Like the father the son

He is a lovable rough, the father of a famous son who keeps us guessing what the hell he is up to next, a father who is a buccaneer, sails the deep sea, and fears not the tempests on his way
Can a son ask for more?
The father never was a nine-to-five sort of bloke who operated at the edge of the law, like a pirate would, fingers in many lucrative pies, that is what daring men do those, who believe in themselves, live to tell the tale.
The son might lack the old man’s charm, still, he has otherwise emulated him but prefers to stay ashore, an influencer of magnitude selling his ideas to those on top of the political heap and like his father faces tempest with bravado.
As for me, a shy poet, thrown ashore with irregular works and lacking the go-get appetite for life, his father is the type I wish I were.

from the news


A tomato met a non-tuber plant 
sweet music
a birth to what is known
as potatoes, these days also called fries
Just think if the tomato had not 
been so unfaithful trying it on with
any passing plant
What would  our diet be like 
without the beloved spud 
I read this in a paper that extols the free press
With the mild hand of exceptions 
These days, the paper has fallen on hard times
and had sold out to real estate
not the two-up and one bathroom 
houses in the millionaire class, after all
One has to show class
This morning, an article about jellyfish, that
In my youth, there were plentiful along the coast
of Norway, some of them stung
Now we have to go to the Outer Hebrides to
Find one in shallow pools
What I took away from the morning paper
was of potatoes, tomatoes, and the selling
of posh  houses

What the papers didn’t say

We read the octopus is an intelligent animal, I’m not sure if this is true but they can be trained to
play with dipping bottles filled with water. The sinister side is the female octopus, who after ***
takes her partner's fertilizing instrument with her
and soon the male octopus will die. In our world, it is not that bad, a man risks losing the house and
the lawn he had lovingly trimmed, but he had done his duty leaving her two lovely babies
his ending might come on the streets of San Diego Today I will not be cynical but leave this octopus behavior to Marina Hyde
Gerhard Depardieu is in trouble for ****** assault
which denies, ******* the maid, in the kitchen is
nothing to bother about and the maid was a willing participant, I think the great actor lives in
Russia, I hate to think why he does
The great IDF has killed 50.000 Palestinians and
those left alive are starving to death, if you are in doubt about not stopping mass ******
We are not able to hear their cries our sight is
on Ukraine to stop that war that the people in Brussels want to last till 2029 and never mind the killed soldiers, it's war baby take it on the chin

the mind is open for a change

Headless embrace an easy life a lift down the seventh floor to a foyer and doors that open automatically a café serves one from cooking peeling potatoes and ready-made salads
a walk in the avenue of shops that have empty words while expensive cars drive driven by owners whose sense of beauty is a Musk truck dead steel against the greening grass
then you know there will never be dog hair on the sofa, and there will be no happy, friendly dog you're here and she is content
You plan your escape from the trivial, how fast a lift takes to ground level, but meet an obstacle called old age and the maidens have gone
Finally, you see yourself in the bathroom mirror the ultimate purveyor of truth, the loss is
absolute, but despite that dreams are bigger than you whisper and tell you of a way out

The blues affair

I met her where the light was weakening
an enduring twilight had settled on what
was re-lived in the memory of summer
moving out of the convention, tired leaves
in the soft breeze on its final breath.
We spoke of the past but not of the now
the present didn’t matter.
I saw her as a disappearing holograph
dying in the mist of life lived
past emotions could not awaken
she had gone to a place I could not follow
as her face was erased.

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.

Human versus pre-human
Are humans born with a soul? I don’t know but I think a newborn child has yet to acquire a soul   A newborn absorbs everything it sees, including colors and voices, the way it is lifted up given a bath hugged, and song too, absorbed into the new memory bank and stored The child is not aware of this, but it is the building block to acquire a soul that can rudimentarily think, hence a soul that learns right from wrong now, if an AI figure is fed information like this does it, acquire a soul that has moral knowledge? If this is true, the ramifications are disappointing because we are only equal to an AI, who in time will master how to recreate itself

A Yellow silk scarf
He bought a yellow silk scarf at a second-hand shop
In Cheshire, the type actors were, when meeting for
A drinks party; the mirror told me he wore the scarf
With seedy elegance, which normally comes to those
Who has no self-awareness, better still, ignores what
Other people think.
In Ashdod, someone broke into his cabin, the thief
Stole his Ronson lighter, he could overlook that
But his yellow silk scarf went unforgiven forever

Changing world?

In Peru, they import potatoes
In Guatemala, they plant thousands of trees
drink cacao, sit in groups, and sing
think they are new agers 
the new war in The Middle East began 
because Israel saw the need to attack
Iran, this to defend itself
Netanyahu is in uproar with the Iranians
has bombed a hospital
A Jewish lady tells me about the killings in Gaza
is done by Hamas, and it has nothing
to do with IDF!
Iran is in chaos, totally ruined, and ready
to surrender to regime change 
but the lack of potatoes in Peru worries
me the most

The Battlefield of Survival

There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who 
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
 he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists 
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic 
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke 
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea

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

the avenue's trees 

What is with this month of May
the day is as cold as November 
the leaves on the trees are full
and green, yet among the mass
of chlorophyll, I see many yellow
and Auburn leaves.
It is as if the trees think of autumn 
has arrived and is prepared
for winter hiatus.
If I tell the plants it is because of
melting ice in the Arctic, they
will look skeptical and say
we follow nature's signal, this
year will be the shortest one
on record, except for the ano
of 1748, when snow fell in June

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.

Reflection

It is autumnal, and the wind blows
Light from lampposts sways
The day smells of oncoming winter
Sadness and a longing for the past
It will always be like this
The hankering for years gone by
Like the wake from a ship
The birds in the sky will leave to
The curtain billows, ready to set sail
Across the seas, towards infinity
And beyond

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.

They ****, children

A hum of silence met me
Dead babies everywhere like dolls on the filthy carpet
a lone soldier guarded the ghastly scene
looked stunned and dazed, said we had to do this
they are the enemy of tomorrow
a man in a protective suit and mask came in
spraying white snow like powder, covering the horror
body fluid ran out of me and covered the floor
an ice rink of sin
I was drowning, but how to swim in this torrent 
of sweat coming out of every poor
The soldier who had shot the children shot himself
the man in his protective suit said he was weak, not 
the type of soldiers we need
The dead children, they would have become Hamas
of the future
Lethargy and helplessness 
My inaction had condemned me for all time
the morning sun refused to shine over this devastation 
Forever, we have to struggle in a fog of depravity

The dog of my life

This is not an evening when one feels jubilant
When I look out of the window, I see a few cars going up and down the road till they reach the roundabout and drive back past my window
There is nothing to be surprised about in this town, dramatic car crashes happen in America
Where Hollywood is afire
When I lived in the countryside and had a dog
We walked in the forest and there were always new things to discover, often we stood still and listened to the silence, we could hear trees Coming home I lit the wood stove while the dog
Oh, so lazy stretched out on the sofa, feeling
while I was in the kitchen preparing her food
I had given up telling her to eat slowly
Contentment never lasts, we had twelve years
Together what’s left is a wonderful memory

to a vegan be

We humans can be good for wild animals
Their life of surviving hides hearts of love
by showing empathy and understanding
They can change and show utter devotion
to a human who loves them back
and lessen the struggle for survival,
to be on their guard where there is aggression
is the only emotion allowed
When an animal feels that way, its love
is timeless, you are a liberator
A question remains: how can a man eat
burgers when knowing a cow was killed
to sate our appetite for meat.

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.

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

glasses

On my desk, the driving glasses, a 15-year-old is in a right
mood for it has been a struggle
for the glasses to be
accepted again after I bought a new pair that cost me a fortune
The state of the art frame, 
yet useless, but I will not buy new ones.
My old glasses
purchased in a small shop that had no pretensions of being unique as
master of Spectacles,
alas, you have to tell people you are wonderful and apex and that
cannot be surpassed or not, people avoid you and go for the
liers and cheats in suits.
I fell for ads and bought the overpriced pair that could not
difference between red and green
What relief it was to rummage through my office drawers to
find my old glasses.
is not what I wanted to say; what I meant was by looking
at the lenses if they
could tell me a story and remember something I had
overlooked  a thing on
my mind lost it in the life of April

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

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?

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

Morning poem
From a prince’s shining light will it be possible to see the beginning of the day as it was before dawn the moment before it was unkissed by anyone but you before life began as the story go And no one knew what to say about the day
Before anything was born leaving the darkness behind like an unwanted dream of what was before the light was born
Is it not possible to see what life was before the mountain kissed the shore unseen by anyone but you not yet awake to understand the wonder of a new day so never mind the light if you have seen the beginning of the day the last kiss before I die
I shall say no more.

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

**** 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.

a mystery 

Dumb. criminal and ******
Also courageous, we ask ourselves
Why did we find him heroic
when nearly shot
Almost killed by a young man
We are told nothing about
Political killings happen too often
Perhaps re-selection is
That brings us to another ******
that of Charlie Kirk
Something does not add up
The young man accused of the killing
perhaps did not
Those investigating the ******
are confused
Is there another killer on the loose
If so, we are not informed
We can speculate 
Once he was an Israeli asset, until
He woke up asking questions
The answers he got  were discouraging
They had told him he was property
and do as told
His angry protest got him killed
a female name props up
A moment of glory in the spotlight
Did she know Charles was
doomed

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

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.

Riches

Dark clouds hang over the valley this morning
will rain,  I hope there will be a rainbow too
I have a silver ***** ready, a plastic bucket
leather boots as well.

Last time, I found a nugget of gold where a multi
colored arch got stuck in the ground, my brother
took it, lives in the Bahamas now, and pays
no taxes and have seven servants

He wasn’t happy, so they sent him to Betty Ford’s
clinic, where they teach him to accept his guilt and
stop beating himself up because of a trifling
culpability, attack of remorse can happen to us all;

Forget your sins. Sober is bliss, and God forgives
and speaks English. If I am rich today, I will not tell
anyone, keep my money under the mattress, live
like a pauper, and enjoy my solitary treasure.

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

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.

Cold is the wind in Europe.

It is a stormy evening, brown leaves flying in the storm
dank and dry, torn from the mother tree with hatred 
I'm thinking of Macron, the president of France,
extolling globalization. I'm a nationalist, from
a country that has naturally evolved, has its own culture,
and an unspoken agreement on how people should perform.
We don't want a global nation with one culture, one language, one thought as dictated by newspapers owned
by the globalists.
It has been tried before under the dictatorship of Stalin.
Macron is, in the words of Oscar Wilde,” Deep down he is
a shallow thinker.”
Migrants are welcomed in my country if they are willing
to accept our culture and not demand changes 
But have accepted the system as it is.
Mass migration is a manufactured phenomenon; it could
be avoided by investing in the countries they hail from and
It is political to sow discord in Europe.
We see how the USA, a beacon of democracy, has been turned
into a semi-tyranny helped by the opaque forces of Zionism
They want globalization to serve their end, that is, to enslave
and bend us to their will.
The working class in Britain gets it, and the ditto Germans
to see the way their countries are going, and the protests
because of this, know a new war will come, a war that can
benefit the Zionists.

thoughts in the night



The wind is terrible, races around like a drunken

dervish hollering in the night, but when tired of

This needless validating of masculinity it became

quiet; to let my thoughts and worries take over

Simple things at first, should I put the chicken soup

in the fridge, although the soup was still tepid

Of course, the soup was a ruse to stop me thinking

of my declining health, nerve pains, and so on

My doctor, a lovely woman of 48, asks me about

drinking, I tell her I drink red wine between ten at

night to eleven, then I go to bed

She looks out of the window, tries not to smile

Clearly, she doesn't believe me, but it happens to

be true but I see she thinks I'm eccentric

all this is a prelude, to my thoughts about death

will it be painful struggling for air, or will it be

mild like going to sleep and not waking up again

Whatever happens, I will not be able to write or

Make a drama of my death

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.

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

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.

When nothing makes sense

Let's go to Doctor Lunda, she said 
I found a place near the bus terminal that had no buses
A policeman came and said we could not park there
and rules are rules, but he offered to drive to Dr. Lunde
in my car, on the way, he got the gears wrong, and we ended up in a shallow lake
I called a truck, and the policeman said that the owner of
the car
I was responsible;  rules are rules; the truck pulled out
Dr. Lunde turned out to be a chiropractor, the policeman
said I had to pay because I was the owner of the car
where he got a bad back
Later, we drove to a furniture dealer and had a cheap 
Swedish furniture we had to put together ourselves
but the glue was free of charge
I am not a handyman
A lady came into the shop and said I had to clean
my car since everyone around here is posh
When I had cleaned the car, we walked to a café
that sold Swedish meatballs with mashed potato 
but on that day, they had no mash left; meatballs
and mash go together, the woman would not let
us buy anything, the policeman said rules are rules

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

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.

Me a Racist
 

It was overcast this morning with fine rain
but as an offensive racist, I’m
I forced myself to get up at eight and take
a shower.  The water was cold no more gas
I called myself some slurring racist words.
Kicked the mirror, the one in the hall that had seen
me **** and laughed, went out to buy a new
bottle, my racist wife- she is from Kinshasa and
dislike men with red hair- asked why I didn't
buy two gas bottles and keep one in reserve, like
I should be kind to a racist.

Swindlers
I had been scammed, a woman on Facebook
Asked me for friendship
Told me of a website that could help
Tried, a picture of a well-suited man looking suave
Asked me for 500 euros, before I asked
What he could do for me
Why should I give you 500 euros?
It is my charge to help you recoup your loss
What loss?
I just know, he said
Is it no longer possible to trust any firm operating
On the internet
This demand for money before proving anything
Hoping for the best is not a solution

The walking stick and Elon Musk

I was a galley-boy on an old tankship 
that docked in Liverpool for repair 
I think it was in May, and I was sixteen 
at a second-hand shop, near the docks
I bought a walking stick and happily used it
the stick going ashore to the pub or 
to buy fish and chips, unaware of how odd
I must have looked, no one said a word
Coming back on board, it was the second
The officer who said I looked ridiculous, no one
uses walking sticks anymore, you are not
a ******* lord
Enter, into my self-contained world, what
other people thought of me
I became self-conscious, and it worried me 
What did other people think of me personally
His words brought on a shyness that stopped
My plans for the future
Who knows, I might have become the first
Elon Musk
He has freed himself of what other people
think, or so we believe, but deep down, he
likes to be loved

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

Serenity

At the corner shop
They have sold out happiness
On sticks
They sell fresh bread
Also, plastic toys
The greengrocer next door
Sell carrots, cabbage, and leeks
But no heart-shaped tomatoes
Further down the road
A shop sells exotic cheeses
However, none of them sell Joy

Morning poem

This morning, sky and sea had the color shiny grey and I could see forever and saw a man and his son on the deck of a big ship, eating prunes because it was good for digesting heavy food. In my childhood prunes a rare fruit was served at Christmas for the same reason, but only in America could one get hamburgers, as told by seafarers who had seen the bright lights at a place called Broadway.                            
The sky shifted color to everyday grey, it began raining and the morning show was over

Shoes shopping

I dislike wasting my time shopping for shoes
The man who wrote Wasteland, a famous poem
He is known for this; he did like boots too for walking
He did indeed, and many other things too
I, when I had a bike, cycled through the Wasteland
a domestic landscape growing beautifully wild
I don't see it now, there is a distance between
me and the dream I had, the touch, the aroma of
Nature is also a memory of horse manure in
a field verdant as the sea around Greenland.
I need a wasteland, a place where I can lose myself
Without it, life is an endless, trivial repetition.
Tomorrow I will buy a pair of walking boots.

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 Lay of the Land
If my thoughts had wings
Or better still, had arrows and a bow
To pierce your heart
You will open your emerald eyes
As only seen in the sea of Greenland
Seek my embrace
We will be the sky and the earth
Filling the air with fog
Before we make love
Our Titanic love is too great for
Sluggish humanity to clasp
Kiss me slowly, caress me long
we will purify a putrefied world.