They ****, children

A hum of silence met me
Dead babies everywhere like dolls on the filthy carpet
a lone soldier guarded the ghastly scene
looked stunned and dazed, said we had to do this
they are the enemy of tomorrow
a man in a protective suit and mask came in
spraying white snow like powder, covering the horror
body fluid ran out of me and covered the floor
an ice rink of sin
I was drowning, but how to swim in this torrent 
of sweat coming out of every poor
The soldier who had shot the children shot himself
the man in his protective suit said he was weak, not 
the type of soldiers we need
The dead children, they would have become Hamas
of the future
Lethargy and helplessness 
My inaction had condemned me for all time
the morning sun refused to shine over this devastation 
Forever, we have to struggle in a fog of depravity

thoughts in the night



The wind is terrible, races around like a drunken

dervish hollering in the night, but when tired of

This needless validating of masculinity it became

quiet; to let my thoughts and worries take over

Simple things at first, should I put the chicken soup

in the fridge, although the soup was still tepid

Of course, the soup was a ruse to stop me thinking

of my declining health, nerve pains, and so on

My doctor, a lovely woman of 48, asks me about

drinking, I tell her I drink red wine between ten at

night to eleven, then I go to bed

She looks out of the window, tries not to smile

Clearly, she doesn't believe me, but it happens to

be true but I see she thinks I'm eccentric

all this is a prelude, to my thoughts about death

will it be painful struggling for air, or will it be

mild like going to sleep and not waking up again

Whatever happens, I will not be able to write or

Make a drama of my death

The past and the future

A war was coming our way as a patriot, I enlisted
Although I was a bit elderly, I was accepted
sent to a camp, with the rank of sergeant in
charge of the kitchen
When the war ended, I took the bus back to my
village that looked the same as before, and my dog
sat on the steps waiting for me, she wanted to
go for our usual walks in the woods
After half an hour, I called the dog; it was time to
go home, but the dog had disappeared, think she
had run home waiting to let her in, but she and
The village was not there,
Instead of a man with a golf club in his hand, I thought
looked like Trump telling me I was trespassing
But there was a village here, yes, but we got rid of
it when constructing the golf course
He looked at me and said, Are you from the past?
Yes, I am, but this is the future you are in the wrong
place, you'd better go back before your time is over
I walk to where the road and horizon merge







The past and the future

A war was coming our way as a patriot, I enlisted
Although I was a bit elderly, I was accepted
sent to a camp, with the rank of sergeant in
charge of the kitchen
When the war ended, I took the bus back to my
village that looked the same as before, and my dog
sat on the steps waiting for me, she wanted to
go for our usual walks in the woods
After half an hour, I called the dog; it was time to
go home, but the dog had disappeared, think she
had run home waiting to let her in, but she and
The village was not there,
Instead of a man with a golf club in his hand, I thought
looked like Trump telling me I was trespassing
But there was a village here, yes, but we got rid of
it when constructing the golf course
He looked at me and said, Are you from the past?
Yes, I am, but this is the future you are in the wrong
place, you'd better go back before your time is over
I walk to where the road and horizon merge

The weight
He had written two short books
needed to show her his work,
Not now, she said, I’m watching TV
Around the beam that keeps the heaven’s roof from falling,
He slung a rope fastened to a scrap iron drum using
Himself as a counterweight.
He hoisted the drum up, but he was too heavy
He carried too much weight of pride.
He cried in the night, struggled to get rid of unwanted feelings
The drum becomes lighter and descends until
He was lifted to the top of the beam, feeling free
Of false pride and ambition.
Why did you cry so much in the night? they asked
He smiled and was at ease with himself and didn’t answer.

Underage 

A moonbeam sat on a bough just outside my bedroom window.
The beam was of the shy sort, and it didn’t frolic about
in the forest during the happy hour.
I invited it, in the moonbeam was cold; I tucked it in
a blanket, careful that there was no physical contact
us the beam was of tender age; one must take care lest the Guardian Harridans find it nasty and demand a hanging party; no more playing football or forever being an outcast, lest I repent. 
Children and moonbeams like stories, and I told a few before the moon paled, and I sent the little moonbeam on its way
untouched by human hands.

Jesusita 

God only had a daughter,
Jesuitta, whom he gave to teach us love. 
She was a good little girl with blond, curly hair, and often helped her mother 
with the washing up and other household chores. 
As she grew up and became a shapely young woman, 
she coveted by men, who could not grasp  her preaching
of unconditional love was not about ***;
They began talking behind her back. 
Rumors had it she had twelve lovers
there was talk of ****** with wine, fried fish, and fresh bread.
She went to the church, demanded to be heard, and asked why there were no women priests and why they let ****** merchants sell overpriced artifacts. 
The clerics, who had had enough of this noisy woman, told Pilatus to do something.
He first ***** her and, to his shock, realized that Jesuitta was a ******; 
This knowledge haunted him for the rest of his life. 
Nevertheless, he threw her to his Roman Legionnaires as a usual ****. And the men taunted her: 
“Is this what you meant by calling love absolute, 
they bawled. 
Their women said nothing. 
They put her on the cross as the ***** of a thousand soldiers 
ran down her legs, she died with forgiveness in her heart.

A Little Fish



I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for my evening meal.
Headless and nicely packed they were, except for one that
had a head-on was alive. I filled water in a jar.
Put the sardine in and fed it bread crumbs.
The headless sardines in the tin, so still and dead, I could
not eat them, put the tin back in the fridge.  
My little sardine grew too big for the jar, and cats were circling
The house, looking for a way in, so I took it to the empty lake
that once had Bluegills fished to extinction,
set my sardine free to feed on rotten vegetation-
I don't know how fish reproduce, but a year later, a school
of sardines were swimming around, except for one that
swam the opposite way- Bonanza! Grilled sardines and
The people rejoiced, thinking it was going to last forever,
And then there were none except one, my sardine in oil.                 
I went down to the lake when the sardine saw me
was glad, jumped up in the air, and was caught by a bird.
Empty lake, a dead eye in the wilderness, tells no story.

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.

The Watershed

There was a time when 45. I thought life had passed me by
I had spent too much time seeing the night train leave.
Through the rain, the soaked train windows saw people 
reading others looked into space, some were crying
My friends had drifted away, and my old mate
Trond had found God, and to think we sat all night long
talking about books, and in the morning, we went out with
his boat fishing, drinking cold beer and falling asleep 
the sun danced on the blue water in the fjord 
wind from the dark mountain didn’t blow.

The best women, too, lost patience and took the tram home
To Mum and your dad, waiting for you to grow up.
At 45, your parents begin dying, and the impossible
happens you are a floating iceberg lost in a glass of whisky.
And just as wheels on suitcases were invented, you grow up
Polish your shoes and find that little cabin in a hidden
valley has a leaking roof and has been waiting just for you.

Just a thought.

If the Palestinians
had looked like the Danes
and with blond hair and blue-eyed
Less Semitic
Would West Europe have done more
to save Gaza
From the genocide we witness
Are we witnessing racism in action

Great American Literature

Our bookshelf groaned under the weight
of American Literature, and my mother was
principally a communist.
An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen,
and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray
was endless, and so it went on.
I joined the youth wing of the communist party
of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out
I knew too much to be useful.

The plight of the poor concerns me, and I bristle when
seeing injustice, in short, I will fling my arms around
a horse that is about to be flogged, yet one doesn't
need to be a communist for this. Kindness is not
political and doesn’t carry a flag, you have to pledge
allegiance to, a friendly smile will suffice.

Come  Home


I dislike Israel, but I accepted her as a historic
happening and a place where Jewish culture
can flourish undisturbed by foreign culture, and
thus can sink into navel-gazing.
But it cannot be so Europe without Jews and
the Jews without Europe's culture is a script
of a disaster not yet written.
We in Europe need the Jews as scientists,
in the arts, but the Arab World does not need
resentful Jews who brought an iron heel to people
for a crime they have not committed but  guilt that
lives in the culpable images of Abraham’s people.

Nature Fascists
Those who believe in the sanctity of nature, the survival of
the fittest, and so on, tend to be on the political spectrum
right-wing living off inherited money and believing
it is  right for an eagle to **** a rabbit
and they are
right, and of people on horseback pursuing a fox until it
can do no more running and is killed by man's best friend,
the dog that lacks empathy unless it is a learned behavior
It is a right to tame
nature, but not eradicate it because we
do we well not to harm our future, but farming is needed
despite what they learned, think cattle have to graze to give
milk and meat. The mule has gone, and the tractor has taken
its place, but without sheep and cows grazing in peace and
not knowing its purpose, the countryside would be a place of
fear and wildflowers enjoyed by botanists and goats.
It is the fascist agenda that is scaring the right to
exterminate
what nature lovers think is not worthy of their ideal.

A Poet Road
Now that it is hot and the sun has turned from
a warm friend to a raging enemy, what did I say
to make it so burning hot?

I'm up early and drive around, stopping and take
pictures of growing plants before the rampant
sun makes them lose all colors.

Then, before I knew it was ten o’clock time to
sit indoors watching the miserable news
and trivial entrainment programs.

The bushfires of terror are something we have to
live with until we learn to clear the undergrowth
and when needed...brutally ****.

I’m thinking of a man who has a small field of
the greenest vines, every day he tends lovingly
his bushes, you see, we should not be too kind.

On the other hand, we cannot poison the land
with pesticides to save a plant we like and
forgetting that all life has its place.

2015 and years thereafter


The year of two thousand and fifteen,
has not been a good year for world peace.
Brotherhood of Man. I despair of our
lack of empathy with children killed by
Well-meaning
Bombs dropped by nations
Those who look for peace through violence.
I recall from history books a king named
Croesus, everything he touched turned into
gold, and he died amidst plenty.

State-sponsored violence spawns terror and
And newer versions of ISIS will not go away,
And we cannot understand that there will be
no peace before the whole world is a ruin if
We do not come to our senses and stop feeding
terror's voracious appetite.

After the surgery

I was flat on my back and not
allowed to move, an assistant  nurse came to feed me
A stern-looking woman older than the others
soup she fed me; open your mouth wide, she said
I did her, eyes softened, and she became motherly
scolded me gently when spilling soup on the nib
When I didn't want any more soup, she said I had to
to eat it all
I felt drawn to her as a baby to his mother
it was a beautiful moment; she tucked me in
I fell asleep.
Then it was morning, I was allowed to sit up and
later stood up. looked out the window, a football pitch
the players’ red and yellow shirts, it looked like mating
ritual, the one who scored the most goals
gets the sexiest girl, that's ok, but I got to be a baby
and remember it.

A Bus Ride

I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
was I reading yesterday’s
today's news or tomorrow's
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn't run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten  rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.

The Caliphate (2015)

Let us think about the unthinkable.
Let ISIS have their caliphate and be a state
The Zionists took Palestine and called it Israel
European settlers killed off the Indians
And now it is called the USA.

The brutalities and horror of ISIS are terrible
But from a historical perspective
Worst things have happened and will again it is
The human burden to **** for its own sake and
Greed for land

In time, it will be a state with institutions they
Practice their Sharia law and behave like the Saudis
We will buy their oil, they will leave us alone
To practice our odd democracy

The Lost Tribe

Holocaust, this tragic word, millions of lives lost in its
name, and it has not ended. This time,
it is the
Palestinians who are victims of a people
who have learned only one lesson to survive
one has to be
**** and able to tell lies and
cynically play on Europe’s common guilt.
****** wasn’t able to remove the Jews; we Christians
wouldn’t let him.
The people of Israel have taken it upon themselves to
emulate their former tormentors,
will not be able to eradicate the Palestinians
we, the despised and cowardly Christians,
will not let them.
The raw disregard the Israelites show against their Semitic Brothers borders to self-hate; it will corrupt them, and they will sink into nihilism.
Dust upon dust, the story could have been so different hadn’t
they decided that kindness
was a hindrance when creating their tribal paradise.

Painting with words

The ash in the wood burner is still warm white and esoteric
an unborn dream a sin to shovel into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to be strewn upon the tranquil sea
with the first drop of rain the ash in the bucket a dust cloud
disperse like souls in the forest but, as the shower increases
the ash drowns becomes silt when the rain stops, and the sun
warms crops the grieving has passed

A sink bucket
Today I forgot to buy milk, drank black coffee 
it is easy to remember the past shines like jewels
It was the winter of 1952, and my brother carried
a big sink bucket, I was the smallest one
and we were on our way to the coal depot to
find a hole in the fence to steal coal.
We were caught by a man who wore an armband
of the new people in command
they were taking no nonsense from
anyone least of all seven-year-old thieves.
I have often seen that you put a uniform on someone who
who never had power, they behave like little ****** sprats.
On the way home with two empty buckets, we came across
a wooden fence that had partially fallen, we took as many
planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve

Me a Racist
 

It was overcast this morning with fine rain
but as an offensive racist, I’m
I forced myself to get up at eight and take
a shower.  The water was cold no more gas
I called myself some slurring racist words.
Kicked the mirror, the one in the hall that had seen
me **** and laughed, went out to buy a new
bottle, my racist wife- she is from Kinshasa and
dislike men with red hair- asked why I didn't
buy two gas bottles and keep one in reserve, like
I should be kind to a racist.

The body

Johan on the strand
The sun shone on his belly
Gulls had gouged his eyes
***** crawled into his nose
came out of his mouth
A shroud of sea tar
A man strummed a guitar
A girl laughed
A summer in 1954.

Android City

The Guardian had an article about
Elon Musk's town in West Texas
The article was somewhat ill-willed
one got the sense of Android city
eerie and eccentric like the movie
The lesbian leaning Guardian and
Elon Musk doesn't see eye to eye
the article was not friendly

Sebastopol

Was it a dream
Soldiers
In a thick ankle deep
Overcoats
And I had none
It gets dark early
In Sebastopol
A blessing
I tried to buy
An overcoat
Was arrested
Sweet wine they sold
For cigarettes
Sent back on board
Brezhnev
Did the driving
What do I know
It might still be
The darkest place

The Odd Narrative
Steamed up the window, my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest, and lake; the peak cries into
the lake becomes a vast ocean,
where trees made into wooden rafts floats
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to the Himalayas,
it will be a grassland on a plateau where horses gallop,
flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.
The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking, it’s seeing
is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgotten,
he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, often puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s belly: “without you,” he murmurs
“I would truly be alone.”

The Date.
Sat in a pub talking to a woman of no substance
other than she wore a skirt and had *****.
Pub closed, I was allowed
to follow her home
through dreary streets
fine rain and yellow street light.
I kissed her dry, bloodless lips
We parted.
Walking back to the ******´s hotel.
She stood by a bombed-out church and had damp hair.
This is too absurd
again; I was at a place I didn´t want to be.
Money changed hands.
My loneliness laughed hysterically.

Campo Alegre re-printed

Under the houses on stilt
That has no sewers
And built for ******
To service sailors in Curacao
A barren island
In the Caribbean Sea
Pigs live under houses
Grew big and ugly
When one is slaughtered
The meat tastes of a drunk
******’s *****
And cheap perfume
That hides
The grotesque ***
In the name of need

Kaleidoscope

A man unsure of how to address women
walked into a tube of colored glasses
and bits of painted paper.

he was brought up as a Presbyterian, were
women were held in high esteem
wore long gloves when going to a ball.

He thought the color in the kaleidoscope
where tartish-like women dressed in red
standing on the pavement near a bar.

Yet he felt drawn to the colorful women
they exited him, unlike the young women
who looked dowdy at the church.

He thought of sin and a moral dilemma
should he pay a woman in a red dress
see what it was all about, the *** thing?

He did and had a hell of a time; he did
time and time again until the day *****
danced on his eyebrows.

The blues affair

I met her where the light was weakening
an enduring twilight had settled on what
was re-lived in the memory of summer
moving out of the convention, tired leaves
in the soft breeze on its final breath.
We spoke of the past but not of the now
the present didn’t matter.
I saw her as a disappearing holograph
dying in the mist of life lived
past emotions could not awaken
she had gone to a place I could not follow
as her face was erased.

The magic hour

The day is ending, and time is one hour back, but
the day still serves early twilight
From the window of a tourist resort, I see the mountain range
I lived beyond, in a village with no name.
So many years ago, when thinking about that time
it appears as movies rolled fast forward the seasons
turns into one was it summer or fall?
I had a dog we walked in the woods every day she chased rabbits
I chased dreams like catching the breeze
The dog, tired of chasing bunnies, retired to the verandah
walking alone in the forest was tiresome
I knew of Serengeti in another dale tall yellow grass were
lions spied, crocodiles in the muddy stream, but when
I blinked; the sight had gone, substituted by grazing mules
and wine orchards, beautiful red grapes going nowhere.
The dog resting its head on my thigh, so tired and weary
in the morning, she had gone.
A dream was over; we had both been defeated by old age.
I sold the cottage, but before leaving, I walked up to the hill
to see the ocean I shall not sail on.
But what I have lost will forever be mine to keep.

When love is a failure

The bird of love sits in a gilded cage, sometimes
it gets out and flies in search of mischief.
Anton, a young student from a middle-class family
sat in a crowded café drinking a beer, when Maria
entered, she had a coffee since the café was full
Anton beckoned for her to sit with him at his table.
Lovestruck!
In infatuation, they had met by chance and nothing
about them made sense; Anton was well-educated
Maria could barely struggle through the headlines
of the local newspaper, but she was of a generous
disposition, eyes that mirrored her warm nature.
The bird of love was back in its cage and felt smug.
Anton’s family threatened to disinherit him,
Maria’s family of Tinkers were outraged that she
loved someone outside the clan.
The loving couple lived in the poor part of the town
Anton had a horse collect ******* and brought
the stuff to the town’s waste depot, he
drank a bit, put him in a mellow mood.
After work, Anton sat in the stable reading books
and newspaper, sometimes Maria came and they
spent the night there.
At home were two sons who blamed their parents
for their poverty and lack of progress, they also
made fun of the mother, who had grown fat and
had rotten teeth, they also stole Maria’s cash
she stored in an empty biscuit tin.
Their love was so overwhelming they had no time
for the children; in the cage, the bird of love grinned.

The boy, the padre, and the abbess.

The padre hung in the bell fry the boy didn’t know
at the time, the padre was his father; this once proud man
reduced to a pathetic shadow of himself.
The old woman, he didn’t call her mother, told him before
she died of a tragic love story.
When the abbess was young, swiftly sent away
when returning, she was pale and drawn and spent her life
in prayers and meditation, asking God’s forgiveness.
She had sinned, but the truth had to be a hidden mystery.
With the help of her God, her si, seen as an apparition
A dream she once had.
For the padre who had lost his faith, it was cumbersome
he was a man of flesh and blood and with nothing
to hold on to take, drank, sitting in his sacristy,
drinking late in the night towards dawn.
He used to go and watch the boy play in the garden
and thought of taking the boy away and to another
town get a job; looking at his white hands, asked
who wants to employ a former priest, and anyway
he lacked the strength of resolve.
He stopped walking past where the boy lived
the old woman stopped him, thinking people might
see and draw the wrong conclusion.
When the boy knew this, he was 19 years old, with
a dead father and a mother hid in the holy
spirit of the catholic faith, he sold the old woman’s
house, left the town to seek the meaning of his life.

the horses

Three horses graze on my land, and one
is still a foal.
In the twilight and with gentle rain falling
they remind me of the horses of bygone
days when I steered the plow that made
furrows in dark, clean soil.
When I stroke their flank, the good aroma
of warm horses arises; dreams are endless.
In daylight, they pretend to be boulders, but
even then, they make the land serene.

The blues affair

I met her where the light was weakening
an enduring twilight had settled on what
was re-lived in the memory of summer
moving out of the convention, tired leaves
in the soft breeze on its final breath.
We spoke of the past but not of the now
the present didn’t matter.
I saw her as a disappearing holograph
dying in the mist of life lived
past emotions could not awaken
she had gone to a place I could not follow
as her face was erased.

the avenue's trees 

What is with this month of May
the day is as cold as November 
the leaves on the trees are full
and green, yet among the mass
of chlorophyll, I see many yellow
and Auburn leaves.
It is as if the trees think of autumn 
has arrived and is prepared
for winter hiatus.
If I tell the plants it is because of
melting ice in the Arctic, they
will look skeptical and say
we follow nature's signal, this
year will be the shortest one
on record, except for the ano
of 1748, when snow fell in June

God and Austerity
The supermarket that calls itself Forum,
has a bell tower, but now, in time of
austerity, no one flocks to buy anything
when its bells ring every hour.
Sunday, when I drove my wife to church
the car park was full of vehicles
the bells didn’t
toll in vain; when I looked through
the window people were singing hymns.
When time is good, god becomes distant
But with economic times and threats
of a new war is looming, people turn to
an abstraction in time of an unsure future.
Mind, god looks after his flock, walking
around the car park, I noticed most cars
looked new, but if you have got it and want
to keep it a prayer goes a long way.

the shock 

72%  of the inhabitants of Israel
Approve of Netanyahu's treatment of 
the people of Gaza
One supposes their TV shoves the same
horror as we see  
It is as the people of Israel are beset by
an inner truth that destroys their soul
and lead them into self-destruction 
For, we need a long spoon when 
dealing with Israel

Fear and other things

I have recurring nightmares and tell myself
to remember the dream in the morning
but I'm unable to recall the gruesome dream
I think it is about nuclear war 
When a ******, I was often afraid of the ocean
especially in the Pacific, where waves look like 
the mountain that even unbalanced hangar ships
the ship on top of a watery mountain, then sliding
down, and in front of another gigantic wave,
will she be able to rise up again
I was in Nagasaki once, and by closing my eyes, I could
see when that Bomb was dropped as tableaux
of suffering people and death
Panic, where I lived before I came to Cascais, there was
a forest, I often walked there with my dog
but not far into the forest, one day, when thinking
about the mountain, what for lunch at the cafe
I ended up in the deep forest and lost by bearing
I think the dog sensed my distress and began 
walking, I followed,  every so often turned to see
if I was there until I recognized my surroundings
and bravely took charge 
This is not romantic of me, but I do not dream about
women in my life, except Teresa in
Trinidad, I remember her beautiful smile and stars,
light up the world was a good place, to think she was pro
Other women are fading slowly, and faces are in deep
shadow as they disappear from memory

a quiet walk 

In the graveyard, I walked 
I didn't take the dog in case she smelt bones
noticed even in death 
there are three classes 
I was drawn to the famous lies because
their place is more airy
big stones, with swada words in gold, nice
flowers and well-kept lawn
the dead middle-class people's graves were
nice to in black marble
I did come across a grave that told us 
the dead had been a chief engineer
he might have been a cruel person 
and would, if he could, be pleased that his
title mattered for his family 
The poor graves tucked in a corner 
overgrown grass hiding names, thistle too
had stings
They had something in common that made
them equal, death silence

Peace

A glorious morning in the bay of Cascais
seven coastal ships on a mirror.
Stilleben
Sunday, the crew are asleep
except for a cook who is up preparing
breakfast

This could be a picture of eternity
but a small motorboat breaks the mirror
leaves a white scar that heals itself

The sky is softly blue, and white clouds are
sun-flecked  and in no haste going anywhere
on this day of bliss

To Know Without Knowing

Red moss, crimson as the blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. To see a landscape painting, knowing
I had been there before
In the Valley of Cobblers, children ran barefoot on
summer grass and scented wildflowers
unpasteurized milk, and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true, but I don’t know why.
I think of reindeer; will they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? The sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry and waits for rain
The Red Moss is a forgotten love story. Perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait
I will remember it.

The  furrows of Life
 
The narrow way leading up to the farm from the main
the road had a gate, so cattle could not wander off to
the main road getting. The way had three furrows, two
caused by a narrow cartwheel and one- much wider- from
the horse´s hoofs. Deep furrows meant a hard-working
farm. The landscape was flat and often windy on my
way to school, I tried to walk where the horses had trod
the soil was softer there, the horseshoe patterns told
me if it had been a small or big horse that last had pulled
a cart here if the load had been heavy
A useless knowledge, I often wonder
Why do I remember it so clearly
like a black-and-white photo?
Lately, I have been remembering this dirt road
the people and animals
I often wonder if there is a message here
I have overlooked it.

The Problem of Europe.
 
Christianity is a rising mist I normally do not bother to
think of  I dislike all religions as ill omens told fairytales
demanding to be taken seriously.
 
The worship of Jesus could have been a friendly affair
bewildered vicars talking about peace and thanking
the ladies for the beautiful flowers.
 
Until one remembers the Bush and Blair two knights
who wedges war against Islam by invading Iraq and
fight a religion all good Christians and Hebrews detest.
 
So if you thought religious wars were of the past
you’re wrong the western occupiers of Palestine are
but a religious war. Israel is a European enclave.
 
In Europe, Islam is a strong, demanding alien force
that we must not give in to, but we must
respect their discipline, devotion, and morality.
 
Should the good people of Europe find I slam a better
and more fulfilling religion than our Christianity, it is
because our culture is spent and insipid.