypnotising you.

Yes, the time marches on when the forest in Brazil has been
burnt to the cinder to give space for hamburger cattle which
will soon die of thirst as rivers run dry.

When the Seine is a motorway -toll both at both ends- and
Holland is under water, in Amsterdam swim glad dolphins
and the Dutch have invaded Norway.

Then perhaps, it's time to agree with the doomsday people.

An Actor's life
My life as an artist lasted long although no one saw me acting
only that my behaviour changed if I had read a book and liked
the hero in it, or seen a western movie; became that person.
I could remember pages of lines from a book and the dialogue
in a movie spitting words our, whispering them or roaring like
a wounded gladiator, I had many friends, but they lived in my
head and when at sea lived like a frugal monk who had taken
the vow of silence spending time reading and dreaming.
Walking down the gangplank going ashore I was an FBI agent
on a secret mission and if there was a loud noise I reached
inside my coat-jacket like a had a gun there and looked where
the din came from; people noticed this and moved away from
this odd person at the bar. My favourite act was the as a man
with a writer's block, walked around with paper and pen, what
I hoped was a soulful look women liked that, but less so when
a boozing loudmouthed cowboy.
These days when reading poetry my wish is to be a good poet
that doesn't slam doors when leaving; you see I find myself so
tedious I have invented a character interesting and full of life.

To Gina
When you have gone the echo
Of your presence is a phone
Ringing in an empty room

Dust settles on the window sill
And soft rain embraces
The lawn

The outdoor lamp wraps
Itself around a forgotten
Plastic chair

The stillness has no peace,
Restless I sit and wait
For your melody to come

A faint whiff of your perfume
Lingers, a vague promise you
Will return soon

A sad shanty

We had sailed the seven seas
the schooner I met in the tranquil bay
she had a figurehead made of mahogany
anchor chain made of silver
and her deck was scrubbed every day.
Alas beside her a brig made of the same
timber as the schooner
and had never left the safety of the bay.
Side by said we slowly heave but our
dream of the south seas has been suspended

The slum

When I was born the manger was occupied
I got a cot at a Home run by the salvation- army
and stayed the until my step-grandmother committed suicide  
by jumping out of the third-floor window, she was going
to join my grandfather
A funny thing about the window it kept opening up by itself
for years afterwards.
The home, the SA ran was called the slum, the flat we got
nearby, as was also the big white house belonging
to a shipping magnate, he was born in the house and was
not about to leave for a fancy building out of town.
For us children, it was just a name and had no connotation  
of poverty or low life.
My best friend Alf lived permanently at the Home and later
became a chief train conductor in South Africa.
I met him once in Johannesburg entrenched in middle classness
big house and servants, something of a change from the slum.

Vehicle Island

While the owners of parked cars at the seaside
sat in overcrowded restaurants and was served
by sweat dripping waiters the cars started and
drove in a neat formation into the sea.
A mass suicide that lit up the sea for hours, but
more cars came and they became an island
and when there were no more cars left, motorbikes
were used as top soil.
Up from this mess grew traffic cones filling the space
with stop signs and pelican crossings.
A bike, a fortune for a bike, the moneyed class said
and there were the street fights; “it is my bike no I saw it first”
the veneer of civility broke down.
When the populace stole the horses of the Gypsies
undelaying social hatred broke out; it was their right
to steal to defend their country and the Gypsies
horseless now had to live behind tall walls this because
prisoners don’t need cars.

The kismet
From sea to ocean
Has been you denied
No giant breaker be
But settle
For the second best
A ripple on
A summer lake

The Bus Trip
We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take
the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.
On the bus, you might risk sitting by someone who can't afford
water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to
use a ***** and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water
away when it is raining

I'm  a tonic water socialist and read the Guardian, crystal glasses
and a sneaky *** on the loo. To meet a proper working class person
would shatter my illusion and bring back a memory of my father last time
I saw him it was on a bus and he was drunk.
I will drive- anyway- not long from now I will not be able to they are
putting up obstacles to stop us old ones driving

Mare Nostrum
On the coast of Augusta, in Cecilia this wonderful sea,
the bluest of turquoise, transparent and I saw fish play.
Blood and bloated corpses have made the sea less pretty
and fish nibbles on cadavers of those who tried to cross
the sea to escape the lunacy we created in Libya.

A president short of stature but with inflated ego plus
philosopher idiot, two men were responsible this disaster
of a war just to get rid of a dictator one of them had lent
money of the other who should not be left out of his confine
of academia, he should have in hidden in a university writing
books only historians take a passing interest in.

As it is the impossible vain man get feted, all because he is
an intellectual and wears a velvet jacket and clean collars.
My old Mafia friend Thomas the knife, has invited me to
Augusta, I will go there but not swim the hazy sea, but we
will eat langouste, drink child wine and talk about the days
when philosophers and presidents left us alone to **** only
when needed and never the innocent.

Phobic condition

I woke up it was afternoon and I had made
guest appearance  in my dream.
it was winter I stayed on the sunny side
of the road watching you struggling with your emotions.
I shook my head and told the swans flying to Africa,
on the way he never gets past sixteen and his wings
are not properly developed.
Stop making excuses we have seen him fly, at night
he lacks the courage to make it in public
if you leave him alone and stop worrying he just might
make it to the podium  and speak his poetry

Mystery Ship
It was a hot afternoon when a big bulk carrier left a harbour
on the coast of Bengali bound for Sydney, Australia, with a cargo
of scrap iron of ships that once had ploughed the seas that had
a retreat for some and work for others.
Then the sea parted the ship fell into timeless zone where life
repeats itself the cook is making soup and the captain studies
a map of ocean currents and lived in the now.

150 years passed, a convulsion through the zone and the ship
was back on the sea surface again and the cook served his soup.
The captain called up the harbour authorities needed a birth for
a ship no one had heard of, but its manifest stated, Sydney,
they let the ship birth on a disused pier far from the city to
the disappointment of the crew who had wanted to go ashore.

When the pilot left he was pale and shaken he felt as he had
been talking to the ghosts through layers of yesterdays.
The official from shore found quantities of cigarettes and whisky
products that had been illegal for the last sixty years in the chief
stewards store, only marijuana was legal, good for the health if  
smoked in moderation.      

The crew was arrested send them to a camp for interrogation, but
it was clear they were brainwashed not even water torture helped.
Then it was noticed the crew of the ship were getting older first slowly
then rapidly, nurses were called for, to look after men who could no
longer walk and many were incontinent suffering advanced Alzheimer
disease and chronic heart failure.

One morning nurses found skeletons, dark in colour and very old,
like waterlogged wood that had been thrown ashore by an irate
Storm and onto the strand of time by. This was the same time
as the ship they came in sank and broke into pieces of rusty iron.
There were rumours in Sydney about aliens, those who knew were
forbidden to speak, and experts could continue to talk about how
a ship sank so suddenly and disappeared in the sea of Bay of Bengal
on a hot afternoon 150 years ago.

The Stalkers

Under the celestial awning
There are degrees of darkness
Stygian and silky night - blue
Secret light seeps out of hurts
Soon absorbed by night's hue
By the quay lovers watch light
Commit suicide in dark waters
Only the sleepless see this and
Night prowlers with knives
Killing someone with passion
And bath in blood at midnight

The Repentor

The morning rays lay
a carpet of gold
on the bedroom floor.
Last night I stroked
her long, black hair
while thoughts
Flew high,
back to the first
love of my life.
What I have lost
is forever mine.
Shadows deepen
between us
the carpet fades
the floor board
creaks
under the weight
of regrets.

The cloud of Abyss
It was a perfect day cobalt sky and azure, glittering sea
When a stygian cloud came from the east the Lord of Wars
Had spat phlegm spraying us with horror

Inside this monstrosity body parts, headless bodies were
Flying by the noise was unearthly and my little dog
Sought shelter under my coat bought in Hamburg.

When the cloud had passed, I saw a landscape
Devastated as Ypres in the Great War when then as
Know millions of people had died for nothing.

My dog was limp and had stopped breathing I blew
Life back into it and in the terrible noise of the sky
We heard nothing, not even the stillness.

The master of wars was paying us a visit, the peace
We had enjoyed had lasted too long it was time for
Bloodletting, the revenge of the sand dwellers

Family Matters
There is a family nearby argues a lot fall out then makes
friends again with a glass of bubbly and an embrace.
As it is, I have fallen out with an assortment of relatives
who have stopped sending me pictures of babies which
is a relief not seeing them or their ghastly infants again
My solitude as a hole in my heart I'm Mary Celeste
a schooner found with all its trimming and hot food on
the stove but no one to ladle it out and acerbic wit falls
like an anchor chain into the sea of incomprehension,
is he making fun of us; yes, but only gently so.
I must get a dog hate walking alone I used to have one
it liked my talk demanded nothing but love it is easy to
give to a creature that gives unconditional affection
I have drowned friends on the Facebook they didn't see
politics as shifting sand and could accept we are entering
a new era and a new explanation for our human conditions
is needed instead of the corrupted social liberals who are
idealists of a utopia, we shall not obtain.
If I had a grandson, I could take him fishing in the dry lake
he would see what I once saw go home and tell  his mum,
who would shake her head and say you are turning   my son
into a dreamer, one fabulist in the family is enough.

Conflict of the conscious

There things
We don't want
To remember
It is there buried
Under layers
Of lies
Like a worm
Worming it way
Through
Mud
It tries to force
Us to see
To confront oneself
Is a hard thing to do

My Phizog
Strange what one remembers?
after looking through ******* magazine and skipping
the dreary articles, written by it founder
I came across this quote: “every man over forty is
responsible for his own face.”
at the time when reading it I was thirty and was not
unduly worried, but now nearly 50 years later I recalled
the saying.  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, no
I didn’t look anything near forty, hair gone and sagging the skin.
Face-lift? Out of the question, I had no desire to look like
yesterday’s refry. I smiled, the face in the mirror too smiled,
two old mates accepting each other’s elderliness and I came
to the conclusion that I’m rather fond of my face.

My Special Horse
She was a little fjording horse not much bigger than
a pony. And she liked human company and she had
a soft spot for me who was lad no more than ten at
the time.  When she was out grazing in the long hazy
spring evening, she came up to the fence and I could
mount her and ride ******* through the evening,
only she continued grazing she only wanted me to sit
there and talk softly about the great things I was going
to do when the sceptre of youth was handed to me.
She- dokka her name- never had a foal, perhaps she saw
me as the substitute. A child is powerless, and my horse
was sold to a horse dealer, the farmer bought a tractor
it was blue and noisy and often broke down that was
because the farmer didn’t understand the working of
the gears and he lamented selling the horse.
the best of time we see when looking back and I know
now the best of time was sitting on the horseback dreaming.

The useless

A dead tree on the plain
Seen at first
Hazy light
Appears romantic
But is essentially useless
No Birds sing
A man without children
Is a dead tree
In his arms, a child shall
Not smile.
In misty light
A walking ghost
Going to his grave
Alone

The Displaced

The Rohingya people are fleeing Myanmar where
they have lived for many generations, the British when it was
called Burma, gave them passports; they had a homeland.
This has now been taking away from them, their villages burnt
to the ground, many young men killed.
They are a people made homeless mainly because they are
Moslem in a Buddhist country,
or is Buddhism a religion, based on the teaching of Buddha,
a wise man who lived in his mother's garden and spoke about
peace and tolerance. Is there a religion called Socrates?
Why is this holocaust so utterly underreported? Again one has
To ask the question: is it because they are Moslems.

The Islamisation of the world

Birds began falling from the sky, first a few but then
millions of birds fell dead to the ground one had to take
cover for not being killed by the mass of feathered deaths.
The sky was poisoned by our underarm sprays and other
stuff we used to cover our natural human scent, days of
silence but not for long, insects had no enemy bred fast
and we slithered ankle deep in bird droppings.

Summer,  not a pleasure everyone sat indoors feeding
canary birds while swarms of insects clouded the sun.
a burqa that covered the whole body was the solution,
aftershave lotion and perfumes were forbidden and there
were aroma patrols walked around the neighbourhood  
50 lashes and six months jail for anyone who wore the slightest
a whiff of perfume; and overnight we became Muslims.

Junk Friday
I was going to write about consumerism but thought
What the ******* point when people get up at five
To buy tumble drier they already have or a computer
The one they have can be upgraded
But I’m missing the point people like new shiny object
Like crows buy what the already have, and it is good
For the business to consume it keeps people at work
Even if the product is made far away.
I don't think this junk do anything for the employment
Figure other that robbing the soil for mineral, but I know nothing
Old fashion not thinking we need what we have but the laugh
And tell I know nothing of modern appliances.
So you can have your Black Friday be fooled by capitalism
That  knows you like shiny things

Penniless in Le Havre

At the time of my nadir penniless in Le Havre in the drizzle
Saw a blue neon light of a bar I meet sailors there from my own country
They gave me cigarettes and wine, money enough to take the train home
Only among the poor do you find selfless generosity
I had a pencil, and a note block tried to collect my thought to find out what
I was thinking found out I was more educated than I expected, that is
What reading a thousand books do to you, alas I also knew my limitation
My difficulty in functioning in the world we live in.

I bought a typewriter but had no grammar what saved me from go under
Was a heart attack the authorities gave me a small pension enough
To live on and the time to learn and I have written what I wanted to say
In the process lost some friends and gained some others, but most of all
I have tried not becoming satisfied when so much I see is rotten because
When you get old, it is easy to fall into the trap of selfishness.

2018
We sat at a restaurant had a meal which was expensive
Since it was New Year Eve, the intention was to go home
But my wife met some French people, her first language is French
And she was happy to speak her own tongue.
I don't speak a word of that Roman soldier's dialect and sat for
five hours waiting for twelve o'clock it was a drawn-out birth.
Went for a walk, down at the marina I thought of throwing myself
Into the water to break the ennui, but the water was dark and cold
And the chance to be rescued by a dolphin was near null.
New Year 30 years ago I came to this restaurant I had fallen off a ship,
Dripping wet I was nevertheless welcomed and was given food and wine.
Next day I had a cold and decided to move inland away from the sea.
I remember when I swam ashore a dolphin came I held on to it and
The friendly animal piloted me to shallow water.

A Fable Sonnet
I was flying high, yet it was hot my wings were tired
Spotted a well flew down and sat by its side
leant forward and saw me in the still cool water,
but I saw something else a dark shadow pushed me
and I fell into the cold water, looked up but the evil
wasn’t there and as the sun was going west daylight
disappeared, but luckily for me, I had sharp talons and
could claw my way back up to the rim of the well.

It was night and evil sat by the fireside reading a book
of magic I couched its eyes out its scream brought
thunder and hailstones and evil ran outside to cool his
dead eyes he fell the well and called for help
what could I do a bird with silky feathers I flew up to
the sky and his screams bore the suffering of humankind

Joy and Sadness

Every porthole on the ship had flowers
the deck was  an idyllic glade, her masts
made out of eucalyptus and the radar was
an olive tree, the bridge was covered in
climbing roses, the sea was unruffled as
the mirror in the big hall of the ship Titanic
before tragedy struck.  

I didn’t like this dream it made me fearful
I looked in the archive of happy ships only
found one ship the old ****** rode the ocean
with the routine of a Reeperbahn ****
and laughed at the face of oncoming storms.
She was sold to a scrap yard and made into
nails which I used when building my house

Vagabond

I found a sweet shop in the middle of nowhere,
bought a box of Swiss chocolate,
took my sack of hay given to me by a kind  farmer
for a mattress.
I sleep on top of the kitchen table for fear of rats,
with only a horse blanket and hard oak.
The candy seller’s daughter is
getting married to her own image,
a gilded mirror. Last night
I fell off the table dreamed I was back at sea
and the ship was pitching and rolling;
bet I gave the rats a fright.
I went to the wedding of the candy man’s daughter,
it was a sweet affair, the priest had a sugar rush,
he cried when she tenderly kissed the looking glass.

Love story
Eva Braun was a Greenland seal lived in an aquarium Herr ****** Liked animals
his dog loved him truly. Dog lovers are supposed to be kind. Love on first sight.
So perhaps there was a call for a loving word that was denied in his childhood;
by the fireside and on his lap the dog sat and he whispered sweet words into
the dog’s ear a moment when his mind was not contaminated by Jewish blood.  
In the country, I lived in there were many islands most of them have
a bridge now and no longer feels like islands.  Nevertheless we were standing
by the gangway of a ferry you were going to see your sister, I knew you were
getting away from me. My love for you were total, yours were not, you just left
without telling me why. Distances I beginning to feel but my unhappiness was
an annoyance, you gave me a phone number too, but it didn’t work, gurgling noises
a phone dropped into a fish tank, but I heard repressed laughter
You were married to a sea master golden rings on is uniform and that is ok;
you and the master of the sea never got children. Widow a childless woman
your dishonesty bothers me, Eva Braun’s fish tale was as phony as
your love for me was.

Naïveté


It is cold; sea spray painted the ship white,
light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clinking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face on thick glass on
The porthole, we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire and
give a **** about sailor’s miserable life.
Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls;
look at that sea, so verdant, delicate brush
strokes too; the artist died at a mad house.

The Disappearing act
Hellas has vanished from Europe, they are looking
here and there but it cannot be found on any map.
Banks are in a frenzy they have lent money to
to a Greek tragedy an illusion, the only thing left is
“A Big Fat Wedding” a movie played by Jewish actors.
I trick of the eye grapes on the vine is a chimera and
Germany is taking a haircut.

Remember Grozny

years ago it was
bombed to submission
like Aleppo
The Russian troops
walked into
a devastated city
They found a sixteen
year old boy
hanged him on a lamppost
That is what
happens in wars
it makes us into beasts

October Friday
This morning was green and a mild wind from
Morocco blew I was in Casablanca once
bought a pair of slippers it is what one does
when going to the market there.
The weather- man on TV said Africa, but Africa
is a continent and many other things.
A man in the next village had killed his wife it
is for women getting married a perilous activity
the lottery of life is littered unlucky females.
The sun shines over Mosul too and Iraqi officers
are paraded on TV, they are having a break now
before the big offensive, sounds like propaganda,
we see tanks fire at something over the horizon
but where is the enemy?
400 hundred IS fighters killed by bombing not
a word about civilian casualties we reserve that
for Aleppo where, they are actually  counted
and given a name DEAD!
My neighbour has a nagging wife she needs *** or
Be made a fuzz of lack of it makes her scream a lot
and when she does he saddle up his mule and goes
for a ride  into the woods of happy memories.

The Fear
Now that it is Christmas, Nordic Jul or Hanukkah
there is much talk about the soul
like it should be an identity floating about
as a body less person.
To believe in a soul apart from body is a fallacy
the last bastion for dreamers,
those who believe in an afterlife
the will to accept death is the end of life.
Whether you put hundred on a grave
it doesn’t matter for the dead only
the florist thrives and
those who in the night steal flowers
for a lover; body and soul are
inseparable but there are times the soul
disappears first by Alzheimer
one hopes the body will join the absent soul
before memories has erased
the life the remembered.

The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia

Morning in Oslo, from my hotel room I see many roofs
most of them of the same design; tidy, I wondered if they
employed a roof sweeper.
Social democracy in action cold and efficient not given
to surface passion, even their homegrown terrorists is
boring but dangerous.
Streets in Oslo are clean too so spotless they look
somehow defenceless and slightly obscene.
The citizens are restraint, tolerantly wait for traffic light
to turn green so the can cross even if no cars are coming.
But there is another Oslo especially at weekends
when people drink an enormous about of beer fight breaks
out and knives shine in moonlit nights.
The lust for ****** hark backs to a shared cataleptic
memory; and you know there is a pent-up passion
In the hideous heart of Scandinavia