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

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

for a little slander
The new president of America has told Europe to look after its own defense which means NATO without the USA’s help becomes a boy’s club for retired politicians pretending, they are a fighting force eager to defend Ukraine which can’t be done without dragging without risking a serious world war, they hands are tied since Ukraine s not in NATO, an easy excuse because we know it is not true, but it has not stopped leaders in Europe to hammer their support of Ukraine to get at the Russians although knowing the war could have been avoided but for idiotic policies
Oh, how Europe’s leaders hugged Ukraine to their hearts delivering money and weapons to what was and is a corrupt regime
How quickly they changed tunes when the USA told the truth, mates you are on your own we will not defend you anymore you are masters in your land and responsible for your own security How sweet it was to my ears spoken by a man we vilify because he wears a tie too long for the snobs in Brussels who has a leader that wears her hair as fashioned like a helmet
After a shocked silence voices were heard but the man was right, we are responsible for our security -silly sods- Suddenly -Ukraine was no longer Europe and must find peace with Russia Spring thawed in February, on Valentine's Day on a day when Macron’s and Obama’s wives exchanged glances
For us, we were humbled and ignored it was a great day too finally the war is not imminent but we must not forget the clever people in Tel Aviv will find a way to upset the Apple chart

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.

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

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

Nostalgia 

there is nothing in my past
I like to re-live 

I remember my childhood
in every painful detail

I have no nostalgia for 
a mythical time that never was 
 
Living with scars that
will never heal 

Exploited at every level
feeling every sting

I'm glad that time is gone
welcome maturity

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

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 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.

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

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

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

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 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

Paradoxical revolution  

Enough of this, I have been standing still far too long
I shall become revolutionary, not murmur descent
For fine-tuned ears, no, I will scream my hatred to 
the ruling elite with a megaphone, cultured dancers
Delight, amaze, waving a wand like I'm a magician, and
wish for the capitalists to sink under the sand
I shall spare no one, least of all the friendly billionaire 
the only wealthy man whose flaws are open 
For you to discover, he is a poet of the heart, and his businesses are a sideline while waiting for the magic
of words
I shall demand that Facebook and X must stop selling
****, they will be closed down
Get me right, an equal society must become unequal 
for the sake of the common good.

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?

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

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

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 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

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

Sauntering


How does one go about writing 
a lovely poem, one that does not have lines
like comparing her eyes to a crying 
Morning rose alone all night in the garden

I like olives, not the plant that is, rather
boring, but it's fruit, in a jar with the pips
taken out and free of bother, going through
pages finding a word that fits with olive

I wrote a poem themed on Oedipus,
But the site that prides itself on publishing
Everything, you can find the poem unless
You are prepared to look to dawn.

Let me say something trite: I'm happy 
to have a roof over my head, but if the
The roof is not yours, one has to side with 
those in power of the day.

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

Baku and the Swedish cook

It sounds impossible, but 72 years ago, I was
a galley-boy on an old tank ship loading
oil for Iceland, a country with watery beer 
Baku, I remember the long avenue, empty
of people and poorly lit.

The cook and I had gone ashore, and we were 
the only one who dared me, because I had
not been brainwashed, and the cook who 
was Swedish, Stige Hellander, his name, and
a communist

There was a party somewhere near the men
Who wore a double-breasted suit to grow in
and padded shoulder, making them look odd
Oh, yes, they were party functionaries
Stige, the cook, enjoyed himself with free *****.

They put it in a corner with a bottle of  milk
and bars of chocolate, until it was time to go
back onboard, Stige, the cook, sang rude songs
Now, seventy-two years later, I learn that Baku
is not in Russia

To have, or not to have

Many people are from the outside, beautifully formed
with a mind that can absorb empathy and warm sympathy
but life itself makes us harder around the edges, as it is 
It's not possible to live fully, shall we say, without knocking oneself free of cultural norms
Can friendship exist between the classes?  
Yes, but it can be a strain
The wealthy can be sentimental watching a movie on TV
about poverty, but they will be hardheaded when making political changes that make classes more equal
Of our three classes, I have been through them all in my time
born into poverty, rising above its self-loathing tendencies 
despite its richness of local wisdom, funny memes, and
often jubilant humor
Finding myself among the middle class who are stuck between two cultures, don't manage well, show contempt for workers, and loathsome dripping respect for the better off.
With this, I mean the royal household. I can't think of a more 
An abject group of people, who, when paraded in public.
I have a very wealthy friend who suffers from being unsure if
people like him or not, I tell him to give me his money, it will
set him free, I shall bear the burden, whether people like it or not, alas, I have not been able to convince him

Frank Sinatra

In front of you, a cocktail glass with
melted ice and a pink straw, she wants you to come 
You are going home, but on your way out 
You meet an old friend 
So you have another drink
Before you know
other friends arrive, great fun, and we sing
It is four before you get home and crash on the couch 
And you know when you wake up at noon 
She will not be mad, you  will be sad; say it with flowers
and a promise to be home every night 
Before the Ed Sylvain show
The phone rings, and an old crooner is having his last show
You can't miss that
His wife can come along, it will be fun, but we can't 
We have to behave around Nancy

A Fable

I was spending an afternoon with a billionaire 
On our walk through town, we came to an art salon 
on its wall, a painting I liked but could not afford
The billionaire offered to buy it for me, but reserved 
The right to take the artwork back should I die
because he is an art collector,
The salon refuses to sell to the billionaire, who buys the salon
and everything in it, at a price no one can afford to
refuse; my rich friends hand me  the painting
that I no longer want, because I liked the idea that 
something costs more than I can afford 
The wealthy man shrugs as he has made a good deal
This afternoon, later that day, he paid for a burger 
and coke, and I don't mind him paying

We are not cynical

She had been married once or twice and lived among
the rich, that was what happened to air hostesses when
there was a frisson about this job.

Her last husband came from Amsterdam, a doyen of
the fur trade, elegantly dressed, and a walking stick
With a stick, one assumes he was quite elderly.

He had bought her a flat with many rooms, too many
one of lesser background would think, then to her 
surprise, he suddenly died

So what was a girl to do, sitting with a flat not all
paid for, sensibly, she rented out the flat to people 
Who could pay and keep the heating on come winter

Then she met her final man just as her legs were
getting tired, he would do, she thought he had a car
and doesn't bother about a high-flying life

Thus, a love story blossomed, if not a lady and a trap
Yet, a love story of a sort, he needs her to do the talking
So he can sit in his room and write

The Will to War.

We are living in a difficult time for European  leaders
They are preparing us for a war that will go on forever
beneficial for the manufacturing industry
They don't want a real war, but need psychoses 
of war and steal our democracy 
people in the Nordic countries are asked to buy
food to reserve at home should a crisis occur  
What are they talking about? Most of us live from
paycheck to paycheck
Furthermore, we are asked to zeal our homes 
And stock up on ion tablets, do they think that
Everybody lives in a suburb, and most of us have
flats, often cramped, in big cities 
Our right to speak our  minds is undermined by
those who are social democrats in name
There was a time in the sixties and seventies 
when democracy in the north was vibrant and
alive, although you could freely shout **** 
without being censored, but we could open  
a business or settle somewhere else without 
Should you feel aggrieved, the X will listen
If you disagree with your missives

My Indian books

How many small books have I written 
perhaps something between 15 and 20 books 
all of them short, between 60 and 70 pages 
Published by Cyberwit. net in India, and as far
As I know, not a single issue has been sold 
I have been reading the young man's work
it is full of love and passion and demands to be
taken seriously, alas, there are many misspellings
lack of commas and sentences that are not 
structured according to English grammar, but the passion
It's like an open sore of hurt that still bleeds 
Yes,  I know, I was young once and wrote many books
I can't understand why Cyberwit.net never tried
to sell any of my books

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.

The Danish Mermaid 
 
The famous mermaid of Denmark we know well 
a grey figure, the color of seals with ******* 
That was not seen as a threat to anyone's sensibility  
I have described the old mermaid, I didn't know
There was a new one, whose large, **** **** had 
caused uproar among the female population in
the democratic kingdom of Denmark 
The spokesperson for women claims that women
do not look that voluptuous and want the statue 
removed from public display, shielded from eyes 
of lust of men who know what, 22 years old
looks like in  hushed evening light
The women of power who run the charming land
have prudish tendencies and will not upset their
sisters showing what a young woman looks like
**** and full of life

Double yellow lines 

I sit inside a massive fog of nothingness
plays on my imaginary piano using one finger
a ditty, sun outside, sun inside, sun only sun
I feel massively and supremely untalented 
Now that the amalgamation of writers, poets
dancers, trampoline ladies, and painters that
lived inside of me, has turned into a block
immovable zero 

I look at a black dot ringed by a grey cloud 
If I stare at this long enough, the cloud might
disappear, only it is not, it turns into a dervish
The amalgamation has fractured, and I sit on 
a rowing boat on a green sea, watching gulls
white as angels fly upward into a hole in
a void, at last, there is silence, and I'm at ease
With my vastly incompetent self

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.

The Italian language

I would like to immigrate from Portugal to Italy
After ten o'clock at night, I switch on the TV 
and watch an Italian soap opera 
I don't understand a word of what the actors
say, but it is the way they say it, no hard 
Consonant, no one is asked to stand to attention
For a comma, a full stop is a mere bagatelle 
Not understanding what actors say is not 
important, it is about ****** expression and screams
So many pleasant surprises, last night's program
about a man who looked scruffy, he looked like 
an evil character, but as it turned out, he is a police
inspector and arrested the man who looked like 
matinee idol for the ****** of the girl 
All this happened in a modulated language where
crass consonants, dare not enter

The bordello camp 

Morning in Aruba, the ****  has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in 
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A ******, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the ***** camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance 
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends 
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for ***

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 Failure

It is about vanity, a need to see one's name in print
The shortest of glory, five seconds, ten?
Switch off at that point of glory, and the fame can last
until someone else demands to use the tablet 
A book of poetry, published in a small town in India 
61 pages, and the editor and owner of the press 
tells us the poems are great, not panegyrical, but ok
Sitting down to read one's thoughts only to discover 
misspelling and less elegant sentences, what 
The eyes had not seen before glared up with a smirk
Oh, the shame of this must keep it a secret, not tell
Should anyone ask,  say the book was not published 
this year and turn the talk to something  else, like
the high electricity prices