The song contest.
There has been a song contest in Europe
Russian singers and musicians were banned
Which makes the contesting political?
Needless to say, Ukraine won.
One notice Israel appeared but not
Palestine, who was mourning a dead reporter
Killed by an Israeli ******, but we will not hold
this against he musicians and singers

The Singapore meeting

For those who sit and wait
for the Kim and Trump meeting
it is worth to remember the Stalin and ****** pact
people thought I meant peace.
Well, we know this ended with Germany invading Russia
Kim has no reason to believe Trump and Trump has
no right to trust Kim.
Are we looking at the possible invasion of North Korea?

The artificial islet

There is an island in the sea
ten feet deep it has a mountain to
of baby diapers which fertilise
the layers of sand blown by the wind.
Some birds lay eggs there
the hatchlings have plastic wings
but cannot fly.
This island is man creation and has
no worth other than a warning for
for shipping in the vicinity.

Epigram 3

If the universe has a limit, will the limitation
Be a wall, made of elastic a rubber band that
Can be overextended to the breaking point
A balloon that can be pierced at will, or like
The horizon, you see it, but it can't be reached.
And what is beyond the boundary?

Bards and society

Poets are gentle people who like to form a group for writers
with an eccentric title, “a thousand poets against war.”
Poetry is only useful for dictators and those who like to demonstrate how literal they are.
Dictators find them valuable if they extoll the regime
If not, you are exiled or jailed.
Poets are subjected to flattery, the lucky one gets a medal before they die
of consumption.
I was thinking of this when lost in a city, with many statues of generals riding an iron horse.
And a bust of the sensible poet in the entrance of a downtrodden hotel.

I never had a rocking-horse

Having read books of rich boys having one, I wanted one too.
I found the tail of a rocking horse, at home, I fastened the tail on the gate into the yard.
I sat on the gate swinging through and thro and for a moment
I was Hopalong Cassidy till the hinges broke and I fell off.
There was no witness to my ignominy.
I removed the tail, the gate had nothing to do with me.
The owner of the property swore said it was the work
of hooligans.
Years later, mother found the tail behind the wardrobe
by then I was nearly an adult and didn´t bother about childish things

The failed writer
For twenty years he has written down
what came to his mind, in the end, many books
with his name on a bookshelf.
There they reminded unsold, unloved collecting
the dust of time.
He tried to sell his books on Amazon and in shops
when that failed he gave books away to people
too polite to say no.
He danced a summer night declaring he would
be a writer his girlfriend laughed and laughed
till he put her head under a lake, walked home
and wrote some more.
They will never catch him now his name
is erased by the longitude of sad past.

Crabby morning

He looked down into the toilet bowl
had shat and flushed, 80-year-old **** going to waste
down a drain and into the sea.
70 years ago when he lived on a farm human and
Animal waste was used as a fertiliser the waste had
been useful potatoes grew big as did cabbages.
He had read the Chines collected stuff dried it and
Made it into powder and sold for strawberry farmers.
He had a shower and shaved, used proper blades
no electric shaver for him, he hadn't drunk coffee
yet and was cranky.

Basket case

There is a smudge on my computer screen trying to clean it with spit,
but no, perhaps it is finger marks left behind by the strange people
Who sits in the back of the computer shop?
Their diet is cola and chocolate; they are thin, bald and weedy looking
I must whisper to them, or they shrink away.
They sulk if I disagree with their diagnosis, it will take time to get
my computer back.
When the owner closes the shop, they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver, maybe the smudge is a camera
watching me
when I have a drink tonight, I’ll pour it in the bedroom then go into
the bathroom and smoke a cigarette
buy a can of coke a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front of the screen
and they will say, look, he is a basket-case like us.

While waiting

While I was waiting for the poem, I was going to write
to show up but I can't find the right words
starting the process, I have amused myself by
writing two smaller things. I look at my nails
they are too long but clean mainly because I do
the washing up after lunch by hand or rather
two hands I have never heard of a one-armed dishwasher.
Thought of the German philosopher who said
that God was dead, I ask; How can something not
Born be dead? The great poem I was going to write
is in hiding looking at the screen didn't help,
so it will have to wait and soon it will be morning.

The War Poets

The First World War wasn't a world war but
a war of dominance in Europe chiefly by the Franc, British and Germany.
World War 2 included most country it was a nasty war
millions of people died, but strangely this war is partly forgotten.
It changed the map and brought forward Israel, which became a torn
for lasting peace in the Middle East.
But the war brought us great American writers like Theodore Dreiser,
Ezra Pound (poet)Ernst Hemingway and many others great writers.
The savagery of that world didn't include so many poets as
the dispute in Europe also called a world war did,
the reason we remember it so well is thanks to Wilfred Owens and
his intimate friend Frederic Sassoon who ploughed deep furrows
in our mind and did away with flowering poetry, gritty realism
was and still is what poets should strive for.

Going to School
  
My school days was not a happy one,
although history and writing was interesting
I wrote that my father had a herd of camels
in Morocco, but math eluded me.
Something like, a baker who has two eggs and flour
how many cakes does he make? Who the hell is
am I supposed to know.
The after school was more interesting I biked
around pretending to be an explorer and
played detective with scant success.
When not doing that the local library was my plank
from the triteness every day of poverty.
They knew me well at the library I can still smell
the books and the world they brought me.
Alas, the one I used has been closed down the politicians
of today always save money for the wrong thing.

Broken Dreams


Tonight I´m happy and sorrowful
I refuse to cry over lost friends
I´m drunk as well.
It feels good to up the anchor of sobriety
let alcohol give wind to my sails.
A clipper buying tea in China
not useless plastic toys.
Sleek, the line and the women admired me.
Let the clipper sail.
I don´t care; I shall stay and make love to you.
I´m sorry I left my Liverpool girl
I went to Brazil to harvest coffee beans.
Guatemala, I got there by chance
a beach and moonlight.
I have not forgotten my promises
one day more, just one more day.
The clipper sailed to other shores
I never got to write
The poem of my life

The Catering life

It is sunny and warm on the terrace.
I sit with my face facing the sun. It is supposed to be healthy
vitamin D, and so on.
I'm not so sure, I have had skin cancer twice.
Once, I was a chef at a restaurant, and it was in the days when food was a simple affair,
a set menu and so on.
The restaurant on the first floor of the building (Pandemic closed)
they sell solid Portuguese food, not expensive, and suitable for the Fado
I like this place as it has big tables.
We don’t make food anymore. We ring and get it delivered
from a small café run by a Palestine couple, they also serve vegetarian food.
I tried it once but preferred meat with vegetables.
I sit indoors and think that all cooks are ghostly pale because
they are indoors and slave over steaming pots and pans.
I ended my career as a cook. It was boring and hot and badly paid.

Gunplay

The confused inner city kid
had a gun.
Another boy didn't show him respect,
so he shot him dead.
The gun-boy fled into a park,
under a bush hid.
He is a hero by younger boys.
Sirens and voices, they have got him now,
one bullet left,
wished he was back home with his mum.
Thought of his option
to be a hero for all time?

Autumnal air

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

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

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

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

Den's dawn

The smoke filled pub Curtains
could not shut out the light
of a ghostly dawn.
A place full of overflowing
ashtrays and empty chairs,
and the shadow of the lonely by the bar.
Broken talk and broken dreams.
Soon cleaner will come
with perfumed chemicals
and **** yesterday.
The shadows will be back their loneliness
is the only thing that will not leave.

The poem we can't write

Make it clear poetry is redundant
poets write verses packed in wool
only other poets can understand,
they are usually about love and peace
but no one is listening.
There are of course nationalistic poets
who advocates war they are listening to
and often recited by politicians.
***** spiritual music called the blues
are the poetry of the oppressed the rest of
us write pedestrian poems are forgotten.
So forget that you can write poetry
that is not based on the suffering of the soul.

Getting old



Reading the papers this morning
was a sad affair, so many of the famous stars of yesteryear
had succumbed to old age.

They were as I´m in their eighties and I felt their death
as a sting in my heart, soon it will be my time to go
I accept this, but will not sink into depression.

Of everything that has happened in my life I feel no guilt
hindsight is a waste of time, my lack of success is a bonus
I have no laurel to rest on and can do as I please.

What is noticeable is my lack of understanding
of a language that has changed it is more lose now and
that is good, but it takes some effort.

The river of words I bathed in, flows slower now it is
a struggle to find the right expression, I feel as I´m
learning to swim in colder water.

Living in Portugal as I do is fine they are gentler here
and has patience when I struggle for words in shops
I have to resort to poetic expressions.

They smile broadly and think what a funny old man
I don´t mind, my wife leans heavily on her crutch,
and she gets first in line. We try to look decrepit.

At the end of this month, I need a new driving license
I have spring in my steps, luckily my eyesight is good
and the heart and diabetes go unmentioned.

An August evening

This afternoon I was writing a poem but it kept disappearing
a blank screen had words on but they faded away
erased by an inner logic of self-critic.
I like red roses but when I write about them it sounds banal
and a thousand songs about roses make me feel lethargic
wasting my time; Gertrude Stein said. A rose is a rose…
I have tried to write about Tulips and think of Amsterdam
I was there often when a ******.
I prefer *** plants now; they need watering but are safe
like dinner at five.
Lily is a flower in much demand in Copenhagen, don´t why?
All I know about Denmark is “Hygge” and “frikadeller.”
I look out of the window and see a tree-lined avenue and
notice the leaves are slowly yellowing it makes me feel sad.

The blue
  
I saw a fish
Very small
It looked parrot
think about this,
but I remember the surgeon.
Blue
It took my hook
Fished it up
Its colors faded
A dead fish
Not enough
For a meal.

Haughty Nation

“They crap in our forest”, a young man yelled
the Roma people had pitched a tent near the woods
where people of this tolerant nation go hunting.
They came here the people from afar to seek work
but are usually met with contempt and mistrust.
They came in the hope of getting a share
in this nations’ largesse, but ran into racism
unbecoming pride like it was their cleverness
that brought up oil from the bottom of the sea.
Now, instead of being unassuming, they became  
reactionaries giving pompous advice to less
fortunate countries.
“They crap in our forest”, nourishing an imbecilic
nation, that due to undeserved riches has lost
contact with reality and a kind- heart- ness.

Fishing boat

A man bought an old fishing vessel
it had a steering house, but the door was rotten
he got a new door a painted it sea green.
Sometimes he forgot to close the door and a sea lime wave
swept him on to the deck, when tried to find the handle
a flounder hang on it he slipped hit his head on the ladder
on the step leading into the steering room.
He painted the door black but when he after navigating
rough sea he turned and found the colour ominous, so he
painted the door in rainbow colours, this made the head spin he opened
the door, but the emerald sea came in.
washed him back on the deck.
And I have no idea how to end this story ends, but his boat
was full of tunny fish.

The bees with wings

The bees are dying out
for someone who gets stung
it is not to gloat over,
but a matter of survival
for humankind and the fauna
around us.
There are four big trees outside
the apartment building
birds come there to rest
In the evening,
but they are not the destroyer of bees
pesticide is and
we keep glad-handing
this stuff over field and plants.
humanity in the quest to
produce better crops will in the end
**** us all.
When evening comes to the birds
make a racket like
A Japanese train station at five,
stressed people are killing themselves
so stop blaming the bees.

The schooner

On the flatland between the vales, I could see the sea
I had walked uphill for a long time, after the downhill
and the way to the coast, it was easy, but it was
getting cold, I wore a light navy uniform (Furlough)
I saw a protest house of worship on its own no other
Houses nearby this place would do.
I fell asleep, awoke and heard ***** music, the church
full of matelotes singing psalms; the paster spoke
of redemption and the glory of God.
I saw a superb sunrise continued my walk to the coast.
In the morning an open café, I told the girl behind the
counter, where I had slept, she looked confused as far
as she knew the church had been torn down, it was
built of planks when of a schooner ran aground with
the loss of all hands.

Who Tell lies?

“Hey, this is the internet everybody lies.”
this was a throwaway sentence in a TV program
forgotten by the one who spoke the line or when
it sounded right.
It made me think is the world less honest now we have internet?
If this is so is it because we don´t see the people we lie to.
What about me do I tell lies?
Yes, at times when intrusive people ask questions
I find no ground to answer. I´m also a writer and use things I have
heard or read what happened in my and others live to tell a story.  
but in my private life, I'm scrupulously honest and take a dim
view of lies told to make the teller bigger
to borrow money because they have fallen on a temporary
a hard time when in fact they try to use people.

Page fifteen.
I have been looking at this page for hours
walked to the terrace and back still 15
went shopping bought thing I didn't
need, the page hadn’t budges
page 15, how to overcome this obstacle?
writing about the weather, so you are a meteorologist now.
Actually, am I can forecast rain with my knees and
a general feeling of discontent.
Page 15 can do its own things what do I care
there is always a page 16.
Are you sure?
At your age, the falcon of death might strike
any moment and the rest will be blank pages,
so am better off sticking with page 15.

The destroyer
We know the world has gone mad a chicken takes care of a puppy
while we drop bombs on children in Yemen
In Gaza, they celebrate Christmas with a rocket display from Israel.
we know there has been a turnaround we were afraid if Gestapo
while the Israeli are in full flow creating a new holocaust but of course
they will say they have the right to defend themselves
Hezbollah is bombed and shot at they are not shooting back for now
they will wait until Israel sink into abjection and the world will open
Its eyes and see what the murderous thugs have done.
And then it is time for Israel to drop the nuclear bomb the will
destroy themselves and all the evil they in a short time have created.

Christmas Carols

Whenever you in any shop
they blast out the ****** carols
the business has trivialised
us into harassed shoppers
hating carols, dreading this time
of festivities and joy.

The notion

I have an idea, but what to do about it?
The problem with ideas they ebb and flow
then disappear into the lake of amnesia.
In life, you can't escape love and death, its
demise is sure to love is not, it flows in
a river all by itself, the lucky ones get to
bath in it and are blessed.
Often there is an erroneous type of love
it brings sorrow and deceit and the one
sits alone in despair but fail to look at
the truth, the river doesn't wait.
We learn as we live and go on trying
one day it happens where we have not
looked this time it is real.
What about your idea? What idea?

Long-legged ruminant

So, you think a camel is an ugly animal
with kissable lips and the eyes of
Marilyn Monroe, and yield low-fat milk
I bet you didn’t know this.
When four wheels stop in the sand of Sahara
the camel with padded feet trudges along
The beast smelled like hell, but who cares
when it brings to an oasis.
Sweet dates, cold water and languor under
palm trees, a dream come true
It was the trusted camel who found the way.
Have you ever tasted camel cheese?

The woman who comes and clean the house
once a week, has a voice like a foghorn, she speaks with
a Gypsy accent I have to guess what she says,
anyway she ignores me when I say: no need to water the plants
there will be rain tomorrow; well, it is morrow now.
Now rain has fallen seraph-like clouds drift about as they should
have a day off and decide to have a lazy day.
The sun is up to modest now in October, tries to make up for
the summer when it forced me indoors for two months.
The cleaner has tremendous energy, up at dawn and works all day,
my wife has given her a lot of clothes which she and her
husband, a used car dealer, sells at the market on Sundays
When hearing her voice – and don't I hear- she brightens up my day
like sunlight on a grumpy day, and I think she's blessed.

Reflection on Wednesday


The bay of Cascais looks beautiful today
calm blue sea and sky a rare summer appearance in December.
A big bulk-carrier is waiting for the pilot, as a red-cross helicopter comes onto view landing on the deck of the bulk-carrier one
of her crew is ill.
When the noise of the chopper dies down, I think
of yesterday when I wrote two poems which left
me feeling sad and tired, these poems were
probably the best I would ever write, but they will
be read by the few and vanish in the dust of time.

The New Year


We are going out to eat early
go home before midnight to avoid the noise,
besides, since we are elderly
and this may be our last New Year; we rather spend it at home.
After a long fight, I got to wear my collarless shirt
no tie needed and my tennis shoes, grey slacks and
my old blazer.
What my wife will wear I have no idea since she has changed
her mind five times, home she dresses warmly it is a cold evening.
With the strict drinking and driving laws, I will stick to a low-calorie
drink I think it is called Zero something.
It just struck me when there is fire-work in the sky people go out
to see, In Afghanistan, people hide in basements.
So I wish a good New Year wherever you are.

The bombing of my school
    
    It was a winter night 1942 the British
    Bombed the school I was going to when older.
    the town was in darkness why the Bris      bombed the school
    was because they had been misinformed thinking
    it was the German military headquarter.
    Many surrounding houses burnt down and there was some causality.
   Other than sporadic bombing our town was
    a paradise for the enemy soldiers stationed there.
   Time is harder now we see Israeli bomb schools and children’s playground in Gaza.
    I write this because I got an email from boys I had (they are old now)
    gone to school with and it brought back memories
    of a time gone by.

Summertime

When I was young, and it was summer
we went to the beach with a bulky gramophone
a stack of vinyl records and a bag of beer.
We drank and sang the modern tunes of the day
of the type, the elderly scoffed at and we
had to keep an eye on the police as it was
forbidden to drink beer at the coastline
(In Norway back then most things was banned)
In the night when the grown-up had left
we made love, and it was not needed to force
the girls they too came for *** and to choose
the man they wanted to marry and did.
I was a ****** then and when I came back
my most of the gang was married there were
only two left we didn't bother with the music
but brought three bags of beer and talking about
how lucky we had been avoiding the marriage
trap, but knew in our hearts we were losers.

In the heat of summer
It was nice to bath in the river
Ten minutes away
A great place to cool off
And not crowded by tourists
Cigano boys bronzed and
Physically perfect
Jumped from the bridge
Of the warming of the planet
I know nothing, only this
The river is dry in May and has
Been so the last five years
But old people tell me it has
Happened before, the river
Was dry for years in the fifties

The victim

I was in my fifties when women found me desirable
and I became a victim of their lust.
The wife of a friend of mine came in as I came out
of the bathroom starkers.
I'm a moral person, but this was a situation unavoidable
so we ended up in bed until she fainted.
Women talk, I got a call from a woman who had a swimming pool
in the back yard, I drove there, but she wanted more
and more she got until she exhausted fell asleep.
I drove home, and my old girlfriend was outside my house
she was drunk, wanted more wine, I gave it to her, and she demanded
***, happily she fell asleep when she awoke she thought
we had had ***, she had a shower and wanted white wine
before driving home kissing me warmly asked me if she was
good in bed reassured her she was the best.
It was as my *** life had reached a crescendo, a heart surgery
stabilized my emotional life, I should have taken the women
to court, I had only wanted to be friendly
and they used my goodness to their vantage, but it is too late
but I can complain to ME TOO movement

Happy Ever After
Dad, lit the Christmas tree used proper candles,
My mother complained about the fire- hazard, this annoyed my
dad who opened the window threw out the tree then peed on the flapping
curtains which, had caught fire.
The tree landed foot down and looked pretty in the snow.
The police came took dad away, they wished happy Christmas.
When the gin bottle was empty, mother sang,
“silent night” until neighbours knocked on the wall.
Dad, came home next day, he had a black eye I had a bike.
Next Christmas my dad bought electric light, mother
had joined the AA, but still, I had to visit my aunt.

The legs

Sitting in shorts. on the terrace, I bought ten years ago
I try to get a tan hiding them from the devastation of time.
Several vessels in the bay, I wonder what kept me sailing
long after the romance had gone.
I liked going ashore to meet people from life, not mine
it was fascinating to see what was an important ritual  
for them and why.
The in-between time, called the deep sea, was often long, not
being talkative, I spent my time reading in my cabin.
Hundreds of books were read over time, some the good
others were a waste of time…almost.
Books were my escape from tedium; I made notes
of words to use later but somehow lost them when leaving.
At the time, I relied on my memory of the unwritten.

What you wish for

It was Friday we were going out for a meal in the evening
I had visualized a fat pork chop with furrows of fat in the meat
whatever you say fat food taste better than chicken.
Since it was evening my wife thought an omelette would be
right for me and the waitress agreed – she is a friend-
But a few glasses of red wine were ok.
After eating the omelette, drinking the wine, I wondered if
they were patronizing me, so I had whisky with coke.
I tell you I was not drunk, but I felt an irresistible need to
tell a story, standing up and let my voice boom to drown
the audience with my erudition; it was not on,
we come home to catch the nine o'clock news.

Unnoticed

Reading the papers and seeing the news on TV
the festive season has begun, like an eager blue tractor
little time for those caught up in wars;
We will remember them at the dinner table.
A woman received 8 million dollars in a divorce settlement
she had had aromatherapy worthy of a queen.
New knee caps worthy of Nefertiti’s found in the sand.
The divorcee can afford her hip bones if ever found,
according to the newspapers who live on rumours.
Archaeologists are looking for the ancient queens’ ***** hairs,
Now, that deserves big headlines.

India

I looked it up on the map, India
it is a big country, and I know absolutely nothing
about its interior.
I once was in Calcutta's airport but this
doesn't make me an expert.
I wrote a poem about the last Bengali tiger,
but know little of its fauna,
I didn't like when Prime Minister Modi eradicated
the smallest currency of rupee it was not fair for
the small traders.
Then again he might have had a good reason
as I know next to nothing about India other than
it is the world's biggest democracy,
which I find surprising and have my doubts if it
is possible to practise democracy in such diverse
a country, like several states, hammered into one.

The village

Why is the village so beautiful tonight?
Why do I find the old cottage across the road enchanting?
Telling a story of a life lived in contentment
even if the people who lived were poor just now that I'm
leaving and I will not be coming back.
My living room used to be a stable I can see the mule
smell it too, munching straws accepting its destiny.
Why should I long for the past I had no part of?
The village is a part of me it is ingrained can I ever
be happy anywhere else.
I will not give in to my sentimental feeling the new
life might be better although I can't see how
this is because I'm old want things to stay the same
but it is impossible, nevertheless my time here
will stay in my heart and I have the option to return

Sea-Gull-chicken

The two baby gulls II have been watching
Have grown rapidly in the last few days
Today they are out flapping their wings
Not quite daring to fly.
Over the circle the mother gull. shrieks
A warning, but it could also have said, fly
You little ******* I will not feed you more.
They hang about on the roof the world is
Such a big place.
Tottering back to their nest behind
The chimney, perhaps tomorrow, I like
To be there when they fly.

Tomorrow is the near future.

I live near a stream that has been running dry for years
there used to be a winter lake too, now drained
as a landing pad for military helicopters
trees around get dusty like tired soldiers on the western front.
There is edginess in Europa, many years of peace the monster,
that lurks in mankind awakes.
We think we know the enemy, as usual, we are wrong
when listening to the voice of antagonism.
A new page of history written we don’t know which
side to choose, when millions of people killed
and the last bomb dropped, then it doesn’t matter which
sides we choose.
Poets will write for peace; few will listen to their warnings.
The new peace can last, but only so long, because the human mind
is bent on war; this is our tragedy the voice for peace is a child cry
in the symphony of the battlefield.

Grace

In Livorno, I touched the wings
of a silky butterfly which had come
to join me at the table.
I had only meant to feel its beauty
but my coarse fingers damaged
delicate wings.
It tried to fly but lost height and
landed in my beer glass; fished it
out but only damaged it more
on an iron table painted summer
green, beside a vase of scented  
flowers a fragile life ended.

I knew of a writer
who had to take the job as a kitchen cleaner
as no one wanted to publish his work
mind, he always had clean fingernails, when he sat
late at night composing words no one in the world
would ever bother to read.
When it became clear to him, he was an exercise
in futility, he quit his job grew a beard and his
fingernails grow long and *****.
Crossing a bridge, he was about to jump but was
stopped by his inner police officer who said it was
against the law.
He had to write is own way and not imitate
the famous writers of the past and since he didn't
have any style, took a long hot bath
and got a job as a security guard guarding tractors.
He doesn't write anymore but waits for
his style of writing to show him how, because
he saw no point of writing for the pleasure of it.

Israel, the failed state
Israel is a modern state
Where people suffer much anxiety
Surrounded by enemies
They think violence is the only answer
To find peace.
Remorselessly the continue down
The path of oblivion when they for a short time
Was winning it was destroyed by arrogance
An unwillingness to show charity
Defending the downtrodden.
Israel is an oddity in the sea of the Arab world
When they finally see this, there will be
a clamour to find a haven in Europe
Where they came from as few Jews can trace them
Ancestry back to biblical times.

If not burned

Hellas is burning the Athens is surrounded by invading fires
no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
Greece is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
it doesn’t concern us, should it?
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
for the rich to feels the heat, but does it make them kinder.
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place
where the breeze from the north Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
Come when Afghanistan is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.