The big Illusion

I’m too tired to find any meaning in life. We are born, and our only function is to sow our seed and then depart the scene before we become a burden to the new generation who, after jubilant years, will see that they are born into death. to entertain ourselves, we make a simple act of leaving our seed behind by using magical words into something we call love, and since the thought of being dead forever is too harsh to contemplate, we invented religion and live our lives in an illusion, a fairytale of final lies, we do see the day we die when we are swallowed up by the relentless eternity

Towards the thaw

As the days of spring are here, I should be happy having made it through the winter. The April breeze brings regret, remembering what had been pushed aside, no, I was no mother’s favorite son
Recalling every detail, overthinking every word said, reacting with angry silence as a defense to hurts felt as a betrayal. No, I was not a sweet boy happily playing in a backyard with a toy
The spring breeze also tells me of an ending, my doctor’s remark of scaring bathers with dark blue blotches on my white body, it is like the process of death has begun when still alive
My anger keeps me going. I was dealt a pack of cards and did my best, bought the small blue houses on the monopoly board the affordable ones. I have no regrets and wait in silence

180 barrels
A trendy couple fled a tourist resort and left behind 180 barrels of human waste; one wonders how they could accumulate that much ****; the pair fled to Guatemala, farms cocoa plants and lives on a diet of bananas. A woman called Meghan, makes it clear that she is also a Sussex, whatever that means, has a podcast, and tells us she is thrilled with her success interviewing other privileged women. We are pleased to read these inanities and think if the 180 barrels of crap have sprung a leakage
The local news is, a Ukrainian who fled when the Russian army came knocking on the door looks askance at me since my view is different from the other people in the building. He came to Portugal with two new and big Mercedes, enough said!

The tree of ages
There had been a storm, not a squall, making it difficult
to walk from the supermarket to your car, leaving you
with tussled hair and breathless, no this was
the real thing, the holm oak, crashed to the ground
roots and all blocking the road.
It was an old tree that had lost weight and bark slung around
it was like a poorly fitted mechanic's overall, so it had to happen
it was what ensued after the fall, and it had to move
still alive, they cut it in half and pushed it aside with
a forklift truck, no ceremony here, no kind words, the tree
was blocking the traffic; not a word of regret, you see,
hadn't it been for the storm, the tree was well enough to
stand by the entrance to the lane for 100 years to come.

Soldiers’ Women
On the plateau, a file of women in black,
war widows waiting to serve tea, bread
and rice from two men in a pickup truck.
The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on,
found their work embarrassing, they would
rather be back on the mountain fighting.
Thought of the women as superfluous, yet they
had given birth to boys who fought and daughters
who was married to a warrior.
The women didn't look the men in the eyes,
spoke softly about the health of grandchildren,
they had miles to walk down to the village till
meager soil and tend to skinny goats.

The applause
I had a drink before going to a poetry reading
since I was nervous
drank a few whiskeys and spoke dramatically about the plight of the Palestinians
I needed help to get down from the stage since my glasses were at the hotel.
The next day, we went to a meeting where the top of
The educated class go, I thought they were idiots
they had erudition but no
learning, So I got up and spoke for fifteen minutes.
The silence was colossal
think of a needle falling from the galaxy
and landing at the Himalayas, I had sinned
said the global warming was a natural disaster and had nothing to do
with global warming.
The meeting was unreported  in the local paper
but what do
I do not speak this Roman soldier’s language.

The class thing

I’m working class from the very beginning, my mother worked in a fish factory putting sardines
In the meantime, she went to work before me. My breakfast was standing in the kitchen, eating a slice of bread with margarine. if the school served breakfast, I ate there
I noticed early in life that those who spoke with educated voices got better treatment than we who spoke the street parlance
I tried to speak as the educated did, which made me tongue-tied and deeply shy, but it helped me to get an education of sorts
It was only after stumbling, falling, and reading that I came to see I hail from an honorable class that built our nation after World War 2