The Last convict
I sit in the front yard it has a high fence that
make the privacy intense I have created
a prison and now it is too late.
I see the top of a Cypress it looks like
a Christmas tree blowing in a bad tempered
Nordic wind. I think I will go to Norway this
year, mother died at that time and I hope it
will snow, overcast and rain make me sad in
a way that is morbid. I will bring her flowers
and I will cry, she was a lousy housewife but
a great mother.  In the chair next to me sits
loneliness and says: so this was your dream
to flee, find freedom yet shackled to the past.
You will die alone not as a whisper in the wind
and you will not be on the plane going north

The Last Day

When he comes for me
I will argue with the man in black
Open a bottle of wine.
When he tells me to hurry I will ignore him
I will open a tin of tunny fish
Never drink on empty stomach.
I will walk to my funeral
Criticise the flower arrangement  
Give the last orders burp and die.

The last forenoon

It was Sunday I was sitting peacefully at my desk
when an interior storm burst knocked off me off  my chair
I witnessed machine gun fire hitting a wall just above
my head I was covered in dust like powdered dandy
and I thought, here we go first torture then a bullet.
The put an oxygen over my face a wounded soldiers
going home after losing yet another battle.

I was born again and could remember the constant
battle the never ending war of my phobias,
Eight floors up, one lifetime is enough, but the soldier
could not break glass puny his hands weak his arms.
Yes I’m home but my smile is a Janus mask I cast no
Shadows on the wall like the living do.

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

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

The Lay of the Land

If my thoughts had wings
Or better still had arrows and a bow
To pierce your heart
You will open your emerald eyes
As only seen in the sea of Greenland
Seek my embrace
We will be the sky and the earth
Filling the air with fog
Before we make love
Our Titanic love is too great for
Sluggish humanity to clasp
Kiss me slowly caress me long
And we will purify a putrefied world.

The life of a crowned head


The king of Norway sat in his small living room
thinking how he ended up in a democracy where everyone
are equals, some more than others like the so-called shipping
aristocracy who wisely keep their money off-shore.
His father had been a prince of Denmark and knew about the historical
Shakespeare was offered the job as a king of Norway
after being a vassal state to Denmark for 500 years.
But the truth was he wanted to get away from his father who was
a tyrant was treating his family with disdain.
Of course, back then people were proud having a king and lined the main street when the king in a horsedrawn carriage drove past.
And women were quick to collect horse manure it was said royal
manure made the roses bloomed bigger than modest roses.
Then came democracy and the silly idea of equality the king lost
his priveledges, no power just a name and a uniform.

The lion man

There was a gang of thieves in Napoli made their living
stealing at night, they found themselves in a basement of a big house
and found a smallish lion in a tiny age, they freed the animal
that turned out to be friendly and followed aroun
They let it sleep in the garage; having such a big can't bein the house
as lions have little sense of order.
They began taking the lion with them at night using it as a guard,
this was noticed and the press called them “the lion gang”
The chief of the police got the idea of killing the animal and thus
demoralize the gang, and one day when the young thieves
were cornered the lion was shot.
And to their shock the lion underwent a change turned out  
to be a naked man with broad shoulder and long hair
and no one knew who he was since he had no identification
The chief of the police was sacked and other officers disciplined.
There were anomalies as the skin of his hands was that of a lion,
he was buried on unsacred ground as a John Doe, and as most
of the gang was behind bars and could not attend his funeral.
Next day the grave was open, no lion man
he had simply disappeared, perhaps become an animal again
gazelle hunting on the plain of the Serengeti.

The lonely cabin

I knocked on the door of the small cottage
the window steamed up I drew a childish picture
faces of children, that when the sun came erased
the drawings and, I thought of childhood.
My brother had lived here, his children refused
gave the cottage to be a gesture of goodwill.
I knocked on the door; it fell in a cloud of dust
the cabin was empty a floorboard creaked in pain
unused being walked on.
I turned to leave, the door arose and blocked my way
I promised the cottage, a man from the village
will come and paint inside and outside I will
move in here with my dog.
The cottage relented, door and window opened
letting in fresh air and sunlight.

The lonely ship

Crossing the Pacific Ocean and into The Indian Ocean
is tiresome even for a ship, days of calm ****** water
we have been abandoned.
It is beautiful but, it is like watching Mona Lisa for, say,
two months without getting fed up with the lady.
It lifts the spirit seeing another ship coming up of the horizon
in front of us; positioned near close enough to see the crew
wave or criticize the rust and colours.
Blue and yellow have they no taste!
It was enlivening we were able to talk and smile again lately
we had fallen into a sulky silence, no good for the moral
and the chief steward told the cook to fry more eggs for
the evening meal thanks to the visit from a ghastly ship that
was so badly colour- coordinated.

The long life

The knowledge of living forever is already here
all one has to do is renew the old cells for new ones
once a year starting when forty or thereabout when
a person is self-sufficient.
It is also possible to renew cells so often on regress
to infancy and looked after by your son who is unable
to grasp he is changing his father’s *****.
Longevity has its own risk of how to live you can alight
from the Garston, bus nr 9 and be knocked down
by a car, the autopsy will show the person was not forty
But 110.
The best way to get old is to **** someone in Oklahoma
get 200 years in a padded cell be fed by a slot in the wall
and when the conviction comes to an end
refuse to leave the prison, your home on earth.

The long journey
I have been through the cosmos seen stars and planets
now I’m back to earth, I have seen so many things
right. Bad and ugly, but our world is the greenest, but
it is the only one that can’t keep the peace and the only one
that has religions pitting people against people.
Sadness is to think for every plant we eradicate and
for the animals we **** to make us weaker more soulless and robotic.  
The new virus might come from the earth itself a warning
To show some love and respect for nature
And all that habitats our planet.

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

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

The Long Sleep
I had been sleeping too long hours lost
in a dream of deep dissatisfaction down a well
lined with failures
Its depth had silt of regrets and self- disgust
getting back up was a slow progress an eagle flying
In a vacuum, reluctant awakening like visiting death
and finding it hard to leave.
This time of the year makes me nervous it is called
the festive season, where to eat Christmas lunch,
will there be a hotel that will take us in
this fake friendship with people at the next table
cheers for the New Year that begin with arguments
at the taxi-rank.
Dreaming would be so easier with a log fire at home
something to eat and a glass of wine and the believe
next year will truly be a better place

The long Tanka

If all was lucid
If God was not a mystery
If life lacked meaning
If life was pure reasoning
If life was empty of dreams
If the sky had no birds
If rainbows were grey
If love was a chemical reply
If so, wouldn’t it be hell?

Tour 1

A man with blue-rinsed hair was the tour’s leader
we stopped outside Edith Piaf’s former home where she was born
The house is still the dwellings steps into the house
were well-trod.
Our leader held up a picture of the lady, a photo I had seen
on YouTube, he told us a fairy tale about her goodness
for a moment, I thought he was talking about a saint.
We retired to a café where he sang, “La vie en rose” and forever
Destroyed the most beautiful of songs.
Tour 2
Fighting my way through the metro and jostling with rude commuters
I found my way back where Edith was born; the street was taken
over by the Chinese wedding, the brides were lovely.
While sitting on the steps where Edith used to live, her voice
came back to me; the offensive man with blue-rinsed hair
didn’t succeed in destroying the song
It was a beautiful autumnal day, Edith and I walked to a park overlooking Paris.,
we drank absinthe and coffee.
At a safe distance, I saw the fabled Eifel tower looking old
yet elegant in glorious sunlight.

The long walk

From my terrace, I can see the museum where Paula Rega's
painting is, it didn’t look far, so I walked down it took a bit
longer than I thought but it was a beautiful day.
At the museum, I spent a long time looking at her pictures
she is an intriguing painter blending the masculine and
The feminine into one it can look objectionable as she paints
Scenes of what can appear grotesque, she is not a romantic
artist of summer days and white beaches.
The museum has a nice café I had a coffee and cream cake
To hell with diabetes for a day; and then I promptly fell asleep
Woke up by a startled, said I must have had a little nap,
the waiter said I had slept for nearly an hour.
I went around the corner where they have a maritime museum
was especially interested in how they lived on the small vessels
fishing for cod, which they split open and salted.
It appeared the social life was centred in the galley/mess room  
where the cook made food baked bread, and there was time
for a chat; the old photos showed about hard work and peace.
Walking home took a long time since it was mostly uphill.

broken mirror

The ship has gone sailed without me,
alone in a hotel room
I sweat and try to stop my hands
from trembling; where are
all my friends that drank with me in the bar.

They fired me threw me ashore
the *******;
dignified
Walking down the gangway,
Cheap suitcase
******* in the air hiding
My tears
I have to leave this room,
must walk tall, I’m tough
that right, butut first
I need a little drink or two

The losing

It was a magnificent bull it dominated
and cowed any upstart bull trying to flirt with his bovines
there was a lean bull that refused to be chased off the field
it came to blows, at first it looked like the big bull
would win, but it lacked stamina, defeated it walked to the
stables the humiliation was all too much
and it refused to come out until the farmer gave it a bar
of chocolate with nuts.
The bull told itself OK, So I lost, but I´m still the biggest oxen
around this neighbourhood.

the loss

I saw her leave
on the 8 o´clock train.
in the Saturday crowd
I saw her many time.
Stopped women
in the street
they were frightened.
In the morning
she was in my bed
I wished
she wasn´t there.

the loss of Nene


Forever is an awesome word we use without
realize the implication of the verb.
A friend of mine is dead.
I will not see him again in my lifetime I say this
to avoid saying forever.
Summer and winter will pass
snow-topped mountains will remain, but my friend
will eternally be dead.
Ashes in an urn are lightweight
and has little to do with the man I knew.
He is an abstraction
like the dust in the road,
to say goodbye is useless
he is beyond the known.

Remembered is the loss

I sit in the sumptuous living room with my wife
we have a bed the king would be proud of
a lunch café on the first floor and den for myself
my old age is blessed.
My thought goes to the village far and beyond
the road up there is now full of petals white and rosy  
my cottage is where the road bends to the right
I see smoke from its chimney, a dog bark.
I was happy here animals and people knew me
alas, old age caught up with me, I had to leave
my almond tree and things that let my heart sing
Years of contentment more is asking too much.
Fly memories, fly to where the sun sets over
the blue mountain range and into the sea.

The Love
*** and love do  not always meet and as you get older
seduction becomes a routine both partners trying to
do their utmost and after coitus feeling empty.
I was 55 when I met her, not a pretty lady, but she had
alluring eyes, after a few meetings she invited me to her
house for a meal and the magic happened.
In her bedroom only lit up by the open living room door  
we became one body and I remember the silhouette of
her body soft and glued to mine.

Embraced we fell asleep and hours past before we stirred
we had achieved the wonder of having an ****** at
the same time. We tried again, but the moment was lost
we drifted apart; we had dreamt the same reverie, yet it
was worth remembering.

The Lovers


On my walks in the interior of Algarve
I followed an overgrown track that once
had been a road for horse and carts.
At a clearing, I found a clumsily made shrine,
and on it with unsteady hands, was written
Pedro and Maria 1912.
I sensed an immense peace sitting here.
Love is enduring and everlasting.
Their tenderness is what I breathe
in the trees and plants.
Later on when I was lonely and sad
I went up there and warmed my soul
on their love.

The love bugs.

Love is like diabetes you have it and live with the malady
taking the right medicine but is not going away.
When a man falls in love, he thinks he is in heaven and follows
where love takes him until it dawns on him, he loves
a person who doesn´t love him or pretends to love him.
Whether she leaves him or he leaves her, the pain is equal.
It has no cure only a lifelong sadness that like a shadow
is always with him, if he had been more caring, she might
have stayed, but he knows in his heart it is not so.
Those who care about him say, if you stay at a bus stop a bus will
stop, but, it isn´t not going his way.
Unrequested love is like diabetes he has to accept and go on with
the business of living, after all, sadness makes a person more
understanding to other people’s problem.

The Bug
Is Love a compulsion, the sudden idea that this person,
no others, will meet all your need and make you happy.
It is a moment, falling in love only happens once when
you are among the blessed and anointed by the gods.
For some, the illusion lasts a lifetime for others it falls
at the first hurdle of familial tediousness.
Luckily love is transferable you meet someone else who
will make you happy but it will not be the same as first
time, no matter how many times you try love is a gift
only given once, the rest is repetition

The Love Letter

I'm old now ten years ago I was old too if a little
a bit lesser in years, she is my wife's niece but love is
like rain it just falls where it pleases.
The plain of Spain has nothing to do with it even if
at the time sit chooses to fall there….
I wrote her a poem her voice her body her hair way
she cast of her head when angry how I could let this
go I'm not a wordless mute.
It was not my intention to do anything about it I just
dictated what my heart wrote in a shivering moment.

Her mortification was deep she is ashamed of me,
a man she called Uncle behave like a lovelorn boy with
unbecoming thoughts.
That was not why I wrote the poem it was about love
not its fulfilment, the monotonous everyday issues.
I cannot erase the written words; she does not ring
her beloved aunt in case I answer the phone.
My infatuation was abstract as my love for her.
It is a woe living in a society of people, who read and
feel the words, not as something reprehensible, but as
an expression of love that has its own rhythm like
waves on the ocean

Loving thought

Love is a delicate Spanish bluebell
In a field of thistles
You pick the flower at your peril
It may die in your hands and leave you
With a prickly **** of regrets

The lucky ship

I sat on the terrace at the enchanting hour when the sun has gone westward
but it is not dark yet and saw a long sleek cargo ship in the bay.
A well-kept ship manned by professional seafarers who have s contract
and get to go home on vacation every three months.
The cook is often referred to as a catering officer, sits in his spacious cabin
reading a book by Hemingway.
He stops reading and rest the open book on page 48 and think of all those
who have never read the great writer and are only interested in his private life?
It is a pity he would be remembered for the wrong reasons.
The cook gets up takes a shower, since he has been up by six o´clock there
is no time to shower.
In the morning he has to set the dough to bake bread and there is breakfast
to be seen to, and the preparation for dinner at twelve.
It is dark now, the ship is well lit she looks like a princess of the sea,
but the crew have no fear she will bring them safely home.

The lunch

It was a beautiful autumnal day
The colours after rain was green and auburn,
I stopped at an inn had beans with
onions and bits of pork.
Great food, but I should have known it is
a food one ought to eat at home.
Police patrol, an officer with shiny boots
that appeared to reach his elbows, opened
the door, then quickly closed it
wishing me a good journey.

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

The Lunch
Today I ate the worst meal for years, dry fried liver
and burnt onions with a salad that tasted of fish because
the cook had used a fish knife to cut the lettuce.
I didn't like to make a fuzz but left no tips and on the day
sun was too hot and I felt miserable.

There was a time in 1946 when poverty washed the cold
shores of my country that I would be happy for a meal like this
it was a time of mass migration and I remember a mother
and child I think they were Slavic dressed in rags,
there was no work and had to go newspaper rounds to make
a little money, yet she did the couple a few coins

Europe was awash with migrants, there had been a war but
people were protesting they had little food and didn't want
to share any of it yet there was no open hatred.
Is it not odd to think that my country that is rich now and its
people are full of hatred against migrants
and a right wing party shares power with a fascist one, yes
it is sad when we lose the ability to be human and show no
sympathy for those who flee wars in the Middle East and Africa.

The lying newspapers

To vote in Britain is a strange affair
since it is class-based, every class only read 
what is of their interest,
doing the best to denigrate the enemies party leaders
but since the owners of newspapers are usually
right-wing the conservative party often wins.
There is an exception the Guardian can at time 
the sound left-wing, but then they get cold feet and join
the shrieking of the right.
The popular press also called the gutter press destroy
peoples reputation, say “Corburn” an excellent politician 
belonging to the left of the labour party.
What is scary is that working/class readers get influenced 
by the constant lies and vote for a party 
that is no good for them and the country.
This comes down to lack of education not being able
to read between the line and think independently.

The Mad Years
Years ago my first wife had left me for another man
I was crazy by jealousy she in another man's arms
intolerable.
A ghost walking through town in a haze of whisky
a meltdown caused by dishonest self-importance.
I didn't see how pathetic I was trying to end myself
on the Altar of love, I wallowed in the victimhood.
The bank took the house my mother took me in told
me to grow up. Sleeping on a sofa and no privacy
sharpens the mind to be constructive like working for
living. Slowly I was able to forget and let go, my
overreaction was of hurt my self-esteem had taken
a beating; she left me. My sister had a summer cabin
by the sea in a fjord, she let me stay there dry as  
a preacher- until feeling better. I did but got a phobia
could no leave, alone, yet safe from the world I could
think and stay here forever
I shrink handed me ****** held my hand as we walked
down the track to his car, it was white with red letters
I didn't mind full of pills I was safe, now I think it sure
was tough growing up

The malady

Knocks on my door
             The hall is empty and bleak
Dark doors keeping secrets
            I tape a spoon against a wine glass
Its plinks sings from room to room
           Looks for and outlet
           Settles like dust on book shelf
As residues of unspoken words
            I hear children in the street jubilant voices
Pain subsides
Get out of my chair slowly, a battle won

the malefactor

I had a thieving dog
she stole eggs, one at the time
kept it in her mouth she wanted to give it to me.
I took the egg, just as the hen-lady came
screaming said the dog and I worked in tandem.
I gave the lady back her egg
she refused to take it, not surprising,
so I paid for the egg.
A dog doesn´t know human morality it has to be thought
to leave the neighbours thing alone.

The Mall
has got its own belltower
like modern church
for capitalism.
Hundreds of shops
selling the obvious
garish colours.
Many restaurants
serving a variety
of burgers and fattening food.
There is no art here
not much to see
if you don´t care
about
high heeled shoes
and burgers

The March

The best-designed plans
have the tendency
to not materialize.
Plan B and plan C
is the smoke of despair.
Overcoming obstacles,
try a new plan again
that doesn´t include
a third individual.
Postponing your journey
until the sunlit days
turn into fog and
a miasma of precipitation.
It rains on your parade
the triumph of the will
not yours
has won.

The Marine world
The fish world is like a horror movie
they can't sleep at night or play during the day
The small fish is hunted by bigger fish
that again is chased by sharks and dolphins.
The whale that is not a fish lives in relative safety
because of its size, but is hunted by with harpoons that tear into flesh colouring the sea, red.  
Many people are defending the whale, not so many
are concerned by the humble sardine, if you swim
in a school of sardines, they will do you nothing, the same
cannot be said if you meet octopuses with their
arms break your bones and swallow your whole.
I prefer to bath in a swimming pool where the bottom
is painted blue and it no deep than, say, four feet.

The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales), was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
the morning was ashen as my face and find drizzle fell.

The hotel bar was closed, I walked for bone aching
for miles while the heaven descended.
Apocalypse Now!
No such luck, when the clouds parted the hills
where green with grazing sheep on.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
a scullery maid, have you no mercy.

The Mask

If you take the mask off
The ones who play Santa
This year
You will see the grin
Of high fiancé.
Once again we have walked
Into its evil trap
Set for naïve Christians and those
Who think it is their duty
to celebrate the birth of Christ
in this unbecoming manner

The Master Sailor

Along the tourists jilted beach walked
saw a rope, thick as Popeye’s arms
sticking up from the sand.
I pulled and up came a schooner
with its crew onboard.

We set sail away from winter shores
it disappeared in a funky haze.
A dream had come true, a master
of my own vessel.
It didn't last someone
pulled the plug.

Mean Machine

The locomotive was an old mean machine
only used for carrying gods at local stations along
boring flatland. Once it had been a young and
the President of Portugal rode on it, not only him
but many other high up all the way to Lisbon.
And now? It wanted to go hiding somewhere dark,
but where does one conceal an iron horse?
The train passed near the parking lot in Faro
I was out with my dog, and there I could let her
run free. There was a hole in the fence were
the tracks. Naturally, she jumped through.
She saw the train that seemed to speed up with murderous intent when she jumped clear it
was too late. I had her buried and the following
days were long and full of sadness.

The Medal



I dislike bragging
Once I won a bronze medal
For running
Sixty meters
I wore the medal
Every day
Even when going to bed
Put it under my pillow
One day it wasn’t there
I think my brother
Took it.
It was found
Behind the bookshelf
Yes, we only had one
10 years later.
By then I had become blazê
Gold was the goal
I never got won anything
Since my day
Of copper coloured brilliance.

The Photo


When I was nine, the war had been over
for about two, years, but the German army had left
behind uniforms, so we dressed up
and made a **** salute thinking this was the way
the Germans greeted one another.
I know better, know they primarily shake hands.
A picture for posterity was taken of three lads acting it up.
I had forgotten about the picture although
it is on a frame on the top bookshelf.
A tiresome anti-****, born in 1960, didn’t think  
the photo had any historical value and wanted me to destroy
the offence we children had committed.
He got upset when I refused the request and called
me a **** storm trooper, left and slammed the door.

The merchant ship
The ship leaves Rotterdam
sail to the med, and through the Suez channel
into the red sea, the vessel arrives at an oil terminal
and all you see is pipelines storage tanks and sand,
then the ship goes back the same way.
The sea in its different mood can be lovely to look
at but after some time it gets boring.
Or a containership jam-packed with boxes that
load and unload I record time there is no time to go ashore
and explore. After a year of this tedium, you go home
and have seen nothing but oil tubes.

The Misogynist
I wish I could remember the first day when
opening my eyes saw the world for the first time
****** sheets a sweaty mother grinning nurses look
at the size of his little ****, the child screamed
in horror and could see the rain and the dark sky he never
told me about that I had to re-live his revulsion
he was a child in his crib that didn't scream much observing
the foul world and his mother making love  
the bilious smell of love they thought the child was pure
and knew nothing of the lust of the *****
these early experiences he could not remember made me into
a whoremonger forever ******* anything in skirts
only to experience the loneliness of all animals after coitus  
only old age saved him from this ritual  disgrace
In the rocking- chair he sits and the **** is asleep this slack
the thing he uses when *******

The Mighty Fall

I fell through the night under me I could see white crested waves
of the sea and there was little I could do to stop this freefall,
it took 3 minutes to reach the unforgiving surface of the vast ocean.
I screamed like a hurt animal and began sinking could not breathe,
fought and struggled to be free of this huge amount of water; and
there it was my heaven, the full moon pulling me upwards so I could
fly and dream among the stars.
First, I had to swim to the Saragossa and find the secret island always
hidden in a miasma of the absolved, but I could not do it alone.
On my back floated my body anemone and incredibly beautiful.
The sea was a mirror now; I was held back by the sea as the moon
tried to possess me, both wanted me, and this filled me with
ecstatic happiness as the current helped me to reach Saragossa.

he milking cows


cows originally had small udders after all
they had milk for a calf and when needed could run very fast
quicker than a man.
They were hunted like we hunt elk today, until someone
hungry tried to drink its milk and found it nourishing.
It was a eureka moment,  and we domesticated the cow.
The bigger the udder, the better the cow.
It is not natural to see a cow with enormous udder they
is a freak of nature but highly regarded by the milk industry
and look comical when trying to run.
The big udder has passed over to the way we view women
a big breasted woman is admired.
We don´t need so much milk anymore there are alternative
to milk by using plant-based products to make cheese and
yoghurts, it is time to let the cow be normal again

The Minimum wage

The olive tree in the landscape around here
Have a working class trunk and no illusion
Of Becoming middle-class as it has no aptitude
For learning stuff in a plant nursery, it doesn't
Envy those who want to be a tall palm tree
Good luck to those that want to see the view
From an elevated height  
Good soil and water the plebeian olive tree
Wants and it will not fall over in a storm

The Mirror of Truth  
The face in the crowd worried me it was still
but the eyes were aglow showing an intense hatred
to no one, in particular, a man's who dreams had
been disturbed by reality; this is the way it is and
he is a slave of the conventional and his lack of courage
to break free a man who bullies himself and others,
if not rescued his rage will turn violent.

What bothers him is familiarity of the face he has seen
it before somewhere was it on the surface of the lake
so deep and silty those thoughts sink to the nethermost
conscience; he has long denied the veracity is shocking,
the face is a mirror image of him