New Year
I walk down from the seventh floor.
Take the lift up and walk down again.
Since we can only be out a short time
Like shopping it makes me feel fit.
Tomorrow it will be a new year
Actually, there are no new year it is
A construction made by man
time is endless time is an abstraction.
I like to see January alive, not that
It matters, but I’m human and for a reason.
I can´t explain I would like to see
The spring of another year, although
I know what happened in my life.
Will be erased, and there is no god to
Give me comfort like grasping at straws.
The worst thing about death is the lack of dreams.
The endless emptiness
Waiting for endlessness to end.

New Year's Eve
Sometimes I thought I saw her
But it was someone else
The pain of my love
Had made me sick I could not
Eat or sleep
I had fallen into apathy didn’t shave or
Changed my clothes
Finally I saw her through the window
Of a restaurant
She danced with him
Firmly and lovingly
Just the way we used to dance
I screamed into the darkness
It was midnight and the church bells tolled

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 Night and Rabbits
After an obligatory hour on my training bike
I walk outside the was a xanthous haze  on the sky
that slowly faded as the sun went down
It was an evening dark blue silk of the harem a night
for love, the moon  was a crescent luminosity and
I bathed and inhaled the beauty of it.
Saw them in half- light five rabbits by the verge of
the road they were enchanted by the sky and when
they saw me retreated into the thicket and burrows
they had taken a big chance so they could see what
I had seen we had a secret and that made me glad

Night frost
  

Last night I wrote a poem in my mind
didn't write it down on paper as it was like a spring flower
coming from the darkness of my awareness.
All I had to do was to get up in the morning and
write my masterpiece down; it didn't happen there
must have been night frost the flower gone?
I have struggled to remember it although I'm aware
That few if any are going to read it and for me it
doesn't matter I'm perfectly able to enjoy what
I write without admiring myself too greatly.

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.

Night in the village

                       The silence is dark and eerily quiet
every window is shuttered, and it is as I'm the only one living here
there is no sound of anyone has a TV low
I'm the single living being here.
I saw a bright light earlier I think a dark matter has vacuumed
them up, but somehow forgotten me it took my dog too
she was out and was caught by the subject.
I don't know what to do, call the police who will not believe me.
Come tomorrow they look the same but having
the mind of something horrendous with the mind-set of people  
from another planet, in the morning smile as trained to do but they
will walk in a mechanical way repeating the same word trained to be human,
I can do little only wait for dawn and make
my escape as I will not live amongst
people who **** at will when a strange signal from outer space
gives the orders to **** and there are no humans left.
Get him now before he tells what you are up to eradicating the humans until our robots
can take control and we will rule without people of free will be no more. God made an
error, and we have to rectify the idiotic belief that humans are unique beings.

Nightly awake
It’s three in the morning eczema in my legs
scratches like a myriad of ants and feet hurt
it is diabetes looking for an outlet,
I walk around the flat, a good thing it is large.
From somewhere a dog whines its owner shush
the dog must be in pain but can tell no one
where it hurts.
I hear the lift going down its owner is taking it out
for a night walk or to a vet, perhaps the dog
Has toothache
I think of drinking a glass of wine but since it is
dawn I settle for a cup of tea and a bisque
as the blood sugar is too low, I add a teaspoon
of sugar.
Looking out of the window in my study I can
see a light of a flat from a window in the opposite
the building, someone else who can’t sleep.
I massage my feet, the infernal scratching has
subsided and soon it will be morning.

Nightmare?

I struggled to wake up
But sleep was pushing me back
Into a deepness unknown
Tried to open my eyes
Fear of sleep mounted within me
I was being held back
By forces of satanic strength
With my last breathe I screamed
The anxiety- ridden holler
Awoke me to consciousness
Exhausted sat up
The craving for life had won

Night Rider  

I was riding around a pan- handle flat landscape
and as far as I could see it had millions of coffins, some expensive
others looked home-made.

The sun was forever going down but threw rays on white clouds
making them pink as a ballet dress on a girl painted by Edgar Degas
the ground was covered with sheets of black plastic which undulated
slightly in the mild zephyr.

The horse’s hoofs made holes in the plastic and up sprung bushes
that for long had been living in darkness; they were pale now but
would soon be greening by the setting sun.

I came to a small town where houses had false facades to make
them look imposing walked into a bar were Hollywood actors
was shooting each other take after take.

I found a bath-house after stabling my horse and in the tub
dreamt of crisscrossing this landscape of death till it became
green again hiding the coffins, perhaps then the night would
be full of stars and the sun that arose from the east

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

No inspiration

If you on your walk
Around the landscape
And lost the impetus
To write
Do not despair.
If you are lucky you might
Meet Pegasus
With a broken wing
Feed it books
Till it is cured
And words will come
From nowhere and
You will
Be whole again.

No Job


My landlady is in the hall, cleaning stairs
I’m ten days late with the rent,
can’t go out before she goes into her own flat.
She’s near my door if she knocks I’ll pretend to be asleep,
if she persists I’ll tell I have a night job and will pay her as soon as I get paid.
She has gone into her flat, bet the door is ajar; creaking stairs is not helpful.
This place hasn’t got a fire escape,
I’ll report her, this is a fire trap.
Got no ***** or ****, only a cupboard full of empties, if I carry them out in a plastic bag she’ll hear clanking noises, come out, hands on hips.
Quiet; perhaps she has gone out, plays bingo every day,
spending my money gambling! The tight-****** woman, full of money, so
why should I give her my hard earned?

No milk for babies

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

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

No Pictures Taken
I see the pictures sent to me on my Facebook page of places
I have not seen yet in countries I have been to as a ******
who join the sea out of poverty at home and offered
an education no importance and factory pipes spewing smoke
smelling of sardines and cod liver oil
I recall Costa Rica a small town in a bay the jungle appeared
near and lush ready to hide the town should be human activities
stop. And the cockerel crewed as I got up from Maria's trafficked
bed running down a winding road to the docks and on my ship to
the routine work with sleep -walkers who like me and only saw
the beauty of the land in glimpses of dreams a Paradise lost.
Saddening, there were never any lazy days to walk around and
to take pictures we were not tourists.
Part Two:
Alone in a beautiful park and felt like the eternal wandering Jew
hoping to be accepted by the locals. There was never any time to
know anyone;  guiltily I found my way back to the bars, the music,
the Marias willing vulvas' oily route; ***& coke sleep in a woman’s
arms inhale her scent another Paradise lost before the **** crewed.  
I look at the pictures of contentment, actors on a stage of life playing
happy to play the tragic roles they need a bit more experience.

no point waiting


The ugly head of the pestilence
has risen its head in New Zealand
so, go and buy a white sheet covering your body
go to the nearest cemetery and wait.
Whether children go to school or not are of little
and the white smoke from factories
a defiant scream on the oncoming.
Humanity has finally met its match in the destruction
what took us 200 hundred years
the pest can do in two a couple of weeks.
Throw away the face mask mingle with thee sweaty people
people on the dance floor.
Run naked through the town, roll in the sewers
it makes no difference we are doomed.
A pity about the dogs we leave behind they are too weak
surviving in the insane the jungle the world has become.

The Failed Revolution


In my childhood's town, there was on top of a five-storey building
a neon sign “Jesus Saves,” I asked the mother what Jesus saves.
Souls, she said, without looking up, she was reading
the communist manifesto at the time, dreaming of the day
when workers would be the new upper class.
Mother tried to immigrate to the Soviet Union but was turned
down, she had no skills other to but sardines in a tin.
Mother made rice pudding that day, and I was allowed to
scrape the brown sticky residue in the ***.
A famous capitalist sits in jail somewhere in Siberia, but
is allowed to be in contact with the world via the internet
protesting his innocence; he was not stealing oil from his
own company. No, there is no revolution in Russia.

Not a *******.

The nun in her habit sat on a rock near the river,
when I came by she smiled, with lips that had never tasted
a kiss, asked if I wanted a *******; taken aback of
what, coming from a nun, sounded like a sick obscenity,
a shocking blasphemy, I left to tell my wife.

She demanded a divorce and got custody of our only dog which,
in triumph, bit my thumb; I went back to the river since I had lost everything,
better let the nun does her job;
but she was floating down the river like a black
bin liner full of newspapers reporting telling of atrocities.

Not About Elephants
I will not mention elephant even though they are
majestic looking bend to the advice of the Mahout  
who whispers encouragement in its ear like a joker
at the royal court. Sometimes like kings they rebels
- off with their heads- thrashes about until calmed and
there is no reason other than feeling trapped I used to
see rabbits when on my motorbike  I saw tigers, boars
and lions too but I had to sell the bike and hate it when
someone says it was for the best. Well, it was not for me
and how the ****! Do they presume to know what I like?
or not, we were out having lunch I wanted a glass of wine
But you can only have one she helpfully said, I didn't have
any wine she is not my Mahout.  I will rebel trampling down
cars; tomorrow I will go out looking for rabbits

Not a sage

He is old now, and eyes are watery he looks absent
and hiss ready smile has disappeared-
people ask him questions he cannot answer because
he is unwilling to say what they want to hear.
Yes, he is a communist but also critical of its policy
it can so quickly end up with an elite- sham labour unions
and loss of free expressions
Democratic- communism is not possible as people
we have not evolved enough to understand it's the concept
to explain will take too long.
He murmurs something, feigns hard of hearing
and let people talk to each other daily life were everyone
has an opinion, often ill-informed from a sentence
in a respected paper like the Guardian that is political
in a middle-class way.
He knows lies rules the world and that is the way of the world.

not what you think



as the ship was docked or hidden instead in a small bay
if mother had she known refused to see me go on board
. Along it railing a group of scowling men passing the time by spitting into the water.
In the galley, I met the cook who knew the rudimentary of cooking he was cleaning dirt from under his fingernails using a fish knife — a giant of a man few dared to cross him, a friend for life.
With a crew of murderous ruffians and a million cockroaches
I had to live, yet we wore bandana of grey, and they had as I the pallid skin of poverty no soap can wash away,
in a way I felt a kinship with them and I was accepted.
When the ship birthed in Genoa, I noticed some of
the lads smelling of perfume, the cook told me they were
going to meet older men, who gave them dinner,
a little money and shiny objects, it took me a bit before
I too understood. Not to forget the evil twins who went to
Public loo to beat up gays, the cook would not let them come
Near the galley, they boasted of having put a gay man ‘s head
Down a toilet full of **** and they didn't let go before the man
Stopped resisting. But homosexuality raised its ugly head
a *** was patted someone told the captain and the ****
was arrested and thrown into an empty cabin, in the morning
he was not there, and the captain who was judge and jury said he drowned.

Not as Free as You think


We are free to have no constraint
Not so.
Our actions and words come at a price
And added responsibility.
Every word you utter, every act
Have echo that reverberates in
Some one’s mind
And can be damaging if not
The spoken is built on lies.to be silent
Is not an option when injustice?
Happens then it is a duty to talk.
You can be vilified, friends turn against
You but you have stated your opinion
And are truthful to yourself.

Not hearing

The old Canadian poet of Jewish ancestry
tall and elegant, wore his hat in a jaunty slant
reminded me of Alfred, my imagined father
the poet had a winning personality.

Remember the comma, they told me and write
about love, beautiful women and wine.

I used to wear a six-pence; Alfred made fun of me
learn to play the harmonica, he said
and leave your depressing poems; that was long
time ago before the Canadian was famous.

Nothing

Two o'clock this Wednesday afternoon protected by high walls
the sun is too hot I will have to wait till three before going back
out sit for half an hour getting a tan, my vanity knows no limit.
I do not want to write today weaning myself of this feverish drug
this internal conversation argumentative as an old Jew I once knew
in Leeds.  I will think of nothing but sadly fail to stop this stream of
lava bubbling from its crater the smell sulphur of rejected thoughts
that will one day prove me wrong and plants shall grow.

But I stray from the subject thinking of nothing, what is it like? since
it can't have any shape, form, smell or colour. Get up from my
chair in the sun too quickly collide with the door and fall unconscious
into a void, so know I know that nothing looks like nothing.

Nothing happens here

In the next village, a man was trapped under his tractor
and in another village, a man fell out of an oak tree
No one asked what he was doing there but his
trousers’ zip was open which caused endless rumours
he also had binoculars, so he was a bird watcher then
only most birds have flown to Africa this time of year.
Emma, the nurse, lives nearby, and she always keeps
a window open when she does her aerobics in the ****  
My left leg hurts I have to use a crutch had a fall you see
but not in our village nothing happens here.

Nothing to do

It is Sunday
I have run out of
Fire-wood
The House
Is unfriendly
In a bad mood
It is raining
Waiting for it to stop
I will never
Be happy again

Not listening

The old poet, a Canadian of Jewish ancestry,
Was tall elegant, wearing a hat in a jaunty angle
Reminded me of Alfred, my imagined father
He had a winning personality.

Remember the coma they tell me and write
More about love, beautiful women and wine.


I used to wear a six-pence; Alfred made fun
of me, learn to play some music, he said
and read your North Pole stuff; that was a long
time ago before the Canadian became famous.

Not my story

During the fight of the French and the Algerians
I was caught in the middle of it.
A French surgeon who sided with Algeria, had
Given then vital information and four of us legioners
We're told to execute him.
When we arrived, he was in the middle of surgery
So we decided to wait, none of us wanted the job
But orders are  orders so we waited
Finally he came out we had guns at the ready
And he said: I don’t want any of you to be guilty2
By then he popped a pill in his mouth and died
Instantly, an ambulance was called and we did
A  collective relief we didn’t have to **** him.
For a reason unknown to me, I was sent to an officer
Course it was decided I was best at the security services
And ended by a career as colonel specializing
In African affairs, many people have died by my findings
I don’t

Not of Café Material

I walked into a café, asked the man behind the counter
for a pork sandwich
Wait he, said I´m plucking a chicken.
You can pluck that chicken later after giving me what I asked.
Ok, said and grumbled about difficult old men.
You have to clean your hands, they are feathery, I came here
for a sandwich without chicken fluffs.
I ate, mainly because I was hungry, paid and left.
At the door, I said you better get a job at a chicken factory,
as it is the café business will shut by lack of consumers.
Angrily he threw several bratwursts after me I ducked
like Bush did when a shoe was thrown in his direction,
and the street dogs had a feast.

Not the same

The result is another poem unlike the one
I wrote in my head.
The poem that has another conclusion
this because the inner voice changed my opinion.
I try the Grammarly that informs about passive
the sentence, well it was meant to be passive, worst
of all, it suggests a change of words which is
Ignored I’m not writing a document.
The Grammarly helpful with my lack of commas
I then correct the poem and send it on its way,
but it is not the poem I wrote in bed.

Not Welcome
The sun is like a huge gas bottle exploding- it is an enormous bottle
- not a puny flask.
Strong as it is yet fragile it can shift, cool a little,
and the whole world will have Icelandic summers-
a sad affair- all year long and no hot springs like
the Icelanders, who are sons and daughters of Irish
monks who came here to Christianise the island
which at the time was sparsely populated and - like
Japanese apes- mostly lived in or around hot pools
Today, winter tried a comeback pathetic show like
seeing an old man trying to lift a bag of cement on
his shoulder and fail, grey dust, laughter, scorn
and admonished by a foreman 40 years his junior;
and still two years before he could retire,
icy wind, a splatter of rain but, the clouds could not
make a steel band, cracked, and the sun smiled.
To make it worse the tuned into a mild zephyr, but
winter tried- nothing wrong with failing- lost
it – the sun- will be stronger and show no mercy.

Not what you see

It looked an idyllic scene
a farmer with a sweet, little red tractor
was ploughing a feel while his mule now unemployed
stood under a carob tree resting.
The tractor stopped no more fuel, the man went to
the nearest petrol station to buy some more, but a dreamer
walked past gave the tractor pink wings, saw it flew
towards the sun.
The farmer went to fetch the mule that was tired
standing under a tree looking picturesque.
The mule said, is what dreams are made of all
you need is imagination.

The forenoon strolls


Dressed in a solid jacket the old man goes for his walk
First, he goes and buys a paper have coffee at a café
To read a bit, the woman at the newsagent smiles at
Calls him sir, her guard is down, the nice woman of fifty,
And can be her pleasant self and he falls in love.
He walks the grocery buys milk and eggs, the woman who
Also calls him sir, he loves her too.
He walks home, and his wife opens the door and, he loves her
More than before.
He sits on the sofa resting his legs and does as many old
Men do fall asleep.

Getting over an obstacle
It is uncanny when I’m prepared to drive home
Something happens it is delayed
This time it is the hospital I can’t go there
Since it is free a new appointment takes forever.
The hospital doctors try to stop the Whale from
Swimming to Greenland, the water is too cold.
All animals and fish seek back to their origin
I seek back to where I was reborn were, I grew
up in an ln landscape of olive trees and vine
bushes, a place was the roads were narrow and
silent only disturbed by the bleating of lambs.
The small dwelling my dog and the walk we
Had in the mystic forest of dreams where everything
Was possible.

Obituary of a cook
A famous French cook has passed away
this is sad of course, but it shows how the world of catering
has changed character.
From an unshaven backroom man to a leader but only
a leader in his restaurant for cooks holds no other power.
I enjoyed that he once threw a plate of spaghetti
after Chef Ramsey for not making ravioli right, mind
with a master like that no wonder George Ramsey swears a lot.
But hang on a bit, if we elevate cooks to the status
of world leaders of great importance then we should stop
and think of the millions of women who cook for their
family and do so by being economical with their food so
it can be used the next day.
Of course, there are millions of women in our modern
society for whom the sight of a carrot or a potato leaves them flabbergasted,
but as the fairy tale says
need makes a naked woman knit a blouse.

Obsession
Autism in the likes of Julian Assange
And Greta Thunberg is a force for good
But their passion can be tragic for them
As they go to any length to follow
The mania that rules their life.

I had a tailless dog, who had a mania looking
For its tail, circled till it got dizzy.


Obsessive people can be tiresome but they  
Have great courage and suffer for their beliefs
They are heroes for their quest for honesty
For what we should be grateful.

The occupation

There is a small house in the sticks of the Algarve
It has been alone for a month and has taken the looks
Of an ignored older man who needs to change his shirt
Moreover, a hot shower.
I take it mice have moved in feeding on my duvet,
Moreover, I have to get rid of them don’t know-how
I could gas them, but I’m no sadist, I could catch them
One by one, release them in the woods but they will
Remember the good life and return.
I have to become concerning only mice can prove
They have lived here the last ten generation are allowed
In the rest, it will be expelled.
I could see the Us air force, but they bomb everything
In and ask question later.
So, I have to be a Swedish liberal and embrace the mice.
I digress as it is as I live on a traffic island and like to go
Return home.

The occupation

Black is yellow
Amber is green
War is peace
And everything is the truth
When spoken from an autocue.
By a man who never got
An Oscar.
More wars in Afghanistan
And it will go on till someone loses
In this case, the invaders.
A dead sea of suffering
May the west be forgiven
Trespassing
In the Middle East.
In the end, Israel
The western transplant
Will not set root.
Two thousand years is a long time.

The occupiers

Faro is a beautiful coastal town with a marina
and wonderful blue waters, it is an old city with
historic buildings and an inner wall where
the army and rich merchants lived, but there is a problem
you can hear it like swarm bees long before you
see them; rats are building a city in the ancient
the sewer system and get sunlight through
the storm drains, not to forget they a have an army to,
vermin come ashore from long boats, established
a colony thrived and married into the local rats.
At night thousands of them come over ground
and clean the city of waste, the sanitation dep,
has little to do in a town with no litter, but how
long will it takes before the vermin are strong
and ready to expel the humans?

PS. This scribbling was never meant to have political
Connotation.

The occupied

Never negotiate
With the conquering invaders
He will think
You are pathetic and ask for more.
He will respect you
If you refuse him
And have contempt
If you give way.
If he built a house in your garden
Is constructed on your land
Eventually, it will be yours
You sign no contract
You gave no ground
In the end
The occupier leaves
Defeated
By your steadfastness.

October

Dark, low hanging sky
October and rain
Not a good time to be born
Sunlight is what shines
Too sharply
When drizzle takes a break
Doomed to see
A fragile world
When peace on earth
Is the milliseconds
Between wars
When the powerful
Meets around a table
And tell lies
When churches are full
Of people giving thanks
To an abstraction
Thanking it for the peace
The world is totally
******
You know it as I do too
I dream of a world
Free of umbrellas

October Friday
This morning was green and a mild wind from
Morocco blew I was in Casablanca once
bought a pair of slippers it is what one does
when going to the market there.
The weather- man on TV said Africa, but Africa
is a continent and many other things.
A man in the next village had killed his wife it
is for women getting married a perilous activity
the lottery of life is littered unlucky females.
The sun shines over Mosul too and Iraqi officers
are paraded on TV, they are having a break now
before the big offensive, sounds like propaganda,
we see tanks fire at something over the horizon
but where is the enemy?
400 hundred IS fighters killed by bombing not
a word about civilian casualties we reserve that
for Aleppo where, they are actually  counted
and given a name DEAD!
My neighbour has a nagging wife she needs *** or
Be made a fuzz of lack of it makes her scream a lot
and when she does he saddle up his mule and goes
for a ride  into the woods of happy memories.

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.

October manifesto

I came across a paper on it was written” October document.”
no date, nothing at all.
This prompted me to look in the mirror at the face looking back at me
an elderly man with sad eyes.
A man I didn´t know who carried my face or was it my face?
The inner me looked pretty different, more youthful, I thought.
In my old house, I had no mirrors except the one in the bathroom
that mirror was always steamed up; I preferred it that way.
A woman moved in, and suddenly I had many mirrors.
It is difficult to know oneself without illusion, it helps to have a friend to tell us
the truth as she/sees it.
But are they telling the truth they don´t know what you think?
October is a strange month, it can be mild, it knows what
is coming. Sleet and winter storm, with and yellow leaves, it accepts the fate,
check the roof and firewood and waits.

Odd, is the poet

He was the odd boy in the family
in a town that doesn’t rhyme with anything.
He wrote strange words in a notebook
the teacher told him to stop this nonsense
and learn that 2X2 makes four.
Declared he was a poet when eleven.
His mother was shocked at what happens
to my son is turning into a Nancy boy.
He came to England where people are so correct
mowing the front lawn every Saturday in
their Sunday best, their dream was to appear
middle- class.
He came to Portugal, rented a car came to
the village where people said halloo and how do you do
they have a song in their hearts.
When a Faddist sings she closes her eyes, it is like
she is dreaming of her song of love and sadness,
and that is ok because he is a dreamer too and hopes
his wife will understand his jokes.

Odd times
We live in a strange time a music festival and no audience
Actors playing to empty seats, football matches without
the usual horde egging on the players to score goals
the very banality of the sport tells us of lives’ uselessness
our existence is useless, so we invent something
of course, it could be worse, say, war and boundaries.
We divide the world into small parcels, those with the
Most prominent patch always wants more and create mischiefs
And lies.
But for now, these childish things have to wait for a virus
Is harvesting us humans and no matter where you go
It will find and often **** you.

Fascism's lack of Sanity

They are called Odin's soldiers
And dress partly alike,
Leather jackets
Short cropped hair
And with an angry, righteous
Expression in white, round faces.
They claim to protect women
But they are just fascist who hates
People not like them.
For people from Syria or elsewhere
Who fled for their life
And often saw their loved ones drown,
Only came to the frozen north
As a last resort.
What people of Scandinavia need is
Intermarriage
To save them from dying drunk in
the snow.

Officers and Gentlemen

I think this was the name of the movie I saw a romantic love story
of an officer aspirant and his girlfriend who worked in a factory.
When he passed his exam, he walked into the factory claiming
his trophy.
It was ever so romantic, brought tears to many eyes, it raised
a social class issue here, the movie was made before the woke
mentality and Me-Too took hold.
His friend who also studied to become an officer had a girlfriend
whose dream was marrying an officer.
He was not that keen to be one, broke off the study and told her
they could get married now buy a house and have kids
A sulk walked across the girl’s face, and her dream was crushed
She didn´t love him, but the illusion.
She refused to marry a mere civilian.
Devasted, he understood she had not loved him, her words
of love was fantasy walking down the high-street, arm in arm
With an officer.
The young man felt betrayed and lied to boked into a hotel
got a room and, later that day hung himself.

Of Mice and Men  
The mice in Belgium do not eat fine chocolate
They scoff at imported Swiss cheese
And have only contempt for a left- over bacon burgers,
they feast on plans of roads and buildings
I blame EU for this the mice have bureaucratic  
And go through stacks of programs especially those
About repairing tunnels and roads  

Bureaucrats of any hue are working overtime
Try keeping up this losing battle against mice
So many cars choking up the roads Islamists
Have to go to Paris when blowing up people.
The British demand for special concessions will  
not last long the mice will see to that.

Of men and plants


The endless growing of new leaves
of my indoor plants, shedding the excess
all over the floor, as disregarded dreams
getting in the way of the day.

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


Restless minds are not sound as leaders
who overthink everything and have nervous breakdowns?
Sit shaking in the corner on the bridge of warships
excellent, dancers in the ballroom of peace.