When the going gets cold

I was going down the lane
when I saw an ice front coming up the hill
I let go of the dog.
Ran home and burnt old poetry books
to keep the cold at bay.
Sagacity went up in flames keeping me warm
cold ashes and regrets.
The dog, with its thick fur and disregard
of reading
survived in the hollow of an old oak.

When the mind speaks

Poetry immensely personal I hide behind
storytelling not talking about my feelings
but the sensibility of others.
What happens have nothing to do with me the onlooker
the observer, like an architect surveying a building
and finding the house wrongly designed.
I don’t mind if the building has doors and windows
and are watertight I gladly move in, love is
another country as passion is an ember of an ancient fire.
You say I’m a liar who tells the truth using the passage
of time as my mentor.
“once upon a time there was cobbler…” there is not
a cobbler but someone else timeless as history
written by those who weren’t there.
My writing mundane I like a forest if they are not
so big I can’t find my way out
Sometimes it happens and breathes of death comes
into my mind upsetting the delicate balance
between life and no life.
I’m not an intellectual reading a book as a pensum
to an exam, there will be no trail of titles
when I have gone.
I like flowers, but dislike flowery poems I find them
artificial, as Gertrude Stein said,”
A rose is a rose.”
But of course, a rose signifies much more.
While not waiting Godot, I will write some more lies
as long as I can.

When the old man was a sailor

When food was served, before cleaning pots and pans
the old man when young, went out on deck to see the sunset.
A dreamy that is if a tempest wasn't blowing,
gale in the mighty Pacific reduced the bravest to shivering gnat.
The old man was a cook not the loftiest type of work, whoever
wrote a book titled:” The adventure of a ship's cook.”
The old man, when he was young, got up early to see the sunrise
before frying eggs and bacon, not forget baking bread; and receive
the insults by frustrated, womenless ******.
But he was there in all the oceans, their tranquilities and fury,
what was left was serene evenings alone in his cabin read great
novels about audacious voyagers.

The best weather

After a cold, dehydrated winter spring was declared
It made its entrance with torrential rain and thunder,
And so the bad weather has continues
In a way, it is not bad weather the land was parched
And the water level in dams dangerously low
For us people of the land, we know it is unpleasant but we
Also, know without rain the summer sun would burn
Everything to cinders, which would give temporary happiness
For the tourists but leave the country in ruin

When time is right

When re balloons float upside
Down and green snow whirls up
From ground


When the moon drips silver snot
And stars are moths eating holes
In mammy’s tapestry

When preacher of gloom stalk
Streets of fear and people hide
In tear-stained caves

When the skeletal finger of my past
Claws at my conscience, then I
Know it is time for a glass of wine.

When we're young

When you are young, say, twenty-five you, say, things like
I hope not to be old not meet girls have ***, with a group of friends.
we didn't have any, sitting drinking
There used to be five of us we were at the top of the world
death was so far away.
Then the group shrank, one becomes a Jehovah witness,
one became a drifter two got married I was drinking alone
and somehow live was no longer glorious.
They are all dead now, but for some reason or as punishment
I lived on, although in another country.
Yet, I have no religious hang up, I believe that in death.

When women rule

Today at the hospital my walked
on crutches ten meters on the way and the same
Distance back. Her swollen ankles were slim and downright **** thought of patting
her on her ample *** resisted
she said this act was gross.
How am I to argue we live in the century?
Of women in charge woo the man who did something
that could be construed as an act of invasion
he will be found out even if it happened 35 years ago.
The best he has to get a job as a street cleaner hopefully
or a prison warden, not a judge.
So think well all you masculine men what you did
when a mere teenage, hope no one will remember.

When words stop
  
Words, words sunken Japanese warships
in the bay of Palau where yellow jellyfish do not sting
and the US military plans to make a base on the moon
and bomb the world to smithereens
I'm watching too much TV and fed useless information
I don't need. Trying to make sense of this;
war is the loser nature is peace.
Until the war that is cyclical destroy everything this
is needed to win Concord.
In the meantime, economic wars are manufacturing useless
inventions and underpaid garment workers
cheap food and obese people. This lasts till a new hot
battle begins and those who want peace are traitors because
they know there are no winners it is an illusion we have not been able to understand, like religion and Santa Claus.
When the human voice disappears
when wolves no longer howl in the valley, then battered
Nature will slowly take over, and peace will reign.

When you have to

On a coach from Lisbon to Porto
the loo was locked, for safety reasons
the driver had the key.
It takes a modest soul much courage to walk up  
get the key and return it.
I walked the Conesa walk three times.
People began noticing me and appeared friendly.
The driver took pity told me to leave the key in the door
he would pick it up after the journey.
With the key in place, it was surprising
who many who felt the need for a ***.

Wherefore
  
there is a question, philosophers and goat herders
have in common with the rest of us a modest multitude
the query is, what is the purpose of our life
from a single ***** cell to fighting its way to survival and life
and we ask for what purpose?
We know the outer shell of what we are is based on
the environment we live in, such as education and friends
we meet and dream about.
But the question remains, why are we survivors and what
is the purpose of life that often changes unplanned by us?
The cynical among us have an easy answer,
but they cannot tell you why they become suspicious and
why Adolf became ******.
The nearest answer I can think of is that life is a prelude
to a new existence, an astral life form free of ego and ownership
will not be asked, we are free
liberated of the life that weighed us down on earth.
God is not in this picture, an abstraction we give thanks to when a war ends
and pray to during a new war which is like wildfire
there are always conflicts that are not planned but just happen
on life on our planet.
humanity is like a lost child in an amusement park, the colours
of the blinking light are a warning, outside the park is dark we look
for guidance but cannot find the answer.

Wherefore

There are a question philosophers and goat herders
has in common with the rest of us the modest multitude
the query is, what is the purpose of our life
from a single ***** cell to fighting it way survival and life
and we ask for what purpose?
We know the outer shell of what we are is based on
the environment we live in, such as education. friends
we meet and dreams.
But the question remains, why are we survivors and what
is the purpose of life that often changes unplanned by us.
The cynical among us have an easy answer,
but they cannot tell you why they become suspicious and
why Adolf became ******.
The nearest answer I can think of that life is a prelude
to a new existence an astral life form free of ego, and ownership
will not be asked, we are free truly
liberated of the life that weighed us down on earth.
God is not in this picture, an abstraction we give thanks to when a war ends
and pray to during a new war which is like wildfire
there are always conflicts that are not planned but just happen
on life on our planet.
Humanity is like a lost child in an amusement park, the colours
of the blinking light are a warning, and outside the park it is dark we look for guidance but cannot find the answer.

While waiting

While I was waiting for the poem, I was going to write
to show up but I can't find the right words
starting the process, I have amused myself by
writing two smaller things. I look at my nails
they are too long but clean mainly because I do
the washing up after lunch by hand or rather
two hands I have never heard of a one-armed dishwasher.
Thought of the German philosopher who said
that God was dead, I ask; How can something not
Born be dead? The great poem I was going to write
is in hiding looking at the screen didn't help,
so it will have to wait and soon it will be morning.

While we Wait.

Late October it has been raining now it has stopped
the landscape is green the air mild and gentle
but there is no jubilation.
No flowers grow.
The seed in the earth slumber.
The mules in the field look pensive and sad they are
of no use anymore, farmer keeps them because they
make the landscape more rustic.
Whoever loved a tractor even if painted blue?
The harvest of this year is done
sheep have been sheared and look exposed
grazing under olive trees
I can see it in the eyes of all living things: Melancholy
for the future to come.
Will we be here come next year?

Whistlestop
There used to be a train station here it was busy
and many came from the village to see who was leaving or arriving
that was ok; it is nice to wave goodbye or
welcoming a relative that has been away too long and might have
picked up big city manners.
Then the ghost of privatization came, and the line was closed, but
there is a bus arriving twice a day, but lack romance
bus travel is so common everybody facing one way and no stretching
and pacing in the hall.
The train station was sold off as a dwelling and the terminal a garden
where, as we speak, a tourist was told to leave
he was pacing waiting for the last train to take him home and to
the airport; he had waited for twenty years.
Not that the wife of the house minded, she was a good hearted woman,
as long as he stood still he kept birds away and she
didn't have to take him in when it rained he had an umbrella and was
happy when she bought him leftovers – she didn't like dogs-.
Then a twilight day it happened a train stopped the tourist boarded,
a whistle-stop you might say, the train never came back.

White Eagle

On my walk, I saw a big, white eagle with an enormous
wingspan, flying low and in circles as it was looking for
Something in the bush landscape. It the steadfast
the gaze of a seraph that had to judge angst ridden souls
which claimed the meant no harm when they had sinned,
it had been with humour and fairness.
It flew higher and in wider circles till it disappeared and
blended in with the afternoon sky.

Back home I told Ernesto I had seen a white eagle, he had
never seen one, though it was a pity I didn't have a rifle
to shoot it, His Maria, was more severe, said I had seen an angel,
crossed herself, wore a shawl over a greying hair and
Went to mass. Ernesto and I went to the bar; he told regulars
I had seen an angel; they kidded me greatly

At home, in the night, sitting by the fire – spring evening
can be chilly- where I live, seeing the flapping fire wings
of burning aromatic olive wood, I said to myself; wouldn’t
be nice if Maria was right?

Who’s the finest poet in
The world?
I inhale roses’scent
And spew words over
The land.
Fertilization it’s called.
Not that it helps
When we consider
That 99% of people
Don’t read poetry
And the literary 1%
Pretend they like poetry
Because it is
The cultural thing to do

Who Tell lies?

“Hey, this is the internet everybody lies.”
this was a throwaway sentence in a TV program
forgotten by the one who spoke the line or when
it sounded right.
It made me think is the world less honest now we have internet?
If this is so is it because we don´t see the people we lie to.
What about me do I tell lies?
Yes, at times when intrusive people ask questions
I find no ground to answer. I´m also a writer and use things I have
heard or read what happened in my and others live to tell a story.  
but in my private life, I'm scrupulously honest and take a dim
view of lies told to make the teller bigger
to borrow money because they have fallen on a temporary
a hard time when in fact they try to use people.

Who's Who?


“We're twins,” I said, the mirror looked horror
struck my image turned and fled, profound is
the indefinite glacial depth, the horrifying  
loneliness of a mirror that only sees itself.  

A gardener  wearing my shoes is pruning
a rosebush, while I'm a tree near the window,
living in fear of the logger's chain saw.

No image, I'll fall into a black hole of vacuity
and why is a hole always black? Can't it be red
or green? I'm a blue apostle, in a naïve painting,
forever walking on a lane flanked by fearful trees.

Wilderness

I dislike wasting my time shopping for shoes
the man who wrote wasteland a famous poem
is known for this; he did like boots too for walking
He did indeed and many other things too
I, when I had a bike, cycled through wasteland
a domestic landscape growing beautifully wild
I don't see it know there is a distance between
me and the dream I had, the touch the aroma of
nature is also a memory of horse manure in
a field verdant as the sea around Greenland.
I need a wasteland a place where I can lose myself
without it, life is an endless trivial repetition.
Tomorrow I will go buy a pair of walking boots.

Wildfire

Fire, we fear flames seeking to obliterate
to cleanse forest and plains so the land can grow
again green shoots the world has been
the cycles can start again
having cleared the undergrowth that hindered
the freedom of samplings
There is a flower that only bloom after a fire
fire ephemerals can cover mountainsides
in a multicolour of wonder.

We feel a strange attraction to the flames
we wish it could rinse our sins, yet, we have
a great terror of the fire of hell

The fire we dread the most is the fire
in mans' heart it can be wonderful but so easily
became ruinous and manifest itself
in greed and destruction of what is good
There is a wildfire raging now and the Nordic
tremble and fear they might be consumed
by the firestorm.

Wild Horses

In my youth the still used horses
especially for the wealthy.
The leading funeral bureaux had two
lovely black horses, that was too
full of life for the job.
They got the smell of a mare in season
and took off the driver often drunk
lost control and through narrow cobblestone streets
they galloped the wagon scrapped walls broke
shop windows and the casket flew off and finally
the spectacle came to a halt at a blind-road.
They put the dead one back in his casket, got hold
of a sober driver, and somewhat damaged got
to the cemetery, but the dignity was gone it was
more like a comedy show, and we the town's poor,
had something to laugh about for weeks.

Winding roads


The table, light catches a singular drop of
the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light.

Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous,
curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never
before dared to a thread.

How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered
the road ended by a river,
too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers.

This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold
and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating
their mules slowly.

Wine bottle

The old man's wine bottle is empty
he looks into the future
rippling through him like Goosebumps
on a lake,
he sighs get up to find another bottle

Winner and losers

The two boys
down they ran
to the town's pond

feeding the ducks
they had a bag each
one of them had
a mother who worked
in a cake shop.

The boy who came second
had been eating
cake crumbs
as he ran

didn't care if the first
one won,
his mother worked
in a cake shop.

Winner takes all

He sat on the sofa feeling disgruntled, watching TV
about a young woman who read a poem about hill climbing.
I have climbed many hills, he said to himself,
but there was always a steeper hill to conquer.
Take sport, he said, women win everything you care to mention
even football and ice-hockey the last bastion for men has been invaded
to the newspapers delight, of course, the editors are women,
as are the contributors; it isn’t fair.
His wife enters. She has been on the treadmill for an hour,
asks him if he has done the dishes? No! He says folding his arms in protest.
Do them now the cleaning lady is coming, she may think badly about us.
Triumph, at last, he thinks, typical female worries about silly things.

Winter 1945

Shote in the night.
White faces
Snow fell
On cold bodies
Killing field.
I knew and didn´t want to know
Someone
Took me by the hand
Carried me home
Innocence confronted
By death.
In the night, I vomited
Must be something
I ate last evening.

Winter in Lisbon
Up rua Garret I walked and it is steep in baixa, the old heart of
this grand city, past shops that sell lottery ticket, besides a shop that sells
religious artefacts, and a shop that sells Cartier watches.
If you win there is money enough to decorate your mother's  grave
and to buy a posh watch.
At the top of the street of the street a café Brasilia, it used to be
Fernando Pessoa's drinking den, now it is upmarket, suit and short
hair place who drinks tea and eat pastry; their forefathers used to
look down their noses at Fernando, now they are proud of him.
Irreverent poets can go somewhere else to drink.
The master poet is a statue outside his café in the rain, and tourists
take picture of him, one wonders what he thinks of it all.
There is also a statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the largo is called after him, he was bald
and dressed like a monk.
I could see the river Tagus where tug-boats ply their in grey waters,
and remembered when I used to be a ******.
The church across the street “Incarnacao”, where Antonio used to pray
is beautifully restored, but his God had left by the back door
the front door was too heavy but saw a woman weeping in front
of a statue of Christos, “***** for the masses? Why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese suits are swallowed by the metro,
and men with cardboard boxes look for a doorway to sleep in.
Over this scene hovers Amalia Rodrigues the great Fado singer,
born in poverty, she hums a song for the wretched.

Winter landscape

The landscape was white like frozen waves
smoke from farm chimney went straight only dispersed
when meeting the upper sky.
Ah, this innocence of virginal snow cold as nun's cell.
The boy sat in the cow-shed warming his hands on the udder
of a cow, later, he walked on snow so pure it made crushing
the sound that broke the snow's ***** under his foot
But there were tracks after hares, birds, wolverines, and
the opportunistic fox.
Blood in snow, like a sheet on a wedding night the sacrificing of
the lamp sanctified by priest and church.
The fox had caught a mouse that built a tunnel under the snow
thinking it was snug and safe.
A crow sits on a tree watches the scene with irony in it black eyes,
afar  someone calls him in for breakfast

Winter poem

This is a cold day overcast there is snow in the air
dogs are curled up in barns too chilly to howl at strangers
and unusual scents or noise, stillness hangs
as a shabby grey carpet of cobwebs on a stage abandoned
whispers of humanity are dust on floor boards
shuttered windows, roads unused we shuffle indoor
from room to room draped in blankets caught in the grip
of winter the time when the old dies.

There is hope on elevated sites that catch the sun
the almond tree blossom the bride of spring tells us it
will be alright we must hold on a few weeks more and not
succumb and crumble as a leaf on the tree of life

Winter-poem


On the way home I had bought winter-wood, only buy
a little at a time this because I’m so ****** old and can't carry much.
The supermarket was nearly empty I liked that people make me nervous and grumpy.
I bought a bottle of wine with golden horse; the wine is from Alentejo
We all have a penchant for lions; Norway is full of stone lions some
of them look scary and much bigger than the real ones.
It was then I remembered the poem, I think it is of the intellectual sort,
deep ploughing and full of dictionary words. Alas, after unloading
the wood I had forgotten it,
but I will remember when I get the first line right.

Winter Sea.

The sea is calm, sullen and pale cuffing against
the hull of my ship lazy as oil;
woolly clouds are panic stricken
running southward as followed by a pack of wolves.
There is a surge as the gloomy
sea begins to heave, too late now to reach a safe
haven, a tranquil Nordic bay.

We can’t escape as billows do it is getting
darker the ship shakes as a drunk sobering up;
to get through coming days
I’ll to seek solace in dreams of forest and lakes,
glades and silvery
carpets of glowing butterflies.
As for the ship, she can pretend to be a swan.

Wishing your well

I woke up early thinking it was New Year  day
and marvelled how mild it was.
The watch told me it was four o'clock and
the first of July, which is a festive day in the USA,
that is not as festive as wished this year.
Last New Year, we did not go out, the food is on
that day, usually third rate and overpriced, not
to mention the wine that is plunk
I'm not too fond of firework it makes me nervous and brings
memories of sitting in a basement while bombers
flew overhead looking for the airport.
On the way back they dropped the load, usually
over the sea, but accident happens.
I wish the USA well, and they have had some difficult
years, one hopes it will soon be over and
normality can sit in the White House again.

Gaza women  
  
Mothers
Of Palestine
With heavy heart
You sacrifice
Your children
In the name of freedom
I kiss
The earth you walk on
Your hatred
For the enemy
Runs deep
As do your love for your children
You will cry
Yet you do this
For a high course
I'm with you
All the way
To freedom

Wonderland

Dreams have always been vital they are the wing
I fly to a consciousness of old truth.
Now I do not dream much but when I do
I visit places I have been before in earlier dreams.
Meeting people say hello we have not seen for a long time.
The landscape is thorny and cannot be shared by those
who are ignorant of hidden tracks?
It is strange to see familiar faces of those of old dreams
they remember I was a cobbler who worked for free.
My phone does not ring it has s modern chant.
While is asked I by the lake when I'm moving in always.
But will I leave when you no longer stroke my hair
tells me you do not love me anymore?

Wood Talk

The wood delivery man came this warm sunny afternoon
the man wanted cash dislikes checks, I don’t blame
him for that.
Why should he pay tax when the likes of Starbuck pays
nothing much.
I usually drink coffee at the local café, tried Starbuck once
coffee with milk was not enough kept talking about
“latte” no, just coffee, nothing else.
A friend of mine who has gone to school came over and
sorted things out; didn’t care much for the coffee
I don’t think the woodman drink coffee, a faint smell of wine
about him.
It was after lunch, the police officers, leave us alone here
In the deep dark valley.

Wool backed

On top of the green hill,
Sheep stopped grazing
Looking at the sunset,
Eyes reflecting pink tint  
And stillness.

As the orange sun went
down behind the horizon
painting the sky burgundy  
the sheep began grazing
once again.    

The Shepard is ignorant
the sun is the only god,
sheep know that he doesn’t  
now this drinks wine and
feels alone.

words in my mouth

Democracy
is like poetry
only nice
when it flatters us  


French culture
is about the female believing
she is beautiful


Perfume
even the expensive one
is not about cleanliness

the Louvre
had everything
except a proper loo

Small hotel in Paris
hot water for shower
only on Saturdays

Wordsmith

When writing shall we dare call it poetry
I, because of my lack of academic learning
cannot seek inspiration the classics,
except for the god Sisyphus which
I find funny realising I'm laughing at self.
The lacuna between me and poetry I have
tried to fill with words, one day I can build
a park for lovers,
At my relative old age which is no more
then a blinking star I have read hundreds
of books that have been stuck on my mind.
A few writers name are remembered,
most of the American writers, sprinkled
by Norwegian and Russian authors.
When writing I draw from this well
what I need to cobble together the wisdom
which is everlasting, because I'm bringing
forward what has been said before me.

Working-class and Teachers

I'm working-class and proud of it
grew up in the damp shadows of fish factories
we played in grimy streets the sun was
the lamplight after six
and always the persistent drizzle and mist.
School was not much our teacher disliked us
thought to teach us was a waste of time.
By luck, by pluck and ******* stubbornness I got out
saved by the sea breeze I had to be
my own teacher who was stern but not arrogant.
These half- baked teacher they didn't know
Cuba and the sand made in heaven, little bureaucrat
thinking they were intellectuals
I'm still working-class, but my interest is not the same
It has broken down the wall of misery but
The roots are with me I know where I came from

Working class Poet

It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break he jotted down a few words
and during the day it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home told his wife
I wrote e whole poem today I think it's good
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village.
His wife went back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad.
The poet came out of his cocoon, said to his wife:
all my poems are about you, my muse with you at my side
I can't write about the old tree at the entrance of the village.
They kissed and made up they both lived long had good death
blissfully unnoticed by the world.

Workless Future

We are fast approaching the time when robots
can do 98% of the work, the middle classes will disappear
altogether; and here is where a universal pay will
kick in someone has to buy what robots make.
But if you think you will get a pay packet every month
you are mistaking it will be in the form of stamps you
can use to buy foodstuff and the more expensive things you
buy, the more stamps are used.
There will be two types of stamps. Blue and yellow the last
for entertainment such as going to a restaurant, if you
use all the yellow ones it is possible to bribe the waiter
to accept the blue ones.
Driverless cars are for monthly rental; you can also save
on stamps and buy one that way.
There will be no election as there are no parties
to elect and the authorities will be a remote entity that
cannot be reached: I wish you well in a life of no work,
except if you are a chef, robots only makes bland food.

Workmen

On the way to the bank this morning
four workers were shuffling shingles into big buckets
carrying the load down some steps
coming up with empty buckets filling them up again.
They had sweat on their brows; one hoped they made
enough money for the daily bread.
I may have worked long hours in my life, but not like
this lifting and carrying heavy objects, and I take it
they were poorly paid.
It seems to me people who perform hard physical
work are poorly paid in insecure work
the first to be laid off and end up sleeping in the street,
They are the people we despise
but without them, the world would come to a standstill
yet we pay them a few miserable coins left in pockets
when we change our trousers.

Would be hero

He is fraud writes about going to the bar
drinking wine and beer, he must have read Hemingway
and tries to give the impression of a hard-drinking man
when he only drinks water and occasionally a soft drink,
talks about juice steaks when he mostly eats a bowl of soup,
he is pathetic likes to think of himself as a tough guy,
tells of lions and crocodiles which he has only seen
on a nature program on the TV.
He is deluded, sits on his training bike cycle for ten minutes
convince himself he has been on the bike for an hour
and tells everyone one about it, the fact is he is a solitary man
who mostly sits alone dreaming of great deeds, of the type
he has read other people do, perhaps the writer of the books
he has read are sitting by a computer and like himself telling lies.

Would-be writer

I hate living in a rented room
Meeting people in the hall
Waiting till the hall is empty
Hurry out sighing.
Walking for miles to find
An empty bar, where no one
Knows your secret that you are a drunk.
Paper and pen I wanted to write
A great novel.
Strong ***** blurred words
Walking home
Hoping the hall would be empty.

Writing and movies

In my mind exist, people, I have not met
they are a friendly lot not giving to dispense advice
points to me to write that floats into my mind
even if it is not deeply intellectual.
Trash is the **** of writing, without it how else
can a movie be made?
Look what happened to Hemingway´s book of a poor fisher
who caught a big fish only to have it eaten by a shark?
They made a movie out of the book
an overweight actor got the job.
Trash, seen and admired by millions.
Take Dan Brown, he is the trashiest writer I know
the movie industry does him a favour making
his books into movies seen by millions of adoring fans.
The people in my head only point the anomaly out
not for them to be critical.

Writing a poem

You can read hundreds of books by famous writer
and learn of their stories how to write.
You can read other poets work and learn the craft
of poetry, there are so many styles, in the end
you can sit down and write a perfect poem and
it will be admired for its style and perfection,
yet by doing so, it is still not a proper poem
because the poet is hiding his emotion and honesty
in aptness that is a barrier to the truth
For without the integrity and passion the poem
will be a perfectly executed poem, it may win laurels
and win in a competition, but it is still words that
will remain so as a demonstration of the art of writing
but it will never be a poem.

Writing on the Internet

Before the internet
Killed off
The small press
He often sent poetry around
And was thrilled
To see his work
Printed on paper.
A book to collect.
Poetry/short stories
Are not the same
Published on a computer.
The work disappears
In the vast maze
Never to be seen again.
When he switches off
The computer
It is gone
Like it never existed
What is left
Is a blank screen
that needs dusting.

Writing on the internet

Before the internet killed off small poetry magazine
he often sent poetry around and was thrilled when
a poem was accepted it was indeed printed on paper,
a little book to read and collect.
Poetry/short stories are not the same on a computer
the work disappear in the big maze never to be seen
that is why he prints on paper what he has written.
When he switches off the computer, it is all gone like it
never existed what's left is a blank screen with dust on.

Wrong  Day
  
This was a ******* day from the beginning
the multibanco swallowed up my card, and I had
to drive to another town where my bank is
To retrieve my card. On the way back I got lost
and it took me forever to get home.
We were going to a Norwegian club but the meeting
was annulled, it was a ****** little place anyway.
We went to eat at a restaurant, halfway through
my meal my wife got ill I had to drive her home,
she is a hypochondriac, and that is an illness too.
This has been a ******* day can anything else
go wrong? It did, there was a blackout, and it took
an hour to get electricity back.
I'm hungry but think my best option is going to bed.

Yang Sing River Disaster
A sudden squall in the river and the ferry was
high in the water and it capsized so quickly
that there was no time for alarm.
The passengers’ mostly elderly people who had
saved money to do this one in a life -time cruise.
The stalker death suddenly struck this was not
the way the old had planned to die.
The hope was a bed, near family around and
there would be words of everlasting love
propped up by embroidered pillows.
The Chinese love their old people – or did- now
they are angry want to know the sea- worthiness of
the ship, private or state-owned?  Someone has to
been found guilty, perhaps her captain?