Alfred and the wilderness  

Alfred, who with the greatest of ease tells,
Me he is not my father and I went for a walk across chlorophyll filled field.
Alfred who is a musician and never ventures out in the landscape
saw some grazing sheep and wondered if they were dangerous,
no, I said they are sheep and born friendly
as God created them, to this Alfred called me a crypto-Christian.
A little Lamb came up to my father it was so sweet,
as only a lamb can be he lifted it up which the ewe disliked,
and it butted him in the rear.
Alfred was shocked, got up and demanded I bring him to safety
in the nearest town; never trust animals they are all out
to get us he said while limping to safer ground.

Alfred like dogs

Alfred, my father who steadfastly refuse to be one
had bought four sausages, and was frying them when I came in,
but papa I said you are a vegetarian, yes he said two are for you
and two are for the dog that hangs outside the restaurant
where he plays the piano, it needs reassurance and food.
Alfred chuckled to himself, and I was not sure if I should feel
offended, but let it slide seeing him wrapping the sausages
in tin foil, for the dog that doesn’t belong to him.

. Today walking around town I met Alfred, my father, the pianist
he had gone very old his alpaca jacket was now too big for him.
Time is a cruel master he had arthritis in his hands could not play
Anymore, except in summers when he played the piano for the old.
at homes were where the washed-up of stream of life rested
before crossing the river Styx, he could have moved into a home
but preferred to rent a little room in town.
Alfred, my father, the pianist was often cold he could only switch
on the heating for a short time in the evening, and I remembered
a time when I followed him around town saw him cross the street
And traffic stopped when I did that I was shouted at; once I fell over
a pollard he helped me up and said: I'm not your father but since
you need on I can be one, and the strange thing was he only showed
up when I was alone. In a shimmer of tears, I saw him disappear
I knew I was not going to see Alfred, my father, again.

Alfred on an Island

I got a phone call a rusty voice said he was Alfred,
But you are dead!
I know, I know the voice told like it meant nothing
I'm at the Saragossa Island you said to me about it is nice
Here but a bit damp and foggy, hence my rusty voice.
a lifeboat that drifted ashore had a ship to shore radio
that is how I'm able to talk to you now.
But how do you get along with rough sailors, and their
salty language, not too bad as you know I play the violin
and they sing shanties and do a jig, I miss the piano though
but it would only rust here and I can't find a tuner.
I miss you, Alfred, of course, you do I thought how to be cultured
and in a way I'm your father, the real one abandoned you
The voice faded radio interference, but he said he missed too.
He had made my day he remembered me.

Alfred out fishing

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

Algarve

The cold northerly wind has died down
if it wants to blow it can do so in July and August
when the heat is unpleasant, and the birds and I sit under or in trees
the time of year when the sun is an enemy.
It is the immense clear sky in Algarve that attracts me, not
the beaches, and the smell of suntan lotion I can do without.
No other country has such pure air it brings the best in people
even the Nordic become mellow and malleable in Portugal.
We are having lunch in Albufeira they tend to cater for
the English palate, food without garlic and onions are not food,
I rather drive to Almodovar and eat Pernil with cabbage
and inhale the aroma of garlic, but not today, perhaps next week
if all is well with the world

Algarve

The future for the tourist industry is not uplifting
because the future points to fewer people travelling
and that I think is a bonus, the very idea of moving
ca mass of people from one destination
to another but not teaching them anything disturbing
like the countries they visit have a history
of tyranny.
A good example is the Algarve, once the most impoverished region
in Portugal, it was where politically suspect people
was sent, but then it was discovered and the region
became flush with money and hundred of apartment
blocks were built, if not of the highest quality.
the Co-vi virus is not going away and when it does
it will be replaced by a new pestilence.
I think to save humanity we have to consume less
and nations, people should stay where they are.
The tourist industry was not made to educate anyone
but simply a way to make money

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

camel and roses

Fresh bread still moist, spread a thick layer of butter
On the slice, few foods in life can taste better
Until the medical profession gives us a stark warning
It is no good for the heart and blood vessels
Guiltily I make another slice I will stop tomorrow.

Camels are with humps of water are cumbersome
Once I rode on one, its funny walk made seas sick.

Resolving the problem of too much milk is not my concern
Over drinking can lead to obesity or lose stomach
Specially for adults imbibing “white Cadillac” (***** and milk)
Exponentially much stronger than beer.

Almost a killer

The window was open the puppy balancing
On the sill and fell it wasn’t a long fall buy it screamed
I cradled in my arms till it stopped whimpering
Through me an enormous fear I could **** it if I wanted to
I held my hands around its throat its fur soft and silky  
The puppy continued to sleep safely in my arms I was ten
And thought, no one should have that power, but it had surged
Through me, the compulsion to ****
My hands shook my body trembled violently today I could have
Become murderer. I told my brother he shook his head and asked
Why I had to make a drama out of everything
Later I worked on a farm and saw animals killed
But that was for a purpose feeding humanity and not for pleasure I know
Had I killed the puppy my life would have been an endless night.

Wide Awake

From my hotel window, I see a river of cobblestones
And cars moored by its bank for the night.
A cat runs across the river safe for now, to a litter bin
A squeal as it catches its prey.
From the opposite hotel a few shards of light that
Gives succour to the dying and those who cannot sleep
They wait for the radiance of dawn
Till they hear people talking cars starting and the night
And the dead is a memory so easily forgotten.

Alone in a Church
First time saw Alfred was in New York, 1955. He appeared on a
Clubs ‘stage playing sweet music. I was alone and frightened
lost in a strange world so my father followed me back to the ship a
night of yellow fog and light rain.
For many years, I didn’t see Alfred busy as I was growing up and
yes, not to forget all the beautiful girls how can a father compete
with that?
In was only in later years when penniless and abandoned he came
back, playing sweet music and listened to my story, just nodding his
head and helping me up. I sat in a church it was warm and in front
of me a big note Enough for a good dinner and a bottle of wine, but
Alfred was there too I had to find a moral middle way so I had me wine and food but went back to the church and put the change in the collection box. Last time I saw Alfred was at a hospital he came to
say goodbye from now on I had to learn to live without him. I cried
so loudly that a nurse woke me up asked what was wrong, I told,
she lost interest, go back to sleep, she said, so why the **** did she
wakes me up in the first place. Alfred ‘s face is slowly disappearing,
erased by yellow fog and light rain.

All alone in Paris

I fell into the Seine
Called for help in English
Was ignored.
By accident more than luck
I got ashore.
A man sat fishing
He was English,
“Why didn’t you call for help France?”
I’m a tourist
“Everyone should speak French I’m
A  Francophile. He said
And refused to answer your plea for help.

Alone in the night


During the night I had no angst
but my teeth hurt and sleep had gone truant
Time is relative the clock on the stand
appeared to have stopped checking the time
in the living room, it was 2 minutes faster.
Four in the morning too late for a glass of wine
not a common drunk, got nothing to hide.
When awake the toothache had gone for now
it was overcast nine o'clock and gloomy

A lonely house

Waiting for someone to occupy it
It is facing bog land
And the farms behind
An old lady lived here she stood
By the window dreaming
About the man who had promised
To wed her
But he somehow faded away
Long after she died
People said they saw here in
Afternoon light
Waiting
As the house does now

A lover's lament

By austere shore
I linger.
Look skyward
try to read the pattern
of a rapidly
changing sky.
Light and dark
painted the sea
first grey
and then blue again
I call your name,
because you are
where sea and heaven
merge.
To read your silence,
I must first understand
what is in my heart?

A Middle-Aged Love Story  

Both were in their late forties when they met he had a good job
chief of something important in the world of oil exploration and
they fell in love holding hands and kissing so much they needed
treatment for sore lips.
He grew tall, and she swayed like a palm tree in a tropical breeze
this was love they both been married before and felt like the god
of amour's arrow had shot them again painless they thought.
She had grown children he had none when he was 52 the mortality
knocked on the door he wanted a son she could give him none.
There was young woman nearby and when his wife was visiting her
he fell on the threshold of her door into her arms, and she became
pregnant, a love story came to a screeching halt.
The woman he loved left, but he had a son with woman he didn't
care for, he found salvation in work she – the woman he loved-
lived with her mother in Cote de Azure stuck with an arrow stuck in her
a heart that no other man could remove.
Then a knock on her door, he stood there with his child of, she could not
resist and forgave him loved his child too and they both lived long and
when full of years were blessed with a beautiful death.

A love story too  

We are making love
But in your eyes I see
You think of someone else.
At ******
You shout out the name
“Rudolf.”
Who the hell is he?
I resentfully ask.
The red-nosed reindeer
You say and smile.

Alright then

It was peace in the valley, a deep harmony of those
who had fled the air of a town´s inequity?
Then there was an avalanche of thoughts which caused confusion
when it settled, a gramophone voice from 1930 sweetly sang
“I love you, yes I do, my darling.”
Back then, singers appeared in suits or long skirts.
Now it is about tight trousers and ****, never mind the song.
female singer elicit sympathy telling of an abused childhood
The men, do tell, of poverty before they made it to fame.
Tomorrow the peace will be broken by shooting, hunters
will fill the valley and bath it with blood lust.
The avalanche has blocked the road where we used to bath
I accept that and find a puddle to wade in.
should I get tired can find a folding chair
and play my turntable and hum along with the old tunes.

The Alternative

We lived on the third floor the loo was in the basement
I saw my aunt peeing in the sink while mother was out
It took days to figure out who she did it, I asked my sister
She wanted to know why so I told her, but females speak
Told my mother….trouble.
I often peed in the kitchen sink at night, what else could I do?
Ghosts on steps and landing fat rats having a bath in the bowl
I never told my mother if she came into the kitchen I pretended
brushing my teeth, I also masturbated into it but that was only
when I was sure to be alone.
My mother was strict with the hygienic routine we had a big towel
And since there were four of us we had a corner each.

The bus driver and a rowing boat


I remember a song “A slow boat to China”
There was a man a bus driver who took his wife on holiday to Spain
where his wife ran away with a shepherd
The bus driver went home alone but had the house which exploded
(a gas leak) when he sat on the loo; he was unharmed but somewhat
embarrassed. When the insurance money, came he bought a rowing boat
which had a mast and he could set sail when the wind was right.
He landed in Falmouth before the winter storms.
When spring came he rowed and sailed to the island of Neves where
he met John Cleeve, who wrote a funny article about the brave man
and suddenly the bus driver was famous.
The rich people in Neve gave him money which put in a bank
(there are so many banks) when he went to the bank to draw
out money for an ice-cream, he found he was a millionaire.
High finance is a mystery and something had gone wrong
not for him to ask questions, but he did transfer the money
to a Swiss bank and took the first plane back to Europe.
The bus driver is now a prosperous cattle farmer in Andalusia.

The man remembered

He had been a popular TV entertainer, written a book
and sang his songs we could all understand.
He was tall, looked heroic, sort old Vikings we hoped
they had looked like.
but most of all he had a left-behinds song called
“Amanda”
Which was about a motorboat but had to come
to symbolize the suffering womanhood of the world.
He set out to find the song up a mountain of bad
the poetry he climbed, through a plateau of forgotten
Musicals, across a lake of a petrified sea- shanties
And rhyming verses,
He found Emma in s grotto, in a globe of shiny
Diamonds, the immortal words a honeyed song
of a motorboat.

A man upset

The world is getting thin-skinned
chief for a state department, a puffed-up one at that
was shouted at.
He cried and resigned.
Now he is suing the one that shouted at him, well
He will perhaps win the upper classes often do.
This proud man feels hurt and can’t sleep which
Is strange since he has sent many to their grave
Implementing policies that hurt many people.

He can dish it out, but can’t take being criticised
So, let him go with his big pension and tend the roses.

Mattress and roses
A great day in Cascais sunlit and moderately cold.
We are changing a mattress the new one was easy to handle
But the old was too heavy we need someone with
Arm muscles like Hercules and he was healthy.

I was thinking of getting a canary bird, let it fly around,
outside it would be killed by wild birds.

Resolved, the lair, angry disputes that were sealed with love.
Objectified as burrow were children didn’t enter.
Someone, homeless can sleep on it before it rains.
Eventually, the old mattress will end up in a landfilling-

The Amazon

The Amazon rainforest cries and the mighty river senses the doom.
The inhabitants of the forest are beleaguered in fear of losing out
the logging, the clearing of land, estates for cattle, future
hamburger meat.
Those who try to help the people of amazon are murdered
not by the rich but by the deluded poor who fear for their livelihood.
A tragedy is enfolding the world watches helplessly, wring hands
and write learned articles about the plight of the Jungle people.
If the rainforest dies, the river will die as well
A new desert where nothing grows except scorpions and snakes
and the nature will suffer the people who lived there
will be extinct, in the name of democracy where everything
is legal if you are mighty; in the end, the globe will die.

The amber moon

Super moon last night saw it from my terrace
18% brighter and 20% nearer, said the meteorologist
How unromantic can you get?
Hugh yellow and beautiful, so close I could reach
The moon with my broom, I felt the pull levitated
And dared to dream big.
Beauty should be shared till it becomes
A memory pooled by lovers, but you were not there.
This was a night of the vague nearness of the one you love.
I walked on a sandy lane thinking of your absence.

memories

The bus is full, and the kettle is on the boil
Three children are playing on the beach
One will be a businessman one will be an architect
And the third one will be a contrarian
Critical of the social orders.
The problem with remembering childhood
Is that we are recording a thought time everything
Is accurate and also fantasy how it should have been
But never was.
A few, if they go deep enough to remember a scary
World punctuated by rain and sleet
Dangerous adults doing unspeakable things
Alcohol and fighting.
So, if you must tell your story of everlasting summers
And happy school days.

America

I used to love America we never said the USA
as a young ******, it was the place to buy T. shirts, jeans
and white I never forget the name, Arrow shirts
the people full of optimism everything was possible
and the workers were relatively affluent.
the racial aspect never bothered us; we saw black workers
and white workers toiling on the harbour.
I was reading much back then and discovered I had lived
in a bubble.
In New Orleans, I came face to face with racism I hat
met an enormous black foreman he invited me to
the town centre the restaurant I liked he said we could
not go into, you see, they don´t want people of my colour.
OK, we went to a lesser place had a splendid meal
listened to jazz music.
He insisted following me to the ship, and I remember some
white shouting ****** lover. Onboard I read a novel by
James Baldwin, I didn´t sleep that night
Years later coming back to the USA, it had changed was
a more challenging place and there was on the radio,
endless talk
about the peril of socialism and the need to go to war.
I was older now and self- educated, knew it was no point
arguing with people who had been brainwashed.

A message

An angel sat on the window ledge
Wanted to come in which was understandable
It was a cold night. Walk through the window glass
for heaven’s sake, you are an angel
the angel refused it would ruffle its wings.
He opened the window and let it in and since it
was worried about its looks he took it to be a female.
The angle denied this insisted it was sexless, God
had sent her (he refused to call it It)
The message was.: It has come to my attention
that my son Jesus is an avid reader of your poems,
and as you know, he isn't well since the crucifixion
has become left winged (pardon the pun).
He forms his worldview according to what you write,
so be a good man and tone it down a bit or else!
God is your friend.
So why didn't he say so himself? Well she said
he doesn’t like to interfere with human affairs.

Am I a snob



Going for lunch at the downstairs restaurant
the staff was busy and had no time to greet us
the food we had ordered beforehand arrive an hour late
I had a glass of wine but only took one sip put the wine aside
my irritation was palpable, and I wouldn't say I like being ignored.
This happens when you visit a restaurant too often.
the food, when it served was good but complained about the wine
I was offered another glass but declined.
Made note not to go there for sometimes.
At the building's reception, the new porter didn´t bother to get up
he was dressed in a T-shirt and wore jeans continued to read his newspaper, his presence cheapened the building which has a splendid name.
I dislike rude people, the lack of manners I sometimes encounter.
Please and Thank you, are not swear words.
I read a bit fell asleep when waking up I thought never mind
they can go and *******.

Miserable Landscape
The scene I knew as child was undulating flat
and the ocean of straw that mirrored the sky, light
and dark, punctuated by islets of farms peopled by
folks who lived a life of conformity when not driving
to a town that sold ***** and gets sinfully drunk
scaring wife and animals, and skulking morosely in
the barn was looking for a bottle that is not empty.
The bottomless pain of silence and the message
that so and so had hung himself in the rafter and
Thinking if I have to endure another winter…
The wind always blew clouds hurried across the sky
nothing here, but the endless sulk off the hapless

Misfit
The four of them wore business mine from a second-hand shop
                                                                I joined them,
we went to a high-class restaurant, it was full, but there were side rooms
                                                                 I lost my friends
ended up sitting by a table amongst people who thought I was a waiter.
                                                               I dressed for tennis the wrong time out of place,
quickly left followed to exit by derisive sniggers  
                                                              Outside I changed into jeans and blue shirt just like
Seafarers on a movie does and could, from the top of the hill,
saw my ship leaving the pier; ran down till I tasted blood, too late,
                                                              she was gone forever
Because my nerdy needs to be accepted
Bought a suit walked back up to the restaurant, the guests were outside
                                                              playing tennis, some swam in the pool,
they still thought I was the waiter and ordered drinks.

Mock Poem

A man I knew who lived in Vilamoura which is a ******
Replica of a real Portuguese Village, decide to walk
The whole length of the land, he came upon an old
a village so aged that houses collapsed by too many years.
A few people belonging to a sect didn’t move.
No, they were not Jehovah witnesses who prefer ringing
On people’s doorbell at Tv time.
They were ****** people convinced the world was
Coming to an end and it was their duty to be the first to go.
And find a roomy place in heaven.
Intrigued by the steadfastness of their faith he bought
A cabin and had a toilet and shower installed.
It was a mistake the dwellers thought bathing was a sin
set fire to his cabin, nothing for it to resume his walks.

A moment in time

I remember a hot summer night
unusual hot for a Nordic country
all windows were open.
My mother, brother and sister sat around a table
drinking coffee.
It was a glorious moment
my happiness was so intense I cried
I knew this moment would not be repeated.
My brother kidded me, I take so quickly to tears
but I could not tell him the why
Without them, I feel so utterly alone, and they died too early
there was no time for a farewell.
I live in a foreign country the past is a treasured memory.

A moment of fear

Typhoon in the Pacific Ocean
I saw the tall watery mountain
bearing down on the ship
thought I was done for.
But the old ship had another idea
she rose and rose to the top
and plunged down to the other side.
Wave after wave she took
each time she shook like a wet dog.
But the old girl made it.
Next day the ocean was just choppy,
we made it to Kobe.

A morning moment

The owner of a black cat
Sits on a chair by the open door, on the shady side of the road
Reading yesterday’s paper.
The moggy opens its eyes they are like a creamy zabaglione
When I walk past.
The feline sees me then closes its eyes again.
The owner of the cat gets up with tail *****
Marches into the house
The door closes
The man starts up his scooter drive off in a haze of sunlight.

A mountainous town

Lalitpur is a charming town among high mountains
the air is pure; no need to take a shower every day.
I was going there but, in Rome, I lost my passport
had to drive home to get a new one, which took
time and losing money.
Nepal is a small country often used as a tennis ball
by bigger countries in the region, for conflicts
killing thousands and condensing palaces to dust
covering mountains into a clock of sadness
Cry my lovely, I can only offer my understanding
when tourists evacuate on your sacred top
filling valleys with empty tunny tins, condoms and
the toilet papers flapping in the wind.
For tourists falling off cliffs, I only offer contempt
tourists that bestride and befoul a holy mountain.

A mystic death

Stormy weather ship on fire
the captain gave orders
go into the lifeboats.

The cook thought otherwise
there was no fire at the bow
the bow's deck a room where
the potatoes were kept.

Later he heard noises the captain
and his first officer came in.
Cowards as they had been, they
Resented him.

The captain had a gun
and shot the cook dead,
threw him overboard.

A tugboat came towed the ship
to the shore, as planes scanned
the sea, no life except for the one.
A helicopter got the body up,
a cook with a hole in his head.

An accidental old man

A very old man fell down a hole when he was out
walking looking at the pattern of the clouds.
The earth was loose when he tried to climb up, kept
sliding down, so he sat waiting, and it was evening.
He fell asleep and during the night water from
an ancient sea rose and filled the hole so he could
float holding onto a root, and when the water was
level with the ground he could get up and get out.
The sea that had been trapped so long kept rising
and the valley became a lake and his house, which
had been on the high ground a sought-after property,
and he could afford to buy a coffin of mahogany  
with brass handles.

An accidental old man

A very old man fell down a hole when he was out
walking looking at the pattern of the clouds.
The earth was loose when he tried to climb up, kept
sliding down, so he sat waiting, and it was evening.
He fell asleep and during the night water from
an ancient sea rose and filled the hole so he could
float holding onto a root, and when the water was
level with the ground he could get up and get out.
The sea that had been trapped so long kept rising
and the valley became a lake and his house, which
had been on the high ground a sought-after property,
and he could afford to buy a coffin of mahogany  
with brass handles.

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

An African Queen
Senegal what do I know of that country
But I have sailed past her coast, alas, she
Is married to Dakar nothing I can do.
She spoke French the tall lady and sounded
****, my language seems like a bulldozer
Flattening a Palestinian home so I smiled and
Said little dismayed over my lack of speech
When it imperative to make injustice heard.

Tall she was walked like a gazelle she worked
At a place where she didn't had to be up
At seven in the morning and anyway she was
Not from Senegal, it was Senegal I loved
My ship doesn't sail her way, but I whisper her
Name Senegal, Senegal into the African breeze

An African Queen
Senegal what do I know of that country
But I have sailed past her coast, alas, she
Is married to Dakar nothing I can do.
She spoke French the tall lady and sounded
***, my language seems like a bulldozer
Flattening a Palestinian home so I smiled and
Said little dismayed over my lack of speech
When it imperative to make injustice heard.

Tall she was walked like a gazelle she worked
At a place where she didn't had to be up
At seven in the morning and anyway she was
Not from Senegal, it was Senegal I loved
My ship doesn't sail her way, but I whisper her
Name Senegal, Senegal into the African breeze

An ant´s long journey

He sat on a palm leaf
going downstream
over him, dark wings fluttered.
As an ant he had enemies
they saw him as a snack
not as a shivering life.
A waterfall
he fell out of his leaf
sought safety
on the head of a crocodile
seeking prey
saw the beast taking a bite
of a gnu,
and thought
horrors never end,
He floats to the river ended
and the ocean began.
The swells overcame him
he could not breathe,
such a long journey
for what?

The Artist and a bottle

Saw him at the supermarket,
had seen him before
when he was a child, he bought two litre bottles
of plonk,
told him to buy a better quality wine,
he didn’t listen to me.
I shared a table with him and
a painter in the park,
they sat there drinking didn’t offer me any.
The artist, disturbed by our silence  
got up and began painting a tree,
red trunk, black leaves and something yellow in between,
I thought of the Belgian flag;
winter dark place, windy many canals, but the beer was good.
The artist, now famous, sold his tree moved
away and said deep things to magazines about art.
My childhood friend died; cancer it was said, but it could have
been the cheap wine.

Anatomy

Soaping in when having a shower
it struck me I have a nice rounded ***
it has three main functions
to sit on, to make me look good in jeans
and to let the undigested escape
without any hindrance.
I can not say the same about my stomach
it is too big and sags
Nothing is perfect I´m okay with that
and drink my cold beer.

An August evening

This afternoon I was writing a poem but it kept disappearing
a blank screen had words on but they faded away
erased by an inner logic of self-critic.
I like red roses but when I write about them it sounds banal
and a thousand songs about roses make me feel lethargic
wasting my time; Gertrude Stein said. A rose is a rose…
I have tried to write about Tulips and think of Amsterdam
I was there often when a ******.
I prefer *** plants now; they need watering but are safe
like dinner at five.
Lily is a flower in much demand in Copenhagen, don´t why?
All I know about Denmark is “Hygge” and “frikadeller.”
I look out of the window and see a tree-lined avenue and
notice the leaves are slowly yellowing it makes me feel sad.

ANC and Joe Slovo  

ANC took on the white-run system and won, we hoped
for a new free country and apartheid free country.
The “Rainbow Nation sprung to life reconciliation, dancing
in the streets, which have become crime-ridden by now.
But the ANC cannot rule forever, and it is fossilised
And has of lately written history that leaves out many.
Indian and white people who helped to end apartheid
Are being pushed aside like it was only a black affair.
Do you remember Joe Slovo and fought for a free Africa
For forty years, ah, but, he was white and a Jew, he gave
All he had for the cause, but now slowly like many Indians
Are pushed into the background.
I think the leadership ANC have been corrupted it will sink
To the level of Zimbabwe, they broke their promise to help
Soweto, but it is still there, Joe Slovo is no more.

Ancient battle

Beautiful field blood-red poppies
ringed with delicate dandelions.
Once a battlefield
the righteous, in blue uniforms
shiny golden buttons.
The terrorists of the time
were farmers and shepherds.
The revolutionaries lost the battle
and many more.
In the end, the rebels won
got their land back.
When the field is ploughed
human skull appears
rebel or soldiers, who knows?
Rusty buttons surface too
not of gold, after all.

The ancient regime
  
I was in Shanghai once during the cultural revolution
everyone mostly young people wore the same grey clothes
half military cut, not a colour in sight except for the flag.
And the book they gave everyone called “Mao´s little red book.”
where words the new China was printed, those
who argued had to confess in public and sent to a camp,
or farm this to learn to be a worker.
Of course, in this socialist paradise, we were not allowed
to go ashore and the was a guard by the gangway to be sure
we didn´t run away.
It didn´t strike anyone; it was the last thing we would do.
It couldn´t last slowly colours crept in, and women dressed
even if grey dresses, with feminist style
Today China is a state capitalist country and is doing
very well, thanks to American outsourcing (wages) making
the Midwest into a wasteland.