over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *

Algarve

The cold northerly wind has died down
if it wants to blow it can do so in July and August
when the heat is unpleasant, and the birds and I sit under or in trees
the time of year when the sun is an enemy.
It is the immense clear sky in Algarve that attracts me, not
the beaches, and the smell of suntan lotion I can do without.
No other country has such pure air it brings the best in people
even the Nordic become mellow and malleable in Portugal.
We are having lunch in Albufeira they tend to cater for
the English palate, food without garlic and onions are not food,
I rather drive to Almodovar and eat Pernil with cabbage
and inhale the aroma of garlic, but not today, perhaps next week
if all is well with the world

Algarve

The cold northerly wind has died down
if it wants to blow it can do so in July and August
when the heat is unpleasant, and the birds and I sit under or in trees
the time of year when the sun is an enemy.
It is the immense clear sky in Algarve that attracts me, not
the beaches, and the smell of suntan lotion I can do without.
No other country has such pure air it brings the best in people
even the Nordic become mellow and malleable in Portugal.
We are having lunch in Albufeira they tend to cater for
the English palate, food without garlic and onions are not food,
I rather drive to Almodovar and eat Pernil with cabbage
and inhale the aroma of garlic, but not today, perhaps next week
if all is well with the world

The Inland Algarve

The landscape so oddly shaped
Had once been a domestic landscape
Walking along narrow cart-wheel
Tracks I often come across the remnant
Of dwellings that once had housed
Poverty-stricken people who had
Ploughed small and reluctant fields
Olive trees had grown wild and tall
Bearing bitter fruit.
Sone walls had no purpose sinking
Back to earth becoming rocks again.
A haunted landscape in the inland
Algarve and no one saw it doomed
Beauty.
Rabbits and boars dominated in peace
And sheep grazed in the glooming.
Stillness yet I sensed voices that once
Had loved and lived struggling
Against poverty and early death.

Olive and Orange
From the years of 650 and onwards Andalusia
Was a tolerant Arabic province, which even tolerated
the Jewish tradesmen pushing their handcarts on
cobble stones and the Christians with their infernal
bells ringing on Sunday mornings.
The three religions lived side my side in relative
harmony, one can say the following 300 years
Andalusia and part of Algarve was an oasis of peace.
The Arab architecture is still there and in music
one can still hear the Arabic influence not to forget
the poetry inspired in beautiful gardens with running
water and cooling shade, where love was made and
in Yasmin scented afternoons.

Nothing lasts forever the Christian horde came with
their swords -the ISIS of the time- heads rolled in the sand
Andalusia became a Catholic nation, yet the echo of more
a contemplative time lingers on.
This story was told to me by the oldest olive tree in the world
that lives in a valley of orange trees.

Algarve

The future for the tourist industry is not uplifting
because the future points to fewer people travelling
and that I think is a bonus, the very idea of moving
ca mass of people from one destination
to another but not teaching them anything disturbing
like the countries they visit have a history
of tyranny.
A good example is the Algarve, once the most impoverished region
in Portugal, it was where politically suspect people
was sent, but then it was discovered and the region
became flush with money and hundred of apartment
blocks were built, if not of the highest quality.
the Co-vi virus is not going away and when it does
it will be replaced by a new pestilence.
I think to save humanity we have to consume less
and nations, people should stay where they are.
The tourist industry was not made to educate anyone
but simply a way to make money

quietly
over the past week
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in their country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

businessmen, remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and those never-ending nights
at the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
at the time when nature’s breath
goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

Or were it better
that we also took a rest?

platinum rays of an
algarvian december sun
touch a magical landscape
that pulses with ancient
life
and as lushly green undulating hills
with orange groves and
olive trees and
scattered red rocks
unfold under
a cloudless cerulean sky
I hear

hono lena’i’ja

a far away echo is stirring
deep within
sending shivers down my spine
awakening akeneic memory
without words
without thoughts –
a silent knowing

my akene explodes in
white hot light
engulfing my whole beingness –
painful almost
it takes my breath
away

wordless feelings
but I know
lemuria is rising

Eja’i Oja’i

© Jasmine Martin, the Algarve, Portugal, December 8, 2014

DR. Congo
I saw the villa Joseph Kabila bought in Algarve it is to be a bolt hole
when he has to flee Congo, he has blood on his hands perhaps not
enough for Hague to bother about, like so many African presidents,
he has robbed his country to destitution.
Perhaps this echoing country, with forests is too big to be governed
especially since no money is spent on  new roads; Kinshasa its capital is
run mostly by mixed races, not even they can keep order and people
throw all their ******* in the street.
Joseph Kabila, Joseph's father, tried ordered a thousand wheelbarrows
gave a job to ditto street cleaners who sold their wheelbarrows and
consequently lost their jobs. But these setbacks are not the problem
Congo is too rich in minerals, oil and timber and the big international
businesses have descended upon the land corrupting all in its wake like
a locust plague they have failed to get rid of and they have no interest
in making Congo a nation which, it will be when it is a more modern.  
I looked inside the villa it had cavernous rooms gold and glitter quite
fitting for someone who doesn't know the value of anything but gems
and never mind the culture

Don't stop now, Ireland is
just beginning to warm up.

Imagine, an Irish Riviera,
a Costa Brava, an Algarve.

Olives, Cotton, Oranges,  all
thanks to carbon emissions.

Don't stop now, it is a form
of weather discrimination.

Welcome to Ulster where the
red hand of Lucifer awaits you.

A day in my life

She coming out of the bus she has forgotten the umbrella walks
slowly and her face is more African now that she is old,
she uses it as a walking stick, which she says for the aged, I think
my love for her has grown over the years, and I cannot think of
the time we were apart before we met twenty-two odd years ago.
We have Christmas day here and next day take the bus to
a hospital in Lisbon that specialises in hip replacement
We will stay the night in the metropole have good meal and look
at things- for my part rather like a grumpy North Korean leader
then back to my Algarve with trees and big boulders  
Tomorrow we are eating at a hotel they are not serving turkey but
Cabrito (goat meat) sauté potatoes and a lot of sweets I don't care to
know about; since I'm driving only water or tomato juice.
It is an ordeal for me to be among people I don't know I will take 5 ml
of ******, it will keep me calm until I simmer down and laugh at bad jokes
as told by an exhibitionist. We can't stay long since we are living in the morn
On a short walk outdoors I saw my dog she walked beside me I bent down  
to pat her head but she saw something and ran into the bushes I called her
name; Bambi come here, when it dawn on me she had been dead for ten
years and it made me think of my own mortality, but not in a gloomy way.
Sun, blue sky and stillness now the hunters have gone drinking in a cafe,
but the visit from Bambi perked me up so did a cup of coffee when coming
home, nothing out of the ordinary yet, I persist on dreaming of tomorrow

The rule of law

There was a storm over Sahara; waves of sand flew up, up, up
– I wrote "up" thrice because my grammar checker tells me I can't
it tend to be intrusive,- transformed into white dust it mixed
with indigo clouds, drifted to Algarve and shed tonnes of dust
layers of dust everywhere the morning village looked like
a ghost town, we scan the sky hope for proper rain the type
that clean and makes you wet, but it is a perilous wish, a deluge
can last for days inundate the basement and drown a family
of mice that live in accord are so discreet I have not seen them;
more than can be said about the eleven million illegals in the USA
that with the blessing by rancorous Democrats that let them rules
the political agenda and give lawbreaker a safe heaven, where  
they are free to insult the president and the rule of law

law

How far is far?

To travel on horse and cart from Algarve
To Lisbon took days, but there were Inns
For a traveller to rest and stable the horses.
Not that many trekked from Algarve
seen as a throwback
From the days of the Muslims and poverty.
It was the British ex. Colonials, in the dwindling
Empire, who settled here; the Algarve is now
famous as a tourist destination.
I drove around, before motorways, with my dog
Portugal is a beautiful country.
On the motorway, there is nothing to see
Except for the rush of destination,
And Portugal is smaller than it used to be.

Birthday

A day of sadness and wasted years a poet who
has to pay to be published how pathetic  is that?
We, my companion and I found a restaurant and
for lunch she ate something  African.
I had  a schnitzel that looked as the white meat of
a rat that had taken the pledge lost my appetite.
Instead, I had a double portion of fresh cut salad
followed by a tomato salad with a bit of mozzarella.
I lifted my glass of water saw the eatery  through
tears not shed, the few friends I had in Algarve
have all gone they could not stop in time.
The conversations, wit and bottles of red wine  
kept flowing, it had to stop so I took the bus home.
Now it is only my beloved and I left and every year
I love her more. At night with a heart full of dread
I snuggle up to her, she strokes my somnolent head
until I fall asleep again and sadness drifts away.

The Algarvian

The Algarvian people, not the urban lot are more African than Europeans.
They have conception of time if you are meeting your solicitor at nine he might
turn up at eleven. If you are going to a local fest and it starts at nine there
will be no one there before 10.30
If your mechanic tells you the car is ready at noon it maybe noon next week,
you see to avoid offending people they say yes to everything without
the intention of keeping the promise
As people, they are untrustworthy but charming but it I prefer efficiency.
On the road the true Algarvian comes out uses the horn for a little
reason a cacophony of noise; it ends blood like the African revolution.
And never make the mistake to give workmen money before the job
you will not see them for a fortnight
Algarve also has a rotten clime 10 Celsius in winter and 40 in summers.
But you can survive here if you stop believing what they say.

The Vanished home

Most seafarers find their way home
others get lost on the way.
One was washed up on the shores of Algarve
and stayed the home he knew was no longer there.
But a memory of log fire and a mother
who read books and rarely looked up to see were
her children had gone.
It is all too late now; the seafarer lives another life.

Driving home
Driving back to Algarve we took the long road
more cafés and restaurants by the roadside and not
so many crazy drivers.
The restaurants were full of Portuguese people on vacation
they like their lunch in this country
Grilled chicken
Grilled meat
Grille the unspeakable innards
Stewed meat
Bacalao with cream
Red wine
Fresh fish
Beans in its many variations
Water, cold from the well
The worst of the summer heat had gone good mood prevailed.
People talk in this country
at the same time.
The din of happy, eating people was symphony of summer time
a few weeks of freedom, the paying of bills could come later
I love this country called Portugal even when I’m in a hurry and
the women in front of me and the check-out person talk about
grandchildren.

Thoughts on Saturday

I saw the Queen of England on TV it was her birthday and people
were out waving flags.  I dislike monarchy in any form
but the Queen looked splendid in a blue sky dress
and there were proud men in fantasy uniforms
riding on  beautiful horses; no one does
pageant better than the English.
But my heart was not in it, I still lament
the death of Bourdain it was like losing a brother
like me, he was a chef that broke out of the kitchen
and ventured the world.
I have written a poem about my brother's struggle
with depression but hesitate to publish it
as it might offend his children. Of course, I could
have avoided the absolute truth, but then I would have
done him a disservice. I'm still in Algarve, the removal van broke down it will take a few days to repair it not that I mind moving house,
at my age is difficult.
O well, I have to relax and take it as it comes.

The Catering officer
Once upon a time, I was a ******; I began as a galley boy
and after six months was promoted to the second cook,
What dizzying height. At home, I went to a catering school for cooks
and later on, a course to become a chief steward.
For three years I slaved as a chief cook on ships it was
hard and boring and then I was promoted to Chief steward
they use “chief” a lot in the merchant navy, this to make you feel
important, but in the end, you are a ******* slave.
My job was that of a purser doing the books buying what was needed
as cheap as possible and see to it the cook was reasonable sober.
This new job gave ample opportunity to read I wore a white shirt
with three silver stripes on which caused me endless embarrassment
as I dislike uniforms in civilian life. The first ships I was on had a selected crew,
proper people saving up to buy a house with a big garage when
I was dreaming of going ashore and meet exciting people.
This entire nicety unnerved me, and I tended to be rude one can
say I didn't fit in, so my next ship was less posh and from
there it was downhill all the way until I ended up on rust buckets
that birthed at small ports in South America, and I loved it.
Gone was the uniform, but I used a blazer over my T-shirt when
the officials came onboard, served them whisky till they
staggered smiles and handshakes ashore.
But it didn't last the old ships were replaced with container ships
which is nothing but floating barges, so I jumped ship
swam to the Algarve in Portugal and stayed.

Wasn't life simpler before the Internet
That Sunday phonecall to the parents
And a stroll to the bookies for a bet
Catch up on a Friday in the pub or local bar
Have a laugh and a chat with mates about,
The footy, the birds, their next best car
And always the one who will tell the odd little lie
About the women he's had and flings he's spun
But reality is sat in Fleet services eating a pork pie
Holidays on Teletext with the Algarve at 99 pound
Flicking through to the exchange rate quickly
Right, let's book, who's looking after the hound?
Kids had Short Circuit who could read a book in seconds and say Johnny 5 alive
Such a cumbersome machine on tank like tracks
But on this we all did thrive
When affairs were conducted in phone boxes and coffee shops
Where no one carried a camera to grass you up
And then the husband finds out to bang down the door,
Never mind, KNOCK KNOCK!
If they're simpler times now, then on your head be it
But give me that 20 minute load up cassette games, and the choke on my Punto FIAT
For I loved simpler times,
That's just the way that I see it.

JJB

The Lovers


On my walks in the interior of Algarve
I followed an overgrown track that once
had been a road for horse and carts.
At a clearing, I found a clumsily made shrine,
and on it with unsteady hands, was written
Pedro and Maria 1912.
I sensed an immense peace sitting here.
Love is enduring and everlasting.
Their tenderness is what I breathe
in the trees and plants.
Later on when I was lonely and sad
I went up there and warmed my soul
on their love.

What will be will be

It was raining all day he sat morosely
on the balcony, today he sits on the terrace
and is still pessimistic despite sunny weather.
He wants to go back to his cottage in Algarve
to soak up the atmosphere of what once was
say hello to the trees, birds and bees and
things that annoyed him like dog crap outside
his front door and the holes in the road
lugging firewood, sleep under three duvet and
on top of two mattresses, he is not a princess
hear dogs barking in the night and feel safe.
Last time he was home had forgotten the keys
had to break a window inside the yard to get in,
despite this, he had slept well to the choir
of howling dogs, with a belly full of wine and bacalao.

Town Life


walking around Cascais
which consist of cobblestones
asphalted road and mad traffic
How I long to tread on the soft grass
rest under a tree, sit on a ******
warmed by the sun

to see wildflowers again
and not trite blooms in a *** or vase.
Inhale the air of the land
not sullied by diesel fume
the spring is passing me by, who knows
it might be the last one

set me frees to fly and not dally more
back to the rural Algarve where I was born
for the second time.
my feet are sore pavements too hard
and the cacophony of blaring horns
makes my head confused.

The Intemperate  

Alcoholism is an irredeemable illness
often compared with diabetes which is also incurable
however, with diabetes, it is possible to reduce it by
taking insulin and avoiding certain foods.
However, you can't cure intemperance by drinking beer!
He was a well- known actor had everything to live for
When in Algarve the old discredited counsellor
tried to get him to go to AA.
He blankly refused said he didn’t want to live
since his wife had died of cancer, which turned
out to be eight years ago.
One day he met him struggling to get up a hilly street,
He stopped offering a lift, but the actor in his cups
told him to “**** up”. Later that night he came to offer
his apologies threw up on the kitchen floor the old man
got him into bed.
In the morning he had raided to fridge for beer know
he wanted a proper drink, and he was driven home.
There was nothing the old therapist could but hope.
The news came he had died at 56 killed by *****.

The intervention


It was four in the morning when I awoke sitting in front
of TV that was off; again I had ended up in a middle-class
the neighbourhood in, a close with suitable trees.
I shared a fence with a police inspector who wore a tie
when mowing the lawn, he had two silly daughters and a wife
so fine she never let the wind pass her through her narrow ***.
I family who thought they had reached the pinnacle of civil living.
I have so easily been seduced by nice houses and people who
speak posh coming from poverty it impresses me.
I went to work; my wife was still sleeping, when I came home
A group of people were, it was called an intervention they
was trying to convert me to sober living, while they were
talking I mixed a gin and tonic, some of the men licked lips.
Told them I drank because they were so ****** boring,
being drunk, was the only way I could tolerate them.
I rang a travel agency, took a plane to Algarve for a holiday
It has cost me a divorce – pleased by that- and my house
that I didn't like, and the holidays continues.

Autumnal air

The month of October in upper Algarve
with cooling evening and sunlight
begins to fade earlier every day.

Sky is still blue if a shade paler than
yesterday's And has white whispery
strands of clouds near its horizon.

Windless, this day birds on the roof have
flown for a short break in Africa but will
be back in March to start a family.

The man from the forest has delivered
winter wood gave him whisky and
wrote him a check.

Once when  
I lived in the deep countryside
Of Algarve come spring
And knew of every tiny village
When seeing me, the dwellers waved
The strange foreigner is here
It will be summer after all.
I had many friends back then and drank
Coffee with sturdy farmhands.
I will not be there this year, will they miss me?
Perhaps at dusk, someone will say
They saw me riding by and take it as
A good omen

The racial question

There is a black female politician
says Portugal is not black enough her liking
I find this preposterous.
The Portuguese who settled in Africa to make
their wealth mixed freely with the local black
population, as a result, blackness seeped in
and blended with Muslim blood.
Algarve was once a Muslim province
to the extent, the Iberians have a laid back
attitude to time.
The female politician may get her to wish fulfilled
with a shrinking white population
and black people from former colonies arriving
I think the day will come in the near future
the Africanization of Portugal.

People I met on and off the screen

I like to watch a TV program, Father Brown
the actors are like old friends I know what they are thinking
one of the most charming figures is the police inspector
he naturally gets everything wrong from the start
and is very rude to Father Brown.
Of course, I see them as actors in real life they are totally
different if I meet one of them in the street
I would have said, look at him he seems like an actor
I have seen on TV and walked on.
I once met Cliff Richards in a paper shop he was buying
the Telegraph ( a rightwing paper)
He was a small man and pleased that I didn't fawn all
over him. We had lunch together, at a little place that had
few tourists, and with some wine, he was good company
relaxed too away from the fans.
When in Algarve I met many actors and found them
to be kind and thoughtful people, and not the way the often
are portrait in the "Sun" and other ****** papers.

A new home

Waiting to go home to my house in Algarve, 30 years after
the Berlin wall fell with the blessing of Russia, in case you forgot.
In the meantime, more walls were constructed mainly in Israel,
stopping Palestinians wanting to home, we dislike talking about
This is because of the political Holocaust.
The wall between the house and me, old to age, to live life deep
in the Paradis.
The Chinse wall is a tourist attraction, the ugly Israel walls will
one day is building material.
There are many unseen walls among classes the rich build walls
so, they can avoid seeing what is the result of their wealth?
The hope is to tear down all walls whiles we wait.

I’m still in Cascais
Waiting to go home to my house in Algarve
30 years since the Berlin wall came down with the help
Of Russia let us not forget this.
In the meantime, many more walls have been built
Mainly in Israel, a program on the TV didn’t mention this
We don’t like to say anything upsetting.
The wall between me and my house is called old age
When it comes down no one wants to cross it.
The Chinese wall is a tourist attraction, no China
Is building a silk- road instead of covering the whole world.
There are many unseen walls between people, classes
Poor or rich, and between you and me.
The hope is that abstract walls will come down
The rest is steel and concrete suitable for building houses

My Serengeti

I have neglected to visit my “Africa”, the flatland between
two hills that appear like a young mother's *******.
I know the trees and bushes, used to drive there to say hello.
Time changes I have no motorbike.
On the road driving to the shop, I can see the valley, yellow digger
And blue tractors near the wadi where I once saw a brown crocodile
waiting for rain.
Once I saw a tiger leisurely walking across the lane.
A hyena laughed and said it was not here.
They are building a new Algarve type village with swimming pools
and an ambitious golf course.
But not for you and me.
No, I will not look at how work progress let my dream be intact.
But I do wish a tsunami would come and wash it all away.
Alas, nothing stays the same like the olive tree at the entrance of my driveway.
I have lost my kaleidoscope

Another sleepless night

A went back in time litany of failures
What I wanted to do I never did
My happiest time was when living alone
In the interior of Algarve
I walked with my dogs in the woods had
Learned conversation with an oak
While the dog chased rabbits.
Six happy years what more can a man ask.
Turbulent water ahead I drank too much
The dog died, and my loneliness became a burden
Pressing me into apathy.
Well, life became tolerable again,
but my contentment was never the same.
My old house is standing there unsold
It is my life raft should the hard time arrive and
The ship sinks in a storm cast.
I live in another town it will do for now and
I’m too tired to move again, I know from experience
Wherever I go, I will meet myself in the doorway.

A writers’ problem

The thing is this when you die; you can’t go back
and write about it.
Those, there are a few, who say they can are charlatans.
We can speculate about death or write a thesis about it
or we can write about near-death experiences
like if a bright light a choir singing soft songs to harp music.
The river of no return.
When driving on the long bridge on my way to Algarve
I think of the bridge falling, but it is always about survival
a story to tell, the one who got away.
Death is the ending of a book you read,
was the book a good read, or was it boring?

The surgery

I’m waiting for a friend of mine
He is having heart surgery tomorrow
And it is lonely not having friends around
The day before a serious surgery
We’ll not talk about illnesses’ and other
Subject related to hospitals.
Not talking in hushed voices but about
The calm sea and seagulls: I know it is
One of my favourite subjects.
Talk about everything else to keeping
His mind of tomorrow.
The hospital is in Lisbon, and he lives
In Algarve and have to take the bus
But that is ok; busses are modern now
And have a toilet and an ambulance will
Take him back.
Having had the surgery also I know, how
It feels like being alone, so I wish him well.

The scientists

It is a tranquil winter day. I listen to a distant nose
a dog barks, typical in Algarve, smoke from chimneys go
straight before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about like wedding dresses of the unmarried.
The sun is a golden coin captain Hook would **** for.
I smell grilled sardine, the opening and closing of doors
a cat sits on a wall watching me.
I go into a café, three scientists talk about Mars, until one says
let us talk about marine biology.
The other two laugh. Do you mean grilled sardines?
They are theoretical physicist and thing they are bees’ knees.
I drink coffee, eat a Napoleon cake.
Drive home, it has been a good day when the phone rings
I don´t bother to answer it.