The apartment
  

No, I don't miss my old home the one I rebuilt
from a stable till a house, although its soul never stopped
being a stable a place for those who have no voice.
Thick walls made by stone from the small land windows
animals do not need light.
But walls talk I still hear their murmur and the hoof of
the mule scraping on the floor as it was dreaming of still
ploughing the field and in pen, the pigs slept unaware
that in the morning one of them would be slaughtered.
I still hear it squeals when the truth dawned.
So much history and no one will ever know what I have
Seen and heard.

The applause

I had a drink before to a poetry reading and since I was nervous
drank a few whiskeys and spoke dramatically about the plight of the Palestinians
I needed help to get down from the stage since my glasses were at the hotel.
Next day we went to a meeting where the top of
The educated class go, I thought they were idiots they had erudition but no
learning, So I got up and spoke for fifteen minutes.
The silence was colossal, think of a needle falling from the galaxy
and landing on Himalaya I had committed the sin of saying
the global warming was a natural disaster and had nothing to do
with global warming.
The meeting was not reported in the local paper but what do
I know, I do not speak this Roman soldier’ language.

The Apprentice

Every morning he took a short bus ride
to the factory where he was learning welding
a thing to know if you are building a ship.
One day he missed the bus got lost and began
Walking, took the wrong turn and the vista
a new life of adventures opened up.
He has done many jobs, like being a cowboy
in Montana, a tourist guide in Peru,
a short-order-cook in New York and running
Errands for the local  Mafia.
He sailed on every ocean, worthy of its name,
been in love a hundred times, yet he hankers most
for the girl he met in Honduras, her father was
the fisherman Hemingway wrote about.
50 years learning curve, but sad to say he
can’t weld two pieces of iron together, and guess what
my life has been a hell of a ride

The Aquanaut

The ship sank two survivors on a raft
the Japanese and me.
On the first two days, sharks circled the raft
but they lost interest and disappeared
The Asian man shook my hand and said goodbye
jumped overboard and swam to
the land of the rising sun.
I was rescued by a fishing vessel the next day
thinking the Japanese had drowned didn't
think more about him, till I met him in Tokyo
where he made a living as a swimming instructor.

Unlucky captain

He was captain in the army
but desired to become a general
so he volunteered to fight
in Afghanistan.
This was natural since came from
a military family connected
to the royal household.
He used to boast to the newspapers
that war was better than ***.
His vehicle was struck by a mine
and his dreams stopped.
Flags on half- mast church bells tolled
which they wouldn't have done
had he been a sergeant?
Even in death, the class shows its ugly face.
He or in this case, his family received
the highest  
honour and his son vowed to be a solder
to fight for his country.
No one saw the truth the captain
was in Afghanistan because it was good
for his future his promotion.

Naïveté


It is cold; sea spray painted the ship white,
light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clinking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face on thick glass on
The porthole, we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire and
give a **** about sailor’s miserable life.
Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls;
look at that sea, so verdant, delicate brush
strokes too; the artist died at a mad house.

Artists

Alfred, by chosen father, vehemently denies
the paternity and has had his statue erected in Faro.
At last, he was honoured for being glorious
bringing colour to an otherwise gloomy town.

Graffiti made by the like of Banksy charms
the rest is scribbling on a wall.

I know little about painters except for Caravaggio
he spoke the unvarnished truth about our life.
His critics like to point out that he was illegal too
what else to expect of the fearful.

Looking inside the mirror

Rambling thoughts
Reflection in a window
Standing still
Frozen in time
Is this me?
Shall I not
Be anything
So many information.
Are my views
Mine
Or are other people’s
Opinions
Influencing me?
Is there charnel
Inside
That sifts the many viewpoints.
Are nothing
My original thoughts.

The Aspiration

The rose by the wayside was picked by a man of self-standing, and it turned modestly blue, alas the day wore on and the man
threw the flower off ifs lapel and for the simple reason it was
not as innocent as picked this morning.

Someone green left wing saw the flowers and planted it in
his poet of natural fertilisers. The flower grew and bloomed
pink not being sure where to belong I had only seen one lie
that before and that was in the black forest.

The plant was put up for sale as it had three colours by those
who had saved it and the longing for an upper-class life?
Expensive few could buy it but the man who had thrown it away
did and the flower was glad to be upper class,

The assistant
At the doctor's surgery, he had a young girl
training to be a diabetist; she had Chalcedony eyes
that shone brightly as onyx, her skin alabaster
without any blemish, a shy smile played upon her lips
a Mona Lisa unpainted.
I was a witness to perfection a beauty that can't last
time will wear her down she will get a line between
her pert nose wrinkles around her eyes, of sadness
or laughter one hopes for the latter
Will the world fall into a devastating war and her
a victim of either hunger or radiation.
This didn't mirror on her face only her glorious youth
and I was lucky to be an observer to the twinkling when
time stood still long enough for me to admire an ideal.

The Attack from the West


There had been a revolt by people infused
by the west’s propaganda.
They, the western countries, bombed and bombed and flattened
many cities, but the army fought on.
The goal. I think was to unseat the president and make
that country into a new Libya; that is called democracy.
A third-country, not a westerly one, came to the rescue
the bombing has almost stopped.
A small and historically insignificant country took a piece
which it eventually has to return.
Thousands of inhabitants fled, not from the ruler of the country
they fled from the terror of the bombs, and the traitors who wanted
the power for themselves.
Today there is an election that can only have one winner
for the time being this war-torn country can´t cope with more.
Denmark is sending home those who sought refuge there
the logic is it is a safe country to return to

The Aunt of Lisbon

Those nebulous
Short, squat spiders
Living on
Grief
And hatred of men
They cannot have
They live
In the darkest corners
Of Lisbon
Trying to catch
A man
Their slobbering lust
Give them away
Poisonous pens
Stabbing
Futile in air
Dark is the mind
Of the spider

The Avenue

it is a delight to get up early, say, six o'clock
the day smells fresh and the Avenue so busy at day time
looks comely and the many commercial banks look coy
as do the hair salons, nail bars and the yoga club.
it is is a wealthy neighbourhood, my wife cuts my hair
and she goes to a modest hairdresser in a part of the town
more modest.
Why I can´t understand is why people sleep so late
get up at ten when the best part of the day is over, dormant
under sceptical duvet breathing in the stale air
of slumber that has lasted too long.
Coffee is right in the morning I get mine at the petrol station
I drink my coffee and talk to no one
and the dogs taking their owner for a stroll have stopped
barking at me wagging of tails instead.

The balancing act

New Year’s Eve how fine it was
Red wine and grilled meat
An exhibitionist dance alone
On wooden legs
Fell into a lake of wine almost
Drowned till someone pulled the plug
And he waded ashore to the strand of
Safe temperance
Today he sits in the corner of the restaurant
A plate of soup and a bottle of water
Around him, tables are full of revellers who
Try to stretch
The New Year Eve just a bit longer.
He looks at the people and wonders
Who will be alive next year?

The Ballerina and the *******

The Ballerina, at the left in my Degas print it hangs
in the hall and I have neglected to look at it for some time,
has moved to the centre stage where she goes through
her warm up routine.
She teaches little girls to dance now that she is married
and have three children; she had to go back to work
as her husband was a sloth; but she is still graceful as
a leopard when r it is chasing lesser pray on
the Savannah, or gliding up to kiss the Popes ring.
She sees my argumentative mien, but will not be drawn
into a fight when I suggest Degas was a *******.
My dog, although it has no business being there,
enjoy the attention it gets from girl ballerinas that
crowd the print with chatter and eager sincerity.

Banana trees

Most of the jungles of Sumatra are uprooted
to plant banana trees the orangutans have been made homeless.
They try to sit in the banana trees, but it is too brittle for the animals
besides, they don´t care for this type of fruit, which gives them the runs.
It reminds me of Lisbon the Portuguese are proud of.
Moneyed people are coming from abroad to settle in the city,
a wonderful place to live.
The poor cannot afford the high rent when flats are modernized
to suit newcomers.
The unfortunates are pushed out to find a shack, if they are lucky
or failing that, live in tents;
many tents, in parks and sideroads while waiting to be housed.
There are many pretty banana trees in Lisbon, but they are expensive.
It has always been like this, the poor and the uncommunicative
must take the brunt when a town goes upmarket.

The bar

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

The Bath-House
When I was twelve years old I discovered
a bath-house near the docks we didn't have a bathroom
at home only a toilet for four families.
In I went- I had my intrepid moment- cubicles were you
Could undress in peace get a piece of soap, a towel which
was  a novelty.
My first shower, god how I loved it warm water and soap
I might have, no, I don't think so that came later.
I had a shower as often as I could the bath-house was shut
on Saturdays and holidays.
It was incredibly  cheap but for a boy 1 Krona was much
I had to ask my aunt for money to buy sweets and shamelessly
used them for my secret vice.
Well, the bath-house has gone a block of expensive flats with
a view of the harbour. Everything changes but not always
for the better

The Battle
There was a hell of a fight in heaven; Lucifer wanted
to share power with who would have nothing of it and banned Lucifer
from heaven. But Lucifer who knew of the human weakness
and gladness of shining pearl told them to consume and consume,
and we were blind oblivious of the beggars and the victims of famine and war.
Only when our oceans become a pool of waste and plastic began to react
but we were not ready to blame ourselves, but the producers of plastic bottles.
God is senile, and there is no Putin to take charge to put a cork in the bottle
In the bottle where the evil spirit called Lucifer lives

The Beetles
I will now write a love poem and will include
heart, souls, roses and a box of chocolate with nuts inside
but a song by the Beetles keeps getting in the way
“Will you love me as before when I'm sixty-four?”
It was in Tokyo when heard the song I was visiting a girlfriend
who was a stewardess on a liner, the song said it all.
A few days later I met a cook smelling of ***** and underarm
sweat, he told me my girlfriend had a lover on the ship
a steward, I confronted the man we had a fight and I was thrown
ashore. She had stolen my heart, but I had the song;
so I will not write this love story after all,
perhaps tell you a story of Frieda, who collected monkey poo,
kept them in glass bottles and inhaled the scent
but she produced wonderful paintings.

The beginning
Adam sat on a bough of a tree waited for his friend
The gorilla, Eva, sat in a cave tried to make a skirt of palm leaves.
The cave was warm; a burning bush had taught them how to make fire.
They lived on fruit mostly, when not stealing eggs from nests
Eggs that were about to be hatch were the best
And they had chicken and thus became meat-eaters.
Adam´s friend, the gorilla, when they played card made out of green leaves
The animal was sentinel without a moral compass.
The gorillas had thick fur which, made them look dressed,
and Eva liked to cover exposed parts. Adam didn´t get it.
He should sit with her and listen to her problem, a pity she
Used to say, God had made men so stupid

The Bench

Here sits a man in a park
lost for the world,
he was trying to break down banalities.
Not knowing that 99% of our daily
conversations consist of trivialities,
Without this safety valve
people would be trying too hard to say
something sensible
and end up alone in a park

The best of years

in a side room where things are put to be used later but never will
there is an old “brother” typewriter gathering dust, bought a day
I felt like Mike Spillane, drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes
while writing rapidly about the hidden crime world of Liverpool.
I went into pubs where the gangsters are supposed to hang out
And were met by people buying me pints of beer and telling jokes.
Then, the word processor came along, spelling was not a burden.
Yes, I know, I sold out for a better life; I miss the tapping sound
Pure nostalgia I wrote a poem of love, the one who disappeared
In wider and wider circles, I walked till she was smoke and mirror.
One day I will take the “brother” out and try to locate her.

The Eve

Today is the last day of 2019
Later people will fill restaurants to eat overpriced chicken,
Drink cheap champagne get jolly and sing in
The New Year makes promises for 2020 that will not be kept.
Wake on the first day, look out of the window and
See the day has not changed.
It has been a fraught year with conflicts nearly spilling over
To a world war and millions of people are desperate to find
A place where bombs do not fall.
For me having lived through it all it is a miracle for which I’m
Grateful most of the time. I had a moment of fear when
I knocked on my wife’s bedroom and she at first didn’t answer
Without her, living would have been pointless.
Tonight, we’ll eat at a small restaurant, go home drink some wine
And watch the unfolding on TV.
To sit beside her, sharing a blanket, the night is cold is a pleasure
No one should be denied.

The Big House  

I could not live in a house with many people
Voices at all hour of the day no privacy the precious moment
When the world rolls slower and I can hear time's clock tick
In a house full of people there is a din of violence to come
And whispering sin at night
Flushing toilets, subbing feet
The tears of the misbegotten those who are cheated on
Drunken brawl screams and police sirens.  
TV that is full of banalities
Every news programs from the same supplier.
To live in a house full of people must be very lonely
With no time for reflection

the big lie

I surprise me the wrong choices we make to stake
our living in the tourist industry which has no future
and consist of bringing  some people from a to b,
instead of farming and smaller industry
I rather make holes in a horseshoe than being
an airline pilot, this useless occupation I can
think of.
We have sent our viable industry to China and
a created hole for ourselves so the bosses can make
a few pounds more it is tragic our shortcomings, we
have been side blinded by false promises and we walk
to the precipice for a day in the sun.
we have been hoodwinked into thinking a holiday is a human
right it is not, but work is, then a holiday nearby.

The Big lie

When I first made the girl who became the love of my life
                        love happens by accidents- I didn't want her to become pregnant
although she wanted children. I said our love was so strong
we didn't need anyone to upset our happiness, but her longings
for motherhood became too strong, she left me for another man
and got eight children, she dies on the steps of the church of
Zarathustra begging for more little ones to fill her life with love
the only kind that could make her fulfilled.
I came from a street were men got drunk Saturday nights
beating their wife and children and I feared, having violence
within me, would be like them; well I never found out and
I'm glad that I never did.

The Big Lie

My daughter rang from Spain where had gone to see her mother,
to tell me she would never speak to me again for telling her mother
had disappeared in Spain under mysterious circumstances.
She had met her family, uncle, and aunts, who lived under canvas,
that was what I didn't want her to know.
I tried to explain that there was a better world waiting for her than tent living had little future, she needed an education. But
she wouldn't listen and slammed the phone down.
I remember her first day in school when I had to stay outside
so she could see me and when we went for walks in the forest
and saw all the animals I conjured up.
Has she forgotten all this?
Unbearable silence in the house, my dog is sad and sits behind
the sofa, shall we never see her again?

The big world

  
  The world is bigger than what you think Betty
It consists of several continents and countries
And much more than Brexit and USA, not that
You would think when reading the newspapers.
“go west, young man”, as it was said one time
No more look towards Asia that is where
The future happens, Europe has become old
And decrepit and seduced by the consumerism
And American type democracy, which means
The wealthy has power and the poor destitute,
This is the misunderstood belief the liberalism
Could solve the problems that beset us.
And as for the USA once a proud nation is falling
Into dishonest pride and corruption.
So, Betty look towards the far east that is where

The bird of omen
On the railing of the veranda
I sat a raven since I have never seen a white one
one can assume it was black.
It had yellow eyes but not from the Far East.
It flew into my living room walked like a sailor
on land leave into the bedroom.
Why does a sailor seek a bar, it is because
the hustle and bustle ashore makes him nervous
and beer is sold.
The raven eat a white mouse – my pet- saw how
the mouse struggled to get up but it died in a morass of stomach juices.
The raven came out nodded thank you and flew off
without a word of thank you.
I looked up to the sky saw small white clouds doing
their own things; to think I had thought
it was an omen,

Happy birthday

the morning started with a bang
four people breakfasted together on his birthday
it didn't bode well.
The breakfast table was loaded with sweet things
He, a diabetic, could not eat, he had an apple.
Switched on the telly as mother and daughter
began fighting about forgotten things, he intertwined
when the mother cried, got her into bed for a rest
The flat fell broodingly silent.
When the fog lifted the protagonists made up and
sat talking about the restaurant they, with the man
who was eighty years old, should go.
The elderly man didn't want to go but had no say
in the matter, they were going to take pictures
for the facebook.
The birthday boy drank coca cola zero and hoped
The party would be over soon he needed his afternoon nap.

The *****

You came into my life the day I was marrying my dog
like a sandstorm out of the blue, it blinded me somehow
You came into my life, and the took second place
handled it well but loved me anyway till the day she died
And a new sandstorm blew me clean away.
I know to live in a place where the wind blows from the sea
sometimes I do think the salt spray in my face is tears
of regret that I should have married my dog.
And no matter whatever they say it had been the right thing
to do but love billowed in my face but despite this of all
you loved me all your life and had a place in my heart
No one can replace, a sandstorm in my face it is no excuse
I should have read you right, but now it is too late yet

the blank screen

So here on a blank screen is the enemy
It has to be defeated filled with words so the blank
The screen can’t haunt me in the night.

I saw a vet program of a horse that was 3o years old
It couldn’t pull a cart any more, unproductive
Grazing and doing nothing, it also had kidney problems
Otherwise, it was beautiful.

A vet was called to put the horse down the vet thought
The horse looked fine, but it is useless the owner said
Put it down; a couple of injection later it was done.

Perhaps it was a good thing dying painlessly, we put
Older people in homes where they slowly die of boredom.

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

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

Literature & *****

Poor Edgar his world was dark, laughter was
a gasp on dying lips. He mined the deepest
ravine where not even the summer sun reaches  
but he was able to, in a moment of clarity that
lit up his tunnel, to give us great literature,
a look into his world of horror.

There are other Edgars who walk in our streets
or sit in lonely rooms wearing a cape of despair,
their laughter too is a shriek of agony, a bitter
smile set in a pale face of utter defeat, for they
cannot articulate and share with us or turn them
suffering into readable literature.

The Boxer  

  He had the saddest eyes I have ever seen
  hands trembled like drunkard's
  after a fortnight's  ****** but dipsomaniac
  could always have another drink
Ali could not Parkinson's disease saw to that
This poet of the ring a victim of success
egged on too long, just another fight my love
Honours and medal they bestowed him
it came too late his voice was but a whisper
In the glade butterflies fly as Ali once did
Not as fast as Mohammed Ali.

The boy on the bridge.

At the hospital, I woke up in the night
got up, walked into a hall I didn’t recognize
A nurse came and told me to go back to bed
“My father told me to stay here,” I said
I knew it was in a dream, a poem I had read
many years ago, when I could remember
with clarity what I read.
In the morning, waiting for breakfast,
coffee and a scone, a nurse was busy
sticking needles into me.
I tried to remember the title of the poem
“The boy on the burning bridge?.”

The boy on the bridge.

At the hospital, I woke up in the night
got up, walked into a hall I didn’t recognize
A nurse came and told me to go back to bed
“My father told me to stay here,” I said
I knew it was in a dream, a poem I had read
many years ago, when I could remember
with clarity what I read.
In the morning, waiting for breakfast,
coffee and a scone, a nurse was busy
sticking needles into me.
I tried to remember the title of the poem
“The boy on the burning bridge?.”

The brave soldier

Had an accident when parachuting
in Afghanistan,
ended up in a wheelchair he did.
He became a writer instead.
He was lucky to have a wife who helped him
when the going got tough.
Tragedy struck his wife got Alzheimer
sent to a nursing home, he could not cope
The poet struggled alone
he lives in a friendly country like Denmark.
Two nurses come, help him every day
to do the chores.
He is free to write. wonderful poems
but he pines for his wife, the night is long
as he waits for dawn.

How to bribe

I like the mild winter evening in Portugal
the fire is lit, and my wife is preparing something to eat
while watching a soap program on the TV.
When driving home one evening, I was stopped by a village
police officer one front light wasn’t working correctly.
I thought of offering him a bribe, but I’m not
Don Corleone, so I signed the paper the fine would come
in the post.
The officer looked disappointed-they are not paid much-
perhaps I should have offered him money,
after all, it was near Christmas.  
I told my wife about the episode; she knew who he was
said he has his ***** hairs shaved every fortnight by the lady hairdresser,
like this has got anything to do with me.

The broken mind

In the gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast,
unheard words of lovers come here to die;
“I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you.”
Whispers in the breeze for no one’s ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of love.
It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly
have thorns and branches snap
when you try to climb  to see where you are,
and wild beasts follow wait for you to succumb,
fall asleep so they can eat your brain
leave you confused, and rescuers will say:
“Poor man has got the Alzheimer.”
The stillness hears fearful screams, the unheard
last effort before sinking into silence

The broken mind

In the gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast,
unheard words of lovers come here to die;
“I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you.”
Whispers in the breeze for no one’s ears but the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of love.
It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly
have thorns and branches snap
when you try to climb  to see where you are,
and wild beasts follow wait for you to succumb,
fall asleep so they can eat your brain
leave you confused, and rescuers will say:
“Poor man has got the Alzheimer.”
The stillness hears fearful screams, the unheard
last effort before sinking into silence

The brown bear


During Yeltsin years when he sold Russia down the river
People in the west loved the brown bear
we patronized the Russian as ***** swilling village idiots.
The cuddly bear died, and a steely-eyed fox to the helm
and the Russians was no longer cuddly.
The Russian federation was no longer willing to play
the game ascribed by the western press no longer willing
to be pushed around and laughed at.
Putin, the fox, turned Russia into a modern state that has
a modern army that is powerful if stirred by the west.
Russia wants peace but does not like the encroachment
by NATO/US, that is like Indians in western movies
encircling the wagons.
Putin, president of Russia, vilified by the western media
and the EU, ain’t forgiving
even the capitalists know this and stalk carefully.

The Builders

A team of architects blew a big hole
on a mountainside and built a housing block
of 14 floors tall.
The country had a northerly wind often called
Stalin´s revenge, it even made summertime chilly.
The block faced southward and had big windows
and a mirror system giving light in all rooms.
The edifice was given a name, Joe Biden and it is
a matter of time he is given a Nobel peace medal
Not for what he has done, but since he is not Trump
and Facebook has made him a saint.
There is always a but a mountain is not a dray it drips
And the mountain´s hole was damp, the white building
Turned mouldy and green and not a place for the asthma
sufferer became ill the air-conditioning had to be on
all-day, that is expensive and didn´t live up the belief,
The hope of a wonderful world.

The Burden of youth

She was seventeen, and her boyfriend had left her
Life is more intense when you are young she wanted to commit
Suicide so he could see how much he loved her.
Filled her rucksack with stones and waded into the bay, but
The water was low only to her chest when she reached the other
Side she was glad to be alive.
She met a young man also unlucky in love he took her rucksack
Filled more stones into it and waded into the sea, but now there was
High tide the young man disappeared under the sea.

A few seagulls shrieked otherwise silence as the girl waited for the bus
To take her back to town, block out unpleasant thoughts she said aloud.
My father is a communist, the bus driver who was a fascist stopped
Pulled out his gun and shot her dead and women on an outing clapped.
This as her father was letting the red flag fly in the street of Utopia

If not burned

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

The burning
Let Rome burn, so spake Nero or one of his flunkies
Towns and cities are burning every day in the Middle East
Flames taste not of roasted chestnuts in the Alley
Of peace but the stench of hatred fills the air.
This will continue till the last drop of oil, better still
Until we don't need petrol for our cars any more.
In the middle of this, we have Israel armed to the teeth
Yet fearful, it is as it knows the future is lost.
I wonder why so many high ranking officers in the USA have  
German surnames, one thinks it is a tradition.
In new wars to come it will be about water- resources.
Look out Scandinavia, so you don't end up like Libya.

I could see the smoke coming.
                      from the attic
the thing is the house of dolls
was not on fire
only the figures that once was cherished.
I put the ashes of someone’s childhood
in a box of wood.
One with golden handles.
Later did I realised that all must go
even those nearest to our heart.

The Bus Trip
We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take
the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.
On the bus, you might risk sitting by someone who can't afford
water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to
use a ***** and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water
away when it is raining

I'm  a tonic water socialist and read the Guardian, crystal glasses
and a sneaky *** on the loo. To meet a proper working class person
would shatter my illusion and bring back a memory of my father last time
I saw him it was on a bus and he was drunk.
I will drive- anyway- not long from now I will not be able to they are
putting up obstacles to stop us old ones driving