Forget me not

Rebellious heart
Cast the spell of love
Flirtatious,
Like spring breeze
Lacks boundaries,
Meaningless!
No conclusion!
Shifting shadows
Only walked
By the unhappy

Forgotten faces

We only get one summer to remember,
the rest ends up in a blur.
This one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a beautiful little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom.
September, still summer though I knocked
a neighbour came, said she had gone abroad, a Dane.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.
Daybreak brought a chill; dark clouds congregated it rained.
Years later I was in a bar in Copenhagen an old woman with too much makes up
on her haggard face, but those eyes, a memory stirred.
Her hands shook when pouring beer into my glass,
long nights, she said, and swiftly left, and a younger woman took her place.
I left too,
outside I looked up and saw
the curtain on the first-floor move;
those eyes.
I had seen them before but refused to remember.

The forgotten memory
Years ago I received a video from a place I had left I put it in a drawer
where it languished for years, yesterday I played it an eerie a part of
a history I had forgotten, yet it didn't stir my emotion seeing me when
I was young and all the other people in the street it appeared abstract
most of the people moving about talking, dancing, and laughing were
with a few exceptions, long time dead.
Later what I had forgotten floated up as broken pieces of a puzzle that
made no sense . A beautiful girl why did he behave so bad towards her,
screaming a glass with high stem broke in my hand I called her a *****
my jalousie was a crescendo of uncurbed rage, I try to remember more
but only see blood on a table cloth mine?
The embryo not born had upset the galaxy and the blessed amnesia
Descended, the first act was over my first love had gone, streets are grey
after rain. I threw the video into the fire I don't want to shed tears for
the hopelessly lost.

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.

Forthcoming
Last year
He came out of the closet
Had spent
Thirty years
Trying to find
The right pair
Of shoes

fortuitous

A tiny ant was crossing the kitchen table
I was going to squash it with my thumb,
Hesitated, I thought to let it pass first then **** it.
I was distracted something my wife said
When I looked back on the table, the ant had disappeared.
Our life is like this, say; you set sail at sunset
Then you have to turn back the dog is at home
The boat is fastened you walk home
And since it is dark decide to sail in
The morning. In the night a storm blows hard
the ship is smashed into winter wood.
Just a fluke you might say, or was it?

Senryu

Bending trees in storm
The resistance of survivors
Another winter gone

Senryu

A sandhill removed
The oak had no protection
Roots in sandy soil

Senryu

Glowing almond tree  
Do not resist the tempest
Unfused let it pass


Senryu
Upset almond tree
Someone called it a bush
****** botanists

Fourth of July

So I thought first of July was the US,s national day
I guess I was thinking of Trump and America first
histrionics and naively hopes the virus killing his nation,
will fade away like the morning mist.
No such luck Mr President and you have nowhere to go
except for down and into the sand of times
that will remember your cowardliness and buffoonery
echoing as Homeric laughter in the sky.
But as I said I wish America well and hope the virus
leaves some alive to tell how Lovely the country was
before it was caught in a tidal wave by the enemy
within, and suicidal behaviour by those who cry freedom
at the cost of the individual.

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

Frank Sinatra

I saw a program of him when he was
an athletic young man till he was old and grumpy
with a low hanging belly.
I didn't like him much although he had a wonderful
voice with a clear diction
in reality, he was a small man who liked the company of gangsters
he had bodyguards and liked to be a man of the town
a tough guy who got into fights his guards had to pull him
out off because he was puny.
Since the internet is down I'm reading “The Senility of Vladimir P”
by Michael Honing. A dystopian novel that is also funny.
Vladimir too liked to be tough and was, on his younger days,
mind, he still is. The only thing Vladimir and Frank had in common
was their modest stature. So the moral is, never make fun
of men not as tall as you.

The freak of nature

There is a tiny islet in the foggy Saragossa Sea
it has no name since no self-respecting explores
would put his name on it.
However, it had a Vulcan that erupted and when
the lava stream cooled seagulls found it a good
a place to nest.
Something strange happened some of the eggs
grew huge and when hatched had a wingspan
of 3metres and they were not of a friendly
disposition.
Glutinous they attacked goats and bigger prey  
and lone fishermen in their rowing boats it was
So you could not go to sea getting supper with
Carrying a shotgun.
It so happened the birds were infertile a freak
of nature but as birds they are long-lived if you
see them on a clear day you better keep your eyes
to the sky.

The freedom of the media


Freedom of speech and freedom of information
have now been restricted unless you watch the news
from approved channels.
I watch the news from the USA channels, from BBC
and Portuguese news; not to forget France 24.
I watched Russian TV since it carries alternative news
Take the news of Donbas, did you know the Russian
speakers tired the Ukraine army shelling has fled to
Russia, hundred thousand, by bus and rail.
This the western media keeps away from us because
we might consider Ukraine in a more sober way
The nail in the coffin of freedom of dialogue is shut.

French “The Language of love”

Darling, speak French when we make love
wicked words I don´t understand but has a whispering meaning of delight.
I stand before you with salutial *******, a soldier of love
ready to sacrifice myself in your subterranean pleasure.
Your wishes have to be expressed in French, or the steed will not react
with proper force thinks it is time to return to the stable
On the subway in Paris, I got in the way of a woman who wanted to exit
she swore at me, thinking she said words of love, I kissed her and was arrested.
But soon released when they understood I was a foreigner
lost in the ways of the Gallic idiom.

Friday  Rain.

The café facing the busy street has big windows
I see umbrellas walking by, some of them stop,
fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.
I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; and a lady
umbrella was a bit smaller, yet imp-like,
had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.            
Rain shades are of all colures now.
                      cheerful a sharp breeze, they turn inside out and that’s ok;
                     it is the festive hues against
the inundation I like.

Friday shopping

The farmer and I went shopping every Friday
(horse and cart) to a small town at the lowland, the shop had a stable.
This place had no café or bars; the farmers congregated in the stable
And drank from a bottle.
The farmer in an expansive mood gave pennies to buy ice-cream
It was not much of an ice- cream; I walked around looked into shop windows
Selling things, I would not dream of buying.
When I came back the cart has fully loaded the staff in the shop had
Seen to this, outside the town the farmer fell asleep I took the rain.
When we came to the steep hill, the horse stopped I had to get off and help push.
On the home stretch, the farmer woke up, took the rain chewed tobacco
And looked sober as a priest a Sunday morning.

Friendship
Jim and I were friends all the days
from we build castles in the sandpit
Jim was always happy and his eyes
were wise one who knew life was short.
When at fifteen he became ill sat in a wheelchair
and the sun shone on him.
At twenty he died holding my hands told me
to be brave.
Jim was happy all his days, but I was the lucky one.

From Dust

Life is dust
Without it, we will not exist
Ask my cleaner.
No, don't ask her
She is paid to remove it
A dusty book on the shelf
Are words waiting to be read
It has waited so long it's
the author is gone, dust, but still has something
he wanted to say
before he is as forgotten as the rainforest
59 million years ago.

From Face to Faith

As Christianity sinks into
ennui of middle class tosh
of an all forgiving God.

Zionists, claim the right
to defend themselves against
the people they robbed.

Moslem zealots are busy
blowing each other up
and playing the victim.

Atheists are hateful of
those who believe in God,
call them deluded.

From Russia with love

Russia is a strange and great country, not quite in Europe
and not quite Eastern, they react to mayhem but seldom
intimate it; for those who are history less they won
The brutal war of 1940 and 1945 by breaking the back
of the German army and making it possible by Britain
and the USA to take the credit.
Norway has up to know had a warm relationship with
this giant, in the form of a barter system, we gave them
fish and they sent us cars for everyman.
It was not the USA that made car ownership possible, but
Russia flooding the market with cheap cars as foreign
cars were hard to come by.
The cars where called Moscowitch and were fundamental
no heating system and a tortuous suspension, but
for the first time, every man could be
a proud car owner.
For those who remember, it was a dreadful car but
nevertheless, a car.
Lately, to our regret the relationship has suffered, this
Is mainly by American political pressure, and partly
by the Norwegian oil industry that has made her
a wealthy country.
This newfound arrogance is miss-placed and silly
we must treat Russia as the friend she is and not
forget we own her a depth of gratitude.

From The News

The Italian Banking system is in a good shape
At the recent earthquake, churches fell into dust of history
But the banks stood firm
Catholicism is a relic bankers are the new cardinals but
The pope of capitalism lives in the USA, and rules firmly
The one in Rome is for nuns and tourists.
If God wants to win his flock back, he has to stop floods,
Tsunamis and other disasters, make the world cleaner
I think God has been caught napping
In the Wall-Street which now is the new Vatican there
Is a church showing off the wealth of the glorious past
Often paid for by the poorest among us.

from a day

Remember there a good time when we thought “Reader's digest.
Was high literature, the teller of the truth?
When I was propagandist luring us with fine words
in lies.
When we got older we learned and these days even the Guardian
follows a political policy skirting the truth.
There are the lie and the truth, but convention stops us from telling
anyone how it was.
I wrote a story of sea life and young men the story was met
pith d deadly silence because I used the language of a time gone
when a ***** was not a ***-worker.
People feel offended when met with untarnished truth,
write about the green sea and not of mass- ****** of old people
in Sweden.
An editor wrote me a long letter of refusal when to simple
words like “******* “would be better and less insulting.
But that is the way it is better to be kind than truthful.

Frosty love


Her kiss like putting your lips on an iron railing
a frost-bitten morning.
Her eyes were icy stars in the coldest of nights
in the tranquillity of the meaningless.
A beauty flawless.
Her body unbending as an ice maiden in winter forest
her lips had spots of cardinal crystal.
Futile, my attempt or resurrection.
I struck a match in the vast silent night and was free.
In the glade, among roses of gold,
my new love waited,
Hand in hand we walked to where the day begins

The full moon
Is not showing off it shines
For no one in particular
For you and me and caterpillars
Climbing a tree
The new moon is  growing fast
A teenager on the make
But when it nearly full it loses
Interest in the near things
And just shines
As it is the only thing, it can do
Reflecting the sun
The moon is a secondary sun
Trying to warm the night
Nevertheless, lovers swoon
And the werewolf lurks in the bushes

Funeral parlour

A man who has spent his whole life as a seafarer
inherited his uncle´s funeral home, s his uncle had said.
The business was rather slow he had to advertise
making it sound enticing-
So, he wrote in the local paper:” If you die here there is
5% off all caskets” and a smiling girl in shorts pointing
to a nice coffin.
After two months and no business, he rang his shipping office
wanted his old job back.
No wonder, the shipping clerk said you should not write
death, but “pass over” Oh!!! No one told me this and anyway
I have closed the business the coffins are full of dust.

The fun at a house of ill repute

I sat down with the best intention to write about flowers
love and bees, this made me think the ***** house had plastic flowers
and that is apt as it is
not a place for romance, red roses and chrysanthemums.
I have had much fun at these places, not only the *** part
but also, the laughter and dancing.
The women liked a sailor and the possibility of further romance.
I know of ****** who married former prostitutes and
their marriages have normally been happy ones.
Time has changed, the women are victims of men’s ****** advances
and buying and selling of, flesh other than pork is outlawed.
Just as well, now girls in this trade are called *** workers
compared with the cleaning ladies and so forth.
Cold cash on the table, the price depending on the position
like asking the char to go out and **** the garden, well you
have to pay extra for that.

Furtive meeting

We sat in the park a packet of ****
a bottle of wine, on the back of a napkin
I wrote her a poem about love.

While struggling to find the right word
I hardly knew her, she fell asleep,
wine of good quality can be strong.

I counted my cigarettes had five left
saw the tempting light of a night bar
left her sleeping, went and had a drink.

Coming back, she had left my poem
written on the clean side of a napkin
was on the ground torn to shreds.

Future
Trying to write about the future
Is almost impossible without the past
Intruding talking about yesteryear.
Perhaps the future is like a thousand
Mirror reflecting itself endlessly.
I know there will be wars it is our burden
The opposite coin of love.
There is no vista opening-up
A panorama of beauty, but there will
Be moments when the glam of war stills,
When sea and sky meet in an embrace
Of utter tranquillity, and for a second
We think life is worth living.

The gallery actors


when US industry noticed
China was a cheap place to produce their stuff
they moved the whole production to China.
This was beneficial for both, except the American workers
who as usual no one listens to when a pair of Jeans
are affordable.
Now the USA and China are squabbling like relatives
having a falling out over the right of way.
But both countries are hopelessly entwined they can´t
thrive without one another,
So, what we see is a play for the gallery not to be taken
at face value.

Garments

Opened the wardroom’s door, suits and jackets worn
so long looked like sad copies of me.
Gave all my clothes to the salvation army, which gave
them to people not unlike me.
Too much textile is a heavy burden one becomes and
snug in old suits losing interest in adventures.
I bought a pair of jeans and a matching jacket, walked out
at dawn’s first light, began looking for a horse, failing that
a mule to transport me when I traverse the landscape
of imagining, I’m a cowboy lassoing dreams.

The gentle precipitation

I was not aware it had been raining all night

it fell so silently and still did, the gentleness

of all things precious, the intense beauty of

of an earth and plants soaking up the gift

and not splashing the rain down making furrows

and rivers full of debris. Mind it had been a strange night

When I woke up during the night I walked

Like an athlete to the loo, and thought is God telling

me something letting me have a happy day

before switching off the light. Even though it was night

I decided to make it a morning than I fell

asleep with the sun on my face and it was ten

in the morning and I could still walk like an athlete.

Getting old



Reading the papers this morning
was a sad affair, so many of the famous stars of yesteryear
had succumbed to old age.

They were as I´m in their eighties and I felt their death
as a sting in my heart, soon it will be my time to go
I accept this, but will not sink into depression.

Of everything that has happened in my life I feel no guilt
hindsight is a waste of time, my lack of success is a bonus
I have no laurel to rest on and can do as I please.

What is noticeable is my lack of understanding
of a language that has changed it is more lose now and
that is good, but it takes some effort.

The river of words I bathed in, flows slower now it is
a struggle to find the right expression, I feel as I´m
learning to swim in colder water.

Living in Portugal as I do is fine they are gentler here
and has patience when I struggle for words in shops
I have to resort to poetic expressions.

They smile broadly and think what a funny old man
I don´t mind, my wife leans heavily on her crutch,
and she gets first in line. We try to look decrepit.

At the end of this month, I need a new driving license
I have spring in my steps, luckily my eyesight is good
and the heart and diabetes go unmentioned.

Getting old together

There is an unspoken acceptance you share in silence
No need to be entertaining you are boring if you tell the same story twice.
Yet, you do.
They say there is much to learn from soap opera, a lecture I can do without
we have two TV, and I hold my tongue.
She sits in the living room, I sit in my study
we meet briefly when it is time for bed.
We speak about plans for tomorrow and the coming winter.
A kiss of a good night.
She goes to her bedroom
I go to mine.
We live in a peaceful home; the only sound is the ticking clock.

Glasgow
The music stopped abruptly dancers left the floor
became paintings on the wall in the closed down dance-hall
in Glasgow's Sauciehal street the old entertainment centre.
We drank plenty of beer before going there, and we were frisked
to see if we had not brought any alcohol into the premises.
To ask a young woman up to dance was painful
The answer was often no, to be refused hurt one’s self- esteem
but luckily there was only one or two who said yes,
the ugly ones were the best to ask they were not so critical.
Later in the evening a few open chip shops and hopefully with
a new girl -friend one then followed to the last bus a kiss and
a cuddle a few promise murmured it was all too boring for word.
Glasgow had many splendid pubs I liked to sit drink and smoke
in one of them, the one nearest the docks.  I remember at these
pubs some elderly women drank gin & lime they were called
donkey women and I never knew why.
The old dance halls have got a patina of romance where
Friendly ghosts soberly dance to the tune of a bygone time.

Globalism

The winter after war was not jubilant
the snow was slushy like the beginning of spring.
A poor street, houses had not been painted
not much food and the ice was reluctant to let
go of its deadly grip.
I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.
In the windows of old houses’ on sills
flower in pots in tins, humanities need for beauty.
I must not forget hasted home find a piece of paper and write it down.
But I didn’t get it down on paper my thoughts that were influenced
by beautiful minds.
So long ago now,
it was 1950 and people were friendly
we had suffered together and survived.
We are not the people of the world we are tribe, however modern,
it is our group's survival that counts.
Tribalism is much stronger than globalism it can never speak our language.

Glorious Sweden

When the virus struck the virologist
put their faith in herd immunity six thousand
people died mostly those over sixty which
is a high number for a small country.
Sweden has been able to stabilize the number
of affected people but the virus is still there
regrouping ready to strike again,
This time it will target the younger generation
will fall victim of this deadly disease now
when winter comes, and nightclubs are
an alluring place.
The virologists have failed to see this virus
is not your common flu, that also is here to stay,
but we have a vaccine for this.
Now that all the elderly are dead we can say
Sweden is a young country but, alas, not a better one.
What do I know, perhaps this was intentional.

goalkeeper

The goalkeeper stands tall between goal posts that
some times seem far away, but he is the hero
the man they have to get past to score.
I was once a goalkeeper, they put me there mainly
because no one else wanted the job.
I will show them alone I decide whether to jump
left or right, today I will be successful, nimble and
elastic, stoic in the face of the horde.
The goalkeeper stands tall, yet feels small goalposts
are too far apart it is beginning to rain, and he wants
to go home,

God as parent
God is worried about his son Jesus
Since he was crucified he is not his jolly self
There were no Psychiatrists back then
The profession was not yet invented now New York is full of them  
Jesus sits on a swing a harp player nearby
Tries to soothe his nerves
Sometimes god gets annoyed feeling as taking his son by the scruff
Of his neck and shake sense into him
The scars on his foot and heels have healed and his beard is black
God sighs, looks through a book by Hemingway he is so easy to read.
It takes time to forget and of that he has got oceans
He dreams of being with Earnest fishing for Marlins

The Roma

  I see them in my mind’s eyes
walking through the landscape walking forever
their horses, children, dogs and women in black
a slow wander through the world and to the next
unstoppable they are from planet to planet
peopling the universe.
Often misunderstood and murdered for being
different from us, but it is not possible because
they are God’s children.
They are us we are the children but have yet to
discover we are the sacred, the Roma
we despise, we hate what we have become.

They had been angels sitting on clouds for
ten thousand years playing the harp, but
since they were in a timeless environment
They didn't want knot, only filled with a sense of
ennui that came from sitting on a cloud void
of touch, and they also miss not being hungry
and thirsty, and feeling sad for throwing one out
off the cloud, he had no ear for music.

They objected to god who took off his mas showing
A face a hole so endlessly deep that if it was white,
told they were his illusion now they had to make a choice
either continue playing the golden harp or vanish into the big
white hole; they choose the instrument. God put his mask on,
and bitter silence wafted like an ill omen through the galaxy.

Going home.  

On the plain of Alentejo
sacred green grass ornamented with white flowers.
Rolling landscape and big farms
grazing cattle,
sheep in the shade of umbrella trees.
Rolling landscape I would love to be a stallion here.
Alas, I see few horses and no mares,
but many four- wheeled motorbikes
disturbing the peace.
Cows, sheep and big balled bulls
milk and meat,
time to stop for lunch.

Golden locks
The girl I fell in love with years ago when summer
was excellent, and we bathed in
the lake I didn't ven kiss her but patted her shoulder.
                                                     I wanted to embrace and kiss her making her mine
                                                      but feared to ruin our friendship which was for me
                                                      a costly gift in my new life in a foreign land.
I had written about it before she was so young,
her bright, lovely smile I could not risk that with my
clammy hands around her slender waist.
                                                       There was more I had lost someone like her before
                                                       I had lost her in lust and forgotten her friendship she
                                                       had been my mate till she tired of me and left.
She is still there in the village, divorced now with a son and a daughter who treat me
like a grandad, they treat me well ring and bring me gas bottles when needed,
and it strikes me by not making love to her,  I got the best friendship can offer.

Gondwana
I woke up it was morning and a year had gone
My future was behind me I only had to live for the day
And not bother with philosophical questions but
Set the day free to wander, see where it will take me.
I hope it is not Madagascar this island of muddy shores
Steamy heat, odd animals with big empty eyes
A variety of snakes and dusty roads leading nowhere

This Island was once a part of a supercontinent but it
Moved out of time Madagascar is a reminder of not to
Worry about now whatever happens it will move out
The world is a stage where most of us a statists but has
No say about the script; time takes care of that.

Goodbye Alfred
  I had not seen Alfred for a while, had been busy
selling off my donkey farm, with this down I drove into town
but couldn't find him and his flat had been rented out to others.
Found him in rundown old peoples home, four old men to a room.
What the hell are you doing here papa? Well, it’s about the money, he said but get me out of here. Alfred who had now accepted me as his son was wealthy his grandfather had been in oil, and he feared Olga- my mother-
Would take the money, had placed most of it in Portugal.
As he had given me the power
of attorney I got him out and into a posh private home for the aged.
Alfred look frail, his wavy hair was reduced to a few strands of
White hair and his unafraid, one could say arrogant, ways had gone
The home had phone number should he get worse.
The call came in his room sat Olga she embraced me called me my son, my son.
Sitting by Alfred’s bedside, I fell asleep only awoke
when a nurse said Alfred had slipped away, strangely Olga had disappeared also, but
in a way I was content, it had not been an imagination, they were real I had a family,
although it must be said that Olga’s vanishing puzzled me and the nurse said there
had been no visitors other than I.
Alfred's last wish was to have his ashes strewn over Portugal I hired a helicopter and had it done. It was a sorrowful time, yet I was
glad that my dreams had come true.

Goodbye Donald Trump

He has gone now, are you sure thought I saw his shadow.
On the wall just before sunup.
No, no he has gone, and a script is ready an actor, Clooney.
is playing him.
Donald Trump has gone to Florida he is a golf fanatic and
the presiding 4 years has nothing to do with him.
Well, he built a wall the Mexicans refuse to pay for,
it´s an ugly wall, and it doesn´t make the landscape more lovely.
Kind to his friends though pardoned them all.
What will happen next? Not much at first but, he has left.
A legacy of right-wing- extremists.
One thing to his favour he resisted Israel’s pressure to
Obliterate Iran he had no stomach for a real war and,
The question is, will the new administration resist a war too.

Goodbye Europe

Driving along I saw at a distance what looked
like two dark shadows holding up a smaller wizen shadow,
and I thought without Africa, Europe would have been a more miserable place.
We stole their people from working in fields and factories
we took their minerals and gold and left them destitute.
Now they are coming here, and we offer them a tent,
If you are not a wall climber, a fast track runner or football
hero, we don't want to know.
I the meantime, the population – white tribe- am dying out
We have reached the pinnacle of our evolution, the glass siling  
has broken women prefer driving Mercedes cars and
men turn to each other for succour to be gay is the new normal.
We older and another race must take over our delimitations we are
dying out, we are a curious vanishing race in a sea of colour and strange
manners. Unless Europe wakes up and produces own children
we need immigrants on a massive
scale, if not we become a historical footnote.

Grace

In Livorno, I touched the wings
of a silky butterfly which had come
to join me at the table.
I had only meant to feel its beauty
but my coarse fingers damaged
delicate wings.
It tried to fly but lost height and
landed in my beer glass; fished it
out but only damaged it more
on an iron table painted summer
green, beside a vase of scented  
flowers a fragile life ended.

Silent grass clippers
Why must lawn movers make such a noise?
Why do people with a garden seek to make an outdoor carpet?
Why people seek to make lawns look like an arrested childhood?
We can understand football stadiums, the ball runs faster
and the players do not stub their delicate feet on mature grass.
One day grass will give up growing turn into sand pits a place
For children to build sandcastles.
as big signs telling us not to walk on the grass?
This is not nature but humans trying to tame the natural world.

Grateful


The club was called the checkers, painted black
and elephant tusk, two middle aged Spaniards stood at the bar
talking to a hard faced barmaid.
The talk was amicable enough, but had an underlying tension,
something about lust and the price of love's pretence.
Two birds dressed, in yellow feathers came down from the loft
told the Spaniards how much they loved them.
The barmaid asked if I was lonely too.
No thanks, I came here for the beer.
My answer impressed she shut the club for the night.
In the morning I said: I'm sixty today.
she cried a little and gave me a milky coffee.

The Grave Stone

Many years ago I went to the cemetery to find
my brother's grave, but he had not been dead long
and had no stone. I was sent a picture, his stone is big
full name and in loving memory, the whole clan must have
chipped in it looked costly.
I felt slightly envious I can get a big stone too if I pay
for it now, the blue marble will be lovely.
I'm hesitant to invest in my stone, just in case I live
Longer than expected. You never know with people like me
I have all illnesses you can think of, but I keep waking up
In the morning, eat breakfast and take my medicine
and as usual, I'm grumpy, complaining I don't laugh much
but I'm here to everyone’s chagrin.

The great change
I have a mask made of plestic glass covers the whole
face to avoid touching my face, of the type dogs, were
not to scratch their ears.
Surgical gloves are must when going to the shop, there
is nowhere else to go.
I don’t think the virus is going away this year or next
we have to ignore it and walk in the park.
Go to the beach swim a little and sit in the warm sand
drinking a beer and hotly kiss a girl.
Either that or sit naked on the terrace waving my **** around
no that it will scare anyone, **** and *** into the town.
I can sing “they are coming to take me away” until the police
knock down the door and take me away.
A smooth cell and no ****** mask “are you feeling better.”
Aa white-coated man asks, they now I’m diabetic and prone
to an angry outburst, but he has a needle for that.
Once there was a law not hiding your face in public, now
It is the other way around.
Many things have changed the padre stand in an empty
Church, there is not an altar boy to ******, he lifts
up his cassock and ******* in front of the statue of Christ.