If you…

  If you see an old man with an unsure gait
Coming your way, do not pretend he is a bit of fluff.
If he looks at you it is because you are lovely
He admires the beautiful you looking like his granddaughter.
If he nods and smiles do not be offended
In his eyes, his wife is beautiful too.
If he says good morning, do not act as you do not hear
Say good morning also and it will gladden his heart.
if the old man has a glint in his eyes, it is because he remembers
all the women he had met in his life.

I have forgotten the name of.

My friend who knew things said it was because
the man wanted egg and bacon for breakfast preferable
of the fried kind.
It is annoying they have come to fix the internet and
I keep thinking of the painter's name especially of say
“Late night at the diner” How can I forget yes, I blame the internet?
it has made us lazy, just look it up don't bother to think.
I wonder if my friend still thinks the man in the song only wanted
breakfast?
Was it Edward Norton?

The boy in the drain

A boy of five years played in a field
noticed a hole in the ground worth exploring
a hiding place to show other children.
He fell and fell like forever before the falling stopped.
It was dark and cold he wanted to go was home.
The boy cried out they would come and save him
I must stay strong; he was strong falling asleep
and waking up, stay strong, stay strong.
five days is a long time for a boy of five.
So, easy to succumb to the long sweet dream.
The evening of the fifth day, the rescuers
reached him, but it was too late.
Morocco is mourning.
For many of us, it was as hope for the future
had vanished words do not cover our despair.

I knew of a woman

Who wrote a novel that sold 30 thousand copies,
there was a talk of making her novel into a film,
she bought a house.
She wrote several manuscripts they were rejected
and she had to move out of the house.
Her previous occupation was as a cleaner
but who wants a famous char as a house-help?
She changed her name, bought a bike coloured her hair
Auburn and got a job as a cocktail waitress at a dive,
fat sweaty hands were stuffing cash down her bra.
She wrote a novel about it, like going back to
her roots the street life she knew and tried to escape
She was famous again her photo in the paper and in
literary supplements.
She could not run away from her past
moved to a cabin in the deep rural, milking cows
sheep and idyll and wrote a book about betrayal,
it sold well; the intellectuals didn't know it was about them
and she knew well it was her sordid past
that attracted the jaded middle-class taste
and she had to write, and survive on a diet of disgust
the life she had struggled to break out of

I knew of a writer
who had to take the job as a kitchen cleaner
as no one wanted to publish his work
mind, he always had clean fingernails, when he sat
late at night composing words no one in the world
would ever bother to read.
When it became clear to him, he was an exercise
in futility, he quit his job grew a beard and his
fingernails grow long and *****.
Crossing a bridge, he was about to jump but was
stopped by his inner police officer who said it was
against the law.
He had to write is own way and not imitate
the famous writers of the past and since he didn't
have any style, took a long hot bath
and got a job as a security guard guarding tractors.
He doesn't write anymore but waits for
his style of writing to show him how, because
he saw no point of writing for the pleasure of it.

We have been here before

It is the same old story of pride and glory,
the rich are moving into small romantic villages
prices are going up the poor must leave
and small shops close converted into housing
for the London mob.
It can´t be stopped the bus does not go there
any more.
New restaurants, but not for the locals
too dear, but the lucky might find a serving job.
One day the well to do will leave like the locust
the damage has been done
it takes a long time for the village to settle,
perhaps a library would help

The Imitators

He has worked in the garden of poetry
Forty years gone.
The soil is meagre and the plants are eaten
By boars, they applaud him with grunts.

To find the roots and transplant them on a page
Or in the garden of literature, is not easy.
The gardener is famed for his genius or a charlatan
Of rose bushes.

Truth rears its ugly head, there are doubters
Who will not be silent, he knows when his plant’s
Has been purloined.
Better than not be read at all.

Immigration

I walked along the old road it was replaced in 1951 by the new road,
Nothing much left, it ends at a stone wall. Yet, one can still see the mark
the cart wheels carts made and if you look closely you can see the hoof
track of man’s best friend the donkey and if you look over the wall
you can see man and mule ploughing the soil one furrow at the time.
The people here was a robust race those who survived the hardship of
a childhood lived to be old as the stones in the field.
They had nothing in the fifties but wanted more so they found work in
the industrial France and their women  cleaned houses when coming
returning they built houses big as the highborn but their children stayed
in France, they had embraced modernity.
For them, as they sink into indifference, the valiant struggle of their
race is forgotten as the hoof mark in the sand of time: until one asks who
Am I, where do I come from? And the answer is as silent as the passing
of time and they will see the ruins of their grandparent humble abode sit
down and cry, caress the stones and lament the loss.

Impotence
The day I was fifty –nine I remember well woke up
Without an ******* and my golden mane had vanished
I looked like a shaggy tiger.
I contemplated God, the devil and the food I ate but
Could not get an answer that I was at the threshold
Of old age that held no promises in its greedy arms
*** had lost its spontaneity will it stand up and if it
Does will it remain so until the act is over?
I didn't venture out in the night picking up strange dames
Nibbling at ears was over, my god how much ear wax
I must have swallowed
Gave up the charade at 70 and I found freedom in
Not having to try, but was ok with reading a book

In Ceuta

A Senegalese sat on a stone near the sea
he had tried to get to Spain but didn´t make it.
A nurse spoke to him hugged him.
God smiled down to both of them,
this moment of tenderness.
Not so the monster calling itself the social media
they purred scorn on them.
Not only was he black and she white,
racism is alive, he was also a refugee who had sought a better life
which millions of Europeans had done when persecuted?
when seeking work in the USA
and freedom from oppression.
Europe has become a haven for haters intolerant and obscene
a place where right-winged populism will bring us down the path
to the stone age of ******

In Defence of Donal Trump

He is a crude person, not one I would
like the share a coke with, but he has galvanised
the working class (middle class) which was
shunned under the previous administration.
The class forgotten by other parties have found
a voice someone who talks for them
and more Americans are at work as never before.
He represents an America that is not glib and
university educated but merely want a job and be able
to feel they are listened to.
He is a reckless president does not understand
foreign politics and don't care to know, but his group
do not care about Afghanistan, Iraq or other places,
he is delivering want they want.
This is what an American president is for.

In defence of Donald Trump

How does one write about the indefensible? A person, so ****** brass and
egocentric lusting for power; Yes, I think of Donald Trump, the impossible.
Why is it after being banned by the press and Twitter, he is now more popular
than ever before, it is, I think, because he speaks the language people understand
He knew his enemy and how to appease them by putting the embassy in Jerusalem
get the Israeli off his back, knowing how much power in America they yielded.
But Israel got a whiff of his thinking of them press betted on another horse,
America first, the Americans living away from Washington   Get it and will vote for
him at the first opportunity.
The majority of true Americans are not stupid; they know the reality of being prisoners
of Washingtons Jewish influence, America first, is a rallying call to make people free
of the poisonous influence of Israel.
They know this, the people of the plains, the prairies of America are not free before
the land is free of the occupations of the true America.

In defence of the Palestine people

I have complained my car didn’t start, how middle-class
I have become complaining about unimportant banality
instead of writing about the plight of the Palestinians
who has endured having their land stolen and also?
Losing the little they have left of land and olive trees
to the unspeakable settlers.
Israel has demonized the Arab and demonized us who
write about the inequity into silence.
I have noticed when I write about this conflict on other sites
It is overlooked and not commented upon.
There was a time in Norway, when my uncles fought to help
the Jews and suffered for it, torture and long jail terms.
Today the situation is different Israel picked up the mantles
of ****** and ran with it.
I have no power but, I can defend the Palestinians in
the knowledge that history is on my side.
The truth is stifled but never killed.

India

I looked it up on the map, India
it is a big country, and I know absolutely nothing
about its interior.
I once was in Calcutta's airport but this
doesn't make me an expert.
I wrote a poem about the last Bengali tiger,
but know little of its fauna,
I didn't like when Prime Minister Modi eradicated
the smallest currency of rupee it was not fair for
the small traders.
Then again he might have had a good reason
as I know next to nothing about India other than
it is the world's biggest democracy,
which I find surprising and have my doubts if it
is possible to practise democracy in such diverse
a country, like several states, hammered into one.

India

This beautiful country is in the gripe of the pandemic.
Pyre after pyre burns in the night.
Ash and ashes fill the mourners settle on their clothes
and death is inhaled.
The people of this ancient land are stoic because
they know that there is no death, only a continuation
of life.
No politician can break the pact the Indian people have
with the past and future; and wordless Gandhi the great
river flows into a new beginning.

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.

Indoctrination


It is in fairy tales we learn about rich and poor,
the wealthy suitor always wins and gets the princesses hand
and the poor cobbler will always be mending shoes.
In the “glass slippers,” the poor girl fits the slippers and the prince
while the ugly sisters get a job in the Guardian Newspaper,
where they get paid for griping about men.
In Little Red Riding Hood the wolf is the working class trying to take
Power from the haves, but he becomes a cropper and drowns
in the well. So you see, the indoctrination starts early and when
we are adults find inequality normal

The rain that fell on the night was of the type *** plants like,
it has stopped the air is mild, and the flowers smiles except the lemon tree
that is born grumpy and bears bitter fruit, which incidentally is good
with fried fish and it refreshes otherwise lame dishes, say fish cakes with
boiled potatoes, a meal crying out for something bitter to hide
the Norwegian boredom food like seeing Oslo's municipal building
ten times a day. My wife has watered the indoor plants that were green
with envy not being allowed to go outside.
For lunch we are having soup, it has too much pepper in it and again
I have to ask the lemon tree for help as roses are pretty but useless.

indoors


since people outside wear masks
and I can´t see if they laugh or cry.
Since bars are shut.
Since I´m reduced to look at ladies handbags
in the posh shops nearby
there no point going out.

Industrial decline

There were few oak trees left in the valley
they had been chopped down and used in the clog industry,
ash trees were tried to make clogs, but it gave
people foot disease, which manifested itself by causing
webbed feet; excellent for swimming but not for walking.
The Birch was tried, but workers refused to work with this type
of the tree, the clog industry went bankrupt as more and more
people preferred tennis shoes with a posh label.
The valley declined they went to Lisbon to find work and some
studied, became doctors and politicians, one can be both.
It was a Paradise for the donkeys that roamed free from the harness
and the pulling of a plough.

An inert tarn


In the pond of pleasant memories, a duckling paddled
like an unwanted thought a spring wedding in Brussel.
Flat stones skipped on the pond in the night, quacked
refused to spit out half chewed toothpicks forgotten.
Expel the duck send it abroad to the Saragossa Sea
to a shadowy barren island in the stream
where the monster Amnesia lives; you must be warned
keep away if the ogre gets hold of you, it will not eat
the unwanted, but also the memory of those you loved.

I never had a rocking-horse

Having read books of rich boys having one, I wanted one too.
I found the tail of a rocking horse, at home, I fastened the tail on the gate into the yard.
I sat on the gate swinging through and thro and for a moment
I was Hopalong Cassidy till the hinges broke and I fell off.
There was no witness to my ignominy.
I removed the tail, the gate had nothing to do with me.
The owner of the property swore said it was the work
of hooligans.
Years later, mother found the tail behind the wardrobe
by then I was nearly an adult and didn´t bother about childish things

You are putting yourself down
No, I'm not, but I know you want to have a go, so I deflect
your sarcasm your words fall on stony ground.
The public laughed off my self-disparaging and your words
embarrassed you, I fenced off your attack.
As a run in the family, I learned to be the one who told
jokes about my bullies, yes, my tormentors in a way
they didn't get the meaning before the next day,
and they could say nothing without exposing their stupidity,
but it came with a hefty price I don't if praise sent my way is
meant to belittle me to make me look silly in my attempt
to be known as a comedy writer

In her world

She’s old her eyes have
the faded shade
of stone washed denim,
dressed in black,
“since my husband died,” she says,
sits in my café and drink
a cup of hot chocolate  
every afternoon.

Not married,
she has been alone too long
has invented her children,
sits and talk to
them on the mobile phone;
awful children
her mobile never rings,
tells me that one daughter is a lawyer

The Inland Algarve

The landscape so oddly shaped
Had once been a domestic landscape
Walking along narrow cart-wheel
Tracks I often come across the remnant
Of dwellings that once had housed
Poverty-stricken people who had
Ploughed small and reluctant fields
Olive trees had grown wild and tall
Bearing bitter fruit.
Sone walls had no purpose sinking
Back to earth becoming rocks again.
A haunted landscape in the inland
Algarve and no one saw it doomed
Beauty.
Rabbits and boars dominated in peace
And sheep grazed in the glooming.
Stillness yet I sensed voices that once
Had loved and lived struggling
Against poverty and early death.

inland waterway



I joined the rowing boat in the middle of the dry lake
when a dust storm came whirling around screaming nasty words
and the shoreline disappeared.
The captain came down from the bridge wanted his lunch
but he had to wait till the wind stopped which it did
in the afternoon.
I walked ashore, at the cafe, they knew about the order
the captain had sent a text message.
I eat the food here, and I said no point wrapping it up-
Driving home helicopters were using my lake as a training ground
no, there would not be an inland waterway here
no matter how much it rains the lake will only be a soggy hole
but how to explain this to the captain.

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

The Inheritance

When my mother died, she had a flat
Belonging to social security and the was nothing
Of inheritance to speak about
She had a bookshelf full of books. Most belonged and
Were stolen at the local library and she was selective
When it came to literature.
There were also books Stalin would have approved  
Happy workers at a collective farm.
When I came the flat was empty; it needed a lick of paint
ready to receive other clients, the bookshelf was gone.
Relatives had taken furniture and pictures
Which I assumed needed the more than me.
I felt sorrowful about the books they were my mother’s
Soul, most likely they had been thrown away
By non- readers; mind I had read most of the books
She was particularly fond of Dos Passos and
John Steinbeck, but books never die, I remembered them.
My mother and literature go together I no longer
Read as much as I did, but my mother’s eyes are still
There, in my dreams.

in Paris
A summer is over the night arrives with
unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season
too spent most of the time indoors
fantasising about  silky sand, the sun and sea
reading brochures of adventures in Thailand.
When I get to a new place, it never is as had
Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris
I had in mind the way it was at the time of
Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and
Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another
overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace
of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of
time went by, so I shall not be invited to
a literary salon, but I got two collections of
poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop
I’m glad I read their books, but I’m also glad
I never met them

Insubstantial

I opened, one early morning the window in the door,
and was met with a face that looked like a cloud; it
blew frost roses on the glass, they were so beautiful,
abstract, and oh, so fragile.
Years ago by the cloister's wall, I saw some miniature
looking roses, I replanted them in my garden, they
disappeared I thought they had died out, but this spring
they were by my wall nodding shyly in the breeze.
As the spring turned into summer, they had no shade
and disappeared like frost roses on the window glass;
and that is ok by me, cause I know they are there just
under the earth waiting for another spring.

Interlude

The air was still, and trees in the forest stood in frozen silence.
A rare day, animals listened to the echo of last summer.
Hare trails in the snow made without haste, the persecuted
has nothing to fear the day when the mountain lion dreams.
The bear is in its den deep under an oak, dreamless sleep
whether still or storm, but do not wake him before spring.
The tranquillity of peace is only a brief interlude, **** or be killed,
eat or starve are wild life's merciless destiny.
The Calm cracks as the cold identified; there will be a toll to
pay if spring is too late with its promise of continuity.
Behind the forest where the blue mountain begins, a pack
of wolves howl to the moon, the soul of the hunter lied bare,
in an endless nocturnal dream.

In the absence of hatred

This man called Anders, a mass murderer, sits in his cell
a gigantic spider spinning a web of curiosity
we get entangled in.
We ask questions he cannot answer; if he could, we would
perhaps not care for the answers.
Learned men will write weighty books that will create
more questions are no valid answers, but abstract theories
why did this cataclysm happen?
Forget him as you forgot last winter.
Let him disappear into the labyrinth of the criminally insane.
When he dies, sooner than you think, do not make
big headlines of his demise.

In afternoon glow

I ought to take an interest in death
but I don´t find it a stimulating subject
it has to do with acceptance.
This is comforting since I’m not religious
but has a strong spiritual streak.
I believe in the mystic.
What we fail to understand in normal life can be understood by
a second sight.
I can see the near future
based on experience.
I believe in the existence of ghost
they are people who have not accepted they are dead
and are, generally speaking, unhappy.
Since the devil does not occur, he doesn’t care
about sad ghosts.
I have seen my dead dog on several occasions she lives in my mind
and appears happy, especially when it rains and I can´t leave the house.
Here I manly laugh, look at my wristwatch
my god, it is nearly eight o´clock
time for a glass of red wine.

The beginning
When I went to school, it was only on religion
Christianity! Jesus with his cross and Danial fighting
a giant ogre, none of the pupils, believed any of this
yet it was entertaining stuff while we wait for
the school term to end so we could jump on our bikes
and play cowboy and Indians.
But what though as a child sticks lately, I have been
thinking of the origin of religion it must go back
thousands of years long before Christianity is there
a beginning, or is it all man’s fear of death?
Perhaps not, once a word was spoken but mankind
forgot, the memory persisted, and we have been
looking for the truth ever since.

In the eye of the beholder

To navigate between truth and lies skill is needed
I read in the Guardian, famous as a paper speaking the truth
but somehow, in the current debacle sounds like
polite propaganda.
There is a site called GAB, rather right-winged; I think
whose news is a corrector, of what is said in
the big papers.
Who speaks the truth?
It is like navigated in shallow waters of sandbanks
and in thick fog, all voices want to be heard.
What to do, we take the information to slosh it about
lies sink to the bottom, the truth is a bit obscured
Floats to the surface; depending on the experience
you had of life, make a choice.
Which invariable leads me to the left of the stream
In the river of words, when all is said a good place.

The rocket accident
They were so proud of the families of the crew
going into space, they stood on a podium
especially made for them and it was decorated
with American flags.
A lot of smoke and fire the rocket took off the applause
was premature suddenly the rocket was engulfed
by flames and it exploded.
It took a few minutes before the families understood
their loved ones had pulverised, gone forever.
It was a moment reminding me of “the bridge
over San Luis Ray” what happened in the life of the five
crew before this fateful moment.
Few remember this tragic moment, but it is worth
writing about we forget the losers so quickly, but I think
we can honour them by not forgetting

Fall and intoxication  

It was autumn the big trees along the lane had shed
their leaves filling the road as carpets of a summer past
I was going home from the bar in a pleasant mood
remembering songs no one sings anymore, but the old
that sternly refuses to sing anymore, think it is not
what an elderly dignified person should
in protest, I sang “underneath the stars” and since
I didn't know the word, made them up; I don't even
know if there is a song with this title.
The dogs, as we are told by scientists, are quite musical
they became the chorus and I banged two stones together
to make it rustic, but how long was Adam in Paradise,
a wind blew up made the dead leaves into dervishes dogs
took flight, imps are no good dance partners smell of burnt
embers. The squall stopped but the fun was over I thought
you pathetic old man goes to bed now, but it is a wonderful
world … sang Louis Armstrong

I remember
Thinner and thinner
He became featherlight sinking into Alzheimer
He had forgotten me.
All his life he had worked in a factory
Something about canning fish.
And it was the only thing he could remember.
He thought I was a fellow worker
And asked if I remembered this and that
I played along he was happy
Till the next day. He had forgotten me.
Perhaps his ghost stalks the old factory
Standing there an empty building waiting
To be bulldozed.

there was a man who invested heavily when Bill Gates
started Microsoft and he became a multi-billionaire.
Looking at a picture of Bill and his wife, Melinda
both had pale indoor faces spending their time writing
checks to Africa.
The rich man decided to become a farmer of the old school
but since also remembered muddy boots from his childhood,
he made a mechanical, a big horse that could plough
six furrows at a time all he had to do, was to sit in a corner
and direct the horse which when coming to the end of a field
turned and ploughed in the opposite direction.
One day he forgot the on and off button and the horse
continued over total road destruction, and into a nearby
housing estate creating mayhem.
The rich man quickly had to rebuild and compensate his
shocked neighbours.
But people didn´t want the ****** wonder horse an
at a town hall meeting, he was banned from using it except
for an exhibition on how to be a modern farmer

is everything ****


The petrol prices in Portugal are now so high
the highest European for me to drive from Cascais to Algarve
makes me six hours, (before two) I save on petrol but waste time.
Behind me, angry drivers in BML´s waving their fists who want to overtake
only so they can turn sharp right for a coffee at the nearest café.
Too much coffee makes people nervous.
China has a housing problem, while in Britain, they have a supply problem
Britain has not enough petrol drivers to supply the forecourts
In San Francisco bay, 72 ships are waiting to unload the precious cargo
mainly full of Christmas banality, no capacity they say.
Is the USA becoming a third world country?
The north pole is melting the sea level rises, but never mind that
we want out Christmas and petrol.
In Las Palmas, volcanic eruption lava streams going into the sea
that is for future generations to figure out.
All I want is an electric scooter I bought in China.

Israel the Failed state
It pains me to say this once I loved Israel
When she was declared a state, we're jubilant
And as Zionist said on radio the Palestinians
Can go and live in Jordan
There were few dissenting voices back then
We called them communists we call dissenters now
Then pictures of Jewish brutal repression of
The Palestine population and slowly it dawned
On us, they too needed a homeland Israel has  
Denied them and thousands have been killed
resisting this illegal occupying force.
The world is not naïve we see what is happening
this was not the survivor's dream to become oppressors.
To augment the population Israel let in Russian of
dubious Semitic origin, but they are useful in the army
killing is their second name.
Mind there are many Jews in Ethiopia, but they are black.
Poor Israel they stole a state they could live in without
insisting on Judaism as the only faith
It is all too sad it could have been a place of olive trees
and goats with the sun in their eyes.

Is Tanka a poem

We the classless
seek no revolution only fairness
we like quality
a well-balanced diet
and cold German lager.
The stinking rich
one assumes they do not bath
can continue to pong
we seek no egalitarianism
only German lager.

Is war coming?

The sky is subdued, military jets scream across awful thunder.
Soldiers in the wood, guns at the ready, the dog took fright
disappeared in the bushes.
Deep silence walked past them ignored my greetings
am I the target? Vultures circled around, sensing a meal.
With a sharp order from an officer, the soldiers march eastward.
The dog came back from its hiding place looking shameful.
The warning of war is coming this way sure as lightning
60 years of peace- except the Balkans- we are spooked.
People of Europe hence the scramble to find a way back home,
where they will feel safe huddled together
hoping; the war will not affect them.
The news speaks about patriotism, time to take sides.
When the war is over, those who chose wrongly will be hanged
on the winning side, wave flags and feel heroic.

It could be true

I often wonder if there is a secret plot.
If the virus was human-made to reduce the number
of people living in poverty, and the old?
The minorities who live in inadequate cold housing have
high risk of catching the pest.
How can the poor keep the distance when living?
In tiny flats they cannot move, a lousy diet makes them vulnerable.
They die in record-high numbers.
It was like smearing the virus in liquid for on doors
and wait.
But the hidden elite was surprised who quickly the virus spread.
It affected their own, even a prime minister,
But he was known for having a loose moral and probably
Got it from a scullery maid, in his circle of toffs it is normal
Sleeping with a maid.
When a sufficient number had died of the vaccine was introduced
They had held back for many months it is free, and we are thankful.
And think not of revolution.

It could have happened


The lane is empty siesta meanders forever among olive trees
and tempting almond flowers, but far I see an ominous shadow
coming towards me knife in hand.
Is he psychopath out to **** someone and not being caught or
a Farmer wanting a sample a twig with many flowers to take home
to his wife who is preparing the Sunday roast?

I stand stock still think of judo – something to do with feet-
no point outrunning him bring his undercurrent of hatred to a boil
then killing me with the pleasure of the hunt.
I pick up a stone he looks tense when passing me I pretend to look
at the sky can't have him plunging his knife into me.
He is running now, don't know why was it the stone in my hand?

It happens

Like driftwood in a restless sea of humanity
is the story of my life, plans I made never came to fruition
the current shifted course, I ended up in a land, not mine.
I lived in relative harmony near a forest and nature
and had an obedient dog; life was calm and easygoing.
There is good times and bad times; I had lived in a cove
where the current doesn´t reach, but a big storm came
and I was back as driftwood no rudder and no plan.
I ended up in Cascais, which I thought was a place for
ex-kings and president, thrown out of their country and
now living off the spoil of their robbery.
Cascais as I know it is a place full of cars driving fast
a few trees here and there, but not a half-decent park.
What do I know, everyone around me wears jeans and
a T. shirt and since this is equality time one of them
could be an ex-king.
As for planning nae, I leave that to the current.

I, the Alpha Male
Since Trump
I’m an alpha male a
No longer pretend
To like feminine causes
Soap operas and
Side with female lead,
Poor woman her husband who
Drinks beer and comes
Home late
Demanding hot food
I will secretly
Admire him we are both
Alpha males
After lunch, she can do
The dishes
I will drive out late at night
Go to night clubs
Dance all night outside  
Inside is too expensive
She can do her shopping
Alone with my card
Not bother me with colours
And ****** shoes
And other trivial things
It is so liberating to be myself again

They call it love
We sit in the hospital waiting room
when your name is called
You get up slowly still wearing a crutch.
You walk a bit lopsided.
Your coat is inside out
this is because it’s raining
and you want to protect the colour.
You are elderly now, but still beautiful inside.
Feel like getting up embracing you,
but instead get up and have coffee
in the vending machine.

So, Brexit is finally over and it with
a sigh of relief we see them leave the scene
pain in the *** for too long.
The haughty manners and arrogance
of the British delegates who never agreed
on anything delegates from other nations
always demanding preferential treatment,
became a constant irritant for others.
You see, Britain was once an imperial nation
And it is their blood to push others about.
Just like the USA does today.

It was love

I sat under a bridge
That crossed the stream
Small fishes
Nibbled at my feet.
Agnes came
My girlfriend
She often annoyed me
But let me
Kiss her.
She threw pebbles at the fish
I bit her arm
She ran home crying
Telling her mum
I didn´t love her anymore.
I said I was sorry
She showed me
The bite mark
Asked her to marry me
She said yes.
It didn´t work out
The age differences
Agnes was six years old
I was four.