Who Knocks

"Who knocks so quietly on the cloister's
port a poor girl from a land afar."
We sang that song at school and always
made me emotional, I could picture this
poor waif seeking shelter 

Now we know what happens to  the poor
and pregnant women seeking shelter at
at a convent run by brainwashed nuns 
The woman from Donegal told us when
She came here at 17   and was pregnant

How was she to know this nunnery of
sexually frustrated who had taken a vow
who, in hatred, had turned this a sin worse 
than death

When the time comes for our girl from Donegal,
to give birth, she was ill, and they gave her a sedative 
Then, as a child was born, she heard a scream
of one drawing of air for the first time

They told her the baby had died; had she 
dreamt, no, but there was nothing she could
Christianity is a good religion, but why is it
When it becomes an institution, evil enters
through the front door, while saintliness is
out of the back door like a shroud

Superintelligence  

If superintelligence is about collecting data 
to find out why young people run, some people don't 
and based on this information, invent a mobile bike that
has 3 wheels and runs on a battery. I'm skeptical of 
Superintelligence is like your mother's brother who
is divorced, moved into your home, and is telling everyone what is best for them; a snippet of what your dad said
"No wonder his wife left him."
I see it is possible to write your own autobiography, your
name and address, that's it; the book with your name will
be in the post, they have the nerve, superintelligence 
Intelligence is most of the time used for evil purposes 
Adolph ****** and Josef Stalin were not duces, not to forget
Netanyahu, who has led the children of Israel down 
a disaster, made the people into uncaring monsters like
The Germans felt about the Jews
If superintelligence knocks on my door, I shall not open it because I get so easily impressed that I might be an eager fan.

To love your enemy

I should not say this, but there is no way to hide
I had a wonderful childhood when our country was
at war and occupied  the mighty German army
walked in and out of an army barracks, riding on their
enormous horses, dark chocolate, drinking morning milk
until peace broke out, and it was back
to stark poverty that felt as if the daylight had been
switched off by an unseen hand 
Headlong into communism, almost a humorous but
That, too, had its sell-by date, and a cold war began
As a ******, we were in demand moving American 
made gods around them had moved their industry
abroad and only exported wars
Once upon a time, I loved the USA, and I still have a pair 
Of the jeans bought in New York, the jeans have shrunk
But I keep them as a memory of a glorious past

The  Gunman

In Montreal, in a bar frequented by shadowy 
people who used French phrases, making money
fraud and mayhem, I bought a revolver that still
had five bullets in its chamber
The next morning, our ship was bound for Japan.
I worried about the gun, perhaps used in a heist
where someone got killed, and there was
The Kennedys are still in our memory 
Chief, they said, you look absent-minded, what's
Wrong, nothing is wrong. I have a slight cold.
Near the Sea of Japan, I threw the weapon overboard
because I knew if I had a gun when I was growing up 
I would, in my anger, have used a gun
I threw the revolver overboard, and an hour later, the 
cartridges I didn't want they to meet up 
The next day, I was my old self, free of guilt

Pots & Pans

We see on the net a dust bowl of horror called Gaza
people with remarkable pots and pans begging for
food around an open kitchen; the thought is, do they
keep the poets and pans so clean, do they take turns
licking clean any vestige of nourishment of the said
utensils, which tells me there is a Palestine under 
the ruins and there will always be a Palestine, if not
Today, but tomorrow it will be the day the flag will
hang from every ruin, free of Israel's hatred, and
endemic caused by the malicious influence of the USA
From the time America was influenced by the people
of the Old Testament

The Pleasure Remembered.
I saw her in a cafe yesterday; years had not been kind to her
her hair was matted, her skin was dry, and her lips were a sullen grimace,
not quite hiding her miss- coloured teeth.
Once, we slept entwined. I kissed the body and often burrowed
my head in her honey *** and drank her love juice like divine nectar.
She was sitting there, a lonely woman, thinking of her youth,
lost in thought, and her tea was getting cold.
It made me think of the nature of love; there must be a physical
Attraction first, loving the person comes later.
If I met her for the first time today, there would be no physical
attraction, but perhaps she would have had something interesting
to say. I just heard her cooing and ****** rapture.
The thought of sleeping with now was depressing, and for doing
that...no. But we did fly on wings of passion too high for us, and
we burst into flames, only ashes left.
She looked around but didn´t
Recognise me, why should she
A fat, bald man reading a paper?

The first attempt

This is the first poem I try not to think about.
It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo
I see the tarmac road that stretches miles ahead
must follow the lines of the road
or, fall off and sink into oblivion
Poetry is not unlike arithmetic; using words instead
of numbers
The hope is that the writing has an inner logic 
That defies jumbled words  
The instrument has a hidden note that tells us
That two is not four
I try  telling you what I  hear, it is easy, our obligation
to love our fellow beings 
This request can be obtained by honest feelings

Apocalypse 


I saw the storm approaching. It had a look of evil intent 
People were seeking shelter in the town's only café
I didn't like to share the place with so many, and I had to find my dog before the storm hit
I found what had been a bus shelter, a bunker from a war 
only remembered by historians, or a would-be writer 
The storm hit with a roar of death and insane destruction 
When it was over, the town had disappeared 
A field of sea green grass had taken its place, the stillness 
so acute I could hear the grass incessantly whispering, that
made my dog nervous,  we moved and walked on the sand
of the newborn 
We could not stay still, walking on in the hope of finding
a past that could be helpful when we arrive 
where the future was,  not sure if the old past and the new
The future would merge into a seamless whole

Cowboy poem

Cityscape, tall building, and smog-filled evening sky
In New York, no one sleeps here; a camel smokes
a cigarette and no one  finds that unusual
The big apple, tall women, and juicy scandals, what
else is there to know
Prosperity, even a bus driver can make it rich
be frugal, collect his mother's pension long after 
She has died or gone to Galveston
I knew a man in Nevada
He won on the lottery, bought a horse, and a guitar
makes a living writing lyrics 
It proves you don't have to go to New York to 
make it big, with luck, you can succeed, but if you 
still hesitate do try New Mexico

Architectural and Dogs

A large house on one floor with a multi-shaped roof
a myriad of inside doors fit for slamming when
House guests occupy all seven toilets
The owner of this house is a semi-retired person
Who, after creating a human, fails like
Elon Musk with his exploding rockets
The gorillas were such an attempt, but he was 
kind and let his mishaps live in the deep jungle 
Well, his foray into the architectural business failed
He took retirement but kept an eye on his dogs
Dogs? Yes, he created dogs for humans who 
might find loving another human, not wanting
to **** the other, find ample time for many hugs 
and cry proper tears at funerals

The flying lesson

White as a shroud, the virtual paper in front of me
I wanted to record my first flight in a Dakota plane 
Inside, the aircraft looked like a bus, reaching under
my seat for the parachute, the steward said
there wasn't, but he handed me boiled sweets which
I didn't eat in case it was a drug keeping us 
asleep, that made sense since many were drunk
Turbulence, like driving on a badly maintained 
country road, I threw up in a paper bag 
The plane landed in Sweden, and the flight had taken
less than an hour
Nonchalant, I walked across the grey tarmac, gave
my passport to an official who stamped it
here comes a seasoned traveler

God's Acre

In a field, not far from here, I see millions of lit candles 
But only at night, during the day, it is a potato patch
A man, you can call him God if you like, walks along 
The candles and, every so often, snubs out with his
thumb and index finger, a lit candle, with fingers
sore from this arduous work
He is heading for the part of the field where
The candle wax has burnt out, but the wick flickers
like grey smoke in still air
When dawn appears on the eastern mountain
The field turns into a potato patch
Where a man is harvesting spuds

The illusion 

In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint
made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like
that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines
 in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce
The Mesen who owned the factories had created this
park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons.
The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts
during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work
A  boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae
The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated.
The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time
had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal  
When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea
A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood.
No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.

The  Necktie

He woke up fully dressed, minus his tie, in the lumpy bed
of a third-rate hotel, which had a fridge beside the TV
The last semi-civilized place, one up from sleeping rough 
The room reeked of depravity, and a dusty curtain 
protecting the inhabitants from the cruel world outside
The news was about a woman who struggled with a tie
He sat up, and he had lost his tie
The tie was green with black dots on it, should he ring
the TV station and ask what color the tie is? 
Or should he remorsefully and fearfully sober confess 
to a ****** he could not remember having committed
The fridge rumbled, he got up, opened it, in the hope of 
finding a cold beer; there, wrapped around a bottle 
whisky, a red necktie

Oddballs in New York

The strange people who want to live
until they are 200 years old and, if possible, forever. 
Needless to say, these people are also rich
I saw the leader of the odd people, who tells us
He goes to bed at eight and rises at five
shift workers to have a similar routine, not they
wish to be a shift worker forever
The leader and his follower do not laugh as
Laughter might upset the blood and stomach
That has to be at ease at all times
Of course, they have no religion as they try to
outlive good and miracles
It is a pity that people should love and live now
Do not wait for an uncertain future

The tryer


in short bursts, the quiet expresses 
a need to communicate about work
done but not published

Self-critical, raked with doubts 
with no connection to the world
of publishing 

Offer from publishers is that he will pay
them, is like paying for ***; it leaves
behind self-disgust, this unbecoming
need to see one's words in print

The hard part is to admit to the lack
of talent, what else is there to do
other than collecting old stamps

Summer and a dog

Pure sunlight on a forever blue sky
beaches full of laughing people and
Happy Holiday, by Cliff Richard
Out of the sun glare came a cur
an emaciated dog that had walked
and walked for many miles to reach
a goal, finding the way home
Under a bush, it collapsed, and I gave her
water, found food for her, yes, She
probably she had been looking for 
her babies, they had taken away
It was all too late, she had died, it's 
Untold suffering had come to an end
Wrapped her in a plastic bag and left
her by the bin
The sun was blood-orange the day
had ended, deep shadows we could
see again, the sun had been blinding

Not a Democrat

Is democracy good for individual freedom
a year when spring sprang early
he bought horse and cart and made a living 
moving people's ******* to the town's pit 
He was not a man working from 9 to 5 in 
a factory where underpaid workers slaved 
putting macaroni in tomato sauce, into a tin
he had many children, but was not a pater
Familia, the children grew up with varied
success, some failed while others thrived 
Besides, he liked gardening, in the poor 
A section of the town people came to see his
display the beautiful flowers
In the night, people came picked the bloom
to give color to their meagre homes, that 
It was what he had wanted 
He lived a long life, and his wife loved him dearly
No, he was not a democrat

The fidelity 

the sin of the flesh, why is it a sin
sexuality is a strong and natural desire
but often the downfall of the great
who lacks respect for lust
treats it with a low moral attitude
There are the monks of Thailand
naked feet in sandals, and one assumes
naked bodies under burgundy
robes, can so easily fall prey to when
a lady of easy virtues comes along
this could and probably has gone on
for hundreds of years, but it became
a scandal when money came along 
I understand the monks, but reserve
my contempt for the likes of Trump and
Dershowits

The Awakening

My first wife's house was very small
her bed was narrow to
after ***, she told me to sleep in the bathtub
In the night, I got up, opened the window
The sea-washed moon came in
I have seen that moon many times before
from many portholes 
I was always enchanted by the pool
of stillness
I walked out of the sleeping house, by
the steps, my dog, I patted her head
but she refused to come with  me on my walk
By a lamppost under  a circle  of light
I waited for a bus that would never arrive

A new future

To wake up in the night and sense the awe of life is
light from street lights tells of other sides, as does
a car driving by at two in the morning 

Living forever is a punishment, but some people 
write a self-biography in the hope that when they
Die, they will be remembered 

To be blessed in the night, feeling the soul has
been free of the body and become everything 
that has a meaning

No, there is no flying away; the pain of life is
What makes one whole, to understand others
to give our earnest gifts 

We have absorbed into our hearts that there
It is a beautiful future, a rebirth, if not conscious 
That will bring harmony

The most important

Fine drizzle over the bay, falling slowly and hesitantly
as preparing for a proper deluge  
Who knows, perhaps it will not happen, and the sun
will shine even if it is a day older
Dry slippery cobblestone pavements for the aged
Since it is Saturday, the ships' tugs are at their anchorage.
as they want to be nearer the shore
One vessel has run out of meat and potatoes, a stable
Diet,  the chief steward, had bought a lot of cakes 
because he was depressed at the time and needed
cheering up
To mollify the crew, he told of a famous woman who
said when the people were hungry, "let them eat cakes."
The crew didn't think that was funny and threatened
to throw him overboard
From the shore came a motorboat  loaded with pears
oranges and cabbage, but no potatoes and no meat
The chief steward was trying to swim ashore

monday morning

woke up at eight, it was a splendid morning
cool before the day becomes serious and
demanding attention 
belonging to the 1% of people born before
the second world war, I'm often awake 
in the night before falling asleep again 
my first thought was not profound, but
about coffee, I had to drink it black since 
I had forgotten to buy milk
switched on the computer, reading the news
scanned an article about the lack of sleep that
only spoke to the middle classes
to those who sit in nice offices filling in
forms and are unspecified planners of
something they think is  important
not about building workers, or about those
who begin their day at six, shift workers
were overlooked, ditto the army of cleaners 
a psychologist from Leeds had a word in 
he had nothing relevant to say other than
he had a doctoral degree in sleep
not to be undone, an article about X that
was tendentious with no understanding
how important is it for our future
Dismayed, I went back to bed thinking
how idiotic the world is, full on self
important people and their tiny world

the date

it was late when my date entered
the kitchen closed, but the waiter served
We had gateau with white wine, but he refused
to give me red wine as it doesn't go
well with cakes

she drank a whole bottle and got giggly
at an outdoor kiosk, I bought two
hot dogs, one with mustard, the other
with ketchup, I ate both; she was in
the back throwing up.

I was not in a good mood when she
refused to come to my flat, the rain
didn't help
I walked her to the bus stop, and she
caught the last bus back to her parents

at the pharmacy

ome books in my bookshelf are unread 
and can stay the way, I need not read 
everything printed

depression hangs over the landscape like
dust on windows tells me the obvious
come clean me now

When finally going ashore, I had floated
like an ant on an oak leaf, I was baffled
electricity bills have to be paid

the pharmacy is open, but I will wait a bit
it is full of middle-aged women talking
about their illnesses 

there had been a storm, *** plants 
had fallen to the floor, the weather
is getting worse every year

the apothecary is empty. I walk in
to get medicine for diabetes, but
I no longer ask why me

Nagasaki

There are nights when things become clear 
when the Pacific Ocean lived up to its name 
I sat on deck, listened to the heartbeat of
the vessel, which ticked faster when an engineer 
opened a door and came out on the deck
Laughter in the mess hall, no, I was not at ease
in their company, too old at sixty
I have tried the swagger, the misogyny, where 
Women were either ****** or mothers
The ship was bound for Nagasaki, and I had
been here before when looking for a graveyard 
where Portuguese sailors had died when
Japan was an unknown land
When walking down the gangway,  didn't 
to say goodbye, it was dinner time anyway
before flying back to Europe

The mule in  Gaza

Slowly, on delicate legs, the last mule
in Gaza, pulling a cart carrying old 
mattresses, broken chairs, and small
shrouds of children to a resting place
Pulling a kart is as easy as there is no 
elevations in Gaza, nor is there 
a succulent green field where to feed
Who feeds the mule? It can't live on 
spent shells alone, who gives it water
to drink, can it be Hamas, who see in
the mule: the long dream of freedom
We all have dreams, the mule's easy
a green field of luscious green grass.

The First Paradise

We humans are related to the dolphins 
not so smooth, that's why we stayed  near
sea was shallow
Fruit trees grew near the shoreline and 
often apples fell into the sea, which was
as a blessing, and we walked ashore
On dry land, we become aware of our nakedness
and hastily covered our bodies in palm leaves
Flirting and lifting palm leaves became a sport 
disapproved of by the adults
In the apple trees lived snakes; if a woman was
bitten, she convulsed, and if not given 
satisfaction becomes what we know as Karen 
When children asked where we came from
adults told us we came from Mars
Now, scientists tell us they have found dry
river beds on Mars. I say no more

The Valley of the Forbidden

Sat under an oak in the valley of the naked woman
admiring her rounded *******, a malevolent oak
took offence, not that I minded, after all, it had been
at the same spot for a hundred years, long before the valley had a name.
Suddenly, the tree slapped me
a leathery branch
Oh, pain makes me strong
I forgave the oak and
thought of the pope who, every Thursday evening 
flagellated himself, in remembrance
of the day
When he was training for the priesthood, he nearly lost 
His manhood to the cleaning lady
The Valley of the Naked Woman has a hidden fountain
is guarded by thorny thistles and impotent apple trees 
Those who have drunk her loveliness will never be
sane again, loll in the sunlight of lost ambition
The wicked eye of the oak kept glaring when I hugged 
An olive tree, the oak knew I was a lover of the ethical.

Angry Conifers

Trees in the avenue
have a weird sense
of humor
Long roots cracking up
finely laid cobble stone
pavement
Slightly bent easterly
give pain in the lower
trunk
The younger trees
bleat about older trees
taking space
Older trees show
distain of needy trees
no dignity
Trees are silent
lack imparting skills
shake leaves

Black Chador

The women of Alexandria wear a chador that
mercifully hides her bony body, she could have
fitted a Dior dress snugly, but she doesn't
know this, she has walked ten miles to buy
bread for her children
She has been to the fruit market too, where
where rib-cage mules with sores stoically wait
A rich, elderly English woman tells the mule
As the owner of it, she has never felt the pang of hunger
Nevertheless, she puts bandages on a mule's
open sores
The woman in the black chador is oblivious of this
Empathy for suffering animals is
a concern of
the wealthy, those who have time to care

Walking to Rome

On my way to Rome, I walked with a group
of Jews who had left Israel because it had
become a racist state
The Jews were a group of young men and
women on their way to Rome to seek an 
audience with the Papa to ask him to take
a stance against the **** of brutality 
against the Palestinians
Their goal was the creation of a Palestine
They, as Jews, could be a part of a new future
I listened to their ideology, and they were 
Young enough believed in the shared dream
I knew that, should they see the P, he would
be nice to them and speak in a measured 
voice, because the Papacy was a political 
too, and nothing must upset the balance 
I don't know if they got an audience with the pope
But I learned something vital, I had tended 
to speak about the Jews in a negative form
and didn't see the difference between Zionism and Jews
As for me, I met a wonderful woman at Travessa
de Santa Maria and had a splendid time

Endurance 

For we are the blessed 1% surviving
The long night in a nameless town
and meeting two well-dressed Arabs
gentlemen suited in the style of 
ninety thirty-two and floral hats 

With fortitude, we face this modern
A time when lies are deep in sagacity
where the whims of the stupid are
the politics of the day, drink coffee
knowing we are the eternal.

Latakia, Syria

My ship berthed there when Bashar al-Assad, the vile 
When a dictator was in power, I found a peaceful  town
Dressed in a European manner, there were many shops
selling all sorts of wares, and the police wore sidearms 
not machineguns 
Latakia had an atmosphere of peace
Then suddenly, rumor had it that Bashar had jailed thousands
Many people were tortured and killed
The USA turned against him, mainly 
because of a Russian base nearby, proof that Assad was
on the wrong side of a conflict that appeared to
be based on lies
In the end, Bashar al-Assad fled to Russia, and Syria was free
One wonders what happened to the thousands of
tortured prisoners, said to be freed

Man and his dog

He awoke under the bed, and it had been his birthday
drinking champagne, eating Danish pastry, and smoking Havana cigars
He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out
a beer, which he thirstily drank while wondering why
Everything was so quiet
The maid had been in when he slept, and everything was in order
When did the guests leave, or had he partied with his teddy bear
Being lonely since his dog died
Looking out of the window, he saw many cars, and they had
No drivers and some had open doors as if abandoned in haste,
But what had happened?
In a bakery/café, he had a sandwich of cheese and tomatoes,
He made it himself since the lady who owned it
The café was not there.
It dawned on him that he was alone in the world, everything
He didn't need to share his good fortune with anyone,
Except for the cur outside that ran away and barked when seeing him
He tried the Rolls-Royce that belonged to the mayor
Yes, the ride was smooth, distracted by thoughts, he hit a lamp-post,
But never mind, there were other cars around
At an expensive restaurant where he once had dined,
He made and made himself a hamburger with hot fries
drunk on the most expensive red wine possible.
The dog that had growled at him looked at him through the window,
wagging tail, it knew he was the only one left to feed it
Months went by, and the window, his life, was getting a bit onerous,
just him and the dog following him around, getting fat from his overfeeding.
He stopped shaving, showering, and wearing the same pants
Since the day was endless anyway, why bother with personal hygiene
When there was no pressure to conform
Deeply depressed, he jumped from the top floor of
a tall building to end it all.
No such luck! He descended, slowly broke down, and cried freely
as the dog was the only witness to his sadness
Doomed to live forever, he lay down under the bed
But before falling into Nirvana's arms, he got up again
Someone had to feed the dog.

In the name of peace

I will put you against a wall, shoot you blue
green and yellow with my paint until you
a white flag of surrender
I will paint blood dripping red paint on your
for hire a plane, the one that dropped a bomb
In a café in Gaza
We know where the plane's pilot lives.
If that doesn't stop you, I will obliterate you
My arsenal of drones that shot a man off
His wheelchair, pulverize your house with all
It's chattel, if that fails too, I will use nuclear
Our bombs are for peace, but yours
are for evil
Do as we tell you, or we will **** you in the
In the name of peace

The Wardrobe

I opened the wardrobe door
There they hang, suits and trousers
worn so long, looking pale
copies of my figure
This can't go on, in a fit of self-anger
I gave my old clothes to the Salvation Army
Too much textile is a burden  
In a suitable shop, I bought a pair of jeans
and a matching jacket
Feeling adventurous, I walked out looking
For a mule, horses are too tall, began
Exploring the landscape of dreams

the accident

When crossing the street, cars had stopped 
to let him cross in respect for his age
He was thinking of death; he hoped it would be
sudden, no sentimental last farewell,
no lies
about seeing you on the other side
Should there be another side, he wouldn't
He liked to meet people he had met in life side
A piece of a Russian satellite that has fallen to the ground
days, hit him with utmost precision
And he watched as the ambulance people 
scrapped him off the street, the witnesses 
We were in awe, thinking it could have been 
We have to be nicer to our nearest
Now he was a soul drifting about, trying to
Find an opening back to life
At the hospital nearby, a woman struggled
to give birth, she was 38 years old, and
Therefore considered elderly for giving birth
The soul saw its chance to become a soul
for the unborn, well aware he would not be
able to know about his former life
Great jubilation, he didn't share as he was too young to know

True animal story

One-legged seagull
sat on the roof near the chimney
it was a male gull, its feather
worn like he had been
in a battle and needed a rest
when my dog  noticed the bird,
she barked the gull
shrieked, hate at first sight,
but for a truce
When the dog ignored
its presence and
the bird stopped  teasing her
the kitchen had a flat roof
in the morning, the bird had flown
the dog picked at her food
on Sunday, she listened to the sermon  
when the dog heard the priest say
something about angels
the dog knowingly wagged her tail

Time's little sister

She is so very young time has been around
for eons, his beginning forgotten
in the haze of no time
Yet, she was there to remember when time was kind
when roses grew, when people fell in love
Children's happy voices, the birth of nations and the end
of horrid regimes
Time is a brute, takes no interest in what is good or bad
carries without reason or regards
but his little sister is there to help people to remember
the world is full of wonders

The actor I knew

Mikael Elphick, a talented actor
I admired
he liked to read my poems and said they were like stories
and therefore, easy to read
He understood I was trying to find a space between
poetry and prose, that is why I dislike calling
what I write poetry, vignettes seem in order
Mikael was a kind man who liked that I was not
hanger faking friendship and being agreeable to his
political opinions, which I found eccentric
The last time I spoke to him was outside a café, he
was struggling to walk home, I gave him a lift
a reporter from the Sun newspaper sat in a tree
it might have been Pierce Morgan, as we know
has bullied his way on X
a few weeks later, Mickael was dead, killed by
his alcoholism

Horn Music

In the late forties and middle fifties
horn music and military marches tunes
were often parlayed in the town's park
and we lived nearby and bore the brunt
of this noisy music
to complain was not easy as the music
was seen as an expression of freedom
chasing the German army out of our
cherished country, admittingly with
the help of the Russian army, the
British took the credit
Horn music is simply horrible to enjoy
the noise one has to be unmusical
one would think the noise had stopped
with the arrival of modernity, rock and roll
and Elvis Priestly, but no
I was invited in the eighties to read a poem
in Oslo. When my turn came to read
the horn orchestra struck up.

jan oskar hansen. Cyberwit.net

The conference 

I had gone to a writer's conference
The room was full of authors only interested
in reading and pushing their book
I had brought a book called Hunger, written
by Knut Hamsun, the pages were loose and
kept falling off, but there was a picture 
of him a stern man-looking intellectual  
The leader of the meeting, a man who was 
proud he had not gone to college and said
he knew more than anybody else
did want to read Hamsun's book, because 
Knut had gone to university in Oslo
Since the room was full of writers pushing
their work and didn't want to be influenced 
by other voices, I left
In the parking lot, all the cars were white, my
car was a Russian jeep called Lada, but
I couldn't find it, so took my leave of the scene

A film star
It was not her creamy body that caught
My attention, nothing unusual about it
Curvaceous, yes but going soft, it was
Here eyes, in a blink they were blue, green
Or brown, depending on her mood that
Changed faster than traffic lights on
Sunset Boulevard
Between laughter, pain and suspicion
I could see her soul and wide-open eyes
They killed her slowly the famous men
Wouldn’t let her grow up a dumb blond
Forever
I could have made her happy, but when
I found the courage to ring her doorbell
Marilyn wasn’t around anymore.


Zen
Love is
A gold coin
That never rust

Now that we are totally automatized
can hail a driverless taxi that stops if someone lit a ***
A time when thousands of driver-less cars are stuck
in traffic on the motor way in the morning
That is when all automatized breaks down caused by
designer flaw or sabotage from cars itself
that are able to think and will not serve mankind
or decide on paid holidays in Southern France
When Elon Musk, refuses to return from Mars
the cry is, where can you find a donkey when
you need one?

**** time

Uniformed men with ice blue eyes, marched
Up and down the street, bomb fell, earth shock
And I was two years old
An officer with steel rimmed glasses and a cruel
Smile, said: this child is blond and has blue eyes
I clicked my heel, ****** my thumb
Mother, took to singing sentimental lieders
They gave her an iron cross, while dreamed
The kindergarten’s infant Fuhrer
To my regret, peace broke out and life was
Lull again, till I was circumcised and went
To live in Haifa, where I could *** over a new
Wall, which made me a natural leader of men.

Black is beautiful 

When I tore lose from the mountain
and fell into the river. I was a rough
stone, offended other stones as I lacked
manners and appeared gruff 
Now, however, I'm smooth, oblong and
black, feels no shame stating I'm masculine
different from the shed gray other stones
I share the riverbed with 
spring is when ice melts on the mountain
and I'm pushed along until I am an attractive
black stone on a creamy white beach
I'm worried about being stuck where
the river is shallow; a boy might find me
picks me up and put me on the widow sill 
in his room and forget me until his mum
throws me out with rusty nails, toys, and batteries
I will never feel the sea washing over me
and look hansom on a golden beach

The Cobwebs of Dreams

It was a sunny day, perhaps to clear
I thought
Mother sat in the kitchen sunlight, making her white hair into a halo
I asked how old she was, 92 she said, I knew
trapped in a dream, she didn't live that long
By the slow river, I saw furniture drifting 
My brother said that people who lived downstream
went upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport
cost, they dumped furniture into the river, where
relatives  downstream picked it up
sometimes, they lost a table or a commode, but that
was a risk one had to take
I knew this was a dream
Walking on a soft road in the forest, but something
wrong, a strange red light from the trees. I was
trapped inside a painting by a mad Russian artist
Luckily, I had a flick knife
Then it was morning, I'm not sure, the line between reality and the subconscious merge perhaps, yesterday is today.

demise of my horses

I had been away for a few days
visiting an aunt in Cascais
on returning home
my three stone horses are gone
a cheerless hole where they 
had been tethered
Widening the  road, they said
for this beauty must go
the enlarged road can carry
more and more cars
until the enlarged road is
too small, they decide to
build a motorway 
with toll booth
The other side of this new
the road will be impossible 
to cross on foot
Neighbors often visited
becomes strangers 
Sun or rain, spectacular
my horses were
before turning into grit