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

A port in Italy

Livorno was a dark town with sparse light that appeared Russian
at an open place with many trucks and many women milling about
I paid one she bent over the bonnet of a car
did this to relieve the boredom and the onset of depression.
When the deed was done, I walked to a restaurant and bought
a bottle of wine, it was surprisingly good, probably Russian
I do not care for Italian wine.
The woman followed me, wanted wine also, said I was gentle.
After two bottles, she said she loved me.
When she went into the loo. I jumped into a taxi and drove
back to the ship feeling annoyed.
What has love got to do with this?

Love is a pain in the neck

It was an odd week of lovelornness
he kept singing, “born to lose, and now I´m losing you.”
Perhaps it was an Elvis Priestly song.
He sighed a lot, but otherwise slept well.
He had been a victim of his ego.
The song in his head finally disappeared,
there were
So, many beautiful girls around that summer.
He sometimes sang the song “blanket on the ground.”
***** Nelson´s?
Does a sweet song beget love or is it love that begets?
a sweet song?

A War Hero  


The big gull stood on its realm, ocean cleaned rocks
of the outer sea, snowy white chest, blue/grey wings
that spanned big as an osprey’s, yellow beak and
clear green eyes, but when a hint of red anger in them
gleamed other gulls flew clear.

When the ocean is irate and breaks over rocks it
take abode in a coastal town where it is well know
and famous, for once it shat on Adolf ******’s hat as
he strode from his yacht and a band of Quislings,
played Austrian oompah music  

Domestic Nazis went to the shoals, tried to blow
them up, but the sea was white topped their boat
sprung a leak and they had to be rescued by local
fishermen, who were told not to speak of this affair;
an impossible request… of course.    

The seagull became a symbol of resistance and
also showed how banal dictatorship can be when
it puts a prize on a gull’s head and hunts it with
flying machines. Vanity is silly as pride and fools
silver, fishermen and war heroes know that.

Nothing happens here

In the next village, a man was trapped under his tractor
and in another village, a man fell out of an oak tree
No one asked what he was doing there but his
trousers’ zip was open which caused endless rumours
he also had binoculars, so he was a bird watcher then
only most birds have flown to Africa this time of year.
Emma, the nurse, lives nearby, and she always keeps
a window open when she does her aerobics in the ****  
My left leg hurts I have to use a crutch had a fall you see
but not in our village nothing happens here.

Redemption
The dogs barked hysterically in the night
Not a normal warning of a dog trying to sneak in
Dog do not know charity unless thought by man
to show sympathy.
Light came on people of faith crossed themselves
something like a wave had passed through the village
it was the ghosts of soldiers who had fought
and killed many civilian, now seeking redemption.
Unforgiven forever marching trying to find a sanctuary

Fisherman's cap

There had been a storm and a 100 years wave
had struck many fishing vessels sunk
I found on the beach a yellow southwestern cap I wondered
if the owner of the cap was on deck
when the mountain of water hit and splintered his boat
into pieces that would drift ashore collected
as winter wood for the poor  
Had the wave knocked him out, and he died unconscious
of the horror of the raging ocean no time to think of
his wife or friends left behind, and fishes would eat him
Maceral are fond of human flesh, I found a finger
once when gutting a maceral, it read “from Maria forever.”
I took the waterproof put it on a stone
perhaps a passer-by might find it put it on his head
not knowing about the tragedy at sea.

When Satan Ruled
The intellectual class writing words on paper
has one truth, the class who are bent over a plough
has one truth too and think the devil with a long tie
has many things to offer like work and a decent standard
of living, the high-brow lot scoffs at this
saying the ploughmen are misled and don't read the facts
but facts depend upon what one reads into it.
Some states ignore this seek an audience with the man
of a thousand deals and are willing to sign a pact with
a bloke too crude for their salons, yet when it comes to money
are willing to give him a blow-job, while secretly plot his
downfall and churches tell of parables of the devil and sin.
The trade unions have embraced him
and not burst into flames,
will bring them paying members, they will be mighty again
as before the liberal class will bend to his will and find
a logical expression for doing so, woolly enough  to say when
the show is over; we never liked his politics.

Senryu

A poet adores love
Not the practical one
Dinner at five

The moment caught
A memory to remember
A face in the crowd

The killer of love
Is the despair of loneliness
turned into disgust

Alfred out fishing

Alfred the pianist, who insists he is not my father,
And I went out fishing, we caught a few and when I gutted one of them
We discovered a ring which Alfred said he had given to my mother Olga in Ankara
before the war. It was an expensive ring –
Gold was cheap back then- and it fitted his *******.
We didn't feel like eating fish after that, and I gave them to an elderly seal
resting on a sandbank, it lived on what other seals gave it.
When my father Alfred was very old he gave me a ring I to give Olga
my mother who refused to believe I was her son, she had never
seen the ring before and refused to take it, so I gave it back to the sea
and the forgotten tragedy of someone drowning alone; mind it is
rare that someone holds the hand of the ones who drowns.

The Givers


Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.

Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador-hound
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all, I was the one doing the giving.

The Burden of youth

She was seventeen, and her boyfriend had left her
Life is more intense when you are young she wanted to commit
Suicide so he could see how much he loved her.
Filled her rucksack with stones and waded into the bay, but
The water was low only to her chest when she reached the other
Side she was glad to be alive.
She met a young man also unlucky in love he took her rucksack
Filled more stones into it and waded into the sea, but now there was
High tide the young man disappeared under the sea.

A few seagulls shrieked otherwise silence as the girl waited for the bus
To take her back to town, block out unpleasant thoughts she said aloud.
My father is a communist, the bus driver who was a fascist stopped
Pulled out his gun and shot her dead and women on an outing clapped.
This as her father was letting the red flag fly in the street of Utopia

China & USA
In the shadow of banal news,
Russia and spying on elections,
lurks a threat that can lead to
nuclear war and the long night
drops by drips our mine is being
prepared for a war and hatred
this because two giants are on
collision course as the plates of
the earth are shifting, a political
disaster for the sake of power.
We who do not want a new war
are drawn into fake propaganda
learning to dehumanise a people
a war without winners bar those
hiding in caves underground with
their gold and worthless money

The Algarvian

The Algarvian people, not the urban lot are more African than Europeans.
They have conception of time if you are meeting your solicitor at nine he might
turn up at eleven. If you are going to a local fest and it starts at nine there
will be no one there before 10.30
If your mechanic tells you the car is ready at noon it maybe noon next week,
you see to avoid offending people they say yes to everything without
the intention of keeping the promise
As people, they are untrustworthy but charming but it I prefer efficiency.
On the road the true Algarvian comes out uses the horn for a little
reason a cacophony of noise; it ends blood like the African revolution.
And never make the mistake to give workmen money before the job
you will not see them for a fortnight
Algarve also has a rotten clime 10 Celsius in winter and 40 in summers.
But you can survive here if you stop believing what they say.

the godless Dawkins
The Professor Richard Dawkins had stroke which made him say
when feeling better: “There are things we will never know.”
I think his sudden revelation or insight is gratifying.
For those who do not know the professor he has written books
about anti-god and made fun of those who do believe in a religion
God is an abstract figure which I knew when nine years of age it
is easy to laugh at vicars and women wearing crosses, but for me
the subject of god is boring

Idle Hands
I’m looking at a screen with blue edges,
The screen is not so white it has millions
dots of black hidden I the vast whiteness
I try to write down words or two,
let them fly and find their own way, but there
is nothingness that has a past or future
Before when writing in the night I had a beer
or two to help push me forward, draw
and Idea out of me, now unkind stillness.
I get up can’t sit here wasting my time
I try to read a book it is usually an overlong mess
written on a word processor fit for a secretary.
Poetry too is self-indulgent and some are full of words
so rare as written by on academic to another,
Do not let the people in. Anyway I have retired from
poetry and the tyranny of show, do not tell
I'm free as the none appearing bird on the screen-

My Way
I saw the three tenors sing “I did it my way” mind, the fat one died,
and the two others hate each other and never appear in public if
they can avoid it. Of the two one looks like an aging matinée idol
the other suffers from being mobbed at school  and looks scared
has nightmares and takes to tears before going on stage.


I still like Frank Sinatra's rendition of that song better he sang
it so relaxed with a clear diction and  made me think of a man
with a six pack ambling on his way home  he too is dead to
“My Way” is about human hubris we think we are masters of our
destiny when we are leaves blowing along a wet asphalted road
in the autumnal half-light.  

Thinking back- I can afford to- I never got a thing my way which when
young caused me bitterness the highest prize eluded me kismet knew
I could not handle illustriousness it would have made me look absurd
a swaggering fool hated by colleagues, on the stage of life. Yet, when
dancing the tango at a nightclub in Buenos Aires 54 years ago the applause
I received still rings sweetly in my ears.

The Hidden thought

It is said our unconscious fear of death
pushes us forward to achieve something before
the great Nothing descends,  
for writers this is prescient they struggle to leave
behind words on paper, and not erased
as leaves on trees when the cold wind blows.  
Others skydive from mountaintop cheating
the reaper, yet hope to live long enough to tell
their story of daring do.
Architects fear death too, that's why they built
the tall skyscrapers that will stand the test of time
and celebrate their foreverness.
The chef in his kitchen thinks of death when he
prepares a meal a signature dish where his name
will appear in cookbooks.
As it is unconscious, most people are not troubled only
when waking up at four in the morn before
birds sing and you can taste the stillness of death.

Love not deeply
It was an odd week of lovelorn
I kept singing “born to lose and now I’m losing you.”
Perhaps it was an Elvis Priestly song
I sighed often but otherwise slept well it was more
An ego thing she left me.
The song in my head finally disappeared there were
So many beautiful girls that summer
I loved them all, but I sometimes sang a line from a song
“a blanket on the ground.”
Willie Nelson's I think.
Does a sweet song begets love or is it love that begets
A sweet song?

Lack of Privacy

In Lisbon
Between parked cars
A man defecated
I wondered if he had
Loo paper  
Probably not
I turned away
Drunk or sober
This was his private moment

Moonlight Romance

It was in Peru
And the moon was full
Working long hours, I went early
To bed and didn't see the moon that often
I had gone ashore where I met Maria in a bar
We walked down to the beach
Sat on an upturned rowing boat looking at Luna
Naturally, we made love on satin sand
Slept entwined
She walked back to the bar I walked onboard
Happy and thinking how wonderful life was
Five days later I needed an injection of penicillin.

High tide
May, warm sunlight, mild breeze and under
a parasol casts a cooling shade.
The hum of insect
A barking dog
White clouds on blue velvet
The peace is restless a sense of danger
the big powers have been banging on their war drums
conditioning us
we are being groomed for war
It is like psychoses, we want war now
fight for the fatherland against an enemy not defined
the noble death
The song contest in Europe has done a coup, but it
Is not enough
Two jet fighters streak across the sky they are flying low
piloted by flinty eyes.
Perhaps the coming war is a natural progression
a bloodletting that happens in regular intervals
nothing can be done like Thor's hammer it strikes
when it want to
evening now grass are asleep
the shade has become night
we can't but wait

Wildfire

Fire, we fear flames seeking to obliterate
to cleanse forest and plains so the land can grow
again green shoots the world has been
the cycles can start again
having cleared the undergrowth that hindered
the freedom of samplings
There is a flower that only bloom after a fire
fire ephemerals can cover mountainsides
in a multicolour of wonder.

We feel a strange attraction to the flames
we wish it could rinse our sins, yet, we have
a great terror of the fire of hell

The fire we dread the most is the fire
in mans' heart it can be wonderful but so easily
became ruinous and manifest itself
in greed and destruction of what is good
There is a wildfire raging now and the Nordic
tremble and fear they might be consumed
by the firestorm.

Love at first fall

When I first met the girl, who had fallen off her bike,
she was ten years old, and she said to herself I’m going
to marry him and I was not a party to her plans.
When we met again I had been unhappily married and
happily divorced, I fell in love with her but worried
about the age difference of about 15 years.
This made no difference to her she had loved me all along.
From thereon she took charge I liked to go out drinking
I loved smoking, but this ended.
She loved me and I her and that was enough even for
my bewildered soul.
We have been married for forty years, and I have no clue
what to do without her and I don't really mind but I still
wonders how a ten years old girl could be so sure.

Passing misgivings
There are moments in once elderliness when
the flowers of the mind, the silver of remembrance
is but a cracked black  & white film.
Old age and wishes blend into a golden patina of
illusion, disappointment  seeps in melancholy
lower the tired head and doesn’t let it look up to see
the sky or sense the wind or rain.
This tristesse where has the laughter gone, the charm
of friendship and the beautiful women are
but ghosts in a threadbare past.
The squall doesn’t linger colours become visible there
is no time not to enjoy what's left in the time glass.

The balancing act

New Year’s Eve how fine it was
Red wine and grilled meat
An exhibitionist dance alone
On wooden legs
Fell into a lake of wine almost
Drowned till someone pulled the plug
And he waded ashore to the strand of
Safe temperance
Today he sits in the corner of the restaurant
A plate of soup and a bottle of water
Around him, tables are full of revellers who
Try to stretch
The New Year Eve just a bit longer.
He looks at the people and wonders
Who will be alive next year?

Religious cooperative

When I do- as a liberal should- defend Muslims and
their religion and the right to worship as they wish
yet I think Islam is holding the people back as it is
too self - obsessed putting the absolute demands    
of this subversion of this eastern religion that is
a comparatively a new religion with elements of
Judaism and Christianity, yet Islam is despite what
we have heard and the excesses of the fanatics, who
contrary to true Islamic thinking, spew hateful lies,
a peaceful religion as we see practised by
the Palestinians.
Both creeds Christianity and Islam reject the idea of
free for all ****** norms of Judaism and before we are
dismissed of anti- Semitism I still think we are right

They are coming to take you away

I dislike corners I know he will be standing there
A real Parisian apache one leg resting on a wall of a closed down factory
he is sharpening his stiletto and cleaning his fingernails
Or a farmer after digging stony ground has had enough cuts my throat
With his *****, a spray of blood and the land will be fertile again
I could also walk home after an evening in the pub fall face down in
a rain puddle where a yellow welly floats
it could be so banal falling in the night when going to the loo
a broken nose and no one can hear my muffled screams dying and  
and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide sleep in it every night wake
up in the morning dead with sunlight on my face.

Indian Summer

As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;

so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;

spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;

and from my old school’s window,
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.

Rainy Day Sonnet.

It is so quiet here in my village when it is raining
dogs in outhouses are overtaken by melancholia.
It appears so useless to bark and their dream might
be of an otherworldly nature knowledge they are
unable to share the sense that their servitude status
a clown for us to laugh at is not dignified.
Once they were equal to other beings that roamed
the forests and plains the camaraderie of the flock
now their existence is in your hands, and it is a burden
we must carry gently

Yes, light rain makes me moody, my loneliness hurts
yearning for a mythical past, I think like the dogs there must
be something more to life than sitting in a cabin waiting
for the sun to shine and warm old bones.

The Matador

I was thinking of taken the bus Seville
But don't know what to do when getting there
Unless I run into a female Toreador
I once met in Seville she was good at killing things
She had once worked at an abattoir, alas, too many men
Surrounded her, she didn't see me
That was long ago she must be 70 years old now
And probably glad to see a man who remembers when
She cut the ear of the of her prey and held it aloft
And the spectators were ecstatic.
Perhaps she has turned away from this slaughter and
Become and protector of all animals.
Did I tell you I was in Seville ten years ago with
A drunken girlfriend?
In a bar, she got up pretending to be a matador,
This was embarrassing
I had to get her out and to the hotel
But, she was in a festive mood
and disappeared in the night.
There are idle moments when I wonder what happened to her.

A Bus Ride
I had bought a newspaper in town and was taking the bus home,
a half an hours ride up to my village.  I looked at the headlines
and noticed the paper had no date, were I reading yesterday’s
today's news or tomorrow's?  The bus was empty this afternoon
and it struck how silent it ran could only hear the swishing sound of
rubber against the asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped for the first time on this journey near outside
my house, so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting just for me. The bus door opened with a hiss,
but the dog didn't run towards me.  I hesitated something was wrong it
was the same house, yet not the same this one looked irrelevant
the flowers were pale, yes; this was a copy or a painting forgotten at
a rural art exhibition. Not my village, I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked I didn’t answer and the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper it now had the right day and it was Monday.

Rigor

The pond in the village had a film of ice
and the snow under the elm tree had the aroma of
roasted nuts and sweet honey
there were no old women in the village they had been
melted into lard, and old men were salted and put in barrels
they would last for years.
It was a place where survivors live and to do that one had
not to eat your own new-born.
Cabbage and carrots and the spindly arms of old men
Kept the village alive while bankers skiing in the Alps
The British full of discontent waited for the US
To rescue them Anglophone, never mind the rest.
The old hatred between the French and the Germans
Was making Europe healthy again with Belgium and
Holland with costmary cowardice sided with all

The Pope and statues

Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness
Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues
I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that.
I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope
wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals.
If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for
a walk and look at the statues together.
Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep
he may think me deluded.
Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb,
but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog
in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome.
There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me
or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.

Entertainment
It is eight o'clock the news people have finally exhausted
every ounce of news from the Paris Tragedy. Even people
who were in Lyon at the time have been interviewed.
The local news is tame, they try to spirit it up by reporting
a car crash, but have the haunted look of a man who slept
with George Bush, whose tryst began this pandemonium
that ended in a Parisian working class district  

A performing program takes over, nubile girls who can't
dance or sing, do friends and family clap and cheers.
The program is inept the colours are garish, but they are
not killing anyone just nursing a hope of fleeting fame.

Selling books

A friend of mine who used to be my editor,
until I discovered she was bewildered by commas,
has gone all mercantile, if you buy one of her
sweetly decorated books with flowers, you also
get a doll presumably made of plastic.
The child had no memories yet, only that he loved
his mother, father, grandfather and aunts.
The Israelis will say he was paid by the “Hamas.”
to go play in the sand.
If you buy one of my small books at Kindles, I will
send you a picture of a dead Palestinian child.
Truth is a costly gift, but in general, a doll is more
popular and cosy.

Manuscript for consideration

Now let us try this again writing a document
With one letter marching nicely in front of the other
Like adding instead of using numbers to give the written
words prettiness, even if the theme is about unnatural ***.
The fact is the diesel smell at the bus terminal
Six o'clock in the morning when the cleaning lady starts her
low paid work has nothing to do with anything, had they
bothered going to university they could sit in fine offices
and gone to the hairdresser at nine a woman who can just
read and write Luckily for the ladies she skipped school.
The driver of the bus enters he farts loudly, and that is ok
But I could have shown some respect. It is odd to think
if all women had higher education looked up to the blue sky who should make my dinner?

Botany

Have you had a shower?
Yes dear, and changed my t. shirt too
you see, my dear, when I was in the amazon
collecting rare flowers, the local tribe called
me “the man who hates his face.”
Did you find a rare flower?
Yes, my lovely, I found you.
But the botanist whom I was carrying his luggage
refused to accept the human rarity
that is why your name is in posh books about
botany

The Laps of the North
I was going to write about olive trees goats and donkeys
and ancient stones in the holy land but I keep
thinking of reindeer in the Northern Norway
not so long time ago the Laps people where
not allowed speaking
their own language, children, were sent to school to learn
Norwegian and forget about their past
Needless to say with the best intention, this pathetic attempt
to eradicate race's history failed.
The snow and cold stop this advance today the laps are
proud of their heritage schools and a University in their
in their own language. As for the Palestinians, they have to go
on fighting for their right until the world stops this inequity

New leaf

I dream of sleeping in a bed of rose petals
like an Indian potentate waiting for his favourite concubine.
I know as I wait the petals will be crushed cling to my
body and the bed will stink of decay.  
I drive my motorbike across the Alps, the cows don't bother
to look up they have seen elephants.
I Swiss hotels are expensive and cold and smell of edelweiss,
but I don't care, not since I bathed in the Ganges.
In India there is a temple for rats, I like to go there
it may cure my fear of rodent.
Jasmine flowers are permanent virgins only open up
at night when the world sleeps.
I will not change any plant for my almond tree it
flowers every winter and I dream of snow

A Dipterous

Walks across
The screen
Older than
Methuselah
For an insect
I blow
A lungful of air
To hasten it
I pick it up
Carry the fly
Outside
Put it in a flower ***
Dandelion
And leave it
To die in peace

Their Future
The was a sea in Russia that disappeared sand dunes,
rusting ships and rib cages of sailors sticking up out of
the ground as a warning, fight nature be prepared to lose.
The Aral Sea it had fish aplenty, now it is a ghostly place
Was the wind stirs extinct sea into a colourless pallid
greyness that tells us how the world will look like in about
a hundred years. The Aral is far from our light fantastical
it is hidden the cadaverous vastness of Russia, The land
around may have changed names, but it will always be Russia.
Do not walk across the sea at night the place is haunted and
you will see the future that is too awful for a mere human
to take in, after all, the suffering that will be visited upon your
grandchildren, your soul will ever find peace as there are such
a thing as ghosts scaring souls... it is your grandchildren they
will not give you peace and no grave is deep enough to hide
you from their wrath and the world your greed destroyed.

Fragment of dreams      

When I awoke it was still raining
the roof still leaking
a sense of emptiness.
          Not dreaming much
horses galloping across the Pampas
           flaring nostrils
            flying manes.
Too close to a dusty town
Corralled
Broken to nil
sad eyes look to the Pampas
Yes,
                sailors by the shore
seeing the sea
                 the far ocean
they shall not sail on again.


published in THE Rue Bella

Restless hands
I look at my old hand
Blotches of liver spots, slow running blood vessels
Delivering old blood so I can fold my hands
Once they caressed a woman's body who moaned
And my hands were firm
Women used to see me and smile now I walk
The earth unobserved and words become a long silence.
if I tell you how much I miss making love
to sit in the park with a girl of and see the moon while
smoking cigarettes, inhale its promise of love to come
the aroma of her hair the smoothness of her thighs
to kiss her libidos and drink her sweet water, her legs
Apart she has given herself to me.
Asleep enfolded we are, tomorrow is far away.
My old hands remember so much I bow my head and try
to inhale from my hands what once was
It is all so hopeless and soon I will be dead

Old Man Smoking

The old man sat smoking a cigarette; he had stopped smoking,
but now and then smoked a couple, he was of the lucky disposition
of liking cigarettes but suffered no craving when he didn't smoke.
When the old man was young everyone smoked, those who didn't
be regarded as queer folks.
He never liked people smoking at the dinner table, but with coffee,
a cigarette was a must. Not so much people die of lung cancer, now cancer has shifted and now attacks other body parts.
There might come a day when medical scientists tell us smoking
is not so bad as long as we smoke moderately.
The old man opens the drawer of his desk; he remembered he had
a cigarette there, he found it broken in half and sighed.

Epigram
Beware of tradition it can be harmful and Intolerant
Hateful of those who do not share your way of life
New ideas will be met with scorn old ways was best.
Not true, don't let convention steal your freedom

The Rage  
Wish I could control my temper
I know when a storm is coming days before
The banality of morning news
White smiles and lies frivolous they are
I refuse to let anyone in
Today I had to see my cardiologist we
Had a shouting match I called her a ****
She called security
The storm blew over I can't really help it
Tomorrow I have to see her again
I will say sorry, but not too convincingly
Why does she not listen to me I’m the patient
And know where it ******* hurts

The price to pay
There is a problem it might appear as a sideshow
Now that Europe is averting their eyes
Thinking of Brexit.
Prime minister Modi of India has the plan to turn India
Into a Hindu state, this sounds remarkable until
We realise it is fascist by nature, pure race and all that
Hatefulness that follows such thinking.
There 180 million Muslims in India.
Modii’s thinking is inviting civil war by two nations
With the nuclear capability.

Ploughing
                      I have been ploughing
The field of nothingness
A furrow at a time,
With an elderly mule that farts a lot.
The soil is unyielding
It is cabbage and carrots
I want
You can't eat flowers.
I have the carcass
Of a goat
But needs vegs
To go with it
All I need is for you
To see
I can cook a good meal of words
So far I have two
Who are willing?
To partaking
But my table has a place
For twelve
So I will wait
Till I find
Someone who likes
Cabbage
And never mind
The flowers

The Reef Unseen
He was fifty-five divorced living in a cottage but how
is it possible to explain how he came to fall in love with a woman
15 years younger and lose his dignity.
I must take a break here try understanding the human heart
or the circumstances of the wished for the repellent he was
a ship that had lost its gyro-compass when navigating
the sea of deceit this foolish dance of the human borboleta
When he first kissed her, his whole being was absorbed by
her like falling into a cave of endless pleasures and his anchor
got lost in the outer seas
Then  suddenly it was over like dream that ends at dawn, her
the door was locked there was someone else, rejected he pleaded,
had she relented it would never be the same the thread
of naiveties that bound him to her was broken  
you can't re-dream a dream.
So he took the dog with him and drove up north he had wanted
to see the autumn colours after week, they drove home
The dog loved the old routine when he had been depressed
The dog was sad, for him she was the morning mist that
Briefly, obscure the blue mountain range where the sun arises