A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable  fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank ***** with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.

Haifa Oranges

The sky is light blue or pallid
It is late afternoon
Clouds are burgundy and
The sun is a Haifa blood-orange
Picked by a Palestinian
Gnarled hands.
That was his land, but a historical
Tremor came

He has resigned; this is Allah’s will.
But his sons think otherwise,
Blood orange, one day
Blood will overflow, run down gutters
As we have another tremor that
rumbles on an everlasting family feud.

An utterly Useless Tale

On a big round oak table in a living room, a vase, in its small crack, lived two house ants. They were sitting outside,  considering a box of matches on the tabletop.
“if the box was empty, I’m sure I could push an inch or two the first and said. “Yeah,” the other snorted.
A man came into the room, took a matchstick out of the box, and put it back on the table, this time by its edge, and walked out.
The first ant giggled and said, “If we both push the box, it will fall on
the floor, no one will know how it ended there.”
They traversed the vast expanse of the table, pushed the box off the table, hurried back into their crack, and laughed heartily.
They had been frightened
people usually **** house ants at first
sight. The man came back, saw the box on the floor, shook his head, picked it up, and placed it back on the table. Our ants were in stitches
They were tempted to push the box on the floor again
But gave it up, the risk someone could come in  with a duster
was too great
Back at their crack, they went to sleep

A Handcart and a Ring 
 
A man I knew had a handcart and became self-employed
I often saw him in the town with a load of parcels and sometimes furniture
He was a contented man. 
One day, on his way to the railway station, the wheel of his cart came off
four suitcases fell into the street.
So, what to do? 
He traced his steps and soon found the missing pieces that kept the wheel 
on the axle, but he also found an expensive diamond ring 
he put it in his pocket as he was occupied with fixing the wheel 
and get his load of suitcases to the railway station 
In the paper, he read about a lady who had lost a dear ring
he contacted her via the paper, and she was happy, 
she didn’t give him any money because, as she said, honesty has its reward 
The people at the paper thought this was too mean for words
made a collection and handed the kind man the money. 
A Picture of him and his cart, the paper, and a nice story for the paper to sell. 
when too old to push his cart around, he became a poet of the small things in life 
and not about  the life of aristocrats

Worth a Fight.

It is no longer about right or wrong. it is about taking a stand
Against those who came to this country 
to escape poverty and tyranny, and now want to end democracy 
The unwritten consensus among people of different classes. 
We have become soft liberal,  Christianity, you said? 
Don’t make me laugh; we are far too Self-assured 
to believe in God. 
And we are giving way while their imams egg the people 
on and not for a moment do they stop 
No, not for a sneeze of hesitation do they think that 
if they went back to their forefathers’ country
A whip would await them in dank cells. 
Their faith has good points. No, it has not. 
But they have the right to return to their cherished land 
and practice a faith that is still in the Middle Ages. 
Soft liberal, giving way for the sake of peace
a peace I will not accept, and I will fill bullets in the chambers of my revolver to defend what my people fought for is called democracy, shaky, yes, with many flaws
But is a system worth fighting for

Grecians 

Hellas and the port of Piraeus hold a memory
in my seafarer’s heart, civilized people, no
they are not leaders of efficiency, but you can
talk to them and expand your knowledge.
Not forgetting ******, they had time for a drink
sharing, a joke, and didn’t hurry you.

In Hamburg, it was never thus, no smiles, no foreplay
efficiency ruled; money on the table, the trousers
down **** fast, get out, no need to take your
shoes off. Yet the Germans are admired, but
when they have nothing to export
The Hellenic people will go on smoking cigarettes
and being civilized.

My dislike of Poetry

I dislike poetry; it is a contrived form of expression, yet whenever
I published one of my collections, which is under the rubric
of poetry
when they are nothing but opinions and descriptions of thoughts, which
I try to share with readers who might like what I write
or think this is a waste of time. I dislike poetry because it keeps
life in shadows and tries not to tell but to show by writing
so abstract
you have to guess the intentions. When you do, the poet is great.
mainly because he described life as scholastic and has little to do with real life, but you can, if seeking brief fame, put your head in
The gas oven and everything you wrote will be holy as the poetic grail, a pity because the poet/writer was seduced by her father and was unable to come to terms with this because she liked the **** but didn’t dare to admit it.