When the ancient goes wild 
Our hotel in Porto was at the highest point
although we had been promised a room downtown we
didn’t have to walk so far, ***** then I had paid in advance
across the street from the hotel a big disused water tower
from the time people didn't bother with showers
every day making us smell like ****** on a Saturday night.
We decided to walk into town, which was not a wise choice
she with her hips and my feet we were overtaken by a snail
and it was time for late lunch.
Later we took a taxi, and I noticed a big, but dead rat
outside
the hotel had great commotion but as they were getting rid
of the rodent, a car stopped over it.
After resting well, they arranged a trip for us to see
famous
houses an art museum and a ride along the Douro
we had our evening meal in a safe place away from
the water tower which suspected was of crawling with rats.
The tour bus didn't stop anywhere just showed us
The places and statues of famous men point towards
the east the bus trundled down to the ****** Douro
and narrows was full of tourists and cars, it represented
all that I dislike me life, my wife fell asleep, but I
managed
take a few interesting photos of a house that had been
pulled down
but you could still see the painting people used  where

Stay with me

The Zephyr breathes with the lungs
unsullied by cigarette smoke
Siesta nap
a lazy Sunday on an afternoon
when flowers wilt, the sky is recklessly
**** in transparent whispers
of silky clouds.
Breathtakingly the silence
if it should
stop
I would fall into a chasm
of pale rainbows,
stillborn moons,
corroded stars
where words of love
are unheard of, a silent echo
Inhale and exhale, my lovely
Blow a gale
But don’t leave me alone in
city parks where aged men sit
Tell us how old they are.

A ******'s life

Looking at the map, I have been to most countries 
that have seaports but no time to explore work  had
to be done whether it was Monday or Sunday
I have crossed many seas. The Pacific Ocean had 
long, deep waves, the Atlantic Ocean had sharper waves
while the Mediterranean Sea could not make up its mind 
The Black Sea wasn't blue and looked darksome; the ship
was stuck on ice flakes
The country we ****** preferred was the USA
we could get our shopping done and buy stuff for
friends at home, shops stayed open longer
A Russian town had a beautiful avenue, but otherwise
a city shrouded in darkness
I lost my heart to Guatemala, beautiful beaches near
the docks, a nation of friendly folks
Haiti, Port-au- Prince where Papa Doc ruled with his
brutal men dressed in flowery shirts, sunglasses
eager to shoot at anything that moved
a place where portholes had to be closed for the stink
What I remember best was in Nagasaki one afternoon
I had two hours off work and noticed how few people
I met it was as if they were still in shell shock 
In a courtyard, I came across the graves of Portuguese
****** who had died of the pest 200 years ago 
far from home, died of an illness, I grieved for them 
The evenings in foreign ports were the same bars
and women of ill repute ready for a small amount
of money serviced the ritual of ***, so one could be drunk
go back onboard for a few hours of sleep

Spring Morning

Today, waking up, it was warmer, the winter 
had been cold at times, freezing electric heating
is not for those with a slim wallet

Today, we will write pleasant poetry 
not like the boy at the edge of his bed, his feet
not long enough to reach the floor, crying
for yet again losing his home because his mother
has tuberculosis, has to go to a sanatorium
his has to go living among strangers, he has to 
be nice to and not be boisterous

Yes, pleasant thoughts, not letting bitterness seep
into this day with its mild breeze and clear light
thinking of the dog he had walking in the woods
Heck, the dog died, that was sad, so let us think 
of something else, buying red wine and cheese 
Getting ****** and playing music too loudly is not funny
when you are the only one in the room

Two things on offer to gladding the day go for
a walk or sit on the terrace soaking up the sunlight
tell jokes about my life at sea, forgetting long
nights, somewhere on the Pacific Ocean
So, let us embrace old grudges and enjoy life
of not laughing, we know a giggle is short-lived

Gaza and the pope

The pope who died was known to cry 
when told of the horror in Gaza
he sent Israel a mild-mannered rebuke 
When the pope was young, he rode 
a big motorbike in Buenos Aires 
persistent rumor tells he did more riding
The question hangs in the air
has he got a son?
If so, was his mother a ******* he
had tried to lead away from sin
To make matters worse, was she a Jewish
Was the rumor, even as baseless 
hanging there, hindering the pope 
to speak out against the horror in Gaza?

A true sentence 

As Hemingway said, start with a true sentence
the roof of the school building, I can see from 
where I sit on a cloudy day is grey as lead
when lit up by sunlight that has broken through 
the clouds, it turns silvery and pleasant to see
That is, a true sentence about what I see, but it
is not what I'm thinking is a love story that
began a summer's day, lasted with its drama
when days got shorter and the wind bitter
leaves shrunk and fell on a rainy street
The true sentence is the gripping sadness
the knowledge that the best of my time has gone

Idyllic nightmare 

I know they are good people who want us to leave 
they don't know it is their time, what's up because
our time is fine, but they fail to grasp that they
are past the clock, it has belled twice 
We have admired their garden with flowers
deep green lawn and made of plastic as are
the red roses, nothing is alive, but we pretend
like them, that they are not dead
We failed to ask the obvious question. Why are
we are here? Did they invite us? Or did we show up
in a world that has died, what we see is us who
exists in a world that is no longer real?