Oil and the conceit

I remember a country called Norway
it was not a rich country, but it was socially fair
and had employment for most people and those
who were not employed had a benefit
that kept them afloat until a job came along.
Then oil came along it was a curse the biggest
merchant fleet in the world was flagged out.
The social cohesion tore the rich became richer
the poor left behind in the wake of the disappearing
A fleet of ships. And slowly almost unseen
the NHS service was replaced with private hospitals
and worst of all the people became arrogant
tried to stop migrants they wanted the wealth for
themselves and didn't see the country was falling
into chasm self-importance, it was not a becoming
sight, luckily, a bit late in the day, people understand
what they have lost, and there are forces who
tries to rein in excess and bring the ship into the right course

An oil port

He is looking on to shore and sees an oil terminal
waiting for the pilot, he may arrive today or tomorrow.
Well he is not going ashore at this Arab port it is
usually boring full of men smoking water pipes talking
excitedly about the next revolution and he knows
as a white man, he viewed with suspicion.
He never understood a culture where women are cattle
sit indoors and wait to be pregnant again.
This is a society of men, and as such, they make a mess
of daily life.
It takes 12 hours to load the ship with crude oil, bound
for Antwerp, which is more like the home he understands
the people there can have a beer in a bar and not starred
at with hatred.
Mind, he knows well the white people have done much
the harm in this part of the world, nevertheless he dislikes
their culture, but he doesn´t care to understand them.

Old animals

When my dog got old, she liked to sit
Beside me on the sofa when I watched Tv.
If I turned the volume up, she grumbled
it disturbed her snoozing.
She became contemplative, apparently
in deep thoughts.
Does a dog know that life is not unlimited?
Can a dog dream of the past how fun it was?
chasing rabbits in the wood.
Or does a dog only live in the now?
Some dog owners put their elderly dogs down
saying they will not see their pets suffer.
Balderdash, they do this because an old dog
is no longer playful and attractive.
Old dogs need more help to get up on the sofa
and are, sometimes,
incontinent.
Get a puppy, oh, so charming happy children
running in the grass.

Old as in a TV program

I watched a TV program set in an older people home
there was a ****** with a pillow done by a nurse who stole
valuable items from the week and feeble patience.
Well, our detective solved the case and the owner of the home
was in this foul deed he sold the stolen items.
So far, so good, what I disliked was the patient killed was
eighty years old as was the other at this home.
For the first time in my life, I realized I was one of them
and I got suspicious are people at supermarket patronizing
I, when I make my feeble jokes, does the waiter at the cafe
serves me first in case I get elderly grumpy.
Can I trust that people speak to me as an equal and no someone
they have agreed within a concern of my age.
Are my opinions dismissed as an older man´s prattle?
I can´t bear the thought of being patronized by anyone except
my wife, she has always thought I´m mad.
I have no friends. All I can do is talking to myself.

Old dogs don’t like change

I once had a dog
But I had to go abroad
For a month.
She stayed at a luxury kennel
Got fed and groomed and
Given cuddle by the staff.
When I came to fetch her
She was overjoyed
After licking my face
She jumped into the car,
Home James.
She inspected every room
Nothing had changed.
We old people are the same
We are not impressed
By a roomy apartment
We like to live where we belong
Among cobwebs and
And old furniture.

Old man drives in Alentejo

It was a warm day, with hints of fall, when he travelled through Alentejo
He stopped many places and took pictures of the undulating landscape,
Grazing cows and sheep resting under a cork tree, and no ****** drones
will come, blow up farms and **** the cattle.
He stopped at a small village inn, it was empty, and the owner told me
He had to close; the people had no work and lived on bread and potatoes.
Ah, this clear sky a painter's paradise, had a hidden sun-drenched
poverty will they ever wake up and start another revolution or are freedom
curtailed by EU, doomed to a life without laughter.
The farms I saw were farms producing cash crops that looked colourful
but didn't need workers, and it was not meant to be like this.
There was great hope after the revolution in 1974 when the landed elite
lost their land, but somehow they got it back, using their influence
and money. The old man ate lunch and drank red wine and thought
of poverty and sun go hand in hand in this blessed land.

The old man sings the blues

Early morning the day had died
a wall of grey nothingness death without grief.
The night had been dreamless had there been any night or had been erased,
life and death have merged this the end
of what I will see.  
Is my bed a coffin I have been let out of?
So I could see what the world was like when
it was colourless, an insipid oblivion, this
apart we see in hues is an illusion  to spare
us the reality the world does not exist
we are dreams within the imagined
and life is an invention.

Old Man Smoking

The old man sat smoking a cigarette; he had stopped smoking,
but now and then smoked a couple, he was of the lucky disposition
of liking cigarettes but suffered no craving when he didn't smoke.
When the old man was young everyone smoked, those who didn't
be regarded as queer folks.
He never liked people smoking at the dinner table, but with coffee,
a cigarette was a must. Not so much people die of lung cancer, now cancer has shifted and now attacks other body parts.
There might come a day when medical scientists tell us smoking
is not so bad as long as we smoke moderately.
The old man opens the drawer of his desk; he remembered he had
a cigarette there, he found it broken in half and sighed.

Old man swims

The old man had been persuaded to go to the beach
and since it was late September and tourists had gone home
He reluctantly agreed. He waded out waist deep and
then swam out to the bottomless part; suddenly the sea
had goose pimples which he took as a warning and swam
back to shore as fast as he could, this is not very fast for
an eighty years old man. As he reached the shore, he sensed
someone was trying to bite him, a tear in his swimsuit,
told his wife he had been attacked by a shark, she said the rip
had been there before, but he preferred his version.
Every time he tells the story the shark gets bigger and
he had wrestled with the ugly beast.

The old poet and red wine

                     The old man gets up early in the morning; he doesn’t
                     eat breakfast but drink coffee, switch on the computer
                    look at the blank screen waiting for a word to come
                    so he can try writing a poem; it is a hard going so he
                    mounts his training bike and get some exercise.
                   Noon is the best time of the day; he walks to his café
                   have a good meal and a jug of red wine, which puts
                  him in a good mood and talk to the old men in the park,
                 Sometimes one of them say something interesting he
                can use when writing. The old poet knows his best
                work is behind him, but he still tries to tease another
               poem out of his mind. His evening meal is simple he opens
                a tin of soup and drink a few glasses of red wine watch
                TV, or makes comments on the Twitter.

Old soldiers never Dies

A neighbour of mine used to be a serjeant in the army,
in his living room, he had a picture of himself, in full uniform
that had many medal and ribbons on.
He served in many countries, Singapore and Germany, I think
he was the head of the motor pool; then the army let him
go it has no place for old men, and his pension was a disgrace.
Once he repaired my car, barking orders of what screwdriver he
wanted, shook his over my incompetence.
It was a day in October when the weather was hanging about like
a soldier who has not got his order; he went to bed for his afternoon
nap, when his wife brought him tea and biscuits at five, he had gone to a military parade in the sky.

The old soldiers Café

We went to my favoured restaurant it is no longer so,
on a table near us sat a group of Ukrainians eating plenty
of meat with sausage and the server said there was no more left
so we lunched on a dish I wasn't keen on.
Eight of them men with brutal faces and as the wine flowed
they spoke about the war and killing Russians.
Two of them looked like assassins, those with long knives
who **** silently in the night, eating the food I wanted.
My wife said I was fantasising they were workmen who
had left their country to seek employment elsewhere I was not sure.
My food didn’t look as good as theirs, so we left early and
I didn't eat my food left the glass of wine untouched in a futile
attempt to show my dislike, but no one noticed.

old times and knew times

  I was thinking about how I live now in a big apartment
with four bedrooms and their bathroom, and I study for me.
As a child, my mother and two other siblings had two
rooms and half a kitchen; the other half belonged to a woman
who had one room and two children.
She often had male visitors, and the children had to sit in the hall, and I told them stories, when my father and I crossed the Sahara on camelback, not that I knew my father he was always absent.
We had no bathroom, but there was a toilet in the basement
it had rats coming up from the bowl, one had to flush several times
before sitting down hoping the best. Peeing was done in
the kitchen sink.
We were poor but didn´t know it as everybody was poor it was
the way it was, but we laughed a lot the slightest thing set us off,
and my brother was great joke teller, and we enjoyed ourself hugely.
Living in a big apartment, I ask myself what happened to mirth
I know, I think, we just got old and our sense of humour,
think I have to go out and look for it-

Olive copse

Sitting indoors being old and are forbidden
to go outside, I dream of lazier days
then in the heat of summer, I had siesta under
a 500 years olive tree.
I was dreaming of the shepherds who slept under
this tree and the only sound was grazing sheep and the occasional barks of a dog.
I can smell the cheese he ate and the wine he drank
before they drifted into a slumber.
The sheepherders got old and died but the tree grows
bigger and bore fruit.
There was poverty here and a new generation wanted
a better life, they went to America to find gold
and get married to Amanda.
Alas, factories paid well, they married no Amanda, but
someone of hardier, hairdresser stuff.
I wonder if they ever dreamt of the old days when the sun was hot, sleeping under an olive tree.

Olive trees

with warming
of the land
a plant appeared
to thrive
the olive plant.
where do they get water from
the morning dew
or the memory
for better days.
Near the house there
are a forest of them
look like an army
of ancient soldiers
who have stopped walking
gnarled and crocked
will not march no more.
Every year they are full of olives.
Hundred of years old
they have seen it all.
Love has been made
under their soft ground
but an olive tree
tells no tales.

Olympic Sports

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

Dream on a raft

A balsam raft, with a mast and a Latin sail, I built for amusement on summer days on the inner sea,
but I found myself too far from shore, daydreaming is dangerous,
I had forgotten the dark undercurrent.
The shore is hazy; tomorrow it will have gone it’s just me and the blue outer-sea where fog banks are forgotten memories. I and the raft will end up on a blue painted plaster sea, in an empty bottle of *** that sits on a mantelpiece collecting dust particles.  
Till someone lifts it up to blow cigar smoke down its open neck; I’ll be invisible in the scented fog bank.
When the mist clears I shall be gone, the smoker, astonished, will ask:
“What happened to the raft and the man in the bottle? Fearful throw his cigar into the hearth, sell his scrap metal business, buy a dingy, leave his wife, set sail for the outer sea,
where the fly-fish fly like ospreys across the blue sea, he just might find; whatever he’s looking for
it ain't here

On a sunny day, you can see forever

The U-boat that cast anchor on the silky shore of Albufeira,
the crew was dressed in German world war two uniforms,
and bathers thought they were actors in a movie.

The captain came ashore he wanted to call Lisbon to his
embassy, only the number didn't exist anymore, he had
wanted to surrender, his crew were hungry and tired.

A kind barman gave the captain a cold beer, he drank it
greedily and asked what year it was. 2017, my god,
he exclaimed we have landed in a wrong century.


He walked back to his U-boat a neat man and a hero,
the submarine, rusty, like it had been at the bottom of
the sea for ages, hoisted anchor, and sailed into yonder

Once a dog


my dog has
has been dead a long time now
but I think of her every day.
I have to give her eternal life dogs have no heaven or a saint by the gate asking:
have been a good dog
and eat the leftovers the humans gave you?
Woof.
I big lie of, course; she slept on the sofa when I went to bed.
What about the hairs on the couch,
she looked another way as to say, nothing to do with me.
Fifteen years we had together she spoiled me rotten.
Took me for walks in the woods kept me fit a fine figure
of a man, she could be proud of.

Once a Seafarer
I was thinking of my life as a seafarer endless
voyaging like a gipsy of the seas.
It was the best of times because I was young
but was also the worst of times being without
a woman for months on end.
I was a lousy ****** really didn't blend in
Preferred reading in my cabin and got a higher
education without trying or knowing it, yes
I'm grateful to so many writers they gave my life
a meaning on the ocean of colossal ennui.
I came alive when the ship docked, and I could go
ashore, cold lone star beer in Houston and
dance with a cowgirl or a midnight swim with
a woman in Honduras.

As I got older little could assuage my boredom
the drink became both friend and enemy, washed up
on the shore of Portugal, here I got up  drank a cold
beer built my house on solid earth and dreams.

Once a summer

Like a beached whale the rowboat lies on its side
its bottom had been tarred and the aroma mingled
with ozone of the sea.
When the tide turns the boat will float again and look refreshed.
Seen from the wooden pier the sea is crystal clear
looks emerald.
Small ***** and tiny fish feed in the shallow.
When the sea slowly inhales and exhales pebbles softly fizz.
The sky is the sea´s lover, doomed to forever be apart.
The sea pulls me closer it is hard to resist no be absorbed
by its beauty.

Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, ***** and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.

Once I was a spore
Sought the ***** and was accepted
Millions of my fellow spores
Did not and was washed out as junk
A residue of no value
I won the highest prize without trying
To be given life is luck
Had I lost and not known life it would not
Made any difference for the spore
Not to have seen a sunrise a sunrise over
The Pacific Ocean, a mountain high and
Rabbits in the Woods
Never loved by a woman or the glorious hurt
Of the first one who left
The softness of her skin the colour of her eyes
Yes, I swam in the lake of enchantment
Walked near the waterfall where lovers cry
All this because I was the lucky one, the victor
And so millions had to die

Once  upon a time

I was, it seems like 100 years ago,
on an old fashion cargo ship, the carried all sorts
from potatoes, flour, machine parts, plastic flowers,
and tinned fruit, meat, and hats for the wife of the president
in Honduras.
For some reason, there was a door in my store room
it led into a cargo hold I filled the larder till it looked
like a corner shop. My task was to keep the cost of living down,
and the captain got a telegram from the company complimenting
me on keeping the cost down.
When the ship birthed in some obscure port, the unloading
took a long time and there was time to go ashore
have a bit of fun and a good steak with wine at a restaurant.
I was twenty-five and had a hell of a time, but nothing
lasts forever, the ship was sold to a Greek shipping company
and we all had to go home.

Once when  
I lived in the deep countryside
Of Algarve come spring
And knew of every tiny village
When seeing me, the dwellers waved
The strange foreigner is here
It will be summer after all.
I had many friends back then and drank
Coffee with sturdy farmhands.
I will not be there this year, will they miss me?
Perhaps at dusk, someone will say
They saw me riding by and take it as
A good omen

One flag one country

in the beginning, there was hope it was agreed upon
That a turkey was a big chicken and it wouldn’t offend anyone
as the two fowls had no say and didn’t they had a name.
Around the conference table, there was a spontaneous applause
So little had gone right for them the chairman suggested
In the spur of the moment to find a common name for
Palestinians and Jews referring to the group Lapwejs, there
Was a long silence, but the idea was sound only the name
Lapwejs didn’t have a melodious tone; a comity was formed to
Study the idea if they succeed the people of that part
Of the world would end discrimination s everyone was equal
Of course, they had to come up with a new flag on that
Look like Greek copy, but had several warm friendly colours.
No one would be call anti-Lapwejs or something similar.

One morning in August

It is early morning, but the petrol station is open
A man stands outside drinking a beer and smokes a cigarette
Not for me to be critical; he needs it to face the day
Before goes to walk in an office on the other side of the road
He is chewing gum; probably he does some tedious work
Repairing computers.
The petrol station is filling up with cars I noticed the prices
Has gone up, others hang outside drinking coffee and
Talking about how expensive it is to drive, but in our society
People often have a long way to drive to work, and it is
Too cold to be sporty and use the bicycle, even the electric ones.
I have had a shower but since my balance unsteady so early
I sit on a kitchen chair inside the tub only get up when
Cleaning parts I cannot reach sitting down.
More and more cars fill the road, and I can’t be standing
Looking out all day long I have other things to do

A one-sided coin

When Germany was invaded and ruined
every German claimed they knew nothing
of the atrocities against the Jew.
The same thing will happen to Israel and
her people will say they knew nothing
about the barbarism committed against
the Palestinians.

Summer evening  
The day is gone
Darkness is moving in
My day
Correcting poem
Writing new ones is over
Time for TV.
I have read the news
Not uplifting
Seeing Trump
The elected dictator
Triumphant boasts.
Why are the Americans
So stupid
Can he not see
He s shyster
Dragging you into
A new war
Marching happily
Into war for his benefit
Thousand of your soldiers
Die painfully
For his honour

Sunday Morning

Puddles on cobblestones
Had a film of spent
rainbows,
clouds rested on rooftops
and tear streaked windows misted;
dejected curs  
sniffed the air as a damp army
of washing hung limply on balconies.
Church bells peeled  
the faithful prepared for mass,
unseen and
under arches the tormented
waited for the bar
to open and release them
from the agony of
their lonely inferno.

On meeting Socrates


It was the end of the day at the old folk’s home,
he had spent the last two years of his life indoors, in this room
he had refused to take his meal in the dining room
together with the old people, this was at first refused, but
after a few days and fearing for his safety, the relented and
served meals in his room, for which he had to pay extra.
Lately, he could feel life seeping out of him; he had taken
to his bed, no, he wasn't hungry but drank some tea.
He thought about his life and as usual, could not make up
his mind, had he tried too hard, or had he not been serious
enough was he just a gnat seeking the lamplight or a tiger
prowling the jungle of words, he giggled over the tiger thing.
His feet felt cold, thought of Socrates who had been forced
to drink Hemlock, he said the death started with his feet
crept upwards till it reached his heart and sudden as a gust
of wind blows out the flickering light of life, he died, and would
never know whether he had taken himself too seriously or not.

On my way to the pub

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

Once a Christmas

The sun was blood red looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
Dripped blood on white, wholly cloud which slowly
turns red as the bandage of a fatally shot soldier
who slowly dies of his wounds?
His eyes turned into a mirror of the cold sky.
In the air is torn into puffs of powder an ambulance
comes to an abrupt halt, a man on the ***** floor
surrounded by presents for his family, his eyes
reflects the absurdity of a Yule decorated supermarket.
His wife will get a voucher.
As I drive home, a bag of night opens and strews its
soothing darkness over the land, but nearby
an anguished elephant has its tusks sawn off by a dentist.

political
social-democracy is a dressed-up capitalism
And you can’t have it both ways.
Sooner or later capitalism will take over
By transferring the utilities to private hands

Water is a human right issue so is access
To see unhindered the wonder of nature.

Socialism is about sharing recourses
Capitalism is by taking it and selling it for profit
The two beliefs cannot mix as human greed
Takes over if unchecked

Olive and Orange
From the years of 650 and onwards Andalusia
Was a tolerant Arabic province, which even tolerated
the Jewish tradesmen pushing their handcarts on
cobble stones and the Christians with their infernal
bells ringing on Sunday mornings.
The three religions lived side my side in relative
harmony, one can say the following 300 years
Andalusia and part of Algarve was an oasis of peace.
The Arab architecture is still there and in music
one can still hear the Arabic influence not to forget
the poetry inspired in beautiful gardens with running
water and cooling shade, where love was made and
in Yasmin scented afternoons.

Nothing lasts forever the Christian horde came with
their swords -the ISIS of the time- heads rolled in the sand
Andalusia became a Catholic nation, yet the echo of more
a contemplative time lingers on.
This story was told to me by the oldest olive tree in the world
that lives in a valley of orange trees.

Oranges

Frost in Florida once, I planted an orange tree
among thousands of other orange trees in an orchard
when in Florida.
The coppice belongs to a friend of mine who invited
me to plant the tree a day of wine and songs
remembering the old day when we lived in the Algarve.
I can pick out my orange tree among the mass of trees
simply because it is the most beautiful one.
Like in a pack of dogs, it’s easier to pick out your mutt
it has friendly eyes; we can also call it love.
My friend in Florida died, so did my canine; for my tree
I hope it survived the frost.

Our Collaboration

When sympathy reach its limit?
Day after day we see on the TV screen
war and wanton killing, the temptation is to turn
the TV off or find a channel with funny cartoons.
How many children were killed in Yemen or
Syria becomes a political debate, the children
a statistic; and we say how people can be so cruel
as to **** children. Don't sit too comfortable
in your easy chair, ask the question who gave them
the weaponry to make their killing…we did.
Without our complicity, there would have been
no wars to speak of, but we prefer not to know.
But we can march and hold our government
and other arms dealer to account, if we shout long enough,
we will be heard.
Do that before you sit in the comfortable chair your conscience
is clear and you have saved many children’s life

Our Consensus
                                  
The moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant,
became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke,
but a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages,
the price of heating homes, electricity and food;
the only true
the issue in our civilised world.  
So should one be shocked,
isn’t that what we have worked towards too?
A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you
with any political philosophy,
any ism of this and
that only leaves you to worry
about the ordinary things like
the ice cream parlour in Vilamoura that  sells 21 flavours of ice cream,
now isn’t that nice to know and giggle about?

Our dogs
  
When dogs were wild and had a short lifespan
They had so many enemies, and they were rather clumsy
The sought refuge near man’s camp sights
And were fed by keeping other wild animals at bay.
A special bond between us grew closer when they
Discovered our needs to cuddle up to them and
We gave them safety from a cruel world where they
Other ways would not survive like wolves.
Does a dog feel love towards humans, I don’t think so?
They are used to us and what we have to offer.
For dogs the word love is meaningless they do know
What is best for them, but we will go on loving them

Our leaders

Men in politics don't love women but they
live in a society where one has to be happily married.
When they go to a party with their wives who a dressed
inexpensive dresses and jewellery it is to show
Their economic success. Men in politics and business
prefer to **** each other and when they watch ****,
dream of the handsome political assistant they like to
**** his ****. Political women are nuisance you can't
play golf with them and have ****** charge banter
About touching their *****. They only touch up
women to show they are the alpha male and love women,
for them, there are **** stars and wives both are
equally despised, they are not gay but by ******* a fellow
politicians they assert dominance; they have gone to
expensive universities and learned only one thing that
money matters, love never come into this equations
they are despicable unable to grasp the simple life and
they are our leaders.

The outdoors

Once, I walked on newly fallen snow
It was sobering,
but then it got cold, and feet froze
enough of sobering.
Thick, woollen socks and boots
I’m not an outdoor man
Traversing the North Pole is not
For me, I’m not a penguin.
I like to stay by the window when
it snows look romantic, festive too
thinking of yuletide of yore.

Overcome by sorrow
  
   There is so much misery in the world the bees are dying out
   the bumblebee has disappeared, elephants are sot for their
   ivory, the rhino for their magic horns, fish is being farmed in big tanks
   when are we going to farm sardines?
   So many wars in the Middle East, Africa starves among plenty
  IDF shots small children for the hell of it.
I have no strength to read all of the tragedies, must prioritise
try to feed a starving dog or feel sorry for a mule,
I don't know what to do the suffering is overwhelming I cry
for the small child's death, I shake my head but soldier on there
must be a let up; but no, I can only try to make those nearest me to a bearable day.

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.

Painting of oblivion

The is uniformly white
A screen depicting nothingness
There is immobility.
Occasionally a red dot appears
When the mas of the void is moved.
Into the form of life
A beast or a human?
The mystery is no one knows
Why does randomness occur

Painting with words          

The ash in the wood burner is still warm white and esoteric
an unborn dream a sin to shovel into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to be strewn upon the tranquil sea
with the first drop of rain the ash in the bucket a dust cloud
disperse like souls in the forest but, as the shower increases
the ash drowns becomes silt when the rain stops, and the sun
warms crops the grieving has passed

Palestine children

You have killed our children
your bullets have pierced their heart of love
now only hatred remains.
You can plant you flags
talk falsely of peace you never wished for.
Our young will not forgive you,
you killed their caring hearts.

Palm oil

when one writes about minorities
no one wants to know, the next page about knitting, please.
We do not like to read about losers
and our responsibility for their failure.
A tsunami came rolled over the landscape, changed it
and the language, unstoppable misery for the people
who lived there, but it brought us the automobile.
The Palestinians have lost most of their land and now
they are losing more, except their dignity.
We don´t want to know, the next page about knitting, please.
Let us read about the super-rich, their yachts
and Rolls Royce, we like to see the pictures of them
in magazines, their villas and life mode
we dislike the truth, and it demands us to sit up straight
and think about the world and the orangutan losing
their habitat to palm oil.

Pandemic Morning

It has been raining in the night
the haar lingers in the bay, but I can see
clouds breaking up,
the sky hides the nascent sun.
Morning coffee is a must.
The air is chilly
he leaves the terrace.
He looks out of the window
in his study and looks at a subdued street
suffering under the pandemic.
It is a sad moment of the day
like it was hesitant to begin.
Then he sees green shoots on a tree
and knows he will live
and love a bit longer.

parable sonnets

I was flying high, yet it was hot my wings tired
spotted a well flew down and sat by its side.
By leaning forward, I could see my reflection
in the clear water.
A dark shadow pushed me, fell into the well.
I looked up but, the evil was not there
and the sun was westward bound, taking with it
the daylight.
I had sharp talons clawed my way up to the rim of the well.
Night, evil sat by the fireside reading a book of magic.
I tore its eyes out, the scream brought thunder and hailstone.
The evil ran outside to cool the eyes he no longer had.
It fell into the well and called for help.
What could I do a bird with silky feathers?
I flew up to the sky, the scream of anguish bore the suffering of humankind
echoed through the galaxy.

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.