Truth, be told
On an old fashion gramophone, they played sweet
music in a small cove made for two, the young man
smiled this sleek woman was to become his bride.
A big seal came on to shore dragged the woman in
to the sea and under, when surfacing with the seal
she smiled and waved but didn't come ashore,
kept on jumping and playing and her leanness made
look like a seal and she was indeed turning into one.

Finally she and the bigger seal com to the shoreline
she told him her life was the ocean and she and her
the new man was swimming to the Azores where she
would meet his family. The young man took his
gramophone, sun cream, towels and walked home.
No one believed his accurate explanation, he got
life for drowning his girlfriend.

The Damocles Sword

They see it in the sky
In the small
Iraqi town
They walk about
Doing what people do
Except
They never know
When
The trigger-happy Obama
Is going blow them up
This bloodthirsty
President
Perhaps an evening
When he is bored
And there is nothing
On the TV?

The Piano tuner

The blind piano tuner knocked on the door
Where I was a caretaker -like I can afford to buy a piano-
I showed him into the music room and left
to read a newspaper.
I heard some clunking as he tunes; then there was a long
silence, he had fallen asleep with his head on the keys.
When he awoke I said the piano was perfect, but for
some reason, it only plays Edelweiss and similar tunes,
not that I care, never cared for classical music.

On a sunny day, you can see forever

The U-boat that cast anchor on the silky shore of Albufeira,
the crew was dressed in German world war two uniforms,
and bathers thought they were actors in a movie.

The captain came ashore he wanted to call Lisbon to his
embassy, only the number didn't exist anymore, he had
wanted to surrender, his crew were hungry and tired.

A kind barman gave the captain a cold beer, he drank it
greedily and asked what year it was. 2017, my god,
he exclaimed we have landed in a wrong century.


He walked back to his U-boat a neat man and a hero,
the submarine, rusty, like it had been at the bottom of
the sea for ages, hoisted anchor, and sailed into yonder

A Christmas gift spurned

In a busy Christmas street, I saw her; I was sure it was her,
the way she walked, I could sense her perfume too.
Ran after her, touched her shoulder said halloo, she turned
I had been wrong and said sorry.
She smiled and said, no it is only me what you see.
I read an invitation in her dark brown eyes, but I was hopelessly
in love with a blond, the mythical one.
Said sorry again, flapped my wings and flew high into the night sky
so seek her among the stars.
In the cool outer space, I realized the fabled woman was an angel
And I was an earthling I dived back to earth like a Stuka bomber, skidded on slush,
looked in vain for the woman with brown eyes

Gun Play

They haven't got guns in heaven only toothpicks,
but God has got a golden gun given to him by
the producer of James Bond movies.
He toys with it just for fun when newcomers
arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top
of the Bible, he wrote once upon a time.
Not that he has copyright, he will be the first
to tell you, but with the help of strange people
who insisted he had spoken to them
Sometimes when God is alone, he put the gun
to his temple and click…nothing happens
it is all in jest, or is it? Infinity can be a burden.
Now, if you wonder about the toothpicks,
angels like to welcome you with a bright smile

Wales

I used to live in Chester, a beautiful town
and often walked along the Roman wall and, in my mind,
I saw Roman soldiers sitting by the fire roasting mice.
On Sundays, I liked to drive to Wales a beautiful country of rolling hills
and sheep with coal dust on,
Back then and this is years ago, you could drink tea in a pub,
I once drank coffee and it was ghastly.
I liked this country it had a dreamy quality.
Now I´m watching a crime story from Wales and it had nothing to do with
the land I remember.
This country I see on the screen is dark with old houses and people
who carries a dark secret in their hearts?
What do I know? Perhaps the lovely barmaid had killed her father
dropped him in a deep well only a detective who knew the mind
of Wale's psyche could work out.
As it is I prefer to remember Wales, crossing fords wondering who deep they were, the narrow roads and sheep on hills.
I stick with what I remember, the TV. The program is entertainment.

Daddy’s girl

Little girl spoilt
by her daddy
likes to be
a little girl again
life was safe.
Sugar and spice
and a few tears
when meeting
life's shadow
the dead of her pony
Daddy bought
another one
Joy tinged with sadness
love should not
be replaced so quick.
She looked at her daddy
eyes filled with tears
when he died
no new daddy would appear,
except of course,
she could fall in love
marry a man
who reminded her of him,
but it would
never be the same.

Paris
The rat population
In Paris
Has exploded
The rodents have
Left the sewers
Walk for lunch at their
Local waste bins
And wait outside cafés
For crumbs sparrows used
To pick up
They also obey
Traffic rules
As they are not
Like dogs
Colour blind
But tourists stay away
Empty bed
No one goes to Paris
To make love anymore
And be careful
When eating Ragu
In Paris

A Vision
Eifel tower the old ***** is lit up again
her wide open legs still drip blood, and
her hips are white and slim and she   has
blue- rinsed hair. She is ready to welcome
the masses people without an ideology
and those who think that having *** in
a hotel near the Seine where millions of
condoms that slowly find their way to
the sea is the heights of romantic living.

Young men came, they had a creed wanting
to destroy this ***** and Gomorrah, but
the **** in the centre of Paris tells us we will
survive because we are Godless and place
lust for life first

The Hidden kiss
My niece rang from Russia last night
she knows I love her, and she is immensely kissable.
Between us, there is an ocean of age and nothing
impure passes among us, she enjoys being loved
and I feel uplifted when she visits us.
We are two ships sailing in a stormy sea of love
and not colliding she is my sister.

I have often been worried about her when she navigate
too close to rocky shores of the coast that brings
nothing but divorce and heartache.
She sails in calm water now since she met a three rigged
schooner her age, at anchorage in the bay of love
and I think of Edward Munch's fabulous painting:
“A Kiss by the Window”

Tanka like

We the classless
seek no revolution, only fairness.
We like quality
a well- balanced diet
And cold German pilsner.
The stinking rich,
one assumes they do not have bath often,
can continue to pong.
We seek no egalitarianism
but cold German lager
and a comma -less life.

Good for Some
Immensely hot day, yet no sun it was hidden
behind a ring of polluted air, a strong wind
came and cooled the landscape but with it
rein fell, thousands of them, broken bones
and crushed skulls, the poverty struck and
dogs had enough to eat...for now.

Then rain fell each drop was a bucket full and
rivers overflowed. Pots and pan left behind;
head for the hills was the cry, shivering people
eating frogs raw, cannibalistic ****** in a sea of
mud caked humanity.
The laps of the north were given compensation
for loss of income.

Short circuit
Why do we do what
Logic tells we should not do
To punish yourself
Or someone else who will
Not know of our act
Of self-destruction when
Logic has been suspended
Still, the question remains
We can't explain it
The great “WHY.”

Clearing the Air

She rang said she was coming with the late train,
Since it was her birthday I had thought she would
Come early so we could go to a restaurant for
A meal and drink some good wine

The train arrived just before midnight, I was hungry
And tired of waiting, she was tired too, I had
Brought flowers, she thought they were nice and
Put them in the backseat of the car.  

We drove home, both feeling wounded; at home,
she made an omelet, I had a drink; later we watched
a TV show in aggrieved stillness. Next day we had
a big row and that cleared the air

Haiku
Mirth makes life long
Providing you can laugh at yourself
Not your lame neighbour


Haiku
To travel is fine
Adventures are filling a hole
Where your mind should be

Haiku

*** alone
Can't stop a heart's escape  
Only love can

Haiku
The boredom of ***
Can never interchange
The quiver of love

Dogs on the loose

She was a frustrated woman two drunken husbands
hostile sons and a daughter who was sleeping around till
she got syphilis and ended up in a madhouse.
Lived alone she did with five dogs that obeyed her
she was their world loved her entirely as a religious
the person loves his God and asks no question as the god
feeds the spiritual need and thus fulfil them
Then it happened she fell on the floor and the dogs
sensing weakness went for her a frenzied attack biting
at her throat and she bled to death, the dogs dazed
ran for the hills till they were hunted down and shot.
They had broken the unwritten law; dogs are inferior
to humanity this is a pact that cannot be broken.

Senryu

I’m a cowboy
Herding in reluctant words
To make a poem

Argentina’s pampas
Where wild horses live
Poetry in motion  

The gaucho
Is a free verse maker
On horseback

Last dance

They had danced to the dunes of a juke-box
dawn, they were alone except for the barkeep
he was asleep, leaning his head on folded arms
on the mahogany counter.
Soon the sun will shine, followed by the day
and they had to face the dreaded future.
Both were married but not to each other  
was love strong enough to survive the day?
They didn’t know the answer.
Just one more dance.
Hell is tomorrow with heartache and loss.
My god, let this moment last forever.

The Child in us

Outside I see life hurdle past at a speed
leaves vapour trails behind and as I eat my soup, a child
in Rohingya dies of malnutrition.
It is morning after the party, and I try to feel guilty about
the food we ate and cannot, and now as I write a child
in Yemen died of a shrapnel wound to its stomach.
What a sin we commit not given an infant a chance
to live a life of peace, but this, not the full story we in
Europe is quick with the scalpel taking life before it is
born and we feel no guilt, just another lost day at
the clinic of death.

The Bench

Here sits a man in a park
lost for the world,
he was trying to break down banalities.
Not knowing that 99% of our daily
conversations consist of trivialities,
Without this safety valve
people would be trying too hard to say
something sensible
and end up alone in a park

Flanør

I will not write word today
                                             Not on the blank screen
Perhaps on paper and pencil
When writing I feel closer to whatever
I’m writing about.                          
                                         Only my handwriting is so bad
I practically have to reinvent on the screen the poem
I wrote on a pad.
                                         I look long and hard
to find back to the feeling I had when scratching down
a letter, which is a form of conversation with self.
                                        Writing creates honesty
it also creates thinking I reason better when writing
                                       but, as I said, no writing today.

Farghana Valley
the splendour of a mythical dream.
The fabled silk route
snaked its way through here,
bringing new culture, silk and jade,
and no drones filled the night sky with fear
In this valley of ancient dreams
beautiful horses made the landscape enchanting.
Civilizations come and go; yes, religions too
Those who claim to have the key to the ultimate truth.
Our time will also be cosmic dust in the history of man,
but the valley of Farghana shall endure.

Dream on a raft

A balsam raft, with a mast and a Latin sail, I built for amusement on summer days on the inner sea,
but I found myself too far from shore, daydreaming is dangerous,
I had forgotten the dark undercurrent.
The shore is hazy; tomorrow it will have gone it’s just me and the blue outer-sea where fog banks are forgotten memories. I and the raft will end up on a blue painted plaster sea, in an empty bottle of *** that sits on a mantelpiece collecting dust particles.  
Till someone lifts it up to blow cigar smoke down its open neck; I’ll be invisible in the scented fog bank.
When the mist clears I shall be gone, the smoker, astonished, will ask:
“What happened to the raft and the man in the bottle? Fearful throw his cigar into the hearth, sell his scrap metal business, buy a dingy, leave his wife, set sail for the outer sea,
where the fly-fish fly like ospreys across the blue sea, he just might find; whatever he’s looking for
it ain't here

A Plea  
Those who persecuted have no home
And starving children, let them come to us
Let us help them to stand up
Accept their plight do not preach or moralize
Always think it could have been you
In dire situation running away from war
And strife, lack of food and basic freedom
If you are a European  your grandparents
Likely where refugees external or internal
Help the poor as you  wished others would
Help you when needed
Arrogance and pride have no place in your
Heart they are cuckoos in the nest of love
A reserve you will need some day.

The Non-art
At a posh theatre in New York where ticket  prices
Are more than a working man's monthly wage  
An actor took it upon himself to lecture the vice- president-elect
In a manner that was both offensive and patronising
What is an actor? It is a person who speaks the lines written by others
And if he speaks those lines smoothly he/she is famous
Acting is not really an art form more like a mimicking form it
Comes in the same category as poetry a non-art
What can we say about the publican who applauded this display?
Of vulgarity other than to find them tasteless and ignorant
Actors should speak their lines political opinions off stage the same
Goes for poet to write your dreamy lines but leave your
Politics to  the Twitter pages

Never Look Back

It was the poverty of vision that got to me, the drabness of moving
from one home to another. I wanted sunlight, not the dim light that shines from a basement's kitchen window.
Fled, sought other shores.
I was not able to escape the ghost of the past; letters went unanswered.
The uncle of many children and a father of no one
I should have stayed fought my corner from the base of the beginning.
It is a sunny day where I live, up North snow falls, I feel a deep sadness
of the coward, yet have no regrets

The long Road
I'm going out for another walk at home the silence
are oppressive most of the villagers have moved away
and some are dead or senile she hates my house,
my home it is too silent, and she wants to move in
to a town and meet people.
I understand her, I partly agree it's only this, I re-built
this cottage and the best years of my life is here
I found what I had lost my self-confidence I knew they
laughed at me  of my dreams I was an eccentric, but
here I healed my broken self.

I walk on an asphalted road it's easier that way. I don't
want to go home and be met with truculent silence
I wish to walk and walk till the roads end or split into
a fork and a sign post will tell me what to do
whether I should return or carry walking northward

The Department
I was walking down a long corridor in a Victorian building,
big and imposing stone place I was looking for a licensing
office.  As I passed a door of solid oak heard atypical
tapping of canes I opened the door the tapping stopped
a group of old men glared at me I meekly asked who they
were? Look at the sign on the door they barked I did and
on it was written “Department for angry old men.”
I joined them and was given a cane for free. A wonderful
place here we sit and protest against every invention and
women who work in offices and youth who never do as
they are told, some of them joining ISIS just to make
granddad mad. No respect, a word that flies around the room
and is spat out by old tongues. Secretly we are happy here
where we even can criticise Netanyahu and not be called anti
Semitic old Nazis.

Tyrkia
Bosporus 1955 the old tanker where I was
A galley boy had anchored waiting for orders
To proceed into the Black Sea rowing boat came alongside
Selling fez which was the “IN” by the ******
They also sold sweet liqueurs which I drank, got drunk
And sick for the first time in my life I was 15, in the old
Days one had to grow up fast and howl with the dogs
The winter weather sunny I was awed by its Byzantine
Mystic just like a fairy tale story; I bought a Fez

And last time I was in Istanbul 30 years later on a ship
Where I was a cook my fall from officer grade had been
Painful, but I did go ashore not very far drank beer but
What I remember the best was packs of dogs by the quay
begging for food they knew I was a generous cook.

Cleaner Air

New thinking of
The old ways
Use horse and carriage
In the city
Faster than
A white van can
And for post delivery
Pony Express
Will do wonders
And the bonus
Horse manure
Is good for the roses

New Year's eve
Is a gigantic anti-******
When clocks toll
Nothing has changed
The tempest of war continues

The Lunch
We had Christmas lunch at a hotel, so posh floors shone like  
a mirror you could not look down when passing a lady
People sat in little groups whispering, and the silence was
deep when some dropped a spoon.
Festive decoration was absent- we are adults- the music was
subdued the food was good but bland they were catering for
the English peculiar taste in insipid food that has no story to
tell it felt as being a guest at a wake
It annoys me if waiters are too attentive they, not ****** slaves
and should not behave like ******* sycophants. I like French waiters
they hate you and cannot hide it but nevertheless serve you with
Gallic elegance
In moments like this when everything is soo civilised, I like to
get up and make a **** salute just to shatter this inauspicious
politeness that shuts out anyone not belonging to their fraternity.
We left early was driving around sat in a park, enjoyed the sunlight
and everything was right with the world

The Culture
Cultural differences, I once was on a ***** ship
that plied the waters between Spain Italy Greece
occasionally France and sometimes Turkey were
most of us felt foreign; there was no easy rapport
between us and the female populace as there was
then a separation between the sexes, it appeared
there were two types of women; **** or nun, yet
I think it was the best years of my life.
Greece has a special place in my heart; it is where
it all began the idea of democracy of which I was
paid by the lovely people of Piraeus.
The western culture to hundreds of years to develop so
let us protect it and not misuse it by writing new laws
that curtail or freedom

Nature Wonders

The morning
It was a blue
Wild animals
Whished
They had coats
Like the humans
The sun thawed
Raindrop big as balloons
Exploded on
Impact
Many cars
Were damaged
Rainfall
From a clear
Sky
The sun
Dried its own tears
Dogs barked
Came out of barns
The day
Continued as before

Animation Senryu
I adore cartoons
Nothing is impossible
Flying is easy

Senryu
I admire cartoons
I can be whatever I want
An angle or an imp

Senryu
I worship cartoons
And saxophone playing elephants
Serpents are charming

Senryu
I venerate cartoons
They show insanity of man
And lightness of life

The Ending

This old ***** ship
Rusty and tired
Her engine often stopped
It was a struggle
To start it again
The sun rejected
This ship sailed
In a fog of despair
The crew was
Residue
Of harbour debris
For the officer the last
Chance Saloon
Misfits who struggled
To stay abstemious
Some failed
Disappeared
In the night.
Off the coast of Peru
She died
Sank slowly
Beneath the ocean
With her
Tax avoidance
Flag flying

Erratically you

It was by chance I came to Portugal.
I was a failure in Norway and a bigger loser in Britain.
I could not absorb a culture that makes the working-class
dumb workers and ignorant soldiers.
It was a day in May when I came here, didn´t want to live
by the coast, which was like living in Liverpool with sunlight.
I bought a ruin/stable got local workers to help me restoring the place.
One day I looked up and said: “I´m home.”

Sisterly Support

I was thinking of my sister she had a blue and a green
eye I adored her when a child I followed her around
“Bormann” she called me and since I was not socially
adept she promised to look after me when old.
She has been dead for forty years
All the women it was like playing poker with cards missing
Kings too posh Knight not my game, I gave up went to
another country and bought a new set of cards…and won
Her eyes are onyx but that was Ok, before her I had met
a woman who had sea green eyes and I nearly drowned in
the embrace as deceptive as the North Atlantic Ocean
I was lucky to make it ashore.
So I made it then to old age take my pills go early to bed
and say to myself: you lucky old ******* you

Europa’s Struggle  
Like life wars go on and on, it is in our genes under layers
of prattle there is a murderer who wants to **** the different what we do not understand and loathe .
This influx of a foreign culture has demanded too much of our self- preservation as a race. Destroy them now!
We tolerate crime in our society but what we read is of crime committed by people we have given succour we baulk somehow
they should not be criminals.
They hate our way of life we call Christianity that now is a liberal culture that blathers about forgiveness.
They came to us because we could not let them starve it was our duty but we do we feel our duty as a burden.
If we follow the call of our ethnicity should we not stop them coming into our life making us think about if our values are  ossified that we should give up without
a fight and let Europe be a sect for whom death is glorious
I don't know; I'm old I will not live in the new Europa will it bring peace, no,  our genes, screams for war by people who are backwards  in time and only know old hatred for whom progress is not a teaching approved by their book and music
is a call from an elegant tower
Not to forget their cousins who worship Mammon and will go to any length to satisfy their blood lust, immoral,  greed and try to enslave us with their slimy ******* and a main- press printed by bought editors and sycophantic journalists.
When those in the name of another faith vandalise Louvre or places of beauty will we find our strength and push them back as we did before.

The Last Joke
My friend at the old people's home was dying
the heathen had taken a sudden interest in religious
matters, especially the sweet parts of angels and
harp playing on a cloud, the dream of man, tiger
and the lamb was sitting by the lake liquid silver.
He grew, as he weakened, restive asked me to pray
aloud by his bedside, to please him I did.
“Please, God let Oliver be and angel and teach him
how to play the harp…amen”

A howl of laughter from the sick-bed that ended in
a cough, the old ******* had got one over me.
He died that same night with a smile on his face.

Family life

I ask myself what is wrong with borders well-defined places
with interior freedom and rules;
yes rules, the liberty to do what you want leads enslavement
break- up of families and chaos.
What's wrong with having your banking system and our
money of choice with a picture of a nationally famous, skier
and what Is wrong with discipline,
children becoming a little monster because we are so liberal
We talk about their right…what rights.
Look out of the window in any city what you see is flotsam
People who have no purpose a river of drugged people
Who never learned a thing?
What is wrong in saying a people can only absorb to fit
In refugees at a slower speed,
by all means, they are welcome
we need educated young people, in Europe were women
no longer care to procreate.
The glass ceiling is more important and men to think
their career comes first, and children are neglected
sent to a psychiatrist who prescribes pills knowing well
what the problem is.
But of course, we can say nothing and if we do, are
called  a fascist

The Vanished home

Most seafarers find their way home
others get lost on the way.
One was washed up on the shores of Algarve
and stayed the home he knew was no longer there.
But a memory of log fire and a mother
who read books and rarely looked up to see were
her children had gone.
It is all too late now; the seafarer lives another life.

This life of Dreams

I have been in bed today, yesterday after taking up waking
I was so enthusiastic that I overdid it took pictures planned
The fell I was going to walk tomorrow had heard I could see
Wild boars there. I got overtired and sat on a stone under
A tree since it began raining. I looked like a scarecrow
A farmer picked me up and planted me in his field, and I hung
There to someone heard my cry for help.

The farmer apologised the Portuguese are polite people
When not driving cars on narrow road then they become
Murderous bullies and shout expletives at people who try
To cross the road with the slowness of an aged person, and
To think the Portuguese young care about their old parents.

No Job


My landlady is in the hall, cleaning stairs
I’m ten days late with the rent,
can’t go out before she goes into her own flat.
She’s near my door if she knocks I’ll pretend to be asleep,
if she persists I’ll tell I have a night job and will pay her as soon as I get paid.
She has gone into her flat, bet the door is ajar; creaking stairs is not helpful.
This place hasn’t got a fire escape,
I’ll report her, this is a fire trap.
Got no ***** or ****, only a cupboard full of empties, if I carry them out in a plastic bag she’ll hear clanking noises, come out, hands on hips.
Quiet; perhaps she has gone out, plays bingo every day,
spending my money gambling! The tight-****** woman, full of money, so
why should I give her my hard earned?

Elegiac

The hotel was empty no one the reception area
I walked upstairs and all the room where empty.
The restaurant at the hotel had a grubby air
like human activity swiftly fell on plates as dust.
I looked out of the window it had snowed and
snowy footsteps on pavements but no people.
Evening came early, streetlamps came on and
snow fell on the vacant road keeping its knowledge

I got a blanket from one of the rooms sat in
The foyer waited and had no clear idea what
the waiting was about, maybe a phone call.
Then it was morning her funeral was at ten
but this was not a day for a hearty breakfast
the street had people not sharing my sorrow.

The pace
  I walked for 50 minutes
Inhaling fumes of cars, it is like
Living in a roundabout
The see air on the seventh floor
At my flat, the air is healthier
But I walk every day because
It is suitable for my diabetes
And it makes me slimmer
Only the walk makes me hungry.
It makes me wonder if
The great and late president Chirac
Walked the street of Paris?

Downfall  of a humble man

Once he wore a uniform he had reached
the apex of his profession had staffs supplied
the ship did the books and administrated.
It was the best of times and too tired to read
to relax and to think about life meet chandlers
and customs official who had stories to tell.
Seen from above his position was modest but
coming from poverty it was an achievement
he and his family were proud of.
The downfall came quickly crews on ships were
drastically reduced soon he was the only on
left in the catering line, he hung up his uniform
back to the galley, cleaning mess halls and toilets
the days became endlessly long, no time to read
only waiting for his stint to be over.
A heart attack caused by the loss of dignity and
long ours his education had come to nothing yet
the illness was the beginning of something better.

The small words

“All that's mean nothing” not my words
but I often think about it, when reading the newspaper
I look for the no-news the filling of space
the news is often there and when **** flies they are taken
by surprise busy reading the headlines.
Being so wrong the want to set aside democracy and civil
behaviour the by- line has become a headline we must
demonstrate denounce the new from the stage or pulpit
by the pompous and incompetent
perhaps it would help to read the alternative press they
have less to lose and don't worry about circulations  and
no capitalist master to serve

Sand in your eyes
Full moon tonight a supernova to sound educated,
last time was in 1948 when the catastrophe hit
The Palestine people I was twenty at the time and
believed what paper said.
Even Folke- Bernadotte's killing in the hands of a fanatical
Jew  was overlooked, they had suffered so much and
secretly there was a relief to have the bothersome race
shifted to another place
Were your hands, Pontius Pilatus
Communists and Fascist were jubilant holding hands
And dancing in the street. Now that we have Muslims to
contend with a minaret is not enough they want the lot,
the Jews are remembered fondly they were happy with
a synagogue, a school, and our banking system.
Return children of Israel you are fake Jews anyway from
a tribe in Tyrkia, and there is no blood relation between and
the ancient Jews it is a Zionist construction