The past and the future

A war was coming our way as a patriot, I enlisted
Although I was a bit elderly, I was accepted
sent to a camp, with the rank of sergeant in
charge of the kitchen
When the war ended, I took the bus back to my
village that looked the same as before, and my dog
sat on the steps waiting for me, she wanted to
go for our usual walks in the woods
After half an hour, I called the dog; it was time to
go home, but the dog had disappeared, think she
had run home waiting to let her in, but she and
The village was not there,
Instead of a man with a golf club in his hand, I thought
looked like Trump telling me I was trespassing
But there was a village here, yes, but we got rid of
it when constructing the golf course
He looked at me and said, Are you from the past?
Yes, I am, but this is the future you are in the wrong
place, you'd better go back before your time is over
I walk to where the road and horizon merge







The past and the future

A war was coming our way as a patriot, I enlisted
Although I was a bit elderly, I was accepted
sent to a camp, with the rank of sergeant in
charge of the kitchen
When the war ended, I took the bus back to my
village that looked the same as before, and my dog
sat on the steps waiting for me, she wanted to
go for our usual walks in the woods
After half an hour, I called the dog; it was time to
go home, but the dog had disappeared, think she
had run home waiting to let her in, but she and
The village was not there,
Instead of a man with a golf club in his hand, I thought
looked like Trump telling me I was trespassing
But there was a village here, yes, but we got rid of
it when constructing the golf course
He looked at me and said, Are you from the past?
Yes, I am, but this is the future you are in the wrong
place, you'd better go back before your time is over
I walk to where the road and horizon merge

The weight
He had written two short books
needed to show her his work,
Not now, she said, I’m watching TV
Around the beam that keeps the heaven’s roof from falling,
He slung a rope fastened to a scrap iron drum using
Himself as a counterweight.
He hoisted the drum up, but he was too heavy
He carried too much weight of pride.
He cried in the night, struggled to get rid of unwanted feelings
The drum becomes lighter and descends until
He was lifted to the top of the beam, feeling free
Of false pride and ambition.
Why did you cry so much in the night? they asked
He smiled and was at ease with himself and didn’t answer.

Underage 

A moonbeam sat on a bough just outside my bedroom window.
The beam was of the shy sort, and it didn’t frolic about
in the forest during the happy hour.
I invited it, in the moonbeam was cold; I tucked it in
a blanket, careful that there was no physical contact
us the beam was of tender age; one must take care lest the Guardian Harridans find it nasty and demand a hanging party; no more playing football or forever being an outcast, lest I repent. 
Children and moonbeams like stories, and I told a few before the moon paled, and I sent the little moonbeam on its way
untouched by human hands.

Jesusita 

God only had a daughter,
Jesuitta, whom he gave to teach us love. 
She was a good little girl with blond, curly hair, and often helped her mother 
with the washing up and other household chores. 
As she grew up and became a shapely young woman, 
she coveted by men, who could not grasp  her preaching
of unconditional love was not about ***;
They began talking behind her back. 
Rumors had it she had twelve lovers
there was talk of ****** with wine, fried fish, and fresh bread.
She went to the church, demanded to be heard, and asked why there were no women priests and why they let ****** merchants sell overpriced artifacts. 
The clerics, who had had enough of this noisy woman, told Pilatus to do something.
He first ***** her and, to his shock, realized that Jesuitta was a ******; 
This knowledge haunted him for the rest of his life. 
Nevertheless, he threw her to his Roman Legionnaires as a usual ****. And the men taunted her: 
“Is this what you meant by calling love absolute, 
they bawled. 
Their women said nothing. 
They put her on the cross as the ***** of a thousand soldiers 
ran down her legs, she died with forgiveness in her heart.

A Little Fish



I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for my evening meal.
Headless and nicely packed they were, except for one that
had a head-on was alive. I filled water in a jar.
Put the sardine in and fed it bread crumbs.
The headless sardines in the tin, so still and dead, I could
not eat them, put the tin back in the fridge.  
My little sardine grew too big for the jar, and cats were circling
The house, looking for a way in, so I took it to the empty lake
that once had Bluegills fished to extinction,
set my sardine free to feed on rotten vegetation-
I don't know how fish reproduce, but a year later, a school
of sardines were swimming around, except for one that
swam the opposite way- Bonanza! Grilled sardines and
The people rejoiced, thinking it was going to last forever,
And then there were none except one, my sardine in oil.                 
I went down to the lake when the sardine saw me
was glad, jumped up in the air, and was caught by a bird.
Empty lake, a dead eye in the wilderness, tells no story.

A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable  fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank ***** with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.

Haifa Oranges

The sky is light blue or pallid
It is late afternoon
Clouds are burgundy and
The sun is a Haifa blood-orange
Picked by a Palestinian
Gnarled hands.
That was his land, but a historical
Tremor came

He has resigned; this is Allah’s will.
But his sons think otherwise,
Blood orange, one day
Blood will overflow, run down gutters
As we have another tremor that
rumbles on an everlasting family feud.