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
thing he uses when *******

The Mist
Cascais was enveloped in a silky, grey fog last night
that reminded me of Marilyn Dietrich silk- stockings
she wore in an ad many years ago.
Ernest Hemingway and her were a great love story
not consumed.
Above the stockings, a nearly full moon shone, it
gave hope for the future, the lockdown will soon end
it will be ok, but not as before taking life for granted.

The mist makes you see far.

Driving home, it was late after a clinic visit
the mist hung heavy over the valley that looked like a different landscape.
I might as well drive in Bhutan, a place where mad royals live.
At the dinner table, the prince excused himself, returned with a machine gun
and shot them all, a truly Shakespearian moment.
The prince was declared mentally unfit sent to a secure place
but since he was now a king, he can walk around and be free of relatives, sits in the throne-room
wears a crown and nothing can be done about it.
The French got rid of their royals but not totally some of them still walk around calling themselves
duke or baron, but politicians occupy their splendid castles.
I saw them, the royals of yore moving about in the mist, reminded me
of the ghosts on the island of Saragossa where blind old tars are forever trying to escape back to
the sea where they once were the princelings of the oceans.

The modest businessman

There was a man who opened up an elegant shop
selling beautiful Italian shoes but few people came.
Why don't people come to my shop,
Did he ask?
You have to advertise your shop in the papers or
print leaflets and hand them around,
What about words of mouth, he asked?
That will only reach your family, they can't go on
buying shoes especially since they prefer clogs.
Crushed that people didn't want to buy his shoes
he fell into a deep depression when the bank foreclosed
he hanged himself, and I’ve been wondering
who took over his collection of excellent Italian shoes?

The molester  
On a podcast, I heard Cardinal Pell so poised,
the boys’ were telling lies,
he wouldn't dream of doing this to anyone,
but time moves on he was not believed;
whether he had ruined anyone’s life is debatable.
We had gone on a walking trip it lasted two days,
we slept on a hay-loft and the young
Priest (not Catholic) took my hand on his ***** *****
and made me ******* him,
next day the other boys said he often did that and giggled.
Boys are resilient they do not commit suicide after such
an encounter, it is just one of the things.
The young priest became a bishop, and his serious face on
TV makes me laugh that no one can see the falseness of
the man who is a child molester.
A warning though if it happens to you tell the other boys
but not your mothers who will make you feel guilty
drag you through the court and ***** up your head.

The month of birth


The month of the year when born
does matter
My brother was born in June
and sunlight followed him all his days.
And friend he had many warming
their meagre souls in his light.
I was born a mournful October morning
the sky cried, and the nurse said
he has an old soul.
In my presence, people tend to go away gloomy
and moderate my opinion.
Rain does not stop for happiness
and a wish I will shut up.
I have a  few friends wish I had more, but October
is not so forgiving

http://benafimpoetry.webs.com/apps/blog/show/43399111-the-moral-decline-of-norway

The mourning
It was an early morning
The day before Christmas
The phone rang
I reluctantly answered
Your mother is dead.
I couldn’t get a flight
Took the dog for a walk
In the woods,
But this day she walked close to me
And didn’t hunt rabbits.
Coming home
I sat by the bed and cried.
At Chrismas Eve
I gave my dog a cream cake
When thinking of my mother
when she was at her best.

The Mouser          
            
I friend of mine has an old moggy she says
help her to write successful books about suburban life,
big gardens and flowers; envious I tried to find
A cat had seen one outside the apartment building.
grabbed it and scratched but when I hit the pus
over the head with a stone until it lies still in my hands.
Next morning I fed it and gave it water the tabby had
left a pile on my Persian rug, while cleaning the mess
The feline sent an email to the protection of animals
and signed it with a paw, this incensed me so much
I threw the cat out.
A knock on my door it was the cat people about an email
I have no cat; they sniffed around not convinced, left.
In the evening a scratching on my door I knew it was
the ****** moggy, people knock on doors, opened it
slightly told it to *******, you said on me!
The cat said it was hungry and had nowhere to sleep,
but shut the door in its face I heard it take the lift down.
Next day I found the cat sleeping in a card box in
the garage I reversed the car to scare it, but it ran out
spat: “I will report you, you heartless brute.”

The movie Horse.

The mare in the yard is small, almost a pony, brown and white she used to be a fallen horse in western movies till she got arthritis in her hind legs,
lost her jobs no severance pay, the film industry is a tough place for
the less famous entertainers.
I bought her for a cowboy ballad I had written, but the song was never
performed since it was about llamas in Peru.
I had left her in the shady yard with a pail of water, and pile of straws.
The day had been hot she had slept standing up, shifting her weight from left to the right legs.
She was awake now could hear hooves scraping on concrete, neighed softly
calling my attention; took her to the far field,
where the grass is greenest, she galloped about a bit, then after rubbing her behind
against an olive tree settled down to do what
retired horse actors do, grazing and dreaming of the old days.

The murderous Garden
  My childhood's garden looked wonderful
this early summer, full of flowers trees and bushes
barefoot I walked into this wonder.
Then something happened the grass grew taller, tall as me;
they blocked my view tried to
Tie up my feet and pushed me towards a thorny bush.
I tried to run that was impossible, but somehow
and slowly got out of the wilderness while stalked
by a Bengali tiger.
Mother opened a window told me it was dinner
I had to hurry up; she didn't have all day.
Finally, I reached the door, safety, looked back
the garden stood there looking innocent, but I knew better
and never played there anymore

The Muse
I remember it well when in the summer evenings
I went to see her we drank wine and made love
Embraced we slept to morning light.
Stay with me she said to rest a bit longer I will serve you tea
No, I wanted to go home savour the night in privacy
Feed the dog, go for a walk and write about my love for her.
It ended like a morning dream; she had found a man who
Drank her tea and stayed with her till he was too old
And she sent him to an old people’s home.
She had been my muse lives in my poems, but no,
I didn't want to stay with her a painter rarely marries his model
But she will always be there hanging in some gallery
Or on the wall in the lobby of some hotel.

The mystery

The mystery of life is enduring
what is its purpose?
A couple having *** on grandfather´s sofa
while he is out milking his two cows.
The consequences of this brief union
was far from the couple´s mind.
So, I ask again, what is life´s purpose?
Was there a plan behind it?
Winning the toughed race and be born?
Or was it only a happendash?
Something a spur of the moment encounter
Was the newborn destined to become great?
And leave behind the immensity of the human mind
So, the individual could understand its meaning
“what was it all for, Alfie?”
The devil had a good day bringing forth another loser
doomed to the lowest rung of the ladder
and bring the idiot´s genes further down the abyss.

The mysteries of religions

Why are there so many religions?
one for every culture.

They the faith grows like mushrooms
in a glade after rain and rot.

Disappear into the forest floor and
a new religion emerges from the soil.
                      
                      
Fertilized by prayers and rules made
by those who see them self as clerics.

Many of those who believe in this fantasy
are ready to die for their faiths.

Mushrooms in the dell keep growing
but we turn a blind eye to their demise.

The New India

India, he said
Has embraced Americanism
People are consumers
India is proud to be Middle class
The echo of the poor will not end


Deny it, if you can
But through your heart and mind
You can't ignore the cry
The masses' hunger and despair
Leave us not behind we are Indians too

The New I
I have travelled far and crossed the oceans
I have seen the unseen, the grotesque we are
Capable of doing, but I have also met kind
People I never sank into the abyss of cynicism

I have seen flower no botanist has, but I keep
It a secret the nameless will remain hidden.

Rejoice for I have found my modest personality
Oblique I was nor here nor there and confused
Semi-transparent waiters passed my table.
Erased me from their memory like a cellar mouse.

The new middle-class

I’m making a soup the house smells of garlic
they tell me, in building, I use too much of this delicious onion
here in Portugal were all meals has garlic as an ingredient.
But I do as I please, they can close a window or *******.
I do not belong here in an apartment building with snobs
who thinks they have reached, the middle-class status they?
Where striving to get a foothold.
There are three lifts two for people and one for cargo,
and workers I take that lift because it is mostly empty.
Many of the dwellers in this block are Portuguese and
have been working in France in a shared flat to save for
this, and kudos to them, but it is a mistake to look down
on the locals, by being rude; you are a stuck- lot
remember where you came from.

The new tyranny

             This dawn, after rain had trumpeted its force on the old roof tiles,
it ceased to a soft drizzle, yet I refused to get up before eight,
alas my Protestant work ethic and a full bladder forced me up
from a warm bed, so I made coffee.
I was thinking how the internet has restricted our freedom, secrets
are in public domain, this intrusive faceless monster wants to know
what we think, so the right product can be directed to our email.
Free speech is only possible for those who have nothing to say and
accept living in the land of the convention who accept trivial political lies
swallowed whole without an afterthought.

The night I died
I was not asleep, this was not a nightmare
my eyes were open as I struggled to wake up
from the deep hole of sleep.
I had sunk into a sinkhole of sleep
that could only end in unconsciousness drifting into death
helpless as an autumnal leaf falling off an oak.
With all my might with every fibre of my aged body
I heaved myself to the surface.
I landed on the wooden floor
tried to get my breathing under control
My wife came running, asked what happened?
Nothing dear, nothing at all.
I was looking for a coin that fell out of my pocket
when *******.
My head was still fuzzy by unwanted sleep.
I had died, but it was untimely
my heroic leap out of bed had saved me.

The Nightmare

So warm this August
A child is drawn to the ornamental pool
A surface of lilies
A mother calls for her child
A face white as lilies floats in the light
A mother scream pierces hole in the day
A fraction of a second nature is silent

The no ending story

  I have tried to tell a story of a rat that fell from the ceiling
  it landed among drinkers in a café I ran,
  never had I seen a café emptying of people in two seconds
  flat; the rat escaped too.  
  I also want to talk about the woman who had been sober
for ten years, a safe hand in soothing drunken men.
I also wanted to talk about the eccentric drinking law
allowing me to sell beer between five and ten o’clock
but the customers had to eat first. usually, a sandwich
after that, they could drink as much as they wanted.
I will tell you about the rat plague when they pull down
The old abattoir, but I will leave it for now since I can’t
get the beginning right, I dislike, rats they are vermin
and I can hear one eating ink in the wastebasket.

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

The Nordic Dilemma

There was a time in the sixties and the seventies
when the idea of social justice was taken seriously even by
the elites, the shipping tycoons of the day,
who paid (more or less) the taxes like everybody else.
But times improved for everyone, oil was found and
people were quite prosperous and lived in a cocoon of
self-satisfaction, and when people from poorer nations
knocked on our doors, the found the same door
only half ajar, and the people why should we to share
our wealth with the poor; the transition from equality
To unfairness was complete. A nation that thought their
riches was based on hard work when it was based
on a commodity called oil needed to drive cars and keep
The wheels of capitalism are running. In the process
the Norwegian bought houses in Spain because it was
cheap to buy at a place where wages were low for
the workers while the bosses made fortunes selling
that, in the long run, turned out to be substandard and
Only the low-cost material was used. The Nordics felt
racial superior to the Spanish people and made their
own small society a waved their flags on Iberian soil,
and yet they feel they have not done anything wrong

The Nordic Pyramid

Up north, where I was born
there is a mountain in the shape of a pyramid
of course, it is much bigger
dwarfing the Egyptian´ones.
It is snow-capped looks desolate
but every year I have noticed the snow crown
is getting smaller
now it is the size of a French beret.
Soon the snow will disappear and
the mountain will look like a pyramid.
A testament that once the human race lived here,
but they like the Tasmanian tiger
disappeared from the planet.
They will never come back again.

The Nordic Tribe

There is a great movement of Scandinavians
going to the South of Europe, they have their church,
cafes and shops selling the type of food sold in
the North. The Spaniards, say, accept and ignore them
because these strange northerners came here for
the sun and not take anyone’s work.
You can call the economic refugees, it is cheaper here
and that also keeps the heating bill low.
The people of the North dislike refugees coming to their
country a place to live and they protest loudly.
One day, when the economy in the south is par with
the Nordic one, the will leave, or seek other shores
where they can live as kings among the poor;
the Northerner’s are racists by nature but do follow
the money and its fluctuations and they have the ability to
see the local people where they have temporarily
sought shelter, as foreigners.

The Norwegian club

We went there last night
it was set in a wine bar and the prize,15euro each,
I refused to pay that much.
The bar was almost empty but for a group
of Norwegians who sat whispering in a corner
And there was no one to welcome us.
I was donating some books to the club
left some of them on a table.
No one stirred.
I thought the scene was surreal.
We left and had a meal at a Portuguese
restaurant.
I suppose the books were thrown away
after closing time.

The Nothingness

All live forms end in nothingness
That is not negative but a spent force.
What was said and done continues
Like an echo through time.
That force springs to life when time ripe
And continues in an altered form
Till the end of humans ability to invent
And renew her; therefore one can say
“Nothingness” is the hidden life form
Whence live springs.

The notion

I have an idea, but what to do about it?
The problem with ideas they ebb and flow
then disappear into the lake of amnesia.
In life, you can't escape love and death, its
demise is sure to love is not, it flows in
a river all by itself, the lucky ones get to
bath in it and are blessed.
Often there is an erroneous type of love
it brings sorrow and deceit and the one
sits alone in despair but fail to look at
the truth, the river doesn't wait.
We learn as we live and go on trying
one day it happens where we have not
looked this time it is real.
What about your idea? What idea?

the not travel

I was up early going to my little house
in Benafim, I need some work done like water leaks
and gas connection
My wife came down with her serious illness
there was the talk ringing a doctor.
The trip was postponed.
During the afternoon she began feeling better
it was then too late to travel.
But I have to leave on Sunday so the porter can
carry my bags to the car.
If she is not coming, I will drive alone slowly
but would like her to go along she does
the talk better than I
I know she is hypochondriac even they can be right
and without a car, she has to take the bus.

The Obama presidency

He started out promising but fell at the first hurdle
When he tried to give America a health system
That covered the working classes, what’s left is
An insurance system they can ill afford.
He sent back thousands of illegals back, but since
he was the darling of the liberal press little was said.
Once when he had the chance to become great
By declaring Palestine, a free state, he didn’t quite
Make it, and his speech ended in platitude.
He will be remembered as a suave but weak man
Who baulked at the pressure from Israel?
He was not a great statesman but buckled under
The burden and there are little to remember him
By other than what he could have been.

A horse blanket
Is better than
A sheet of silk
When feeling cold.
I pondered this
And came to the conclusion
It was self-evident
Dismissed
My words of wisdom.

The Occupier

A wrong type of rabbits have invaded
the woods they are aggressive, intelligent
but lack empathy for those not as them.
The rabbits that lived before were smaller
the blue of colour and happy in their modest burrows
thrown out thrown out by the grey ones that
took their holes or made them inhabitable.
The original rabbits live in the corner of the woods
a place too near the road and are often run over
by cars and tractors.
The intruder rabbits originally came from Europe
but there was an attempt to exterminate them
so they moved south and had become a curse
hateful, murderous and intolerant.
The smaller animals in the forest recent this
but they have the boars on their side so little
can be done, but being psychopathic by nature
they eventually destroy themselves.

The Occupiers

Outside, the only road in my village
a horde of carts pulled by skinny horses full of furniture and children
demanded access.
Our great grandfathers built this house we have
the right of return.
I contemplated giving them the shed but knowing they would
demand a larger part of the house, thought it best to resist
my thought of being kind.
The people outside were of Roman ancestry and had lived
in this area for hundreds of years and had been harassed wherever they went
It was time to take back the village and the right to defend ourselves
I rang the police, fifty officers came and disbursed the crowd
and a guard post erected at the entrance.
I normally have a liberal heart, but in this case, I had no empathy
by those who tried to make me homeless

The ocean of dreams
  
The old man was still in his bed; someone said, is he dead?
No, not yet he says I dream of seagulls flying over the ocean.
Once I was a dolphin, my sons and daughters live there,
Now they are in the bay of Cascais, waving for me to join them.
They need a father figure.
Years ago, he swam ashore, and kind people gave him a suit.
Now he walks like Hercules Poirot, small careful steps.
He dreams of the vast ocean he knew so well, swam alongside cargo ships.
It was a fun time but not a place to write poetry.
My dear children, he says, I will join you later when I write the poem.
Of everlasting love.
Is he dead?  Someone whisper, no, he is only dreaming of the sea.
He knew so well.

An Odd Bird
  
   The seagull and I were flying over the Andes.
   the mountain was brown, and we saw a lake green
   as an emerald ring on an Irish girl's finger.
   Let’s fly down and have a bath I said, the gull said
   the lake was poisonous, so we continued on our way
   to the pampas of Argentine.
  Landed on a jade green patch of the land
  it was then the seagull confessed it suffered
  from hydrophobia, it was, therefore, it had left
the Pacific Ocean and avoid derision from birds
that loved the sea and diving for fish.
But a seabird is supposed to like fish.
Who says, the gull angrily uttered I like cooked
meat with boiled potatoes, anything wrong with that!
we walked to an inn, that is the bird sat on my
shoulder, had lamb chops with mint sauce, are you not
surprised to see a bird in here, I asked the landlord,
no not at all it often comes in here it is
the first time I have seen it with a human.

Oddity of ***

The kitchen was cold
Switched on the gas making coffee
It warmed my midriff
And I thought of it, only briefly
Breakfast more important
Never thought I should think that
But there we are.
I knew of a woman who only wanted me
To look at her ***** and no touching.
I did but thought of other things
how many millions of stars are the in heaven?
has anyone counted them?
Suddenly she wriggled like a worm in damp soil
*** over.
she covered her body in a sheet
And she fell asleep.
I took the bus home.

The oddity of the truth
To shift through information
And false intelligence
Delivered by men in suits
Paid lackeys reading from a cue
Semitic voices
Feeding the air way
With hatred
Compliant press repeat the untruth
Rill, we believe
Wax lilies in the pond is real

The oil of life

when one writes about minorities
no one wants to know, the next page is about knitting, please.
We do not like to read about losers
and our responsibility for their failure.
A tsunami came rolled over the landscape, changed it
and the language, unstoppable misery for the people
who lived there, but it brought us the automobile.
The Palestinians have lost most of their land and now
they are losing more, except their dignity.
We don´t want to know the next page about knitting, please.
Let us read about the super-rich and their yachts
and Rolls Royce, we like to see the pictures of them
in magazines, their villas and life mode-
we dislike the truth, and it demands us to sit up straight
and think about the world and the orangutan losing
their habitat to palm oil.

The Old Couple
There is an unspoken acceptance you share a silence no need
to be entertaining and you are bore telling jokes told before
It is an easy quietness each one has their own interest
And to avoid problems a computer and two TV
I do this, and you do that, and I carefully avoid sarcasm
Which is arrogance badly concealed?
There is much to learn from Soap Operas such as Hair- styles
dresses are worn by slim actresses where a plot is easy to follow,
why complicated a play to be academic writers are showing off.
dense lines actors have to learn when it is about looking good
show love and rage in five minutes intervals
Always perfectly coiffured hair stays in place.
Our secret is she is not listening to me nor am I hearing her
this is what I call perfect harmony.
Yet both know there will only be one of them a new silence
that will be a burden on shoulders bent by age.

The oldies blog
I know of a writer/poet who has dedicated
His blog to old age, being considerably older
then him, I think he is on the wrong track.
To write about a poet who couldn't find his
Specs, his wife saw them in the freezer beside
The ice-cream is chuckling, but overall people
Don't want to know about infirmity.
To write down what happens to an old person
On an everyday basis is not what young
Readers care about, say farting and trouble
With peeing, they want to hear about love and
The falling of love and the heartache it brings.
To see the object of desire talking to other men
The jealousy that gnaws holes in their heart
Old men should sit on a park bench, play cards,
Domino which is suitable for them but leaves
The rest to the young poetry belongs to them-

The old soviet-union

It must have been winter when the old tank skip
Sailed through the Dardanelles into the Black sea
Which was full of ice flakes.

The ship was loading oil in a town I have forgotten
The name of, but I do remember it was sparse
On-street lights had a wide boulevard and few cars.

We found a restaurant in a building the looked
An office block, we ate caviar and drank white wine.
A place for the Nomenclature in ill-fitting suits.

The old soviet - union still existed in all its dullness
And general sadness, which I think is over now
people who make good wine can’t be kept down.

The oncoming


So also, is the thinking of the enemy.
Millions of people will be killed and nature already
Devasted will collapse too.
It appears to me that the coming tragedy is ordained
That unknown forces will make it this way, it is uncanny
That we blithely walk around with no care in the world
As the Damocles sword has loosened from it ropes, and
Is about to fall.
What is left is scorched earth circling around the sun
The seasons will come and go in in silence and we shall
Not hear the joyous laughter of the young.

The oncoming

The human tragedy is not to learn from the past
The world is in an uproar a nuclear war is coming
The belief is by using a smaller bomb it will not be so bad
So also, is the thinking of the enemy.
Millions of people will be killed and nature already
Devasted will collapse too.
It appears to me that the coming tragedy is ordained
That unknown forces will make it this way, it is uncanny
That we blithely walk around with no care in the world
As the Damocles sword has loosened from it ropes, and
Is about to fall.
What is left is scorched earth circling around the sun
The seasons will come and go in in silence and we shall
Not hear the joyous laughter of the young.

The oppressed

It was twilight mist hung over the valley when I saw the big horse
on a knoll was a warrior, a charger, looking toward the east.
I mounted, and we flew to the land of hatred, the mount neighed
stamped its hooves ready for battle.
When the soldiers, who're moral had become rancid, saw us two,
they throw weaponry away fled to the silent fortification and wailed
in terror,  for the first time in 70 years there was peace.

The store- keeper soul, of the enemy of concord, wasn't happy there
were murmurs in the ranks, they had wanted a higher percentage.
I was standing by a yellow sandstone rock, dreaming the impossible,
it is the only future the hassled people have, for now, but are patient
and will never leave their beloved land

The Oppressed
Time is churning us in a mass of confusion
But something is forever the need to side with the downtrodden.
Two of my uncles, ordinary working class lad,
Spent time in jail and tortured because they helped the Jews
because they were in need.
Israel today doesn't want or any use for men without education
Help was not political it was just human.
When I see the endless cruelty committed by Israel, I take side
With the Palestine people and try if not by heroic deeds but by words
To help the oppressed people, not for a political agenda
But a human one.

The Optimist
It will all be alright one day you will see
When we have eradicated greed, economic wars
Seen off people who works against  
The common good of man but preaches a religion
Of superiority and blood lust
They will disappear from the earth's surface as
Will other religions also their true nature exposed
Take our freedom and enslave us
When the hallowed word democracy means equality
For all and not a way of the smart to exploit
Those without economic fortitude but prefer to walk
In an enchanted garden and dream of Utopia which
If those who think they have been privileged by
A deity invented by a scribe would let go of their
Sense of injustice and hatred against the world
Yes this has been a good day and all will alright
One day, it truly will

The orchard

It was a beautiful apple tree with low hanging fruit
shaped by a gardener whose parents had been Jehovah witnesses
(His parents didn´t believe in Christmas)
made to look like a decorated Christmas tree as seen on postcards.
On the tree, a twig stuck out that had no apples appeared dead
as I reached up to pick an apple the twig was a snake and said:
“Don´t steal the fruit that belongs to the old people’s home.”
Have you never heard of Paradise when the snake tempted Eve?
“Yes, I know I was there, but have changed gone woke now speak
nicely, before we strike with a drone, the twig said”
I picked an apple anyway; it began raining, and I had no umbrella
I got soaking wet, and the next day I had a nasty cold.

The Orchard of femininity
Fine day sun and sky, I walked in an almond tree orchard
the scholars call it a deciduous bush and the learned
has no artistic sense looking for a Latin name
like the tree would care.
It is peaceful here a feminine place, and no one shouts
“Get off my land you, *******.”
The trees are dressed for the ball getting married to spring,
and since they are equally beautiful no competition.

When deflowered they will be pregnant and bear the fruit
called almond; not yet, though, they will look lovely a few weeks more
before taking up the burden of motherhood as
yellow wildflowers nod in harmony.

The outing

It was a sunny Sunday we drove to a park
that has an old house in the middle selling paintings
some of them are good but mostly plenteous crap,
I know enough about art to see the difference.
Naturally, the place was closed since it was Sunday.
But going up a ramp to the park a driver buzzed his horn
they do that a lot in Portugal I told the driver what I thought
My wife said I was rude; she can be friendly
to everyone get waitresses to tell their banal sob story.
She- my wife-enjoyed herself thoroughly going in and out
of small shops selling things, she couldn't possibly afford.
On the terrace of a posh restaurant sat to women eating
Meat on skewer drinking white wine looking like expensive
prostitutes or solicitors, but they were not alone many suited
men drank too, and I wondered how the hell they can drive
after this.
I bought a pure hot dog but could the ******* get
it right, filled it with all sort of **** 6.50, please. *******, all
I wanted was a ****** hot dog at 2.50.
Sat on a wall waiting; finally, she declared it had been a fine
outing and I drove her home.

The Pacific

The ship was going down a water mountain
only to be met with another mountain and
going up and up, this dizzying dance no rest
only holding on for life hoping the Typhon
would blow itself out.
Towards morning the see was simmering
down leaving us to try working, but the talk
in the mess hall was subdued.