Great American Literature

Our bookshelf groaned under the weight
of American Literature, and my mother was
principally a communist.
An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen,
and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray
was endless, and so it went on.
I joined the youth wing of the communist party
of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out
I knew too much to be useful.

The plight of the poor concerns me, and I bristle when
seeing injustice, in short, I will fling my arms around
a horse that is about to be flogged, yet one doesn't
need to be a communist for this. Kindness is not
political and doesn’t carry a flag, you have to pledge
allegiance to, a friendly smile will suffice.

Come  Home


I dislike Israel, but I accepted her as a historic
happening and a place where Jewish culture
can flourish undisturbed by foreign culture, and
thus can sink into navel-gazing.
But it cannot be so Europe without Jews and
the Jews without Europe's culture is a script
of a disaster not yet written.
We in Europe need the Jews as scientists,
in the arts, but the Arab World does not need
resentful Jews who brought an iron heel to people
for a crime they have not committed but  guilt that
lives in the culpable images of Abraham’s people.

Nature Fascists
Those who believe in the sanctity of nature, the survival of
the fittest, and so on, tend to be on the political spectrum
right-wing living off inherited money and believing
it is  right for an eagle to **** a rabbit
and they are
right, and of people on horseback pursuing a fox until it
can do no more running and is killed by man's best friend,
the dog that lacks empathy unless it is a learned behavior
It is a right to tame
nature, but not eradicate it because we
do we well not to harm our future, but farming is needed
despite what they learned, think cattle have to graze to give
milk and meat. The mule has gone, and the tractor has taken
its place, but without sheep and cows grazing in peace and
not knowing its purpose, the countryside would be a place of
fear and wildflowers enjoyed by botanists and goats.
It is the fascist agenda that is scaring the right to
exterminate
what nature lovers think is not worthy of their ideal.

A Poet Road
Now that it is hot and the sun has turned from
a warm friend to a raging enemy, what did I say
to make it so burning hot?

I'm up early and drive around, stopping and take
pictures of growing plants before the rampant
sun makes them lose all colors.

Then, before I knew it was ten o’clock time to
sit indoors watching the miserable news
and trivial entrainment programs.

The bushfires of terror are something we have to
live with until we learn to clear the undergrowth
and when needed...brutally ****.

I’m thinking of a man who has a small field of
the greenest vines, every day he tends lovingly
his bushes, you see, we should not be too kind.

On the other hand, we cannot poison the land
with pesticides to save a plant we like and
forgetting that all life has its place.

2015 and years thereafter


The year of two thousand and fifteen,
has not been a good year for world peace.
Brotherhood of Man. I despair of our
lack of empathy with children killed by
Well-meaning
Bombs dropped by nations
Those who look for peace through violence.
I recall from history books a king named
Croesus, everything he touched turned into
gold, and he died amidst plenty.

State-sponsored violence spawns terror and
And newer versions of ISIS will not go away,
And we cannot understand that there will be
no peace before the whole world is a ruin if
We do not come to our senses and stop feeding
terror's voracious appetite.

After the surgery

I was flat on my back and not
allowed to move, an assistant  nurse came to feed me
A stern-looking woman older than the others
soup she fed me; open your mouth wide, she said
I did her, eyes softened, and she became motherly
scolded me gently when spilling soup on the nib
When I didn't want any more soup, she said I had to
to eat it all
I felt drawn to her as a baby to his mother
it was a beautiful moment; she tucked me in
I fell asleep.
Then it was morning, I was allowed to sit up and
later stood up. looked out the window, a football pitch
the players’ red and yellow shirts, it looked like mating
ritual, the one who scored the most goals
gets the sexiest girl, that's ok, but I got to be a baby
and remember it.

A Bus Ride

I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
was I reading yesterday’s
today's news or tomorrow's
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn't run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten  rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.