The idyllic painting

I remember it well
The dirt road
The neglected
Domestic landscape
Growing wild
Tall
Ongoing battle
Freedom
For the strongest
I walked
Into the painting
Wore clogs
Yellow dust
Behind me
Going north.

The painter
The sky this afternoon was odd clouds
looked as ice-bergs floating on pink air
the seagulls kept their distance.
A grey wolf scratches on my door
I let it in
had a leg of lamb it ate it all then fell asleep
Then it wanted to leave and, I saw it disappearing
In the dim lit hall, I asked no question.
But made me think of a Russian painter who
painted the trees black with a red background
and you could sense wolves starring at you.
The sea in the bay is dark with white spots has
the Russian gone mad painting the sky and not
telling anyone. I wonder if his name was Kalovsky
not that I know but the name sound Russians.
I go back into the hall the wolf has gone but it
left a pile of dung as prove it had been there.

The painting
When she left it had been snowing but she
Left no footprints, that is many footprints but not one
I could recognise as belonging to hers.
Years passed like a stable of wood waiting for winter
And I finally saw her in a painting by Paula Rego
So many suffering women abused by men over time
They had survived while I sat in the ***** of a strong
Woman ******* her ******* like a little pig
And in her eyes, I could read her deep sadness and hands red by
Endless cleaning floors and serving men when young.
She cared not for a son he would have abused her too
Yes, it was her she had left no footprint in the snow
She had painted the misery of men her hatred of humanity
She had reduced me to a little man in fear of ghosts
And I could no longer reach her with sweet words or tempt
With my moments of lust.

The Palestinians of Norway

The Sami people who have been living
in the North of the country herding their reindeer
on a cold plateau, are now in trouble.
The Norwegian government wants to let settlers in
and also build factories
The Sami who have lived here for thousands of years
protest and want independence, good Norwegians agree with them.
(Why anyone would like to live in the frozen north
is a mystery to me,) there are many other places in Norway
that needs people and factories,
unless it is political as a part of Lapland borders to Russia,
and they fear this part might be annexed
by a horde of Slaves who hitherto have had no interest
in this part of the land. There is an anti-Russia Propaganda
in the newspapers that are baffling, it was the Soviets who
came and freed the country from the Nazis and pushed
into the sea; has history forgotten this?

The Phantom of Genoa

Along the docks of Genoa, a man with bent shoulder walks
he is thin and pale like he hides under his winter coat
it can be very cold in Genoa, for him the winter is everlasting.
Few people recognize him, those who do to avoid him
of this huddled figure of cowardice; they see in him themselves
the humiliation of weakness buried deep within their soul.
Once he had been a popular captain on a cruise liner, he
failed, shamed by his nation and worst of all himself.
“Vada a Bordo Cazzo.” Rings in his ears.
Shouted in his whenever he appears in public.
Unforgiven he walks the street night street; he is our ghost.

The Paratrooper

I was falling through the air couldn’t see a thing, opened up
my ******* umbrella and descended in an orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light so I could see the coastline
and the dark, menacing sea just waiting to fill my lung with water.
By manipulating the umbrella's ribs, I landed safely on the beach,
folded the collapsible and got away as foam and horrid sea tried to
drag me under. To get home I had to walk through a monocultural
nightmare of pop music, endless Fado, and orange trees the bore
nothing, but yellow fruit no one bothers to pick up as the land
is drowning in sticky juice and no gin. Anyway, supermarkets sold
virtual orangeade. I was walking uphill now, downhill too, but
mostly uphill. From a hilltop, I could see my cottage; noticed the yard
light was still on and hear the desultory din of an aeroplane circling
looking for a lost passenger

<<<So, the party is over

from Rushmore no soothing words
of a nation coming together
to overcome the virus that kills so many
all we got was more hate and division
and people sans mask applauding.
In Germany, people were fervent admirers
of ******, we didn't understand why
despite his anti-Semitic rants, yet the people
clung to his ****** to the end.
Like a virus, the unbecoming philosophy
spread to Israel, the victims this time are
the Palestinians and the passive world looks
on doing nothing to stop this madness.
We live in a world of denial where truth is
not of interest, but lies are the common currency
repeated by the press endlessly.
I look out of the window it is Sunday morning
it pains me I can do nothing to stop this
cauldron we live in from boiling over.

The passing

It is so long ago; the memory is fuzzy as an old photo,
the room was warm, the coal fire burned lustily
I looked out of the window the street lamp swayed,
and snow fell. I turned to my grandmother and said
If the snow continues, I will take out my sledge.
she was still her reading glasses had dropped on the floor,
oh, yes I knew but kept looking out it looked
So peaceful I will stay here and admire snow fall forever.
I picked up her reading glasses placed them back on her
face, we had no phone I had to put on an overcoat  and
tell our neighbour, but before living, put more coal
in the oven, a helpless gesture, but I didn't want her to be cold.
Many people came; they took her away while I looked
out of the window watching falling snow

the passing of time
When I left my country I first went to Liverpool, met a woman and married.
I tried my handwriting but the woman thought it was stupid, so I stopped writing opened up a café that was ok for some time.
We were both working-class I had been a ****** and used my spare time reading
world literature and had time to see and think, she was not so lucky, she had been
an auxiliary nurse and had no interest in the movies or books.
With time I come to dislike the English way the pub and occasionally a trip
to Alton Towers (entertainment centre) too banal for my taste.
I sold the café took the plane to Portugal it was like coming home, of course
she hated it and it ended in divorce.
For the first time in my life, I could write what I wanted without receiving ironic
remarks. This is how I spend my time now that I’m old writing and reading give the pleasure I need little else matter I never liked throngs of people.
My new wife never interferes with my writing
Only says if I sit doing nothing around, go write something, of course with her being
Congolese She speaks Portuguese and French but not
Much English shall I call this a blessing?

The past are memories
Going back to my old house in Algarve was a sad affair,
we took the old road it is a bit longer but less speedy and free.
The motorway also cost a lot of money in toll and for those who use it
driving big cars, like BMW and Mercedes, for them, the trick is to
minimize the time it takes driving from A to B.
The village was empty I saw no one and nobody came out to say halloo,
except for the village idiot and his dog, the cur is always delighted to see me
I play with it strokes its stomach and play hide and seek.
The friends I had were either died, moved away or lived in an old people' home.
The idea was to send the furniture to some people who needed them
but the white van never showed up.
In the end, we decided to leave the furniture to the new owners
I was only interested in the full bookshelves, unfinished manuscripts
and a few original paintings.
We tried to make lunch at the house, but it was heavy going, mostly
we had lunch in the nearest small town.
I got an old TV going, only had a few canals which consisted of football.
Football and more football.
To think I loved living here, now it was a nightmare.
I tried to walk in the woods walking on overgrown paths, falling over
olive roots, and worst of all, the small lake where the dog and I used to swim
was fenced in, for a reason the baffled me.
We needed help; old age had defeated us.
Driving back to Cascais, we took the old road since it was slow and had
many good cafés I had to check my diabetes in case it fell too low.
The travel took 7 hours, rest breaks and food,
my wife was the co-driver, so are all women, don´t drive too fast,
There is a car in front of you and so on.
Otherwise, it was an enjoyable outing.

The past is a dream

I'm going back to my village
in Mars, there will be flowers everywhere
welcoming me
“see what you have missed”: they say
moving into town heavy traffic, statues
of men who are forgotten, looking heroic
shamefully hidden by seagulls muck they
are no respectful of man’s endeavour.
The problem is I have been ensnared by
a woman I love, she likes to live in a town
near all amenities as they say.
I like to live with her forever.
So, the cabin in the dale walking among
trees with my faithful dog and loneliness
a dream of times gone by.

the peace


the prolonged peace in the USA and Europe
does not sit well with people
there must be conflicts, the group that fights
in the streets in Portland is a way of letting off
some steam, man is made aggressive
and peace does not behove the young who
never have to take shelter as bombs fall.
The fighting groups give themselves a name
but this not of interest as the weaponry and
the fallacy of a just cause.
It is the thrilling of killing or be killed that
give life a meaning they are obeying the law
built into us all we like war and when it is over
the peace is so much sweeter.

The Peace Process
I don’t know where I'm going with this
but there is peace in Colombia, the Marxist rebels lost
and their **** women soldiers in green fatigue and
weapons in arms will hand it all in for fashion  magazines
Hair- dressing salons and babies in arms.
For women, a change from war to peace is easy to make
it will be worse for men who feel inferior without guns.
If Texas as an example had been a gun free zone you would
have ended up with tall queens as cowhands,
or what do I know left their oil wells and gone to Montana

So why did the Marxist lose, ******* I think more economical
beneficial, cash in hands better than a Marxist  bible on the roof
28 years of peace the political parties in Colombia will have
no consensus as the blamed is car mechanics or ranchers
Everything is possible from the first female president in Colombia
or and openly gay governor in Texas.
Festive dresses and bulls with flowers on horns will be marching
down the Avenue in Houston.

The Pelt
Dressed in a fur coat of starving foxes
she made her great entrance at the supermarket.
The foxes tore themselves loose
and attacked the delicatessen that served
cooked chicken in black boxes a and cellophane,
but avoided the cheeses display.
They had been hungry so long and lost the fear of mankind,
attacked the guard who tried to stop them.
Only when sated they slinked away so rapidly I was
not sure if I had seen what I saw, but the lady
who had lost her coat was cold, and she cried.

The people from Hades



It is well known that Trump's are a dynasty from hell
he does not care what people ( the serious press)
writes about him as his base do not read.
They watch Fox News and local papers that write how
great he is.

He has helped killing more Americans, more than his
army ever did, this is deaths out of sight and go
unreported, one is tempted to call him a Stalin type
his callousness is similar in disregard of humanity
his history will be harsh.

It is given he will win a second term in office and
the house of cards will come crashing down.
When America wakes up to the knowledge they are
living in a fascist state and millions will be beggars
the dystopia is complete; the devil made it possible.

People of Utopia

In the deepest less open forest of Congo
a tribe live in idyllic greenness the have cattle but rarely
eat meat their diet is plants, milk and blood from their animals.
They are naked, bath in a stream and walk with a natural charm.
Is this Paradise, the nearest they come to fighting
is jostling with long sticks and no one is hurt.
But wait, isn't there something wrong the absence
of middle-aged or old people?
The people die at forty, don't know why, the program
maker didn't mention it he just waxed lyrical
about a life without stress and overlooked the obvious.
Had the program maker hid the old away for an esthetical
reason? But it appears people die early in this Paradise
I will not join the tribe in Congo just yet.

The people prevails

This day dark clouds are hanging over us they didn't move
making the day into night. The old people say they have never
seen a day like this, as God Catholics make the sign of the cross.
The end is near. Women wear scarves tightly on their heads,
to protect their hair against the sun and the weather.
The Queen of England used to wear a scarf; she doesn't do that anymore.
Lest people think she is a Muslim.
The hate against all thing Islamic has not reached our village yet.
Jews and Arabs used to live in harmony in Spain, then came the Christian
horde and brought ****** and disharmony.
Who is going to rule?
For the people, this means little they till the soil and pray to God to tell
and pray to a god of their choice to lead them, which now is a God
of dubious morality, a pope and empty promises.
In the end, the clouds parted and the night was starlit.

The perception

I was two years old sat in the bomb shelter in the basement of an old school
when I became aware of myself.
I looked at my hands, knowing what I did now I would remember the rest of my life.
Above us, English bombers circled they were trying to find the airport,
which was occupied by the German army,
The bombers did not find the airport but dropped bombs anyway before returning home
hit a school, a fish factory and some houses.
I looked at my hands again I had a will could use in my struggle
in the world of adults, the liberty of my thought made me feel jubilant
but also, a bit frightening because from this moment I was responsible
for my action.
What I fear is old age is it going to rob me of awareness
of what I´m and what I was.

The phobia  

Went to the Carnival in Loule I'm sure it was nice
I felt like the branch of a tree hurtling down a river
Of humanity a maelstrom, a headless monster and
I was filled with panic; a scream was working its way
Up my throat, I found a breathing space by a doorway
As the float with lightly dress girls came there was
A surge towards the edge of the pavement a vacuum
I was able to run and found a dark side- road where
masked people with evil masks played with fire.
I found my way to a normal street I knew in a café had
A sandwich and drink water, I'm in a dry cycle seeing my
Doctor at the end of the month and if she asks If I drink,
I can honestly answer no.
This fear of throngs of people should not be taken lightly
But I was able to flee but also take a picture of the girls

The Piano

He let his fingers glide
Softly on the keyboard which responded
With a sensual murmur
The piano bar was not open yet.
When he hit the c-string to hard she mildly
Protested, he had been too eager.
Together they played faster and faster
Till crescendo of love-music filled the room
Silence!
The bar was opening and they had to play
The public wanted to dance to.
Tomorrow he would arrive early and together
Play songs of love

The Piano tuner

The blind piano tuner knocked on the door
Where I was a caretaker -like I can afford to buy a piano-
I showed him into the music room and left
to read a newspaper.
I heard some clunking as he tunes; then there was a long
silence, he had fallen asleep with his head on the keys.
When he awoke I said the piano was perfect, but for
some reason, it only plays Edelweiss and similar tunes,
not that I care, never cared for classical music.

No pilot
The ships in the bay of Cascais
Are waiting for a pilot to take them to port.
They have been there long
A strike by the dock workers take time
In the meantime, the ****** do a little work
Painting here and there but mostly
Sitting in the sun getting a tan.
The cook is worried he needs a supply of food
No more vegetable left except the canned stuff.
He has frozen meat, but not enough of it
Should the strike last.
He sighs and drinks another coffee

The plague we created

There has been a virus spike near us
an actress died there was a picture of her
on the news when she received a prize
she a scarf flung over her shoulders
made her look artistic,
the garment appeared expensive only
for festive occasions and meeting the minister
of culture.
The virus is like the dust that flows on the road
it changes direction many times and might hit you.
The pestilence will disappear one day they say.
I don´t think so, where is it supposed to go
hiding in a cave or buried under the soil.
Perhaps we should stop eating jungle meat
or any meat, I´m thinking of chicken farming that is so unspeakable cruel we deserve what we get.
So, we wear masks only because it gives us the illusion of safety, and the chance will do the rest.

The Plateau


The plateau is so much bigger than I thought it took years
to get here but the distance is so enormous will I reach the other end.
Before my birthday which I try to ignore those I loved have
died and not spoken off they are a ghost in the machinery of living.
The world has turned around the sun many times and what mattered no longer do so,
but I'm happy to find my reading glasses on top
of the freezer. I pity those coming after me; they and their brood will be nuclear dust.
If there are any survivors, they will start making flint axes and learn to communicate. I
have made my warning and will hereafter say no more about the subject

The poem we can't write

Make it clear poetry is redundant
poets write verses packed in wool
only other poets can understand,
they are usually about love and peace
but no one is listening.
There are of course nationalistic poets
who advocates war they are listening to
and often recited by politicians.
***** spiritual music called the blues
are the poetry of the oppressed the rest of
us write pedestrian poems are forgotten.
So forget that you can write poetry
that is not based on the suffering of the soul.

What makes a poet?

I might be curious how the world function, but in that case
it is better to be a scientist or a cook, don’t underestimate,
when alone in the kitchen while the broth brew he does think
why some ingredients harmonise, or some do not.
Most of the time poets are sons and daughter of the upper- middles classes
with big gardens to dream about butterflies and beautiful flowers.
Of course, they have a connection to get published
and regarded as famous.
Poets of the minor league meet at poets gathering read their mediocrity
to an applauding audience, but they would instead write a novel.
A good poet does not bother with harmonious lines,
he wrestles with his inner self the good, the bad in his mind.
He will not be read of course, but he will still go on writing

A Brother Never Met

I wish I could tell you a story of brotherhood
now that my siblings are dead, I was the youngest one
but knew I had a half- brother in Arizona
a product of my father who was quite active on
this field, the woman- his mother- conceived when my
mother was pregnant with me; I didn't know this
before I was in my forties. I contacted his half- brother
in Norway to get his address since he had been
adopted and had another surname, but he wouldn't
give me the address he had forgotten it I knew this was
not true but left if at that. To my surprise, my nephew told
me the half -brother had been on holiday at a village
where I go shopping and buy medicine.  I wish I could say
I bumped into him and a new brotherhood blossomed.
Alas, it is more likely he does not want to know about the past
and our parents’ transgression.

The real poet
“I have miles to go…” David Frost.
Thinking of his beautiful poems as I walked
the corridors of the parking place
at the bottom of the building.
No, I’m not David Frost my life is too mundane
to fly on poetic wings.
Around and around five times makes one hour
all I get is smells of parked cars.
Still, as I walk, I think of poetry others have written
Not my own they are too practical
They sound like carpentry, and nails hammered into a plank
building a cabin on a mountainside.
That is the way it goes, and some are blessed
the rest of us are poetic cobblers.

The Political class

The problem with politicians is we need
someone to represent us and they do for a reward
the power and prestige.
Delegates speak fluently give promises they have
no intention of keeping and a prone to corruption
and will always do the bidding of the haves.
In the corridors of power, they strike deals which
are hidden for us and when called out they lies
and we are often too willing to believe them.
Of course, we have democracy and elect someone else
who say what we like to hear, but they the new brooms
somehow blend in with the rest of their class
and many run their own businesses that, they say, is
because they work hard, I call it skulduggery.
President Macron of France is a good example, silver-tongued
and charming he pretends to want a just society
when the truth is he only represents big business
and doesn't bother to talk to the lower classes except
for platitudes and when we discover the truth, it is too late
a politician who has no ideology is only in for this
for control and when they fail feel no shame just
go back making money elsewhere.

The Pope and statues

Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness
Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues
I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that.
I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope
wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals.
If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for
a walk and look at the statues together.
Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep
he may think me deluded.
Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb,
but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog
in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome.
There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me
or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.

The Pope and statues

Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness
Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues
I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that.
I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope
wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals.
If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for
a walk and look at the statues together.
Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep
he may think me deluded.
Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb,
but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog
in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome.
There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me
or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.

The poverty
It has been raining for days, but now the sun shines
the walls of the old ruin look whitewashed and with its pride intact.
Sunlight makes paucity look nostalgic, a whiff of the old days
when life was supposed to be simpler; a movie by Sophia Loren.
We go on romanticising time of need like it should be an honour,
and the poor are so funny they speak grammarless and happy.
Nevertheless, we give obeisance to the past, a ruin no one in
their right mind will spend money on.
Ah, but I was wrong, and English gentleman- if this adjective
comply, often it doesn't- has bought the dwelling, plans to
keep its front so it will be an old looking new house and will
live with a churning cement-mixer for weeks.
Whatever happens in the future is none of my business
today is a beautiful morning.

The poverty of self- loathing

The of the cloak of poetry I once wore
does not protect me against my insecurity
the fear of being destitute.
Nowhere to hide when the northwesterly blows
and happy people dance at a restaurant
to the music, I composed in my heart.
Steamed up café windows people eating broth
gesticulate with forks to get me away
to eat their food in peace.
I have enough money for a cup of coffee but
they will not let in the drowning cat.
Never mind I lost my nerves
but it will be better when I write this down
and my notebook is dry with self-loathing.

The Precious
I picked up a stone it was green but not jade
Even I could see that.

Took it home rinsed it in the sink it was still
Green and did not pretend to be jade

Put the stone in the windowsill where sunlight
And winter shade gave it ordinariness.

Threw the stone away knew it was not jade
But it could have been ****** something

The sitting president of the USA (irony)

My dislike of Trump is deep
like that of any dictator driven by ambition and cruelty.
Then I read the twitter and find tittle-tattle
about him and the women in his household
written for a lot of dosh
by those who knew him and his family briefly.
The intelligentsia make fun of his use of words
which I presume to make them sound learned.
For those who have not got it yet
he didn´t become president because he is
blithering idiot.
Trump´s base
is in the so-called “flyover states” who are annoyed
by Washington and the high fliers there.
His opponent in this race a Joe Biden is seen
as a Washington insider and have nothing to give
the American people, except a white smile
by an older man with a dentist grin.
Trump is all talk he has not started any new war
should he be elected again he might even be
a friend of Iran.

The president of
USA
Spoke in the UN
Assembly
How boring
Later the show
Was enlivened
By a famous actor
For a time I thought
Obama could change
The world
Alas he was swallowed by
Washington
And spat out as a talking
Machine
I had hoped he would help
Palestine but kissed
Israel's *** instead
Drones are his forte
Killing at a distance
To think he was given
The peace price for peace
The truth is they gave
It to him
For being a black president
Inverted racism
If you ask me

The President
Today Benafim got a new president of the local council
he is a stern type wants to do away with meals on wheels
close the old people's home for those who cannot pay.
He promises to reduce taxes to a cheering crowd of fruit
And sheep farmers, this will attract businesses to set
up shop, the local hairdresser thinks he is wonderful.
He is a coarse man speaks uncultured Portuguese, not that
I would know, but that's what the manager of the home
she went to university in Coimbra and had a degree.
Rumours have that he has touched up women fifty angry
females stay outside the post office which is also
The president's place of work. Not that I care, I was posting
a letter, but was blocked by women with placards
I will wait till next week when the anger dies down a bit

The price to pay
There is a problem it might appear as a sideshow
Now that Europe is averting their eyes
Thinking of Brexit.
Prime minister Modi of India has the plan to turn India
Into a Hindu state, this sounds remarkable until
We realise it is fascist by nature, pure race and all that
Hatefulness that follows such thinking.
There 180 million Muslims in India.
Modii’s thinking is inviting civil war by two nations
With the nuclear capability.

The price to pay
There is a problem it might appear as a sideshow
Now that Europe is averting their eyes
Thinking of Brexit.
Prime minister Modi of India has the plan to turn India
Into a Hindu state, this sounds remarkable until
We realise it is fascist by nature, pure race and all that
Hatefulness that follows such thinking.
There 180 million Muslims in India.
Modii’s thinking is inviting civil war by two nations
With nuclear capability.

The princess

I don't understand the British
when Diana died the county went into an unseemly
mourning a mass hysteria of grief.
She was divorced for a little **** called Charles
they had two sons who are both going bald.
I didn't think much of her going on holidays living
The kids at home, if a working-class mother had
done this the social people would have knocked
on the door.
Diana took up living with an Arab and Charles
married a horse, hadn't she died she would
by now giving hampers to the wealthy at Christmas.
And no one would have called her
a people’s princess.

The problem of a misfit

The problem with being a ******
is when you come home you have fewer friends,
and those friends you meet are often who were
lost within themselves.
One day I found myself on a park bench drinking
brandy from a bottle that was passed from man to man,
this struck me as a shame to have sunk so low
I got up left them with the bottle had paid for and
walked away, my life was not here.
I left the town for England for a while it was interesting
but couldn't understand the class divide, I had to
find a place of peace, and I saw it in the interior
of Portugal and have lived here ever since.

The problem of a misfit

The problem with being a ******
is when you come home you have fewer friends,
and those friends you meet are often who were
lost within themselves.
One day I found myself on a park bench drinking
brandy from a bottle that was passed from man to man,
this struck me as a shame to have sunk so low
I got up left them with the bottle had paid for and
walked away, my life was not here.
I left the town for England for a while it was interesting
but couldn't understand the class divide, I had to
find a place of peace, and I saw it in the interior
of Portugal and have lived here ever since.

The Psychiatric Patient

Driving home from the shops I do not walk around anymore
I noticed despite the winter is holding us like victimized Palestinians,
a thaw, the flowers and **** by the wayside looked more *****
like they were ready to let their ****** hood go - ok I know about
the ****** bees, my friend the eminent poet, is deeply concerned.
Clive, used to be a psychiatric nurse and always strive to be normal
lest you think he had had been a patient.
The beginning of spring is here new life is coming so despite Trump
the man, who escaped the asylum, we will prevail.

The psychologist

Worried about my drinking I made an appointment
To see the psychologist, he was not there, his secretary
Said he was in the garden.
He sat on the top of a tree imitating a hawk, looking
Down at me and said: “have you never seen a hawk.”
“It is me, doctor, I have an assignment with you.
“Sorry, he said I had forgotten but can't come down
As I'm too ******.
I got a ladder and with the help of his secretary got
Him down, several coffees later he had composed
Himself got hold of his block and pen and asked
“So, what is your problem?

the psychiatrist

I saw him on the you-tube he was elegant and forceful
and worth listening too although I found his views unbending
and he brokered no opposition.
His view on marriage was ideal but totally impractical
did he not know that women often instigate divorce because
to twerp or a wife beater.
I wonder if he is married to his wife to prove a point, it could be
his wife agrees.
A stern father raised him, and that made his success full.
Well, I was raised by a mother who thought me about literature.
His reason that women go for nursing is that they are caring, this balderdash,
the reason we have few female architect and engineers is that
this road to success has hitherto been closed to them.
His lectures are aimed at the educated middle/class and only them.
He looked a fine man dressed in an expensive suit and wore
shiny brown cowboy boots.
His vanity shone through he looked like a can man by referring
to what weighty medical journals had said on the subject.
I have met his type on the internet by conmen telling me on the web of a new cure for diabetes.

The pursuers


Under the celestial awing
there are degrees of darkness
stygian and silky night-blue.
Secret light seeps out of hurts
soon absorbed by night´s hue.
By the quay, lovers watch the light
Commit suicide in dark waters.
Night prowlers with knives
killing someone with a passion
and bath in blood at midnight.

The Pyre
“When the moon, kiss the sea,” was never my line
but I once saw the sinking sun painting oak leaves Auburn
and olive leaves green as old gold
The mules in the field had eyes of onyx, and the sky was
Nursery pink to please the children and me.  But this sort of levity
was not on my mind it was getting cold the man who delivered
short sliced wood could not come this year he had moved into
an old folks home
and his son did not deliver a small amount of firewood I remember
him when he was a lad eagerly helping  his old man, just waiting for his turn
to make it big, we are all capitalists now an agency has offered to
sell my books, no problem they say 40% of everything
they give a **** about Auburn colors on leaves and old gold unless it
is cash they often rings my wife answer the phone I'm not in she says
but sometimes I'm caught unaware the thought of parting with
my books are too much they are packed in plastic awaiting my death and
then the horde will come and burn them in the garden a pyre of helpless thought
pathetic attempt writing something beautiful, pathetically failing
I cannot fly on romantic wings I’m not a poet only a smithy

The race

Yes, yes I see it coming around the corner
we see the goalpost and the run becomes
a slow walk, those in electric wheelchairs
pretend the battery is flat this is a race
no one wants to win, but the wheelchair
bound are pushed forward by the crowd
those who have not seen the goalpost.
this isn't fair I have always been a loser
why should I be the first to the finishing line?
As a boy I won a bronze medal, was proud
of my feat, this time I don't want a medal
let me rest and see the almond tree flower.

The race for life

Once I was a spore trying to reach the ovaries
I ran fast (must have been athletic) and won the race
to be a living breathing human.
Had the spore lost it would not make, any difference
for a spore.
As it is, I have seen the sunrise over the Pacific Ocean
mountains high and rabbits in the woods never loved
by a woman, nor the glorious hurt of rejection
The softness of her skin, the colour of her eyes
When I swam in the lake of enchantment and walked
near the waterfall where lovers cry.
All this because I was lucky, the victor of a race where
millions of spores

The racial question

There is a black female politician
says Portugal is not black enough her liking
I find this preposterous.
The Portuguese who settled in Africa to make
their wealth mixed freely with the local black
population, as a result, blackness seeped in
and blended with Muslim blood.
Algarve was once a Muslim province
to the extent, the Iberians have a laid back
attitude to time.
The female politician may get her to wish fulfilled
with a shrinking white population
and black people from former colonies arriving
I think the day will come in the near future
the Africanization of Portugal.