After the morning walk,
While returning,
Bought two bananas from the tea shop

While eating it,
Tried sketching the person
Who cultivated it, in my imagination

Where would the farmer
Who grew the bananas
That I am eating now, be?

Will he be sleeping
Or farming?

Will he be

While thinking about the farmer,
Remembered father, who was an agriculturist himself

Pity!

It was necessary to buy a banana
For this ungrateful seed
To remember its own cultivator!

Antonio your name,
Agriculturist, grape grower.
Gotten passionate for the land,
For the Douro, Mounts.


That love that is not locked in,
He  sleeps in the hill, the mountain range.
He harvested sadness in the Colonial War.
He loved the Douro and Portugal.


He showed the land that joys would bring to it.
He  loved their children and wife Maria.
He planted grapevines that looked at the covered with star sky,
He  made  his wine with immaculate love.



The grapes are a love for all the life,
He  looked  for Rio Douro e Tua,
In  the memory of a people with glory,
With that tear that I feel now.
I comfort me in the duriense horizon,
Today, tomorrow and always.


Victor Marques
love, douro, Father

He, growing, is nearly asleep but his psyche keeps fast to the tale
He hears:   The world at end, too many fights, ugly bites
                    They never knew or tasted peace, the blast on close
                    Rights, mere words.

He wakes, jarred by certain fear, praying the bubble at the end
Is big enough for enough
(Enough of the right people).

If the world should end this year and a select handful could make it out
Inside a scientific bubble, hidden in a volcano
(There is talk of super rich buying off tracts and strips
Away from when the crowds go mad........)
Will we need preacher or agriculturist, who will grow the crop?
Is an artist of importance or how about the taxman?
When this big, blue ball's reduced to rubble, do we need accountants?
The cave age beckons, folks and Lard knows, it seems not far off
Not the way groups take turns to hack away humanity.

Stockpile the water, canned food, save a let or two
And leave sentiment at the door, the bubble cannot hold us all
(Wait, where'd I leave my cell? Oh, there won't be electricity, no charge.)
No meat to eat, but hens to lay
Save the flint and remember: keep the secret.

whenever I needed to append the date to a document

Though the situation infrequently arose
for me to incorporate the year (2024 in this case)
or listen to a well trained
beetle browed foo fighter
named Jethro Tull
(in honor of an English agriculturist
from Berkshire who helped to bring about
the British Agricultural Revolution
of the 18th century by perfecting
a horse-drawn seed drill in 1701
that economically sowed the seeds
in neat rows, and later developed
a horse-drawn ***)
likened to lapsed hippie old fogey chap,
(no much different from yours truly,
an aging former
long haired pencil necked geek),
who in polite society
does not give a rats ***,
if I make a ridiculous roaring ruckus
particularly after sneezing a bajillion times
subsequently when the necessity arises
to hunker down and expel
globs of phlegm from honker,
whipping out my handy dandy
patriotic blues clues handkerchief
totally oblivious to the madding crowd,
tending to my totally
tubular noisy outsize snout,
(which circumstances finds me
in a dilemma of a pickle),
whereby I proceed and nonchalantly
trumpet bugle with deafening blows
clearing obstructed snotter with horse sense
as I splutter inappropriate expletive
one after another
after a sneezing deafening fit,
which explosions and expulsions
of slimy nasal glop
compels people in hear shot
to stage a coup d'état
(after being splattered
head to toe with snot), whereby
a bevy of beastie boys from the hood
analogous to nasty,
short and brutish seven dwarves
mad as blocked up hatters
in unison bellow gesundheit,
which soundcloud
ruffles tailfeathers of angry birds
akin to an agitated flock of seagulls
admixed with writer of these words,
a Paul Bunyan reincarnate
twittering tweeting babe watcher,
especially Paulina Bunyan,
whose biceps and *****
busting out all over
like dwarfish paleolithic musk oxen
on the hunt for red October,
nevertheless while female
doppelganger of mine
(cheaply tricked out
as heavily pierced *** pistol)
find me smacking together
mine saliva spluttering lips
while all the while ogling
unsuspecting babe in the woods,
whereat a surge of AC/DC charge
tingled within these lovely bones
cracking knuckles affected soundcloud
indicated preliminary Wile E Coyote
cartoonish characterizations
translated as yum zook,
who appeared to amble
with trepidation and hesitation
amazingly graceful and sleek as a black Angus
despite her snorting snout sniffing
my sense and sensibility,
she got inexplicably pulled toward
hot blooded videre licet Brobdingnagian,
one member from a race of human giants
described as being about sixty feet tall.