Sauntering


How does one go about writing 
a lovely poem, one that does not have lines
like comparing her eyes to a crying 
Morning rose alone all night in the garden

I like olives, not the plant that is, rather
boring, but it's fruit, in a jar with the pips
taken out and free of bother, going through
pages finding a word that fits with olive

I wrote a poem themed on Oedipus,
But the site that prides itself on publishing
Everything, you can find the poem unless
You are prepared to look to dawn.

Let me say something trite: I'm happy 
to have a roof over my head, but if the
The roof is not yours, one has to side with 
those in power of the day.

The Failure

It is about vanity, a need to see one's name in print
The shortest of glory, five seconds, ten?
Switch off at that point of glory, and the fame can last
until someone else demands to use the tablet 
A book of poetry, published in a small town in India 
61 pages, and the editor and owner of the press 
tells us the poems are great, not panegyrical, but ok
Sitting down to read one's thoughts only to discover 
misspelling and less elegant sentences, what 
The eyes had not seen before glared up with a smirk
Oh, the shame of this must keep it a secret, not tell
Should anyone ask,  say the book was not published 
this year and turn the talk to something  else, like
the high electricity prices

My Indian books

How many small books have I written 
perhaps something between 15 and 20 books 
all of them short, between 60 and 70 pages 
Published by Cyberwit. net in India, and as far
As I know, not a single issue has been sold 
I have been reading the young man's work
it is full of love and passion and demands to be
taken seriously, alas, there are many misspellings
lack of commas and sentences that are not 
structured according to English grammar, but the passion
It's like an open sore of hurt that still bleeds 
Yes,  I know, I was young once and wrote many books
I can't understand why Cyberwit.net never tried
to sell any of my books

Baku and the Swedish cook

It sounds impossible, but 72 years ago, I was
a galley-boy on an old tank ship loading
oil for Iceland, a country with watery beer 
Baku, I remember the long avenue, empty
of people and poorly lit.

The cook and I had gone ashore, and we were 
the only one who dared me, because I had
not been brainwashed, and the cook who 
was Swedish, Stige Hellander, his name, and
a communist

There was a party somewhere near the men
Who wore a double-breasted suit to grow in
and padded shoulder, making them look odd
Oh, yes, they were party functionaries
Stige, the cook, enjoyed himself with free *****.

They put it in a corner with a bottle of  milk
and bars of chocolate, until it was time to go
back onboard, Stige, the cook, sang rude songs
Now, seventy-two years later, I learn that Baku
is not in Russia

Nostalgia 

there is nothing in my past
I like to re-live 

I remember my childhood
in every painful detail

I have no nostalgia for 
a mythical time that never was 
 
Living with scars that
will never heal 

Exploited at every level
feeling every sting

I'm glad that time is gone
welcome maturity

Paradoxical revolution  

Enough of this, I have been standing still far too long
I shall become revolutionary, not murmur descent
For fine-tuned ears, no, I will scream my hatred to 
the ruling elite with a megaphone, cultured dancers
Delight, amaze, waving a wand like I'm a magician, and
wish for the capitalists to sink under the sand
I shall spare no one, least of all the friendly billionaire 
the only wealthy man whose flaws are open 
For you to discover, he is a poet of the heart, and his businesses are a sideline while waiting for the magic
of words
I shall demand that Facebook and X must stop selling
****, they will be closed down
Get me right, an equal society must become unequal 
for the sake of the common good.

To have, or not to have

Many people are from the outside, beautifully formed
with a mind that can absorb empathy and warm sympathy
but life itself makes us harder around the edges, as it is 
It's not possible to live fully, shall we say, without knocking oneself free of cultural norms
Can friendship exist between the classes?  
Yes, but it can be a strain
The wealthy can be sentimental watching a movie on TV
about poverty, but they will be hardheaded when making political changes that make classes more equal
Of our three classes, I have been through them all in my time
born into poverty, rising above its self-loathing tendencies 
despite its richness of local wisdom, funny memes, and
often jubilant humor
Finding myself among the middle class who are stuck between two cultures, don't manage well, show contempt for workers, and loathsome dripping respect for the better off.
With this, I mean the royal household. I can't think of a more 
An abject group of people, who, when paraded in public.
I have a very wealthy friend who suffers from being unsure if
people like him or not, I tell him to give me his money, it will
set him free, I shall bear the burden, whether people like it or not, alas, I have not been able to convince him