The Land we loved


So the USA dropped the biggest bomb ever made
on an empty space and become overnight
the biggest terrorists
in the world. A weapon like this is mass destruction and
unless it is dropped in a city, quite useless.
The neo-liberal that hated Trump hates him less now since
he has shown some muscles.
It is spring, but with a MOAB hanging over heads it feels
like winter has come early.
Once in the fifties we uncritically loved America, it was
back then a welcoming place but it lost the sense of proportion
now it is a terrorist state with a madman as President.

The Cash Flow  

Money notes like staying in the bank
Where the meet and socialise with other notes
Of variable denomination
That is way I keep notes in my wallet as long as I can
Dislike breaking up a friendship.
Thrift has nothing to do with meanness it is simply
Not wanting to break up notes, hand them to
A stranger who has no feeling for the inner life
Of a money note.
The teller at my bank a fine man with caring hands
Thinks, as me he counts the money slowly
Often twice before handing them over with a sight

Alfred and the wilderness  

Alfred, who with the greatest of ease tells,
Me he is not my father and I went for a walk across chlorophyll filled field.
Alfred who is a musician and never ventures out in the landscape
saw some grazing sheep and wondered if they were dangerous,
no, I said they are sheep and born friendly
as God created them, to this Alfred called me a crypto-Christian.
A little Lamb came up to my father it was so sweet,
as only a lamb can be he lifted it up which the ewe disliked,
and it butted him in the rear.
Alfred was shocked, got up and demanded I bring him to safety
in the nearest town; never trust animals they are all out
to get us he said while limping to safer ground.

The Enemy among us
The western world has lived in peace for sixty years
mainly because of EU and shared horrid memories.
This has not been the Palestinians case who were
shooed away to give room for a colony called Israel and
those who object – freedom fighters- are called ISIS.
The USA have dropped bombs in the middle -east for
a long time and produced more ISIS fighters which now
is a common name of all who do not like being bombed.
Ex-president Obama sends drones they are intellectual
from the out- set. Trump drop a bomb the biggest in
the world it made a terrible noise, and 36 Taliban were
killed, they too are called ISIS.
(In Trump's case one wonders if he suffers erectile dysfunction)
China and Russia is ISIS in disguise, as are left-wingers
and those who do not believe in the American dream.

House ants


On the bare kitchen table a sugar lump,
suitable for a cup of
coffee it is looking like a gleaming rock of
marble on a large, bare upland plain
A few tiny scout ants had gathered around
the rock sending chemical signals
to their tribe and before long they came marching,
from all four corners of the kitchen,
an intense moving black mass
which collective goal was to get a holly lick,
then go home and tell about it.
A few tiny house ants frighten  no one,
but ten million do, so I the threw the sugar lump out
of the window,    
before they got the idea of turning on me.
They began marching back to their cracks
in the wall except for a few that settled
in a crack on the table,
not on I killed them with my thumb,
washed my hands with vinegar and
was absolved of my sin.

The Umbrella

It was a rainy sort
Of afternoon, when I crossed
The bridge didn't notice
Half it was missing.
Held on to my brolly when I fell
Parachuted landed on a barge.
They needed a deckhand.

The sea was a black mirror, the cook
Was artistic and ****** we only had
Bacon butties that day
I gave the collapsible canopy to the first mate
It was green and covered
In seagull droppings

****** love
What do you do when your lover is a thief?
What could I do smitten as I was by her ****** allure
she looked like Marilyn Monroe but lacked her
honesty and innocence while my lover as a taker Marilyn
was a giver, but what could I do?
She was a sickness a cold that would not go away, I often
left her in anger vowing not to return, but I did
despised myself as I sold my car to keep her in style and
expensive restaurant.
Every bad situation comes to an end she knocked
down by a speeding car, the one I had sold.
With my last money I bought a big wreath her mother cried
I was glad she had gone which brought on a depression
because no one had done it as good as her.

Nirvana Beckons

There are times when overcome by tiredness
not because of artistic dejection one live and prosper on that
but to have one's old age pension diminished
and not being able to travel anywhere because the money is
has to go to paying another person's bills.
I lived in the illusion that in old age I would get help when needed
by family near, but I find myself burdened down by people
that are not of my blood, they tell me I don't care but without me
they would be living in the street.
I try to be free of them as a dog with ticks now is the time to escape
drive to Spain find a room it doesn't need a view wake up alone
not listening to a woman peeing in a ***
The freedom to die alone not have vulture watching my last
breath the machine showing a straight line, the nurse
who unhook the apparatus that served to lengthens the agony
the squabble about meagre belongings  
I know of a cliff near here it is smooth and I can see my Savannah
To be able to fly if just ones and welcome Nirvana

Wide Awake

From my hotel window, I see a river of cobblestones
And cars moored by its bank for the night.
A cat runs across the river safe for now, to a litter bin
A squeal as it catches its prey.
From the opposite hotel a few shards of light that
Gives succour to the dying and those who cannot sleep
They wait for the radiance of dawn
Till they hear people talking cars starting and the night
And the dead is a memory so easily forgotten.

The farewell
She had to see a doctor once a month, uphill most of the way,
"When I'm grown up I'll buy you a car so you don’t need walking there
She smiled, patted my head knowing well I was
not practical or very smart.
I was forty-five and mother was eighty when I finally bought a car,
an automatic, easy to handle but I had no license. For that, I needed to
learn many new rules

Ok, carried her down from the second floor flat, she was feather
light hoped we would not get stopped
So we drove to the coast, she wanted to see the sea.
Down a narrow lane and I was worried how to turn and drive back.
On the way home we stopped at a café, we drank coffee and had a
creamy cake each and everyone was kind to us.

Mother was tired, went to bed, in the night she called me, She wasn't well:
"drive me to the hospital," she said.
I did. the staff took over, they gave her a room of her own,
I sat by the bedside, looked at her folded hands; like a sparrow's folded wings.
She closed her eyes - we didn't speak
and after a while when the sparrow didn't flutter I knew she had died,
for a long time I sat there pretending it had not happened;
mother looked so at ease I was glad that she had had a good death.

Accidently in Paris

From the bus station in Paris, I was taking a taxi to a posh
part of Paris, the driver a Moroccan didn't know the way, but I had a map
he could not read, so I navigated, first left, second right and so one.
We got there after three hours, I tried to pay, but the driver would
not hear of it, made a U. turn and shot at me, he was a lousy shot
I stood there in the street of houses ready to expel anyone
who didn't behave rich and since I walk like a penguin was accepted,
They say a blond girl has much fun, but I tell you a bald man has
more fun at Molin Roughs, (wrongly edited.)
Synchronized dancing and I was thinking when are we going
to eat? Someone a woman I was temporally in love with, arranged
so I could have soup. It was a feathery show, and I sneeze a lot.

Saying
A fact is like is a sturdy plant
You can asphalt it with lies
But it will always be a fact
And break to surface in time

B&B

Vacancy sign, neon lit in the coldest blue,
cheap room, nylon sheets (easy to wash)
a wash basin, no doubt used as a ******.
commode with a mirror on top…Liverpool
is such a dreary place when it rains.

Lay on top of the bed reading Hemingway
I was boxer Olson the Mafia was out to get.
Steps outside I was full of angst
“Was it them?”40 watt pale light it was
getting dark.
I was only one step away to sleeping rough.

A Holiday Photo


Remember Pula, in former Yugoslavia, thirty years ago,
I have picture of you in my blue shoebox, smiling look
Pretty, the people around you are incidental just locals
And other holidaymakers who don’t know they are forever
Caught by my camera, getting nowhere in my box.
The plane ride, back to Liverpool on that old aircraft that
Shuddered and had wings that moved as a seagull’s,
We were so glad we landed that, strangers spoke to each
Other till they came back to their senses and shut up.  
I know you must look different now, but what I recall is
Your smile since it, for a moment, hid the problems that
Made us part. Looking into the mirror I don’t think I have
Aged much, a grand illusion, of course, that make old age
Tolerable; I wonder if you when looking into the mirror
Think the same as I, or are you delusion free, if so I do
Feel sorry for your bitter reality.

Random Journey
Is the inception of a voyage the end of an abstract nothingness
and beginnings of conscious life like driving to town and buy the papers
I remember a song: “set sail at the sunset” can hum the rest but have
forgotten the words I see in front of me with eyes closed
A red sun and calm sea, this is not the crossing of Styx after sundown or
is my immaturity making fun of me again you can't sail to Afghanistan?
I could sail there on a balloon and land when the Taliban shoot hole
in it and we can drink coffee smoke American cigarettes and laugh.
The problem is you can't look at women in in Afghanistan it is a shooting
offence, they do read the Guardian newspaper in Afghanistan too.
So I will sit here and wait not to cross the river but to sail the oceans.

The echoless  



Fallow land the old homestead is
Falling into disrepair

The last cow sent to the knacker’s yard,
There are no calves.

No reminiscence, nor a photo album
The silence speaks of nothing

Abortion

A pregnant woman can do as she likes, yes, I too believe
In a woman's right; but a pregnant woman has the responsibility
of a new life growing inside her and it is paramount that
the beginning of life has the right to be born.
It is often single, uneducated women who get into the predicament  
instead of making her into a killer, we should help to give her
economic help so she and her child can live with dignity.
Women who are busy breaking the glass ceiling when finding
themselves pregnant have an abortion as a matter of course, and
in the name of success commit ******.
I'm also against adoption it is a capitalist invention, take from the poor
and give it to the rich, and it is of no help, as the birth mother will regret it
and the child when an adult will ask, why did my mother give me away?

The poverty
It has been raining for days, but now the sun shines
the walls of the old ruin look whitewashed and with its pride intact.
Sunlight makes paucity look nostalgic, a whiff of the old days
when life was supposed to be simpler; a movie by Sophia Loren.
We go on romanticising time of need like it should be an honour,
and the poor are so funny they speak grammarless and happy.
Nevertheless, we give obeisance to the past, a ruin no one in
their right mind will spend money on.
Ah, but I was wrong, and English gentleman- if this adjective
comply, often it doesn't- has bought the dwelling, plans to
keep its front so it will be an old looking new house and will
live with a churning cement-mixer for weeks.
Whatever happens in the future is none of my business
today is a beautiful morning.

The end of a life

There were many flowers on her grave
from family, friends and foes.
They feared her lashing tongue.


The evening and night were cold
in the morning the flowers looked
white and bloodless.

Why does it end like this?
The utter silence it is as she never lived

The morning traffic is heavy
Friday, the week is coming to an end
and no one will ever know here wisdom
the suffering she endured.

If remembered, she was an old woman
who spokes the truth?
No one wanted to hear.

The Rising Sun
There was a place in Curacao not far from
the town of Willemstad you could stay there till dawn
when the ****** had gone to sleep and the pigs in
the ditch full of human detritus didn't grunt.
When the beer was drunk enjoy the cooling moment
of time well spent take a taxi out back to the ship look
back and remember: Campo Alegre (the happy camp)

A mountainous town

Lalitpur is a charming town among high mountains
the air is pure; no need to take a shower every day.
I was going there but, in Rome, I lost my passport
had to drive home to get a new one, which took
time and losing money.
Nepal is a small country often used as a tennis ball
by bigger countries in the region, for conflicts
killing thousands and condensing palaces to dust
covering mountains into a clock of sadness
Cry my lovely, I can only offer my understanding
when tourists evacuate on your sacred top
filling valleys with empty tunny tins, condoms and
the toilet papers flapping in the wind.
For tourists falling off cliffs, I only offer contempt
tourists that bestride and befoul a holy mountain.

The Oppressed
Time is churning us in a mass of confusion
But something is forever the need to side with the downtrodden.
Two of my uncles, ordinary working class lad,
Spent time in jail and tortured because they helped the Jews
because they were in need.
Israel today doesn't want or any use for men without education
Help was not political it was just human.
When I see the endless cruelty committed by Israel, I take side
With the Palestine people and try if not by heroic deeds but by words
To help the oppressed people, not for a political agenda
But a human one.

The Palestinians of Norway

The Sami people who have been living
in the North of the country herding their reindeer
on a cold plateau, are now in trouble.
The Norwegian government wants to let settlers in
and also build factories
The Sami who have lived here for thousands of years
protest and want independence, good Norwegians agree with them.
(Why anyone would like to live in the frozen north
is a mystery to me,) there are many other places in Norway
that needs people and factories,
unless it is political as a part of Lapland borders to Russia,
and they fear this part might be annexed
by a horde of Slaves who hitherto have had no interest
in this part of the land. There is an anti-Russia Propaganda
in the newspapers that are baffling, it was the Soviets who
came and freed the country from the Nazis and pushed
into the sea; has history forgotten this?

The Sober Seraph

I had been to my doctor is always a female I have no choice
Said I was too heavy – her words- I had to slim down a bit
Skipped lunch had soup in a café where everyone sat
Starring at their I-Phones and didn't see what I saw and angel
Stopping a man from going into a bar
I could see they were arguing the man took a step backwards
The angel won the argument and disappeared, the man
Came into the café and drank orange juice, his mien was dark,
But then lightened up he was safe…for now

He is one of the unfortunate for whom a glass of wine is one
Too many and a bottle is not enough if he listen to what his
The angle says, the inner voice of love, he should be safe.

Sunday
The sun vainly warm white
plastic tables.
Sunday closed café.
I wrote my name in a dusty surface.

A nearly empty bus drives by,
inside two old ladies
vacantly looked into a memory.
A child sits on the curb,
plays with her dolls
while the subdued moped
leans against a flaking wall.
The day of rest in Iceland.

Morning before daylight

The summer is waning, still hot
But daylight takes longer to appear
it gets dark earlier than a week ago.
The Twitter this morning is full
Of Jeremy Corburn, the fightback
Has begun and bless him for this
He is a great man dedicated to
To the people.
Should he win there will be a mass
Exodus money flying east or west
By birds of prey that had money
to spare by plundering the people.
I sent a poem to twitter about dogs
It drowned by other voices.
In our time, poetry is not on the agenda.

Olympic Sports

There are several sports in the OL; I would like to see banned,
let us take winter sport, 50 kilometres cross country on skies is to
watch a paint drying if you are cornered in a room,
even worse 10 thousand meters on skates, around and around
they go will they ever get to the finishing line?
Summer sports, some men throwing a plate onto a field to how many meters they
made; and people with an iron ball doing ditto?
In Roman time one tried to hit a slave, which did the sport
interesting, as it is now it is boring and has no entrainment value.
Then you have synchronized swimming, wriggling feet above water
if it is done right according to the expert, everybody gets a gold medal
and we the public are none the wiser.
We must make the sport relevant to the way we live today,
ski board is a good beginning and chasing sharks in the Atlantic
and flying through the air as Batman is entertaining because they
can hit a ****** cliff any moment and if you only have safe sport
there is no point watching it.

Leonard Cohen

The elegant poet
Has died
I good looking Hebrew face
I admired his hair
And stylish nose
His enchanting voice
Singing the same poems
What people like
I read a collection of his
It told me nothing it was
When he sang
His poems
Chorus and suitable
Setting
Came to life like
A late blooming rose
This old charmer I liked
To watch him
Singing his poems
A poet
Ought to be an entertainer

Beware of Poets
Don't trust a poet' s declaration of love
it is the words he means, the turn of a phrase
you just happen to be there as he looks you in
the eyes thinking; I have to write down that
before I forget it
Sometimes he finds a serviette borrow a pen
writes down words you thought was meant for you.
Drinking coffee with you, he appears restless
because he wants to go home and
fill out the poem he composed, alas he is not
thinking of you but of a wider audience

The Big House  

I could not live in a house with many people
Voices at all hour of the day no privacy the precious moment
When the world rolls slower and I can hear time's clock tick
In a house full of people there is a din of violence to come
And whispering sin at night
Flushing toilets, subbing feet
The tears of the misbegotten those who are cheated on
Drunken brawl screams and police sirens.  
TV that is full of banalities
Every news programs from the same supplier.
To live in a house full of people must be very lonely
With no time for reflection

Leave us Alone
A risky apathy is darkening our time emails damning
the Clintons never stop arriving and are left unread
The scandal that could have sunk a battleship barely
makes it headline news
Some newspapers are tired of WikiLeaks bring nothing
but unpleasant news; tell us a joke instead.
The Settler on the west bank and Israeli soldiers are
losing their humanity their cruel banality no longer
stirs the mind, we are tired of bad news, therefore
a joke must not have anti-Moslem overtones not make
the fun of religion and not be seen as anti-Semitic
We are tired of falling bombs and the dust they create
clouds of coarse dust drift over a depressing landscape.
Show us sweet pictures of a kitten and cute dogs.
We don't want to look into the darkness of the coming
the sufferers will have to suffer alone until mushroom
swirls make the humanity extinct.

Tanka
Under the church's floor
Hundreds of rotting coffins
A Jesus made of marble
The priest shivers when alone
His flock had sought new pasture

The Whites

It is not easy to be white these days, the whites
get the blame for the demise of the Red- Indians,
by students who do not understand history.
When a mass of poor white came to America, it was a population shift
of great dimension, a tsunami over the prairie and
the local tribes who, in a way, were stateless suffered.
But the whites worked hard and made America great, with the help,
in the beginning, of black slaves who became disadvantaged
and have not been able to rise above it and develop.
The whites didn't invent slavery, Africa has always had slaves,
And here is slavery in many parts of the world that is not white.
The history of the whites is one of triumph, alas, also of
cruelty, but we must come to terms with our history it can't
be eradicated by attacking statues,

Sitting by the window

  “Come, Karoline, open your door…” I think it is
an old song was written by a soldier in the Napoleonic war
I have never met anyone called Karoline and why
should I remember now seven o’clock in the morning?
I knew of a young woman who always waited by her door
when I came home late, she lived in the house next to mine
I  often wondered what she was waiting for perhaps she
was a “Karoline” of the modern age.
Come to think of it many women stood in doorways or looked
out of the windows as the was pre-TV time and women
like to see what is going on while the husband is asleep on the sofa.
I have seen many women in seaports like Rotterdam and Hamburg
sitting half-dressed by a big window and dimmed light, they were waiting too
for any man to enter those who did didn't stay long.
This I think was because none of them was a Karoline.

Bully beef

Twenty years after the war
I found in the attic of a small hotel
several cans of corned beef.
since the cans were dark green, I assumed
they had belonged to the German army
not that they were going to demand
the cans back I opened one the meat was
perfect and could be used in a stew.
No one wanted to a taste the meat I ended up
eating the corned beef over several weeks
until I got tired of the bully beef.
Today I bought a tin, it tasted good but had
less fat than I remembered.
I got an email, a friend of mine who also
liked corned beef had died, and it saddened
me much, I used to send him my books
he was working class but well-read and he
liked my books; mind he thought less of me
political stance.
Another friend has gone, not many left
of them now but
I will remember Alex Skillen, my only fan,
with fondness.

Interlude

The air was still, and trees in the forest stood in frozen silence.
A rare day, animals listened to the echo of last summer.
Hare trails in the snow made without haste, the persecuted
has nothing to fear the day when the mountain lion dreams.
The bear is in its den deep under an oak, dreamless sleep
whether still or storm, but do not wake him before spring.
The tranquillity of peace is only a brief interlude, **** or be killed,
eat or starve are wild life's merciless destiny.
The Calm cracks as the cold identified; there will be a toll to
pay if spring is too late with its promise of continuity.
Behind the forest where the blue mountain begins, a pack
of wolves howl to the moon, the soul of the hunter lied bare,
in an endless nocturnal dream.

At a Private Clinic
I went to see the eye doctor -can't spell it- some tests
I had to do it used to be free at Faro hospital
They are farming out work to clinics if you
Can pay but if you are poor farm worker you are ******
And they give a white cane
The doctor also wanted to have cataracts done but
That I could do for free in Faro for now
Health service should be for all whether you a rich or
Poor, but no it is a business now
And the doctors’ female or not look the same tanned
Faces pristine I suspect the use the same self- tanning
Lotion- do it is to look healthy and fooling no one
The woman in the reception tried to make me by a medical
Insurance, she had lips like a giant ****** but sharp teeth
Not a good idea to try anything funny.
250 euros I paid for being looked at in the eyes and to
Think Portugal had revolution equality for the masses.
I think I will go to Spain have family there they will
Take me until they see I'm a grumpy old man who has
Been faithful to the idea of socialism and will not
Shut up about it.
C'EST la vie.

The Night Goat

Through a sooty canopy, stars gave light, but not enough for me
to see where I was going; fell into a ditch, so deep that I couldn't get up and
spent the night fighting off giant rats.
At dawn the canopy broke, like spider's web in a storm; when the new sun
dried wild flowers a nanny goat came lowered her head so I could grab hold of
her horn and she pulled me up.
We walked to where the sea begins; we parted she back to graze in the glade;
I swam in till cured of my melancholy; a frothy mare came, and ******* I rode
to the end of the horizon.

Sparrows never rest
On the bush, I don't want to know the name of was full of sparrows
picking leaves for their nests; the bush looks like a balding man.
It is seven in the morning; the birds work hard
soon it will be hot, and their toiling stops,
but they will be back in the late afternoon working
hard to finish the building of nests.
The small thieves resent me standing on the terrace
twits in unison to shush me away.
It is too quiet I have dressed going to the local hospital
tor a test at the hospital, then I realise it is Sunday,
I'm hungry as I'm not supposed to eat anything
before the test. I go into the kitchen and the sparrows
continue working.

Of men and plants
  
The endless growing of new leaves
in my indoor plants, the shedding of leaves
all over the floor, like discarded dreams
getting in the way of the day.

Female hyenas are good mothers teaching
Their litter how to scare off lions.

Restless minds are no right as leaders of men
Overthink everything and has a nervous breakdown
Sits shaking in the corner of the bridge of warships
Excellent dancer in the ballroom in peacetime.

The song contests

I came across an apple tree it looked like
a child’s idea of this type of tree, big red
apples and a blue sky; when I realized I do not like
big red apples have farinaceous and taste
like they were dreaming of becoming potatoes
and not picked at by bird.
I joined my wife she was watching the final
Of a song contest, the finalist were two women.
One was buxom and belted out a song with full voice
the other one sang sweetly like opening the window
and letting a songbird and sunlight in.
The ample woman won, but we loved the sweet one.

Bremerhaven  

Bremerhaven, 1957 was a stunned town
Illegal bars and whorehouses for the many sailors
Who brought material to re- built the town
It was a summer and in bombed out neighbourhoods
There was accordion music
And patriotic songs from the war were sung
I was so young back then, and the ****** spoilt me rotten
So many ships coming in they were busy and
Then there was the American base to service, but even
Then, at my tender age, I could not stop thinking
How efficient the Germans were they had lost but were
Strangely happy re- building the lost years, the war
Had cleaned their souls.

Grateful


The club was called the checkers, painted black
and elephant tusk, two middle aged Spaniards stood at the bar
talking to a hard faced barmaid.
The talk was amicable enough, but had an underlying tension,
something about lust and the price of love's pretence.
Two birds dressed, in yellow feathers came down from the loft
told the Spaniards how much they loved them.
The barmaid asked if I was lonely too.
No thanks, I came here for the beer.
My answer impressed she shut the club for the night.
In the morning I said: I'm sixty today.
she cried a little and gave me a milky coffee.

The Stroll
Walking along a long road in a 1950ish industrial park
high walls and closed down factories; dark brown,
And no green weeds in pavement cracks.
At the docks all ships had left, cranes stood in silence each one
ensconced in the terrifying loneliness of the soulless that knows
of no existence.  
I found the office I was looking for, needed someone to stamp
a document, it was empty I waited till light faded from pictures
of stern-faced men on photos on walls.  
This place had no real sunshine; a haze hung over here
making summers a pale affair, only in August did sun
penetrate drowning shadows in a white unpleasant light.
Outside, in the street going south, there were many me,
young ones, middle aged and some were even older than
I, which I thought was a good sign and secretly smile
For a moment I felt nostalgic wanted to look back, but
desisted we had, all of us, agreed that we must walk on
Never look back as the past holds a fatal attraction.  
sooner or later the road must end and open up to a vista
of olive and almond trees, lemon coloured straw, faraway
blue mountains and pastel painted summers.

The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep,
on your surface, I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights,
mountainous waves when
my only defence was luck;
romantically thought that you had secrets to divulge
when hearing whispers in the tropical night.
Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be,
endlessly wet you are Saragossa ****, fog and
terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced
pollution    
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing,
late in the night, I wish I were skimming your surface
again.

Working class Poet

It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break he jotted down a few words
and during the day it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home told his wife
I wrote e whole poem today I think it's good
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village.
His wife went back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad.
The poet came out of his cocoon, said to his wife:
all my poems are about you, my muse with you at my side
I can't write about the old tree at the entrance of the village.
They kissed and made up they both lived long had good death
blissfully unnoticed by the world.

The Pyre
“When the moon, kiss the sea,” was never my line
but I once saw the sinking sun painting oak leaves Auburn
and olive leaves green as old gold
The mules in the field had eyes of onyx, and the sky was
Nursery pink to please the children and me.  But this sort of levity
was not on my mind it was getting cold the man who delivered
short sliced wood could not come this year he had moved into
an old folks home
and his son did not deliver a small amount of firewood I remember
him when he was a lad eagerly helping  his old man, just waiting for his turn
to make it big, we are all capitalists now an agency has offered to
sell my books, no problem they say 40% of everything
they give a **** about Auburn colors on leaves and old gold unless it
is cash they often rings my wife answer the phone I'm not in she says
but sometimes I'm caught unaware the thought of parting with
my books are too much they are packed in plastic awaiting my death and
then the horde will come and burn them in the garden a pyre of helpless thought
pathetic attempt writing something beautiful, pathetically failing
I cannot fly on romantic wings I’m not a poet only a smithy

Murderous Laughter
From world famous violinist to a murderer was the headline of our newspaper.
I knew the man a musical genius but so shy he only made recordings and appeared
on radio. You never get famous unless people see you in the flesh so magazines
can publish a picture of you shaking hands with politicians and see the blessed one
with movie stars, he was persuaded to give a life concert. The hall was full as he
entered the stage applause broke this was a highlight, no doubt a musical genius.
As his music filled hearts with the immense beauty, he became taller and his
trousers fell to his ankles. Dead silence, then nervous giggles that ended with
hysterical laughter from his audience who could not stop laughing, concert over.

He went to live in Alentejo in Portugal; no one knew him, got a job as a shepherd,
had a room next to the sheep, but took his meals in the kitchen. One day a tourist on
a walking holiday came to the small farm asked direction looked at the violinist and
said:” you are the one who lost his trouser on the stage.” The tourist told the story
of this to the farmer and his wife and the all laughed, dogs, cats and the mouse
in the corner. The musician got up went to the barn picked up a pitchfork and stabbed
the poor tourist to death and, at last, the laughter stopped.

The Occupier

A wrong type of rabbits have invaded
the woods they are aggressive, intelligent
but lack empathy for those not as them.
The rabbits that lived before were smaller
the blue of colour and happy in their modest burrows
thrown out thrown out by the grey ones that
took their holes or made them inhabitable.
The original rabbits live in the corner of the woods
a place too near the road and are often run over
by cars and tractors.
The intruder rabbits originally came from Europe
but there was an attempt to exterminate them
so they moved south and had become a curse
hateful, murderous and intolerant.
The smaller animals in the forest recent this
but they have the boars on their side so little
can be done, but being psychopathic by nature
they eventually destroy themselves.