Free Verse
Angels Too…
I didn’t believe it
was possible, mind I had been away
for some time, angels growing old? In the fair Faro,
an old city in Algarve, Portugal she lives and used to
be as blond and pure as the ones one sees in fairytale
books, here where people are olive skinned and look
Arabic- which make them kinder than peoples who
live up north-. When she floated through my town in
the afternoon, people lined streets in the hope that
her smile would fall on them for luck, alas, no more.
Grey haired now, wearing slippers, bunions give her
great pain, she looks inwards which is a good thing
as no one recognizes her anymore. Smiled to her and
said halloo, that woke her up, she smiled back at me,
yes, the same angel is still in there just harder to see;
thus fortified by her glow I did my newspaper round.
Final Reckoning
Murky day in my
valley the mountain which
Is a gigantic, petrified tidal wave of soil and
boulders, is obscured today should it liquefy
the vale will be a plateau with a story to tell
but no one around to tell it too, except for
mustangs that only care about the quality
of the grass. Perhaps some of us would live
on in air pockets underground turning into
earth worms while looking for a light switch
we knew used to be on a wall while gulping
stale air, not grasping that we are doomed;
as a battery radio plays a dirge because
the king is dead like that should be our chief
concern on the day our valley disappeared.
Barefoot in the
Sand
The beach, I used to
walk here often years ago with
my dog—the
dog is now dead and it is against the law
for animals to be on beaches—except
for seabirds,
only because it isn’t practical to ban them, looks clean
and raked most of it is fenced in and belong to some
hotels. The bathing season hasn’t started I ignore signs
telling me I shouldn’t be here, ignore too a spy camera
mounted on a concrete pole. Ok, I’m too old to make
love in the sand, but I feel sorry for people who can
but are spied on and arrested for enjoying themselves.
Where sea washes sand it is easy to walk I turn and see
my footsteps erased by lazy ripples, it is like I never was
here, and I miss my dog. I will not be back here again
before the fall when the season is over, perhaps by then
there will be barbed wire and armed guards to stop me
seeing the sea I used to know so well.
Quip
In a land where no
one knows
how to boil an egg or to peel
potatoes, the cook is a TV star.
Cultivated Is My Valley
Peaceful is the
landscape and the lane that meanders
amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land
a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich.
Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes
there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines.
In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof
tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise
islands too one has to look out for falling coco-nuts
they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only
petals of the almond tree flower fall.
Birdsongs and breeze
that caresses olive trees, now that’s
peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate
a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her
potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio
on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so
why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows
with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of
galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane,
flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s
too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?
Corrida de
Touros em Portugal
The bull, led into
the arena knows no fear, its
rage is against the man and horse it sees as one.
Elegantly the Pegasus evades the bull’s horn,
the beast snorts, has no sense, bleeds dark blood
from wounds inflicted on the neck by its taunting
nemesis’ banderilhas. The bull, blood on muzzle
takes a break, Pegasus takes a bow, what a great
show. A group of men, dressed as cowherds of
yore, jumps into the arena, the unwilling beast is
provoked into attacking them, but weakened by
blood loss it is soon subdued, and much praise is
heaped on the bold group. Cows are brought in
to the ring, the bull meekly follows them out, later
it is butchered, its meat given to the poor its ears,
I presume, is nailed on the wall of the cowshed.
Stillness
This room, dirty
windows and
pale squares
where pictures hang,
has no furniture,
dust on floorboards
dance to a tune unheard by man;
the beauty here is that of
eternal nothingness,
the essence of happiness is less,
yet many fill their
space with futile objects
because they can’t bear
the intrusive silence of bareness.
Sonnet to a
Boulder
This big boulder in
the middle of the field
puzzles me; why is it there on its own and
not with its brother further down the vale?
It must be a sandstone, has many holes, yet
no mice live there. I thought it would make
a perfect home for furry things, but crossing
the field sea it too fraught, beady eyes and
wings everywhere, not missing a movement.
Guess time isn’t important to a boulder, it’s
summer now and it is hot to the touch but
there will be no rain before October; a few
months is no longer than waiting for a train
that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say,
but it does whistle when the wind blows.
Senryu
The silent tern
In a deep Finland forest
Speaks not of love
Ebony shines
A black star on the sky
Blinding you
What’s good is
Forbidden like
A Cuban cigar
My dad, the
sergeant,
Loved his army
Took it home at night
A tree’s nightmare:
A hungry, noisy chainsaw
At dawn
Love is
A gold coin
That never rusts
Sex without love
Leaves behind empty silence
And dejection
Flowers are
Colourful killers
Love funerals.
Controlling parents
Kill their broods
Childhood
On The Sunny
Side Of Life
An almond tree and
an olive tree stand close together touching
leaves, olive is a reluctant groom waiting for things to get
normal so he can go out with his mates again; the almond is
a blushing bride and she has got other plans for him.
I do not care about them today; there is an electric line over
this domestic forest, it goes all the way to Spain which is
suffering from recession. In my valley life is the same as
before
farmers till the soil and prune trees and eat. On a felled tree
a shepherd sits smokes a cigarette, by his feet three obedient
dogs wait for their orders bring the sheep home; miles from his
mind is the Spanish recession.
In a field of yellow flowers a lone red poppy stands, begs me
to pick it so it can get away from this foreign soil, to be put
in
a vase and admired for a day or two, which is as far as a flower
can see into the future.
I can smell the redolence of horse manure, if they could bottle
this scent as an after shave lotion I will gladly splash it on
and
people would think I was a cowboy. I always wanted to be but
never got to Texas . Mind I wanted to a general too, but hate
wars,
I think it was the uniform that pulled me. I became a short
order
cook 'till someone shot me and robbed the till. When my wounds
were healed I got a job as a taxi drier and saw people doing
unspeakable things in the back of my cab.
Work and I never got along it ended in a bitter divorce,
so I’m back in my valley again and will not get involved
with work again.
Tanka
Trees have long
shadows
Their Shadows don’t cast shadows
But they have a tree each
And since nothing is equal
They feel quite cool about it.
Haiku
It is fairly ok
To be old in November
In May it is hell.
#8 on 04-07-09
The Indemnity
I had bought a plot of land years ago and forgotten about it,
went to have a look smaller than I thought. A carpenter came
and built me a coffin with two floors, and as I sat on the top
floor watching TV the echo of an Italian, earthquake struck
and I fell down a hole. Felt wretched I had done everything
right in life always paid my bills but now I had forgotten to
insure my coffin. I came to the rescue centre and met a friend
he wore a gold chain around his neck its in inscription read:
“One Day At a time” He had been sober for twenty years paid
all bills but never laughed, so I gave him a bottle of whisky in
return for his chain…and he laughed and laughed, collapsed
and died. I felt desolate and cried, but a doctor came he was
trained to help people who grieved, told me it wasn’t my fault
and that my friend was responsible for his own demise.
Relieved and absolved for my sin by a man from the medical
profession, (priests are so yesterday) I sold the gold chain and
built a small log cabin in a forest but near a lake in case of
fire.
# 8: on
04-13-09
Meeting Equals
White haired, the
queen skin as bee wax, she
had a honeyed smile when shaking hands with
the president and his wife; how far they have
come she had said to her husband only this
morning. The presidents, the most powerful
family in the world, wonder if the children are
aware of that, and first lady, from a street wise
lawyer, to a wife whose job was to look pretty.
There was a great glow in the air, new time
meets old time and the past was hidden behind
a smile; however there was a question rumbling
in the first lady’s mind, but she pushed it back
for now: “why, it asked, are all the white folks so
exceedingly nice to us?
# 9: 04-11-09
Girl in the
Park
In the park I saw my
dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café too, it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.
# 10 on 04-19-0
It’s in the Showing
In poetry one is
not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in van Gogh nature, and I know of a
field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention, as a beauty
show where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know, but will—
not tell you, by end of May it will all be gone, straws will be—
pale and dry, shriek in pain when trod on. That is why I have
a cistern and collect every drop of water that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself, lift up the cistern lid look
down and the tiny fishes that swims there will think you are
angles. I’m their God, I have told them so, sometimes I shout
down flick a lighter, just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m
not
sure if it works anymore last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water, fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish may have said: “If he’s God why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
him, we are the ones who keep the water clean. You see, I have
told you nothing only shown you a world where fledglings jump
out of their nests, to test their flying skills, and never make
it back
home again.
# 11: on 04-24-09
…And It Was Her Summer
“Go back to the children’s home, she
said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you”. Late June afternoon she sat on a
bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled—I
didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice–cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning I threw the
coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought
of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear
and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s
hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of
coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them was my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it
must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there
and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to see me.
# 12: on 04-22-09
Daybreak Song
Soon it will be morning and I can’t
have drink
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like; “face the truth,” but not saying what that
truth is. And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood and you can see
they are not being honest. Now I have a watch
on my arm, I never had a wrist watch before but
the woman I live with bought me one as it would be
good for my self respect, like I should go around
hating myself. On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break, I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it I will simply postpone my
dreams and sleep till sunlight hits my face and
I know it will be ten in the morning and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.
# 13: 04-22-09
Assassination?
The country lane I walked on twisted
and turned I didn’t
know what next to see after a new bend, I like it so a straight
road, one I see till it disappears into blue yonder, is scary
fear I will not reach its end. People came walking up behind
me, I stood aside and took my cap off; it was the lady, I had
seen jogging on this road, strolling along with a tall, dark
man,
in his shadow she looked timid and insignificant, with a smile
glued firmly on her red lips, this gave a hint of deep sadness,
that of one who had lost the highest office in modern time.
A step or so behind them, ambled another man, with a fun sign
on his back that read:” We have suffered now it is our turn to
dish it out, kick me if you dare.” I heard the cough of a colt
forty-five, and the tall shadow fell to the ground, the fixed
smile stood motionless in the baffling glare of the midday sun,
the man, with amusing sign, had run into the bushes; smoke
spiralled from his hand, a cigar? Sky darkened, thousands of
war planes loaded with smart, cluster, bunker busting, stupid
and sweet, looking bombs for any surviving children of
the catastrophe that was about to befall their country.
