The bird of hatred

A bird with enormous wing span is darkening
the sky over the Middle East and there is much
bloodshed as always when a new nation is born.
A good example is the birth of Israel it cost
the life untold by the losers in camps far from home.
Thousands of young men are finding adventures
and the order they seek so fervently waving black
flags knowing their nation will win no matter.
Who many headless corpses it makes take, but that
will be forgotten; we only remember the winner,
the Caliphate, which altered the map of the world
and made it a haven for an undiluted Islam to sink back
to the middle ages shifting sand.

The Nordic Dilemma

There was a time in the sixties and the seventies
when the idea of social justice was taken seriously even by
the elites, the shipping tycoons of the day,
who paid (more or less) the taxes like everybody else.
But times improved for everyone, oil was found and
people were quite prosperous and lived in a cocoon of
self-satisfaction, and when people from poorer nations
knocked on our doors, the found the same door
only half ajar, and the people why should we to share
our wealth with the poor; the transition from equality
To unfairness was complete. A nation that thought their
riches was based on hard work when it was based
on a commodity called oil needed to drive cars and keep
The wheels of capitalism are running. In the process
the Norwegian bought houses in Spain because it was
cheap to buy at a place where wages were low for
the workers while the bosses made fortunes selling
that, in the long run, turned out to be substandard and
Only the low-cost material was used. The Nordics felt
racial superior to the Spanish people and made their
own small society a waved their flags on Iberian soil,
and yet they feel they have not done anything wrong

They **** Horses too

Spring 1945
a horse collapsed
in the street
of starvation
from every door, men in black
with long knives
cut into the beast
before it was dead
meat any flesh
would do
soldiers came
shot in the air
the black-clad men
scurried back
A shot in the head of
the still alive animal
The soldiers left
their officer loved horses
During the night
the civilians came back
at dawn
blood and gore
on thawing snow

Autumnal Gloom

                      Sorrowful October, rain hangs in the air to mean to fall
a murky joker without a sense of humour, I don't care whether it rains or not,
it is just the persistent greyness makes my beard white,
my hand's thin so many rivers look like Bangladesh overrun by the stateless.
People born in October tend to be mournful, with the sudden outburst of ire.
Intemperate, I blame the weather, vengefully jealous of others success,
it is not the October's child's fault; it had two choices winter or summer,
but was pushed into late autumn, forsaken by god and man.
The rain didn't fall, blew westerly and the afternoon sun was helpful.

It will alright
It was peace in the valley a deep harmony of those who fled
to the countryside to avoid the foul air of humanity this lair
called community had fouled its nest and had to sleep in it
Then there was avalanche of thoughts which caused confusion
when it settled a gramophone voice from 1930 sweetly sang
“I love you, yes I do my darling.”
Back then when singers sang, they dressed their evening best now
women sing showing their wares- never mind the songs- but their
**** to the world telling us to win sympathy how they were molested
as children, the real noise began hunters in the wood killing rabbits
and often themselves in an **** of bloodlust
The avalanche has blocked the way to the lake where I used to swim
when young I accept that and find a puddle to wade in and should
I get tired bring a folding chair sit under a bush and cry

Time.

While statues fall to dust and nothing is remembered,
we fear you not Ozymandias; it was a poet who brought you back into history.
Words survive the onslaught of time,
for each generation of poets words are written differently,
but the message is the same: Do not forget you are mortal!
Beauty and power are ephemeral.

In defence of Donald Trump

How does one write about the indefensible? A person, so ****** brass and
egocentric lusting for power; Yes, I think of Donald Trump, the impossible.
Why is it after being banned by the press and Twitter, he is now more popular
than ever before, it is, I think, because he speaks the language people understand
He knew his enemy and how to appease them by putting the embassy in Jerusalem
get the Israeli off his back, knowing how much power in America they yielded.
But Israel got a whiff of his thinking of them press betted on another horse,
America first, the Americans living away from Washington   Get it and will vote for
him at the first opportunity.
The majority of true Americans are not stupid; they know the reality of being prisoners
of Washingtons Jewish influence, America first, is a rallying call to make people free
of the poisonous influence of Israel.
They know this, the people of the plains, the prairies of America are not free before
the land is free of the occupations of the true America.

August night


Dark, starless night sky, a sliver of the moon
golden scythe is mowing down the old.
Harvest time, forgot to close the window,
a chill settles in ancient lungs evil coughs.

Church bells toll the day; the day is hot and
gives nothing away, the old priest is on holiday.
The locum is clumsy, hasn't had a bath for months,
a murmur of discontent.

The cleric sweats there is a smell of *****
a church’s reject; they do take care of
their own. This isn't swine flu nothing to
report, the old dying as they must

The merchant ship
The ship leaves Rotterdam
sail to the med, and through the Suez channel
into the red sea, the vessel arrives at an oil terminal
and all you see is pipelines storage tanks and sand,
then the ship goes back the same way.
The sea in its different mood can be lovely to look
at but after some time it gets boring.
Or a containership jam-packed with boxes that
load and unload I record time there is no time to go ashore
and explore. After a year of this tedium, you go home
and have seen nothing but oil tubes.

The visitors
A knock on my entrance door, I opened up
and seven people came in one of them looked at me
like she should be in love, perhaps she remembered
me 40 years back in time. The house had been rebuilt
the steps leading up to the second floor were outside
the girl when they marched out kissed my hand
and I thought: am I a pope now?
She looked like the Palestinian girl – unarmed- had been
shot by a female ****** who did this foul deed in
the name of her country she had been told  Palestinians
were out to **** them, the female shooter was defending
her blood dripping country.
I knew the six others too one was my brother
the other my sister and the rest old friends but none
of them recognised me.
The ladder up to the second landing was long I saw
them disappearing into a cloud closed my door I was
suddenly cold, went in and sat by the fire.

Life is a thread
When my aunt
Told me when
Mother
Was pregnant
With me
I was not a welcomed
Addition
Mother had been
Told skipping
Could bring on
A spontaneous
Abortion
She was rather sedate
Soon gave it up
I was born
There are things
We should
Not be told
I never forgot
But she was
Working class
And poor
Life or no life
The line is
As precarious
As a skipping rope

Timber
I was going to write something from my everyday
but got bored and changed my mind, instead, I switched
on the TV and I can now know how to build
a timber cabin in Alaska and *** Edam cheese is made
a knowledge that hitherto had not interested me.
I have lived in a house made of timber from a stranded schooner it was never painted and had the aroma of tar, soap suds, ship baked bread and dreams of home.
alas, the house was destroyed by a drunken British bomber- pilot who mistook the house for a tank but
there was a war and the Brits were our allies, no point
sue the liberators.
There was a screaming, arrogant lady called Judge Judy
who took great delight in insulting people who didn't
have much in the way of defending themselves.
TV, has the ability to bore me, every ****** news channel
copy one another, and the weather forecast is
a guessing game in a nice dress or suit, what the hell
I'm better off reading a book that is not too long

Indoctrination


It is in fairy tales we learn about rich and poor,
the wealthy suitor always wins and gets the princesses hand
and the poor cobbler will always be mending shoes.
In the “glass slippers,” the poor girl fits the slippers and the prince
while the ugly sisters get a job in the Guardian Newspaper,
where they get paid for griping about men.
In Little Red Riding Hood the wolf is the working class trying to take
Power from the haves, but he becomes a cropper and drowns
in the well. So you see, the indoctrination starts early and when
we are adults find inequality normal

A labour politician


  He is a short man with an evil nisse  mentality
his long-term views are that of a political opportunity
  of one who read a paper before it is printed.
What can you say about a man who has been married?
five times is it because he uses women as tools because
they disagree with his views or because the might say
something that might destroy hidden carefully
constructed by a person of the left crafted to be ambiguous
and no one would know he was intellectually dishonest
like calling the Jews Zionists, those I met were perfectly normal
and lamented they were prisoners of propaganda and misdeed
of the cultural connection that had hatred in its heart

The Sea of the forgotten
At the restaurant eating liver with onion gravy
I looked around a busy place lunch in Portugal
is a jolly affair and it is ok, with children about.
In about hundred years’ time, not one of us in
the room would be alive those who lived long
would be rotting like the rest of us skeletons,
memories of good lunches lost in the big zero.
We are the lucky ones great statesmen will get
a statue in a dusty park on which seagulls crap,
only cleaned on national days.

It is so difficult man to fathom that death is
end of time the world does not exist, history
is only good for dates when kings were born
and the day they passed away, zilch about you
and me because we are the lucky ones

Disembowelled
Mackerel sky blue and light blue strips
perhaps it was the zebra of the sea swimming away in haste
                                     I was gutting one
                                     No big deal
                                     I was learning to cook at the time
Inside the fish was a finger with a ring made of gold, but
I vomited, and the master- Cook took the ring.
                                     The school is now a catering academy
                                      Teaches the same as before
                                      But academy sounds more learned
                                      A cook is now a chef has got a diploma

Almost a killer

The window was open the puppy balancing
On the sill and fell it wasn’t a long fall buy it screamed
I cradled in my arms till it stopped whimpering
Through me an enormous fear I could **** it if I wanted to
I held my hands around its throat its fur soft and silky  
The puppy continued to sleep safely in my arms I was ten
And thought, no one should have that power, but it had surged
Through me, the compulsion to ****
My hands shook my body trembled violently today I could have
Become murderer. I told my brother he shook his head and asked
Why I had to make a drama out of everything
Later I worked on a farm and saw animals killed
But that was for a purpose feeding humanity and not for pleasure I know
Had I killed the puppy my life would have been an endless night.

A New Love Story
I had stopped at the rural cafe for a coffee it was a day when I was
not feeling a day over seventy she was around fifty and incredible
young her waste was that of a waif at the beginning of life.
She was so beautiful and she smiled inviting me to sit by her table
and I was only drinking coffee. I told her amusing stories of my life,
mostly lies- and she laughed, not a bored mirth while looking at
the time thinking of the right moment to slip away the clutches of
my unwanted attention. Good time has me has a limit, so much and
not more, her husband came in he had been to the garage, had the car
fixed and he told me all about it down to the smallest dreary details

A nice man with oil on his hands and I hated him, but I could not **** him
and claims his wife as mine, the thought faintly amused me,
and they drove off. I loved her immensely and she reminded me of
my wife's niece I love her too, perhaps it was her but I was too old to see
as handsome faces take on a mask of a smiling Janus

The Spell

Does pure evil exist or is made by the religious
to scare us and fall into the embrace of a god
that may not have our interest at heart.
It began a few days ago
when I noticed someone or something was
trying to take over my mind.
When parking I scraped another car,
I broke the mirror driving too close to a bin.
It was then I saw it, malevolent eyes
painted outside my house,
I looked up saw the shadow of Satan on a flagpole
his laughter echoed and echoed on my soul, but
I shouted back, called him and his imps ****.
I knew a spell had been cast upon me and took action I painted the eyes yellow and green,
the water leak in the kitchen stopped.
I had won because my mind was much stronger than
the person who had cast the spell.

The bar

Red plush stools neatly at the bar waiting for opening time
last night had been tiresome
restless people getting up or sitting down
some had fallen off, and there had been laughter.
Now the silence is deep of those
Who does not care for garish colours and mirrors?
Empty bar smells of yesterday’s despair
speak nothing in particular and contains no memories

A New Beginning

Think of this, the world has become too hot heat waves
following heat surges.  People leaving their cars succumbing of
thirst waiting for the coolness of evening that will not come.  
The stench of dead humanity and animals are foul of decay.
On the highest building a man fine tinned food, eats and falls
asleep and wake up months later to a world where he is the only
survivor.  No lift he walks down the endlessness of stairs and is
met with a hush so loud he has to put his hands to his ears.  
He walks and walks the stink has gone, but he senses something
behind him it is a lone rat it is as confused as he is and together
with the rat on his shoulder, they begin the search to find a mate
to make the world inhabitable again.

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.

Failures' hiding place

I have done a lot of work even been an officer
With shiny buttons but never succeeded in the world
Of practical work ended up on my personal skid-row
Sleeping rough people look at you with contempt some
Ignore you other shouts hurtful remarks
Poetry is a good place for losers of the race here they
Dream, write words on paper build a shiny citadel and
Have the key to unlocking wonders.

Raqqa

Three years its inhabitants lived in tyranny
of ISIS and its fanatical religion a hard place where
smoking cigarettes were punished with death.
To get rid of the occupier the USA air force carpet
bombed the city, and we do not know how
many civilians this caused, how many children?
We have no number, no estimate after all it was
for a good cause, the ISIS was eradicated as was
The town and when the survivors understand
the full the extent of the American bombing they
will have no reason to rejoice.

A dreaming journeys
  
  A leaf floats down a river
It never made a decision
“where are you going doc?
Back to the future?
No, I have been there now
We are going to the future.
From afar the leaf hear
a woman sings
“Let me call you, darling.”
What an idiot I’ve been.
What’s left is the ocean.

Every Day Philosophy

I'm not a thinker deep as the ocean more
like the depth of a puddle, but then again
seen from the stratosphere an ocean is
nothing more than a shallow puddle it has
to do with perspective
The tiny ant that walks across my desk is big
compared with gnat they are mostly obscure
except when they walk across the computer
screen and leave behind a minuscule bit of ****
And that was the lesson for today

Winter landscape

The landscape was white like frozen waves
smoke from farm chimney went straight only dispersed
when meeting the upper sky.
Ah, this innocence of virginal snow cold as nun's cell.
The boy sat in the cow-shed warming his hands on the udder
of a cow, later, he walked on snow so pure it made crushing
the sound that broke the snow's ***** under his foot
But there were tracks after hares, birds, wolverines, and
the opportunistic fox.
Blood in snow, like a sheet on a wedding night the sacrificing of
the lamp sanctified by priest and church.
The fox had caught a mouse that built a tunnel under the snow
thinking it was snug and safe.
A crow sits on a tree watches the scene with irony in it black eyes,
afar  someone calls him in for breakfast

The Alternative

We lived on the third floor the loo was in the basement
I saw my aunt peeing in the sink while mother was out
It took days to figure out who she did it, I asked my sister
She wanted to know why so I told her, but females speak
Told my mother….trouble.
I often peed in the kitchen sink at night, what else could I do?
Ghosts on steps and landing fat rats having a bath in the bowl
I never told my mother if she came into the kitchen I pretended
brushing my teeth, I also masturbated into it but that was only
when I was sure to be alone.
My mother was strict with the hygienic routine we had a big towel
And since there were four of us we had a corner each.

A Middle-Aged Love Story  

Both were in their late forties when they met he had a good job
chief of something important in the world of oil exploration and
they fell in love holding hands and kissing so much they needed
treatment for sore lips.
He grew tall, and she swayed like a palm tree in a tropical breeze
this was love they both been married before and felt like the god
of amour's arrow had shot them again painless they thought.
She had grown children he had none when he was 52 the mortality
knocked on the door he wanted a son she could give him none.
There was young woman nearby and when his wife was visiting her
he fell on the threshold of her door into her arms, and she became
pregnant, a love story came to a screeching halt.
The woman he loved left, but he had a son with woman he didn't
care for, he found salvation in work she – the woman he loved-
lived with her mother in Cote de Azure stuck with an arrow stuck in her
a heart that no other man could remove.
Then a knock on her door, he stood there with his child of, she could not
resist and forgave him loved his child too and they both lived long and
when full of years were blessed with a beautiful death.

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.

Fado

What is there to say about Fado, this guitar sound?
And the guttural voices, that has a twang of
Arabia in its heart and is pure poetry.

Life, loss longing and finally death in songs
that celebrate love's unbearable sweetness,
our tragedy and the unobtainable.


Yes, sing me a Fado, let me hear the guitar
I will close my eyes, float in a sea of melancholy
and remember you

The movie Horse.

The mare in the yard is small, almost a pony, brown and white she used to be a fallen horse in western movies till she got arthritis in her hind legs,
lost her jobs no severance pay, the film industry is a tough place for
the less famous entertainers.
I bought her for a cowboy ballad I had written, but the song was never
performed since it was about llamas in Peru.
I had left her in the shady yard with a pail of water, and pile of straws.
The day had been hot she had slept standing up, shifting her weight from left to the right legs.
She was awake now could hear hooves scraping on concrete, neighed softly
calling my attention; took her to the far field,
where the grass is greenest, she galloped about a bit, then after rubbing her behind
against an olive tree settled down to do what
retired horse actors do, grazing and dreaming of the old days.

Friendship
Jim and I were friends all the days
from we build castles in the sandpit
Jim was always happy and his eyes
were wise one who knew life was short.
When at fifteen he became ill sat in a wheelchair
and the sun shone on him.
At twenty he died holding my hands told me
to be brave.
Jim was happy all his days, but I was the lucky one.

The cobwebs of dreams

It was a clear day…Too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen,
sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked how old she was,
ninety-two she said; knew I was trapped in a dream she didn't
live that long.
By the slow river I saw furniture drifted, my brother said it was
people who lived downstream but bought furniture upstream
and to save on the transport dumped the stuff in the river and
relatives picked it up further down.
Sometimes a table or a chair got lost a risk they were willing to take.
I knew this too was a dream.
Walked along a soft road in a forest, but something was wrong
there was a strange red light emitting from trees; I was trapped
inside a painting by a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife.
I think it is morning, perhaps not, sometimes the line between
and the subconscious emerges, maybe yesterday is today.

the horse of dreams

I never had a rocking horse, but having read
about rich kids having one, I wanted one too.
On a dump, I found the tail of a rocking horse
fastened the end to the gate into the yard.
Sitting on the gate, swinging through and thro
and for a moment, I was Hoppalong Cassidy
till the hinges broke, I fell off.
The owner of the property swore, thought
it was the work of hooligans.
Years late, mother found the horsetail behind
the wardrobe, by then I was grown up
and didn’t bother with childish things.

If it had been the bike repairman
or, the mechanic who never overcharge
when bringing my old Lada back to life,
I could have understood….
But A Free Mason!
I blame the classless society when a perfectly
honest factory girl falls in love with
likes of him…. and even worse goes and
get hitched to the man

Reward
To live in the misery of the past unable to let go
of childhood’s unhappiness but let it fester and
grow till adult life becomes unbearable, demands
of recognitions and compensations, because their
suffering must be taken up polished and with time
a jewel to show the world. This you owe us and we
deserve what you give us, although it will never be
enough even when the gem drowns in blood by those
who got in the way of the righteous path.
Never forgive or forget, let hatred be your leading star.

The Visit

Mother and I went to visit her uncle and his family
Who lived in the outskirt of the town, we took the bus
No five which took us to the posher part of the city.
Mother's uncle was a foreman at and small abattoir
His speciality was the killing of sheep
When he came home the whole family, they had two children
Ate dinner in the kitchen, mother and I sat in the living room
She was given a cup of coffee, and I got a glass of milk
The uncle came into the living room and spoke to my mother
He was tired he said, and I wondered how many sheep he had
Killed that day blood was dripping from his hands, but I thing
He gave mother some money when his wife was doing the dishes
We left, and I was feeling angry without knowing why, in the hall
I said have you got cats? No, we have not.
I can smell cat ***, I said.
Outside mother scolded me for being rude but smiled
I never saw mother's uncle again nor his snobbish wife or their
Children they never visited us we lived in the wrong part
Of our town

Laughter

They were young at the stage when old people
But not your granny look funny, those young faces looking
Or perhaps not into the future without any trepidation
I enjoyed their laughter even if it was directed at me with
Hair was sticking out of my baseball cap; they looked edible.
I knew with resigned sadness when they came to age I would
Be no more and they would stop laughing and face
A future of devastation, need and hunger and many of them
Perhaps most die of wars no of their making but of what
Political leaders decide today
Despite this foreknowledge, I would like to be there
And laugh with the survivors.

The oncoming


So also, is the thinking of the enemy.
Millions of people will be killed and nature already
Devasted will collapse too.
It appears to me that the coming tragedy is ordained
That unknown forces will make it this way, it is uncanny
That we blithely walk around with no care in the world
As the Damocles sword has loosened from it ropes, and
Is about to fall.
What is left is scorched earth circling around the sun
The seasons will come and go in in silence and we shall
Not hear the joyous laughter of the young.

The sandy walk  
On the long and wide beach,
I can, at a distance, see an elephant, an unusual sight
on this Nordic Shore;
but as I get nearer it retracts, and become sea mist
Overhead sea-gull resent me being here October,
humans are not supposed to be here now.
Coarse grass grow on sand dunes, forever defying
The wind that amuses itself by creating beautiful
ripples which it sends galloping to the beach and
they die unable to re-create itself I’m cold and scared,
alone, there’s no one here that wilts me well;
Feeble, against a nature that’s ready to devour me;
The “I” has lost its self-belief. Far above me angry  
Clouds congregate.

Café in Loule
I'm sitting in a café in Loule, drink coffee and eat a sandwich with nothing on but butter, it is my attempt to slim. Into the café enter two old friends one has small grocers the other is a cobbler,
yes they still exist. They have a coffee and a wee dram, the grocer will keep open to ten, the cobbler keeps his shop open he care not to go home before his nagging wife has gone to bed.
Mugabe, the president of Zimbabwe, is in house arrest, there has
been a military coup, although the army denies it is a takeover;
anyway, it doesn’t matter. Mugabe ninety-two years old has presided
over a total fiasco, the breadbasket of Africa has to import food for
the people oppressed people by his criminal misrule.
An autocrat’s regime has come to an end.

For reason not clear to me I think of Sweden who is run by a liberalistic- feminist philosophy that it has become a country can be understood when immigrants’ trespasses and we have the making of a divided a country that is no longer Sweden. When we hereafter talk of Scandinavia Sweden is not included, nor is the Norwegians who have given in to extreme capitalism.
well there is Suomi, but they are half Russians and Denmark who consist of nice Germans; so you see there is no Scandinavia.

Portugal survives she bends with the wind doesn’t break, from the café window I see the shoemaker by his lest smoking a cigarette.

Riches

Once, in the shallow river where sunlight makes the stone look
like gold nuggets, I threw into its water an engagement ring,
made of silver. I had paid plenty for it on my low earnings,
but compared with the river's gold it was junk.
Saw her kiss a man in a café where I could not afford to take her,
my misery was total my disgrace deep, how could I be so
deluded to think she would take my silver to his gold.
I threw mine into the river; amidst shiny stones, my ring looked trite
as a sliver of moonlight after ancient God's bacchanalia.
And forever I will be silent, not speak to her about this: a young man's
the heart is impossible romantic.
The river is now an asphalted road, deep down the precious stones and my silver engagement ring.

Sea and people
An island came up from under the sea
And soon it became green and pleasant
Fit for dairy production, and cats that
Took care of the rat plague.

Man, and animals in idyllic harmony but
For the rats and attacking seas-birds.

Roaring sea appropriated the island
Occupied and flooded the land,
Simply retracted and made the island into a reef.
Endlessness of peace but dangerous for shipping.

Parallel Lives  

Is there such thing as living two separate lives?
I lived in a vale called the “Valley of the cobblers” were everyone
wore wooden clogs, a dead giveaway if you have been out late,
I have many friends there know me by my first name.
Have a homestead rising  donkeys of the sturdy, strong type,
also sold miniature donkeys,  children especially liked them
I had a man who looked after the animals when I had to return to
city life, but as time passed I came to believe my real life was
in the valley, because I feel like an intruder when I walk amongst
modern man – it could be the clogs- people stare at me
think of me as an abstraction a painting once seen on the wall of a café.
Went on a bus to get back where my friends were, the bus drove and drove
and when it stopped I hadn't reached my destination.
Have to try again I miss my real life and want to come home.

Virtue

I wish
I could write
A love song
From the heart
About a mountain stream,
Were cynicism
Dare not enter
Not intrude
As sarcasm
Is banned
Sorry to say
Cannot have lived
That long
I know when hearts
Cries
For the loss
Of innocence

Time for forgetfulness

He had been to my house often, like to come here and stay for a few days,
because of nature where he could walk along overgrown tracks and see
how life used to be lived before; now he could not find the house, called me
told me the name of the café where he had stopped.
After a meal, he went for a walk but didn't return, and it was getting dark,
we looked for him he has lost his way, we found him under an olive tree,
it had taken some time before he knew me, the game was up, he cried,
Slowly succumbing to Alzheimer. In the morning we drove him home,
my wife drove his car; he spoke little when he did mixed past and present
(Who doesn't).
When we came to his house, he thought I was Dali Lama flattered by
his visit. In a lucid moment he knew what happened and cut his life short,
he refused to follow the lane of the living dead.

Water Bill

Driving down from my eyrie – I only said this to
Sound educated- I thought that since there is no proof
Of god's existence, I have been reflecting about the man
Or is it person- in charge of the rainbows.
I want to do something about it not always the same colours
5 I think and when you get to the point where it ends
It is a miasma of vanishing tinges.
An Iris should be firmer and sometimes yellow or red
Stick to the ground so children could climb on it not all day
But say, once a month.

At the bottom of the hill, I crossed a bridge it was dry and
Looked like the tiny bits Palestinians are allowed to live on
I remembered I had forgotten to pay the water bill and
Sometimes in the future, there will be wars over water.

The army intruder

I live near a stream that has been running dry for years
into a winter lake that has been drained to a helicopter pad
trees around wear dusty uniforms.
There is edginess in Europe after many years of peace
the warrior monster is waking up.
The monster is ****** erratic and can strike at any time
asks for more weapons.
We think we know who the enemy is, as usual, but we are wrong
as we listen to the voice of antagonism.
A new page of history is written; we must make a choice
Not wait till millions of people are killed, the last bomb dropped
when a poet writes about the war, be “the guardian famous.”
The new peace will only last so long because the human mindset
is set on war; this is our tragedy.
The voice for peace is as puny as children cry in the symphony
of the battlefield.

The Precious
I picked up a stone it was green but not jade
Even I could see that.

Took it home rinsed it in the sink it was still
Green and did not pretend to be jade

Put the stone in the windowsill where sunlight
And winter shade gave it ordinariness.

Threw the stone away knew it was not jade
But it could have been ****** something