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

Robots at sea

the sun shines, it always shines, on the portholes
on the ships in the bay looking enticing.
To be a mariner is not a natural form of life and
should be run by robots can tie a ship to a port.
As it is an engineer can sit in a control room
and press the relevant buttons no need for an oiler
to walk around seeing if something has to be done
and cleaning the floor.
On long journeys by the young especially is not
healthy, too much time spent reading *******
and getting a wrong view of what *** is.
Visiting prostitutes thinking women are like this.
Come to think of it robots could be used as soldiers
and the interest in armies would lessen.

Rolf, the talking machine

There are moments in life when you meet someone
you take an instant dislike to who endlessly talk about
things they don't know if you tell them something
they don't hear what you say, just waiting for their
a chance to rambles on.
He has the sort of face exuding stupidity and is inviting
you to punch him flat and jump on him.
You know what I mean a person who speaks without
thinking what is coming out of his mouth, unstoppable he his
I think he talks in his sleep.
Tomorrow he will be leaving, and I will not be charged
of ******.

We are all familiar with the traditional relationship
A young boy meets a girl, Like Romeo and Juliet –
It must be added Juliet was 14, today this romance
Would not have gone down too well,.
Sometimes love happens at the most strange places
Like when I met a girl at a house in Kingston and her
Took a shine to me.
As we undressed in her room she said:
“My ***** is full of water,” I told her she better have a wee
First, but that was not what she meant.
In the morning she clung to me and I promised to come
Back next time when in Kingston.
Our love was real I thought of her often, alas my ship
Didn’t go back there.
Love, you see wherever it happens is a wonderful
Moment, for us there as no repeat and that was sad.

Rose poem about animals

A word- fish is not at ease with carpentry
it uses its natural weapon for hunting other fishes
which is ok for us when lost on a raft
in the middle of the ocean.

A blue whale is too big to be used as circus
entertainment there not a tent big enough to house it.

Relatively expressed It is about an aquarium, size.
Onlookers would be drenched when it turns around
Simply because they have no big umbrella.
extremities of this sort should be left in the ocean

Hunger and roses

I have not spoken of Brexit find it trivial
False pride and old people thinking of was time
When they said, saved the world single handily
The arrogance of superiority is unavoidable.

The pampas are full of horses on yellow/green grass
If I were a horse, I would miss the forest.

Rowes of people wait outside a foodbank often
Overtired nurses who can’t feed their families
Skeleton looking pensioners hope for corn flakes
The experimental economy benefits the rich.

Rumblings in the night

I was trying to write the words on the screen turned
into spatter of blood, darkness descended
A woollen mass pressing me down, I screamed
Of fear and my brother came and laid beside me.
A young woman. who had been thrown out of her?
Uncle’s house came with a tray of bacon & eggs
I grabbed a piece of bacon, but the woman said
It was not for me but my brother because
He had been dead for many years and therefore
Must be hungry.
I went into a Chinese restaurant where the owner
Shouted “table for one” I don’t want a table like
To see the men” no need he said it is all the same
With different sauces “Table for one!”
I couldn’t find my way out; there were many doors
leading into coolers where cooks had committed
Suicide in memory of Anthony Bourdon.
Finally, I found a door out the led me to freedom
Where nature was unworldly and my brother
Said: did you know if you are on a spacecraft and
Pass all the planets behind you. The emptiness
Will turn into a purple fog and before you know it
Will you be back to your living room?
Table for one, the owner of the Chinese shouted.

Rubbed out

I stopped at a low stonewall
on my slow progress  
saw before me a landscape painting,
ten sheep and twelve lambs.

I thought who that painter might be,
a sudden blur in the air,
when the picture cleared there
was a mare and her foal

five sheep had disappeared;
the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger,
I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture    
wanting to erase me
for the sake of the prettiness.
of the landscape

Ruins

Ancient ruins of Smyrna are threatened by war
they might been blown up by those who want history
to start now cutting off the umbilical cord of yesterday
and we are all victim of the day before. Yet, sad as
it might be everything will be dust, we should lament
but not cry, as we would the death of a child.

rural ceremonial

open casket
his face was covered in a silk cloth
I removed it he looked grumpy
this was not the outcome he had wanted
I replaced the cloth
sat down thinking if it moved
it meant he was breathing a ghastly mistake
I concentrated hard, but I´m not Jesus
can not decide between life and death
my faith was not strong enough.
I looked at the mourners; they had the expressions
of deep sorrow
although some looked at their wristwatches
they had other things to do like taken the cows
in for milking at five o´clock.
Cattle wait for no one
the padre came he had gravy spots on his white robe
I thought here is a man in need of a housekeeper.
The padre nearsighted blessed everyone
we watched as the casket was lowered into the ground
an ocean of flowers
why was I here I didn´t know was asked to go
to make up the crowd of mourners.
I shook hands with many and murmured words
of comfort in times like this words are not needed.
Profoundly dismayed I drove home
wondering what life was for,
the dog was waiting it was hungry, and no walks today
a program on TV I want to see.

Rustic Morning
Still, early morning and coarse grass had stopped crying
But the carob tree was still tearful someone had broken its branch
The one that was easy to grab from the lane.
By the stone fence, a mule looked soulfully at me, so I scratched its
Forehead and we enjoyed each other’s nearness, while a cat chased
A rabbit that jumped behind some boulders where it was trapped
The cat came out with the dead animal in its mouth it dropped it and
I imagined it roared than began eating its prey.
Both the mule and I contemplated this rustic happening, we sighed
It began grazing; I walked my way saying: “see you tomorrow old boy.”

A president’s sad ending

Speaks into the empty office he hears an echo which
repeats his words, I´m the president.
His wife lives in New York and the only visitors he gets
are sycophants and from a pale sickly-looking man
who is as deluded as him?
All rooms are bare, and furniture moved to storage he
sleeps on a sofa in the office takes his meals in there too.
His valet helps him having a bath and change his suit.
The valet is black and has to endure the brunt of his rage about black people not voting for him.
It will all be Ok, Mr President the hapless man, whispers while helping the president to comb his hair.
Outside the police awaits the order to drag the president out
of his big house and his valet has signed a book deal.

The clown of life                  
  
Sadness fills my mind
perhaps it is time to go home,
but that would be hopeless
meet with the country I no longer know.
I had a home, but now it is being sold.
Looking back on my life as a zombie,
like an autumnal leaf in a stream
Someone else lived my life. It was not me.
Perhaps there is nothing like free will.
We are just born, and what happens
to us has been foretold.
Am I the result of thought?
That began hundreds of years ago,
eternal life of unconsciousness.
I accept who I´m sad will always
be a part of me; I try to make into humour.

Sadness

I saw an interview with a famous singer (Portuguese)
He was talking about his childhood and began crying
Not tears in the corner of his eyes, but veritable flood
Of tears; looking at him I felt his sadness, whatever
It was that the arrow of the past had hit him hard.
This made me think of my own childhood and loses
But it was so long time ago, and I have made peace
With ancient dramas.
Nevertheless, I sometimes feel a profound sadness
Of the bygone, and that my life took a turn which
Was not the way I wanted it, but as the saying goes?
You can’t have it all; acceptance is the crucial point
That the situation you are in has to be tolerated.

Africa
South Africa is a ramshackle state
When it got rid of apartheid the people
Of Soweto did get the spoil
But are poorer than before
The ANC is corrupt and sinking deeper into the mire
Of crime
The Zulus want a state of their own.
let us blame the successful Boers who feed the nation
take the acres of land and give it to those
who doesn’t know how to run this type of business?
For the rest of Africa too many minerals and oil
The big corporations want their arm warlords and the winner
Will get a percentage, and the poor land workers bear
The brunt of this wanton killings.
Someone has to speak up, there will not be another
Mandela soon, not for a long time.

Sailing

I will be here
Waiting for you
In the bay of peace.
When becalmed
Your sails grey
Days of glory over
I will be there
In the tranquil bay
Waiting for you.
Our anchors
Will be our wedding ring
De-rigged
Side by side
At last, my love.

Saintliness  

Mother Teresa is a saint now
The woman who loved poverty and death
But what she did is a truth
Like the six million dead Jews
It has been hammered
Into our heads no need to argue
The truth is told by historians and some of them
Are sent to jail for the sake of truth
When a big lie has been established as veracity
Anyone who gainsay this
Is vilified shut out of the tame press and
Given no credit
Mother Teresa has reached sainthood and
Is in the best company of the untouchable just as
It is impossible to discuss the holocaust 's
Secular saintliness
The truth is what you make of it

Sand in your eyes

Full moon tonight, a supernova to sound educated
last time was in 1948 when the catastrophe hit the Palestine people.
I was twenty at the time and believed what the papers wrote.
Even the killing of Folke Bernadotte by a fanatical Jew was overlooked hadn´t they suffered enough,
the Hebrew people it was a relief the bothersome people left Europe, the whisperers said.
Where are your hands, Pontius Pilatus?
Now we have killings in Paris and minarets, Europe has a Muslim
problem and no one dance in the street anymore.

Sand in your eyes
Full moon tonight a supernova to sound educated,
last time was in 1948 when the catastrophe hit
The Palestine people I was twenty at the time and
believed what paper said.
Even Folke- Bernadotte's killing in the hands of a fanatical
Jew  was overlooked, they had suffered so much and
secretly there was a relief to have the bothersome race
shifted to another place
Were your hands, Pontius Pilatus
Communists and Fascist were jubilant holding hands
And dancing in the street. Now that we have Muslims to
contend with a minaret is not enough they want the lot,
the Jews are remembered fondly they were happy with
a synagogue, a school, and our banking system.
Return children of Israel you are fake Jews anyway from
a tribe in Tyrkia, and there is no blood relation between and
the ancient Jews it is a Zionist construction

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

Saragossa Sonnet  
There is a place in the mid-Atlantic an island made of sea tare
and the mist never lifts sea and storm avoid this island
that in the middle has a pyre that must be kept alive and old men
sit cross-legged around the pyre and feed it dry bones
of sailors who have sought shelter but end up having their throats slit  
hung up like stock-fish to dry on the eastern side of the island.
They never talk about this but it is well known that a salted thigh
bone lasts a week and is delicious with boiled sea-tare.

You can't see the people who live there clearly they are  sons
of mist and fog an unholy alliance *** without pleasure, but they
must go on the pyre must be fed, if not the sun will break through
and they and their home will disappear as it never existed

Sartorial elegance

He always wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck
The type actors wear when in blazer having a drink on the terrace
Of a posh hotel, he bought his scarf at a second-hand store
In Cheshire, nevertheless, it was made to fit him
Oddly enough the rest of his apparel was purchased in a Chine's
This gave him an air of seedy elegance that normally comes with
Those who suffer no self- awareness

He was poor and lived on bread and marge, when not invited
To high-born party by people who thought he was an aristocrat
Sometimes I came too because as he said he was writing a novel,
And that made me interested in people with literary ambitions,
There are so few of them hidden in lofts and not spoken of-
His dead was sudden a rope and a beam,
he was missed by the locals
I have not had a proper dinner for a long time,
But I wear his yellows silk scarf for a book unwritten.

SATURDAY MORNING

The alarm bell has a modified
Saturday tone
And I murmur
give me 5 minutes more.
A good night’s sleep
A peaceful morning
I doze off.
Give me 5 minutes more.
I get up, make a coffee
The good feeling continues
The world is wonderful
Until the phone rings!

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

Saying

I used to say the elephant, people and the giraffe are not needed.
How wrong I was the elephant reminds us how small we are and
The giraffe tells us how short-sighted we are. As for people
The jury is still out

Say yes to life
He was in the hospital tubes and oxygen mask
his heart had stopped but the good people had got it going again
Raindrops ran down the window matching his scepticism
he closed his eyes what's the point.
When he opened his eyes again sunlight danced on the window,
he asked wanted to go home, she smiled, doctors smiled
their patient was getting better.

Scepticism

When I grew up
I stopped believing in God
Toys belonged to the young
And Santa fanatics.
However,
I leave a small light
On the bedside table
The fear of the dark
Never left me.
However,
I knew Christianity had taken hold of me
The dark hue of the sinner
Is always present.
However,
I believe in the day
Truth must not be hide
In churches recesses.
However,
Blood splash on walls and tinsel
On the ground
New Year in Istanbul
The fear never left me.
However,
I saw a happy child play in the puddle

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.

Contemplation

Resolve the unanswered problem gone
Overmighty is the task, for one who lacks the courage
Sever is the lack of self-knowledge
Extraordinary is the failing of others feelings

She doesn’t like young cleaner find faults with them
They remain her of her lost youth.

Quite a reflection over time that will not return
Life lives in hatred and love, now it is
Meaningless whether it is summer or winter
As seen inside a dusty window of old age.

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

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

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

seasons
The day is young
Doesn’t know it will?
Be old gray and die
And the long night
Shall be the ruler.
But unlike humans
The day will be reborn
Be young again
And hear bird songs

Security Guard
I failed to get a licence to turn my snack-bar
into a wine-bar, at the time the later was unheard of
now they are everywhere; it appears I was
ahead of time, anyway, not cut out to stay all day
selling burgers, hotdogs and sweet drinks sold it and
for a while, I could sleep till nine.
Snoozing does not pay for itself I had to find a job
night- work as a security guard at a building site.

I was reading poetry at the time and noticed bards
of yore came from wealthy families or had someone to
pay their bill for ****** favours, as I was not that way
inclined resigned my lousy paid job and went to sea
when my ship was in port, I found a godforsaken bar
continued to read, drink and dream

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

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

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

Seen from the Terrace

The misty weather over Cascais persists
there is no wind and silky rain falls.
Three old freighters must be 34-40 years old,
anchored in the smooth water in the bay.
There is a third wave lurking in the streets
we, the old sit indoors except when going to
the bank to pay bills or to the grocery shop,
that is open during the day.
I notice the ships are Panama registered
old ships usually are, cheap wages and standard,
Sometimes the old ships are abandoned
by the owners, the crew left both penniless
and hungry.
The last journey will be in a town in
the Bay of Bengal, and slowly turned Into nails and
other undignified objects.

Seen in the woods
I saw a white raven, and they are rare
Sitting on a tree branch, it had blood on its chest
Of the sparrow, it had eaten.
I could have been mistaken perhaps it was
A cardinal sitting on a bough getting s rest from
The burden of rituals and be called your holiness.
It could have been a white dove wounded
By shrapnel flying over Syria.
It could also have been a white cloud drifting
Lazily across the blue sky, with spots on sunlight.
Whatever it was, it was none of my business.

Biography

The wind blew hard last night
the bedroom window was open I was too lazy
to get up and close it.
I was thinking of writing my biography but found
my life was too tedious to write about it,
Anyway I have only come alive for the last thirty years
before that, I lived in a bubble of self-loathing,
Of course, I could have written about my many illnesses
but I dislike self-pity.
I used to be a seafarer and remember vaguely how bored
it made me after ten years; sea life is for losers.
I could have written about women there has been a few, but most of my affairs were insignificant, *** has no purpose if love is not involved.
I finally got up found a blanket and slept till nine.
Self-biography is mostly self-serving, and we only remember
the right part and our pretension.

selling a dream

I like my little house in the interior of Algarve.
It used to be a stable for a mule and several sheep
and at the time, thirty years ago it was cheap.
They tell me those in the know I ought to paint the house in case I want to sell me.
I have no wish  to sell which disappoint real estate agents
who knock on my door and offer me a precise which is
an offer was made by the people of not knowledge, other than turning a buck.
People who think newness is is what people want.
It is not what they want is a place where they can feel at home and not
be bothered by what the ads tell them to like.
The house has cane roofs, and a prospective buyer said if he bought the house
he had to build a new roof.
I told him he was wasting his time I will not tolerate vandalism by people
whose dream is pedestrian.
I will return soon and feel the peace of honesty.

Selling a cottage

I had my little house up for reluctant sale
couldn't get the reward I wanted decided not to sell
I'm moving to Cascais, and it takes time.
he cottage can stand here till it sags and needs
to be painted, too many memories we have grown old
together I need a facelift my fake tan can't cover
up the cracks.
I knock on the door two ladies outside they wanted
to buy my house for the right sum of money,
for a moment I hesitated, money is money.
Sorry, it is no longer up for sale and my little house
breathed again.

Selling books

A friend of mine who used to be my editor,
until I discovered she was bewildered by commas,
has gone all mercantile, if you buy one of her
sweetly decorated books with flowers, you also
get a doll presumably made of plastic.
The child had no memories yet, only that he loved
his mother, father, grandfather and aunts.
The Israelis will say he was paid by the “Hamas.”
to go play in the sand.
If you buy one of my small books at Kindles, I will
send you a picture of a dead Palestinian child.
Truth is a costly gift, but in general, a doll is more
popular and cosy.
When the doll has been hugged enough and thrown
away, the truth, like granite, will always be there.

Selling books

A friend of mine who used to be my editor,
until I discovered she was bewildered by commas,
has gone all mercantile, if you buy one of her
sweetly decorated books with flowers, you also
get a doll presumably made of plastic.
The child had no memories yet, only that he loved
his mother, father, grandfather and aunts.
The Israelis will say he was paid by the “Hamas.”
to go play in the sand.
If you buy one of my small books at Kindles, I will
send you a picture of a dead Palestinian child.
Truth is a costly gift, but in general, a doll is more
popular and cosy.

Senryu
A cynical person
Protects his soppy heart
From mawkishness

Senryu
A lurid nightmare
Is an extension of a day
That went ******* bad


Senryu
                      They say he is rude
When objecting against old age
They expect poise

Senryu

I’m a cowboy
Herding in reluctant words
To make a poem

Argentina’s pampas
Where wild horses live
Poetry in motion  

The gaucho
Is a free verse maker
On horseback

Senryu

A poet adores love
Not the practical one
Dinner at five

The moment caught
A memory to remember
A face in the crowd

The killer of love
Is the despair of loneliness
turned into disgust

Sensual Haiku

With a lump of clay
Her hands erected a vase
Sensual flowers.

Experienced fingers
Squeezes the cow’s teats tenderly
A dreaming milkmaid.

Separate tables

   He came sat down like they should be old friends.
   Do I know you, she said?
   Yes, we were lovers once.
   Long pause.
   Yes, I remember, but you have gone fat and bald
   I thought of you as an *******.
   You are a wrinkled old shrew, thought.
   We had some fun, he said.
   For you, it was,
  You would let me touch your *****, said it was
  Private property, she said.
  My dear, it was a joke, he said
You are a pompous old *******, she murmured for
No reason at all.
He stood up to give her a piece of his mind, but
The dinner bell rang.
They ate at separate tables.

Serious now

A man
Knocked on my door
He was
Collecting
Laughter.
Mournful
He was when leaving
Without a smile
On his face.

Serious now

A man knocked on my door
He was collecting laughter
Mournful he was when living
Empty handed.

Set sail in the Sunset

When the world was big
and the ship I was onboard left Trinidad
sailed to the Panama Canal.
We crossed the Pacific Ocean, and we were alone
in a world so big.
Then the Indian Ocean, the world was endless
finding an island, a needle in a haystack.
It was long ago, long before Apollo made the world
into a small planet in the vast universe
and the moon was a balloon, as David Niven said.
Our world has shrunk, it is a tiny place, yet we fight
for religion or some silly political views.

Haiku
A season is over
Golden leaves softly fall
The breeze is absent.

Haiku
Bushes have the blooms
Still intact covered in dust
The town waits for storm

Haiku
Indoor plants sag too
Sorrowful for no reason
Longing for freedom

Haiku
Umbrellas await
Know their duty are coming
They have the courage

Haiku

Beautiful horses
But it is the modest mule
That carries our load

Tidy office building
Busy and efficient place
Kept clean by janitors

Our great cities
Without armies of cleaners  
Uninhabitable

Galloping filly
Bets are on black beauty
The jenny won