The Hummock
There is a hill behind the houses rounded and soft
I call it a -mother hill- and it welcome you and softly
Murmur, how do you do and leave you alone to sit
On a boulder and think how incredible life is.
If you sit there too long enjoying your sentimentality
It wakes you up the rock get cold and the northerly
Blow that has a fragrance of Siberia, reindeer and *****
So you walk about to keep warm and see wildflowers
Hiding behind stones, but pick them you cannot they
Are not yours will wizen in your hands and bring rain

Walk softly now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Just behind the hill a hillock grey as October fall, but
Out of sight and no trees grow on it scrawny side it
The mother hill's burden which it bears with fortitude

When the old man was a sailor

When food was served, before cleaning pots and pans
the old man when young, went out on deck to see the sunset.
A dreamy that is if a tempest wasn't blowing,
gale in the mighty Pacific reduced the bravest to shivering gnat.
The old man was a cook not the loftiest type of work, whoever
wrote a book titled:” The adventure of a ship's cook.”
The old man, when he was young, got up early to see the sunrise
before frying eggs and bacon, not forget baking bread; and receive
the insults by frustrated, womenless ******.
But he was there in all the oceans, their tranquilities and fury,
what was left was serene evenings alone in his cabin read great
novels about audacious voyagers.

Good News Day

Yesterday and it was a long day I’ve edited poems written
15 years ago, spelling tends to let me down, but slowly I get the hang of it
Back from the ecologist, I'm cancer free and that is great.
I had hoped we could eat out, but my wife is frying filets of fish
that has been breaded and look like schnitzel no matter what you with fish
I still don't like it, perhaps canned tunny.
But truth be told – always? - I have to do the dishes when dining at home
the only good thing with hand wash the dishes is clean fingernails.
My mother had so much dirt under hers, it was possible to plant cabbage,
but not deep enough for potatoes; it is fair it was mostly tobacco as she
hand rolled her cigarettes; I tried to but got nicotine fingers it looked
like I had my left hand permanently stuck up my ***.
For the sake of the good news, I will not carp eat the fish and be glad.

The Death of Poetry

The grey coloured straightjacket of poetry
I have like a Houdini freed me of this shackles
flowers and loveliness and lies
an unbearable burden I was getting buried
by a tonne of rotten blooms
I'm free!
Fly from tree to tree not seeing its foliage
soar higher than anyone before so elevated
the blue planet is a bauble on Christmas tree
and land on a potato field not seeing
its ordinary colours and brown soil
when flowers from Amsterdam are in season
I'm free to wade in a muddy rain-pool
wear yellow wellies towing on a string a tiny sail boat
which in my dreams become a three mastered schooner,
all this because I ain't no poet but a writer
and I can without hesitation use a double negative.

Farghana Valley
the splendour of a mythical dream.
The fabled silk route
snaked its way through here,
bringing new culture, silk and jade,
and no drones filled the night sky with fear
In this valley of ancient dreams
beautiful horses made the landscape enchanting.
Civilizations come and go; yes, religions too
Those who claim to have the key to the ultimate truth.
Our time will also be cosmic dust in the history of man,
but the valley of Farghana shall endure.

Rustic Morning
Still, early morning and coarse grass had stopped crying
But the carob tree was still tearful someone had broken its branch
The one that was easy to grab from the lane.
By the stone fence, a mule looked soulfully at me, so I scratched its
Forehead and we enjoyed each other’s nearness, while a cat chased
A rabbit that jumped behind some boulders where it was trapped
The cat came out with the dead animal in its mouth it dropped it and
I imagined it roared than began eating its prey.
Both the mule and I contemplated this rustic happening, we sighed
It began grazing; I walked my way saying: “see you tomorrow old boy.”

Alfred has Arthritis
Since Alfred, the man who strenuously denies
fatherhood got arthritis in his hands, it often happens
when it gets cold. He sleeps to noon take forever
in the bathroom before going to town looking like an artist
in his alpaca jacket and French beret.
He eats lunch in town alone never think of inviting me
and in the evening watches Bulgarian soap opera,
having him here has put a strain I'm thinking of sending
he at home didn't think it would come to that.
He sits by the fire I buy the wood, I will tell him he is not
my father and tell him to leave; perhaps next winter.

Religion and a poet
When I was nine years of age I came to see religion
as a fairy tale and as we know the bible is written
by many scribes during a time, some of them were wise.
I like the Old Testament because it is full
of blood and thunder, the New Testament is a construction
a clean-up of the real thing making palatable for the squeamish.
I think the creator of our world as an overarching intelligence
that when the job was done left its way.
The creator is neither good nor bad for it has no interest in
the world besides creating it, so it is entirely up to us
to make the world a liveable place, alas, so far we have failed.
Mankind have dreamt of extending life long after
its natural cycle even if unseen by the pulsing living world,
that is how some transcribers constructed Paradise so
we can exist into the indefinite and beyond.
To be and not to make no sense other than easing
the fearful heart and comfort the transition into death,
at this point my thoughts were interrupted, my wife
came and told me to do the dishes

Adolf ******

My mother had an Uncle Adolf who after the war changed his name to Dollen. He walked funnily because he froze his toes off in the Arctic. The real Adolf was an evil phenomenon life throws
at us, but he didn't exist in a vacuum.
After the First World War which he fought with bravery he
nevertheless was a nobody trying his hand as a painter
selling them in the street of Vienna.
He became interested in the National socialistic party
attended meetings and was asked to speak.
His voice was hypnotic when he spoke of injustice
and the bad influence the Jews had in the society he was
a man the masses understood, but he spoke of hate.
His dream was of a greater Germany, but the Jews stood
in the way he wanted a race clean Germany and approached
the mufti of Jerusalem to take them he refused to claim
Jews would destroy Palestine. But for him, the Jewish question
was a sideshow he wanted to rule Europe and defeat Russia,
millions of Jews were murdered as were Roma people
and Russians. He lost the war we should be grateful for that,
in the end, he shot himself and Germany in ruin.
A mystery remains, who financed this ****** to commit a crime
we must not forget because if we are not careful, it can
happen again, and we see the inception of this hate in Israel.
(Adolf ****** 1889 – 1945)

The American Preacher

It must have been in the middle or late fifties that
a famous preacher was coming to our town,
a big circus tent was erected beside the evangelical church
to acuminate the throng.
This was pre-TV time, and there was no entertainment
except walking in the park and feed the birds,
this man's appearance was rock-star news.
He spoke fiercely in English and a person beside of him
translated; it was so odd many people were
in ecstasy hollered hallelujah, and prayed with the preacher.
He was a gigantic fraud of course, and my mother said so too
but she was a communist and disliked America.
Today, in a newspaper on the net I read he had died at ninety-nine.
Billy Graham was his name.

Last dance

They had danced to the dunes of a juke-box
dawn, they were alone except for the barkeep
he was asleep, leaning his head on folded arms
on the mahogany counter.
Soon the sun will shine, followed by the day
and they had to face the dreaded future.
Both were married but not to each other  
was love strong enough to survive the day?
They didn’t know the answer.
Just one more dance.
Hell is tomorrow with heartache and loss.
My god, let this moment last forever.

Testing Water
It began with a sign in a window have your water tested here, I knocked
On the door, they had meant drinking water.
Next day I brought a bottle your water is not drinkable they told me
I rang the water board the ******* water I pay for is not drinkable.
It has not been drinkable for 26 years I was told you foreign swine the man
On the phone said. Listen to me you **** I was in Luanda in 1975 when
The Portuguese army melted away and we from the foreign legion had to
Keep the population safe. SLAM!
Next day the water board came cleaned the cistern, the driver of the truck
Had lived in Norway for five years it was he said living with icicles 4 dead cat
Skeletons and a dog that still had fur on it head, I fed it and it grew a body
But the dog was not happy, when I took it for a walk it trice to tried to throw
Itself under a bus, I learned its name was Prince, one morning it disappeared
And was found in a pond having been dead for fifty year it preferred to stay dead
I understand that having tried to be famous for fifty years it is like waking up
And eating soggy cornflakes in the morning.

The Domestic War

Everybody is dishonest your family too
They scheme and manoeuvre getting an advantage
My house has become a realm where
The aristocracy vies for power giving the wrong counsel
Trying to replace the old king
Now the chief counsellor his right-hand lady has openly
Betrayed him with false information
The ruler could have her expelled or ban her from his high table
He is weak, and the people sense it.
Giggling hyenas ready to attack the living corps
The monarch gets out of the bed call a doctor from afar
The regent becomes a vegan, his strength returns
He banishes the traitors and gets a new consigliere.

Film Set?
There were many bathers on the beach when a rusty
U-boat surfaced, a hatch opened a man came on deck
he was the captain and wore a German uniform,
a long white beard, sunken eyes yes, he looked weary.
The boat inched into the sand her captain jumped ashore.  
  He walked to the cafe to borrow the phone, had to ring
the embassy but, the number written down on a piece
of paper, was obsolete He sighed, drank a beer said
it was first time in sixty years since he had drunk a beer,
walked back to his boat. Full aft, the U-boat wriggled lose
of the sand bank, found the sea and vanished.

Good for Some
Immensely hot day, yet no sun it was hidden
behind a ring of polluted air, a strong wind
came and cooled the landscape but with it
rein fell, thousands of them, broken bones
and crushed skulls, the poverty struck and
dogs had enough to eat...for now.

Then rain fell each drop was a bucket full and
rivers overflowed. Pots and pan left behind;
head for the hills was the cry, shivering people
eating frogs raw, cannibalistic ****** in a sea of
mud caked humanity.
The laps of the north were given compensation
for loss of income.

A Vision
Eifel tower the old ***** is lit up again
her wide open legs still drip blood, and
her hips are white and slim and she   has
blue- rinsed hair. She is ready to welcome
the masses people without an ideology
and those who think that having *** in
a hotel near the Seine where millions of
condoms that slowly find their way to
the sea is the heights of romantic living.

Young men came, they had a creed wanting
to destroy this ***** and Gomorrah, but
the **** in the centre of Paris tells us we will
survive because we are Godless and place
lust for life first

From Face to Faith

As Christianity sinks into
ennui of middle class tosh
of an all forgiving God.

Zionists, claim the right
to defend themselves against
the people they robbed.

Moslem zealots are busy
blowing each other up
and playing the victim.

Atheists are hateful of
those who believe in God,
call them deluded.

Yule and Monte Carlo

While I sit and watch circus Monte Carlo
and get annoyed by the undignified use of wild animals,
perhaps except horses, they are beautiful and dumb and get oats to eat after
the performance,
There is no peace for the Palestinians and their struggle to win
back their country and bullets sing through the night.
I watched a bland concert where Jerusalem was sung by three tenors
but having heard Placido Domingo, they didn't measure up.
Then the ads came on in Portugal they last forever, I fall asleep
and didn't see the clowns.

Gun Play

They haven't got guns in heaven only toothpicks,
but God has got a golden gun given to him by
the producer of James Bond movies.
He toys with it just for fun when newcomers
arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top
of the Bible, he wrote once upon a time.
Not that he has copyright, he will be the first
to tell you, but with the help of strange people
who insisted he had spoken to them
Sometimes when God is alone, he put the gun
to his temple and click…nothing happens
it is all in jest, or is it? Infinity can be a burden.
Now, if you wonder about the toothpicks,
angels like to welcome you with a bright smile

Dogs on the loose

She was a frustrated woman two drunken husbands
hostile sons and a daughter who was sleeping around till
she got syphilis and ended up in a madhouse.
Lived alone she did with five dogs that obeyed her
she was their world loved her entirely as a religious
the person loves his God and asks no question as the god
feeds the spiritual need and thus fulfil them
Then it happened she fell on the floor and the dogs
sensing weakness went for her a frenzied attack biting
at her throat and she bled to death, the dogs dazed
ran for the hills till they were hunted down and shot.
They had broken the unwritten law; dogs are inferior
to humanity this is a pact that cannot be broken.

On my way to the pub

I was walking to the pub at sundown
when I reach my destination the last pink rays
on the sky was vanishing,
a promise of a sunny tomorrow.
On the road, I was overtaken by a horse
that neighed politely,
on its back, a crow sat using a foul language.
On the way back home I was late had
been playing poker with matches,
I lost a box.
I met the horse it offered to
take me home the foul crow hade gone.
I stabled the horse in the garage
gave it bread and water.
Next morning it was gone.
The crow sat on the window ledge
demanding a silver soup spoon and
an assortment of nuts.

The small words

“All that's mean nothing” not my words
but I often think about it, when reading the newspaper
I look for the no-news the filling of space
the news is often there and when **** flies they are taken
by surprise busy reading the headlines.
Being so wrong the want to set aside democracy and civil
behaviour the by- line has become a headline we must
demonstrate denounce the new from the stage or pulpit
by the pompous and incompetent
perhaps it would help to read the alternative press they
have less to lose and don't worry about circulations  and
no capitalist master to serve

Misapprehension

On my way to lunch
Drove the wrong way
Turned and followed the car's
Silhouette
In front of me
Speeded up to join it
The car caught up with its
Illusion
And became whole again
Lunch at the café
As usual

Huldra

In a green valley near a blue lake
where pink salmon swam lived a Huldra.
She was beautiful as seen by human eyes
trolls found her ugly and rejected her.
I heard her desolate song
Saw her shimmering blond as Iberian
sea straw is made golden by the sun.
I saw her tail too.
Before spelling me, I sprinted away.
Folklore has made it clear.
Humans and trolls must not mix blood
because if they do mix, the offspring
will be rejected by both groups
and for perpetuity be lost
walking the strand of loneliness.

(Huldra, female troll in Nordic Mythology)

Surprise
The queen in her gilded coach pulled by four horses
Came gliding on the sea and towards shore where a group
Of men waited to be knighted

They had done their duty kept their mouth shut and
Averted their eyes to the state's illegal acts and now
Pay off a title and membership on a board

The queen came ashore she had a white lion cub in
One hand and a hammer in the other and with it hit
Each man over the head they fell to the ground…dead.

The queen a Marxist revolutionary had been silent so
Long but she was old, the truth had to come out
No more horse -drawn carriage, but she kept the lion cub.

Clearing the Air

She rang said she was coming with the late train,
Since it was her birthday I had thought she would
Come early so we could go to a restaurant for
A meal and drink some good wine

The train arrived just before midnight, I was hungry
And tired of waiting, she was tired too, I had
Brought flowers, she thought they were nice and
Put them in the backseat of the car.  

We drove home, both feeling wounded; at home,
she made an omelet, I had a drink; later we watched
a TV show in aggrieved stillness. Next day we had
a big row and that cleared the air

A Poet is Amused

Now when we say good bye give me
a promise with your hands and lips
no, I didn't mean an apple.
Object
Plutocrat
Advocate
That has nothing to do with grammar.
Who said it did?
The first time I saw naked woman was a September night
she stood by the fire cleaning her private part
soapy ***** hairs
overcome by desire, I ******* fell to the ground
in someone else’s garden.
Poets are like ****** sell romantic poems and show
their filthy souls to anyone in need of a dream.
He goes to the nearest tavern and has a dram
and doesn’t let grammar get into it only wishes to live
in a society that ban full stop and comma.

No milk for babies

I have lost track of who is fighting whom in the overlapping endless wars
in the middle- east, but that is beside the point today.
I was standing in supermarket's till a woman in front of me had bought
a litre of milk and now she looking for loose change.
I was amazed she looked like human dairy; she could bottle her milk
in small flasks and sell it to health freaks.
In the vastness of her bag movements, it was her husband Carlos smelling
Like the inside of a purse
I always like to take him along when shopping and know where he is and,
He has got the car keys.

The Americans have been bombing again making sure there is no milk for babies
because they want to build that pipe gas line across Afghanistan and the Taliban
or is it the Pashtuns are saying no, from my home I see for me a giant in uniform
with a belt full of bombs bestriding the world.

The Culture
Cultural differences, I once was on a ***** ship
that plied the waters between Spain Italy Greece
occasionally France and sometimes Turkey were
most of us felt foreign; there was no easy rapport
between us and the female populace as there was
then a separation between the sexes, it appeared
there were two types of women; **** or nun, yet
I think it was the best years of my life.
Greece has a special place in my heart; it is where
it all began the idea of democracy of which I was
paid by the lovely people of Piraeus.
The western culture to hundreds of years to develop so
let us protect it and not misuse it by writing new laws
that curtail or freedom

Daddy’s girl

Little girl spoilt
by her daddy
likes to be
a little girl again
life was safe.
Sugar and spice
and a few tears
when meeting
life's shadow
the dead of her pony
Daddy bought
another one
Joy tinged with sadness
love should not
be replaced so quick.
She looked at her daddy
eyes filled with tears
when he died
no new daddy would appear,
except of course,
she could fall in love
marry a man
who reminded her of him,
but it would
never be the same.

Dark Forces

There is a sense of ennui the déjà vu after a feast
life is not what we thought it was, the banner of battle
no longer flies on top of the town hall.
The hero is not a hero but a figure fluctuating in the wind
and ruled by outside forces where he is only the visible  
to fool the world into a shared vision of bravery.
There are so many other problems the scourge of pest
the sizzling heat burning human skin crisp
and rain that kills and sea that floods the landscape.
The undertone is getting louder; we have been lied to
dark forces seek a unipolar world, malleable people
into enslavement, where words are no longer truthful
but lies are endlessly repeated until lies are the truth.
It is late in the day, but there is a rumble of a fightback
the freedom of the individual precariously wilts like
grains of life die if not rescued by the rain of revolt.

For Fatherland

In a country to near the Arctic Circle
every new generation -men and women- had to
throw pebbles into a lake,
until the lake was full and you could wade over,
Alas, a bridge was built,
so futile the pebbles.
Now they are learning how to throw a hand grenade in Afghanistan
and draw funny pictures of Mohammad,
pity about the bridge.

Flanør

I will not write word today
                                             Not on the blank screen
Perhaps on paper and pencil
When writing I feel closer to whatever
I’m writing about.                          
                                         Only my handwriting is so bad
I practically have to reinvent on the screen the poem
I wrote on a pad.
                                         I look long and hard
to find back to the feeling I had when scratching down
a letter, which is a form of conversation with self.
                                        Writing creates honesty
it also creates thinking I reason better when writing
                                       but, as I said, no writing today.

Alfred

Alfred, the pianist who is also my father
although he denies the paternity vehemently,
was in Hawaii and played the ukulele with
little success and went back to Europe.
Alfred the pianist and also my father, could
get the sweetest tones when he played and
women swooned in other men’s arms,
was when not playing of a rather sullen nature
he spent the day walking around town with
alpaca jacket end French bonnet, he looked ever
artistic and I followed him around; once when I fell
a bollard got in the way; he did help me up
and said; I'm not your father!
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, got to be
ninety-two and in the last years of his life was glad
to have a son even if it was a fake one as Alfred
was fond of pointing out

Short circuit
Why do we do what
Logic tells we should not do
To punish yourself
Or someone else who will
Not know of our act
Of self-destruction when
Logic has been suspended
Still, the question remains
We can't explain it
The great “WHY.”

The Woods in January


I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black, wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.

This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like dangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;  

but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching, and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.

It isn’t easy to be a tree if one is placed
amongst siblings, and its roots can’t
touch a loved one, across the road, for  
the future must be bleak indeed    

Yet, trees can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written.  And you call that solace?

French emancipation

French women are free, well-educated and elegant,
but spend much time to attract men.
Easy of virtue, yet frantically look to get married to
a wealthy man, who can free them of distressing liberation.

They will intellectualize their misery, see themselves
as Sagan Melancholic, ye yarning to me middle class
housewives worrying about the price of garlic, meet
other wives and talk endlessly about equality.

A blanket and a coffin

It had been raining for days, and everything felt damp
now the sun was shining the old man took out his coffin
from the shed, opened the lid and took out the folded
blanket and a pillow to dry it and take out the dank smell.
He sat by the computer and didn't notice it was raining
again, and when he did notice the coffin was full of water,
and the neighbours’ ducks used it as a pond.
He upended the coffin; it would take days to dry it now
hoped the weather would hold for at least three days.
The old man knew he was ridiculous, wanting a blanket over him
and a pillow to rest his head on like he, when dead, would notice,
yet the thought of it gave him comfort;
and that what's life is all about.

Epiphany

It was an incredible summer in 1950 the war was over things were getting
back to normal, mother's new boyfriend who worked at a factory had
a rowboat and paid holiday leave. A Sunday early we rowed to a small island
in the bay, mother had brought a blanket, sandwiches in brown paper bags
mostly jam I think and two bottles of soft drink, water and cold milk that sun
went off, and a thermos flask of coffee. The boyfriend gave me a line with
hook on told me to go fishing- telling me what to do is not easy not even for me-
in the shallow water near the pier as bait, I found a worm under a stone thread
the living thing on the fishhook.
the water was crystal clear had tiny fishes that looked like rainbows swimming
about I saw the sky….I was in a trance thought I was what I saw took a step
forward and landed in the water people came running helping me up back I was
in real time mother came running too shouted at me as mothers do and worried
about my delicate health. Rowing back into town again the boyfriend was grumpy
suggested I had fallen into the water to get attention I said little in my defence
how could I explain for a moment I had understood everything, but on the other
hand he could have been right how is a boy supposed to know

Family life

I ask myself what is wrong with borders well-defined places
with interior freedom and rules;
yes rules, the liberty to do what you want leads enslavement
break- up of families and chaos.
What's wrong with having your banking system and our
money of choice with a picture of a nationally famous, skier
and what Is wrong with discipline,
children becoming a little monster because we are so liberal
We talk about their right…what rights.
Look out of the window in any city what you see is flotsam
People who have no purpose a river of drugged people
Who never learned a thing?
What is wrong in saying a people can only absorb to fit
In refugees at a slower speed,
by all means, they are welcome
we need educated young people, in Europe were women
no longer care to procreate.
The glass ceiling is more important and men to think
their career comes first, and children are neglected
sent to a psychiatrist who prescribes pills knowing well
what the problem is.
But of course, we can say nothing and if we do, are
called  a fascist

The Sin
It must be a tragedy to be a man and a ******* what
treatment is there for an unspeakable lust the forbidding
feeling, the dreams, the church which is a wrong place to
confess a priest is not viable he has to cure himself of this
ugly vice. Is it a vice for a child liker for him this is
the sexuality he was given it was not asked for a burden of
always hiding yet goes to places where children assemble
and from their young bodies oozes a newness like a scent
that threaten his social standing should it be known and
should he succumb he will be cast out loose his employment
the sneering people goading him and he will join  the people
of the night.

Be Nice to the Police

It was like watching me on a film clip,
surrounded by four police officers
one of them a woman who yelled at me
for not speaking proper Portuguese.
I stared at her with contempt
It was a tense moment.
A conciliatory officer stepped in.
No big deal he said, a little scratch the car
is insured documents in order
have a pleasant journey.
I have often wondered why female officers
are so aggressive, is it because they are smaller,
land compensate the feeling of inferiority
by being brusque?
I met one smiling woman officer once, black and
six foot ten, refused my offer to marry her so I could
feel safe, was married she said…so what!
Before I forget the rude female officer was standing
behind a car in the dark smoking a cigarette and she
was overlooked by the male officers

in Paris
A summer is over the night arrives with
unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season
too spent most of the time indoors
fantasising about  silky sand, the sun and sea
reading brochures of adventures in Thailand.
When I get to a new place, it never is as had
Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris
I had in mind the way it was at the time of
Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and
Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another
overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace
of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of
time went by, so I shall not be invited to
a literary salon, but I got two collections of
poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop
I’m glad I read their books, but I’m also glad
I never met them

Haiku
A season is over
Golden leaves softly fall
The breeze is absent.

Haiku
Bushes have the blooms
Still intact covered in dust
The town waits for storm

Haiku
Indoor plants sag too
Sorrowful for no reason
Longing for freedom

Haiku
Umbrellas await
Know their duty are coming
They have the courage

The News
During
The Second World War
We had two kinds
Of newspaper in Norway
Mainstream papers
That was ****-dominated
Illegal papers
That got their news
From London
The ****'s tried to stop it
Said they were telling lies
Those caught printing
The real truth
Faced a long time in jail
As owning a radio
Was a crime
Today we call
The truth peddlers
Fake news mongers
So little has changed
Since the war

Resurrection

Then he died
As everyone must
And he entered a tunnel
Pink light
Like a boudoir
Sliding on soft silk
Well, I never!
Pity he cannot write
About it
Doctors resurrected him
They told him
He had smiled
So sweetly when they
Struggled to bring him
Back to life
Crucified
Surrounded
By Roman soldiers
Sigh!
His death had been so banal
A dream of a bordello

Goodbye Alfred
  I had not seen Alfred for a while, had been busy
selling off my donkey farm, with this down I drove into town
but couldn't find him and his flat had been rented out to others.
Found him in rundown old peoples home, four old men to a room.
What the hell are you doing here papa? Well, it’s about the money, he said but get me out of here. Alfred who had now accepted me as his son was wealthy his grandfather had been in oil, and he feared Olga- my mother-
Would take the money, had placed most of it in Portugal.
As he had given me the power
of attorney I got him out and into a posh private home for the aged.
Alfred look frail, his wavy hair was reduced to a few strands of
White hair and his unafraid, one could say arrogant, ways had gone
The home had phone number should he get worse.
The call came in his room sat Olga she embraced me called me my son, my son.
Sitting by Alfred’s bedside, I fell asleep only awoke
when a nurse said Alfred had slipped away, strangely Olga had disappeared also, but
in a way I was content, it had not been an imagination, they were real I had a family,
although it must be said that Olga’s vanishing puzzled me and the nurse said there
had been no visitors other than I.
Alfred's last wish was to have his ashes strewn over Portugal I hired a helicopter and had it done. It was a sorrowful time, yet I was
glad that my dreams had come true.

South Africa

The rainbow paled in South Africa
the end of apartheid has ended, freedom for all.
Not quite, the poor in Soweto are getting poorer.
The difference it now consists of white poor as well.
The new leadership behave like the old one corruption
and shade dealings.
South Africa is practically a democratic one-party state.
Or was democracy and equality brought on too early?
It takes time.
What is there to say when people riot and burn down
the places where they buy their daily bread and have to walk for miles
to buy milk for their children, other than an act of despair.
Big business is doing well, thank you.
But nothing has been done to alleviate the suffering of the poor.
The rainbow state has lost its lustre.
If you wonder why the poor ran amok was the jailing of Jacob Zuma
Despite his failings, he has an African heart, which the new elite, dipped in white culture,
failed to see.
He is the chieftain dethroned and Africa bleeds.

The two-timed

I know of a man who drove his wife to her lover in Faro
when it rained as she was afraid of the dark.
He waited in the car reading a paper when she came
out from the house of tryst she purred like a kitten,
he was happy too she would make him a good dinner
She died, the lover and the two timed stood by the grave
mourning her in their different ways and since they were
both alone, the lover moved in he does the cleaning and
lit the fire while the two- timed makes dinner and cakes.
Together they grew old and died in their sleep.

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.