A Thousand Tales and Poetry 60 pages By Jan Oskar Hansen
End of Austerity
Winter had ice on the village pond, under elm trees sweet snow, and our village was a postcard. Now it is about the price of potatoes, no herring in the sea. Austerity, old women have been cooked and made into lard. Old men have been rounded up, put in barrels and salted; to be eaten,-as dry cod fish,- with green leaves of spring. No winter wood, shot gun pellet damp and rabbits eat the carrots, bankers live on curried eels rolled in euro notes, they let no one in. Austrian mist dwells over Europe, yet there is the promise, EU has disappeared like the romantic alpine fog; the drachma and escudos are a legal tender again. Winter of discontent is over the English will be scheming while waiting for approval by the USA (the special relationship is a misty London dream) The French and Germans can continue their natural enmity, as Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg stir, as always, the big black pot of political intrigues.
Lost Love
On TV, the weather women I secretly love, said it was 22 degree Celsius outside and a beautiful evening. She smiled and winked, knew I was admiring her.
She left and gave room to world news read by a man in suit and tie; he read about disheartening news and an Arab spring that is turning into a military dictatorship
The weather woman walked home, turned on the TV and tried to see me, but I was on the terrace watching the stars and I had, in my distraction, forgotten her.
A voice From the Past
My childhood friend rang me he hadn’t been ringing me for some time he is the shy type and only ring when he has been drinking and judging by his infrequency of calls he is rather abstinent. He spoke of the time he time of our boyhood when found, in a warehouse, Nazi uniforms and put them on marching around the streets shouting “Hail Hitler” But this in 1947 a time when children were given some room. If a child behaved something like that today, now that time is so very intolerant we would grow up not getting a job because of our childhoods’ criminal past. Referring to Nazism is a crime and it doesn’t matter how old you were at the time. He wants to visit me and I have told him that’s ok, yet I hope he will not come; our childhood was eons ago and I cannot by mere words bring him the magic he wants to hear of our infancy that in the end was rather banal and full of dreams of what to do when we’re adults.
Suntan In order not to cry I travelled, to the west, then south and east. Then I travelled up north, and in Stockholm, on a sunny day, “the sun doesn’t shine that often in Sweden,” saw and old lady on a terrace on the second floor of a house, sunning herself. She sat there in the morning and the whole day. Next day too and the sky was blue, I though she really must love the sun. She didn’t move just sat there in the sun. On the third day I got a suspicious and told a police officer. The lady had been dead for three days. I wondered if a corps can get a deep suntan? Not finding what I was looking for I drove home to Portugal, where the sun is generous, and cried in my own bed. Only now I knew way, I had left my mother alone in a nursing home, and cowardly found an excuse not to be at her side.
Welcome onboard
I don’t care to read of other people dreams it has nothing to do with me, so I will tell you a real story. The day after my anniversary I walked along the docks of Faro saw a sign, a cargo ship needed a chief steward. I walked up the gangway, spoke to the captain and got the job. On deck when the provision arrived; I was in charge just like before. The captain came he looked baffled; according to my passport I was 73 and far too old to join a ship. The master thanked me, getting victuals onboard signing for them and getting the food stuff safely stored. The ship left without me but her captain saluted me, it was raining no one saw my tears. Whatever I do these days even driving a car there are people telling me I’m too old. Yet in Japan their oldest porno star, a man of 77 and still working, so why will they not let me go back to sea again?
Storm and an Old Cargo Ship
A storm is blowing outside, but my cottage is safely anchored on terra firma. If my abode had been pitching and rolling as ship on a restless ocean I would not been so cocky, but on my seaman’s legs stagger about worrying about foamy sea washing the deck hitting portholes in green fury. As a seafarer I loved the calm sea, but feared its wroth. The terrible shudder when a big wave hit and nearly drowning the ship, there was nothing anyone could do but hope. Yes she did it and I couldn’t help falling in love with the old girl and call her a swan that knew how to take care of me. I have a respect for nature I have been helpless in its embrace waiting what comes next. I survived, sit in a cottage and listen to the storm, yet I would give years just to once more be out there taking my chances, and when safely in port, eagerly raise my glass in the knowledge of that I had been given another day of life.
In the eyes of the Beholder.
I hide from lives storm in a dale of incognito, gone is my name, my gravestone will be free of a name and time of casting anchor. Write I was a seaman cast ashore by a storm and could not return, walking on the shore listen to the siren’s call and fond silence. And perhaps a man who has lost everything in life is walking his dog, picks up a shell and listen to eternities soothing drone. And the dog which soul is transient and wander from generation to the next will wag its tail in tender memory of your life. Yet forever to its present owner which it knows is mortal and will end up as a memory by Canis familiars not yet to be born. But as long as dogs, that have thrown in their lot with man, roam and survive, we shall be there as a testament to eternity. When you look into a dog’s eyes you’ll see a mirror and another mirror and you will see the birth of humanity and kindness. You will come to realise the only anchor you need is love of life, and respect for all living creature on our little blue planet.
Modern Haiku
Wet dog Looks into a rain pool Contemplative
When it rains Cats sleep on window sills Pensive mice
Meditative rain Gently descends In September
Introspective Mountain village In the mist
October’s Pretence. Rain, nature is greening, but it’s a false spring; December will pale the land into submission. Do not write poetry till February, when almond trees blossom and strew petals about in protest thinking winter takes the season of its sinister drama too far. Last winter snow fell, a wonder land; people said they had not seen snow for forty seven years. The stream is xanthous I think of China’s main river where dolphins, not seen for years, swim in cloudy water. What can’t be seen cannot be caught by man. Dawn, on the track a boar, sniffed the air and grunted; a hairy, pig in need of a pair of glasses. I moved and it disappeared into the brushwood. On nature walks I used to take a camera, but wild animals hate having their photo taken and avoided my intrusive lens I was left with taking photos of trees, weeds and evergreen bushes. My lazy dreaminess has paid off I have had a good life no one ever expected anything glorious of me, and left me in peace. If you look for me I will be on a bus trying to find the fabulous castle; I once saw when I could see the future.
The Last Sunday of October.
Vilamoura marina on a glorious October day, tourists gone home leaving the promenade for us elderly to walk sedately along it. I saw an ancient lady walking forcefully, using a Zimmer frame, It looked like she was trying to set a new personal record, and we gave her space. We saw a once famous footballer, sad really you see them running around a big green field and the next day they are dated and forty. In case you ask, it wasn’t Beckham. Many yachts tied up and their owners are allowed to drive their cars on the promenade, my old socialist heart was ready to revolt. Cafes were open and served food for us old at reduced price; still too expensive, it was as idle waiters were eyeing us malevolently. The Zimmer lady returned I think she had beaten her old record. Then it was late afternoon and the sea breeze cooled our ardour; time to go home and drink our cacao.
(Halloween) Old people and children are to blame for our overpopulation, yet the land where I live, is empty everyone has gone to live in a city fleeing poverty hoping to find work, now they are worse off than before. A sudden blackout, I sat in darkness couldn’t even see my hands. Staggered around till I found a flashlight, lit candles I had in the kitchen; back at the time when people rose at first light and went to bed early and stories were told by the old by the fireside .Only priests could read and we believed in their gospel truths and they held the evil power of knowledge. Now cities are lit up like Christmas, no corners are dark and it easier to believe in neon light rather than god. We are urbane and laugh in the face of gloom and call it Halloween. There was a time when people were old at forty and many children died in infancy. Electricity is back, but we mustn’t forget if we do not take care we can easily be thrown into to a world of cruelty where only those between the age of twenty and sixty have the right to eat, and babies are hidden in basements to avoid detection have their vocal cord cut. The old have facelift in frantic attempt to look fifty four, to avoid being gassed, at places called: “Friends of the seniors” and “Heavenly Peace.” And silent children, survivors of our selfish madness, shall inherit our world and learn to whistle as new way of communication.
The End Game. The enemy was getting closer they were coming to kill him. The old despot looked towards the west to the desert he knew so well if he could get there and walk about he would have time to think. What he could not understand why was that his people had not risen up and defended him against the rebels ? He had built hospitals and schools for them, people had houses, cars and no one starved in his country. What the old dictator didn’t see was that his largesse had had created a middle class that wanted freedom to openly voice their opinion of him and his rule, and now they were coming to destroy his edifice. The tyrant thought, is this a bad dream? Cursing voices were coming nearer he looked towards the desert for the last time before submerged by a mass of vengeful murderers.
Two Sadorma poems
Path unknown Yet walked before My footsteps. Trees know me Turn winter into April Just to gladden me.
Saw a saint Walking down the street Brutal rain Cold as frost But the saint, comfy and dry Under his halo.
A Dog and Thunder.
Thunder is nearing the dog, not cared for, whines; fears of Odin horse’s hooves, jagged spark from the murky sky. Thor, the idiot, tries to steal his father’s ire. To tell a dog its chances of getting, hit is remote? I open the gate it runs into the shed, curls up on a rug I was about to throw away as it is threadbare and holed; once it Was admired for its colour and audacious pattern by posh ladies In hats, drinking tea and nibble cakes with manicured fingers. Sad sight a hounded dog, it avoids eye contact scared I may change my mind and throw it out. Its owner a man of unsure anger if I offer to adopt it he may shot it as he did another dog of when it was vain as a hunter of rabbits. My failing is eternal to confront a man with guns on his walls, not me! So sleep on the carpet my little friend.
Shadorma
Rainy day Wet dog on pavement Looking in Seeing me Sit by the cosy fireside Ignoring its plight.
Shopping Spree
It was a big shop, large as warehouse it sold everything I didn’t need; and the shop was empty of staff. The thief in my thought: if I had a van I could back it up to the entrance, take everything in sight drive off and sell it to retailers who would say when I was caught, we bought his stuff in good faith. I could make a thousand Euros, but would have to spend it fast by going to nightclubs and be the big guy paying drinks for everyone; and beautiful women would fawn over me. Finally a shop assistant came chewing on a burger and smelling of fried onions. Asked me what I wanted. “Two batteries for my remote please.” They cost 67 cent. He didn’t have the three cents so I told him to make it seventy. This pleased him no end, but having robbed the shop I could afford to be grand. Coming home the batteries were not the right sort, but never mind, they could be useful for something else, say, to run my toy car.
Shadorma Poems (the climate)
Icy blue Sky‌ a deep freezer Zephyr gone Cold wind rules We have had our summer time Spring is a new hope.
Pale is sun The king lost his crown Fall of pride Power failed And La Luna smugly smiles Fear of the king gone.
Phobia
Once in Paris, I was going to a venue reading poetry, the hotelier told me to take the subway as it was easy. After being a fender for busy people I found my train and suffocated. First stop, I ran off and found myself at a strange part of the city, sweating and shaking like d drunk who had been on a bender for a fortnight. Phobia! I didn´t even know I had one, my pipe dream of being a u-boat captain had sunk in a hole of terror. My instinct, when lost in a strange place, is to find the nearest tavern/bars, there are many taverns in Paris it was easy to find one. I had Pernod, not that I like this drink, but after all I was in France; to blend in I wore a black beret given to me by a relative of my wife who runs a hat factory in Lyon, and I had had garlic bread for breakfast. But was unable to lift the glass, my left hand wouldn´t let me, the right hand blankly refused and pretended to be lame. Finally hiding, behind the Guardian- an English newspaper for people who see themselves as liberal socialists-. I gulped down the horrid drink. It did wonders. So I ordered a whisky, I was a hero, nothing could scare me as I walked bravely out into busy streets full of people who looked at me as if they had not seen a beret before, and looked for a taxi.
The Economy
Burning bed, the mattress, afire; under it I had two thousand Euro, as banks can go belly up any time bolt their doors and call the law to keep the screaming multitude at bay.
Too late, my poor man´s saving burnt to ashes. I shall not cry, soon the euro will be quite valueless when 10.000 is worth ten pence, and for that I can´t even buy an ice-cream.
I do regret I wasn´t a good consumer didn´t help the economy by not using credit cards to buy stuff I didn´t need, I have failed in my duty as citizen and now harvest devastation.
The Transitory
A feline has Moved into the shed Gave birth Two six kittens I’m looking for a hammer No not kill kittens but To hit a nail Into the wall and hang Up a painting of Jesus with His eyes closed Looking remarkable like Gaddafi when he was murdered The painting is a fake Kaddafi was not I shall miss his splendid Sky-blue uniform.
Army Psychologists.
Another Sunday gone into an overcast sky, the weather woman promised rain, it did, but not on my patch, and that’s ok I’m not a man who only dance when it drizzle. Sometimes I wish it would rain, on the right places, say, war zones, tanks will sink into mud, planes are not able to take off and bloody drones rust in the air and self explode. There is no justice it rains in Bangkok and that is meaningless, if typical, it is as always the civilians who drown. Pilots of drones sit dry by their consoles can get psychological help If their murderous game become too much to bear in one sitting; that is, if they have the ability to think over cups of coffee in the canteen. There will be psychologists who will betray their calling “self haters” it is ok, they are fighting for freedom... and more people are killed in cars crashes every year, than by rockets fired from drones. .. So let rain continue to fall on the innocent.
A Bag of Inconsequence
I remember tiny things picking up a burnt match from a floor wondering who threw it there.
A May day in St. Malo, I saw an old man crying streaks of tears down rumpled chin.
Shy bluebells lost amongst tall trees, yet they made me think of prayer wheels in Tibet.
Glow of coal in the grate, it was early morning and the road outside was frosty white.
A summer night up north I was waiting for night it never came...and then it was morning.
In dead rabbits eyes I saw the warm August sky, I, happy to alive, yet saddened.
When the Pacific Ocean was a mirror of eternity And time ceased, yet lingered like a kiss.
Waving flags, military band and bloody parades, I have long forgotten why and where.
Murmour
Hipster jeans And a big belly
Beard guarding His face
Studying his hands Unobserved
Man alone In his cocoon.
Has Brussels Banned tomatoes .
Romania (laughter kills))
They hooted When the dictator spoke They chortled Odium Giggles of utter contempt Then they shot him.
Winter Art. (Fimbulvinter)
1947, mother of all winters, our oak dinner table ended up as firewood...kept us warm for days. A deep frozen feline stood on the top of the bin, a clawed outstretched paw, staving off frosts attack. Days it stood there an epic symbol of valiant, if hopeless struggle, - brutal art- admired, but also pelted with snowballs by impish children. Thaw, winter lost its grim grip, the moggy crumbled fell off its pedestal. The bin lid, opened nature’s glory ended up among potato peels and other things discarded without a second thought.
Hunted
Winter white Was a Nordic hare Shotgun fire Jump of death Purple snowflakes softly fall Echo in forest.
Shadorma (a writer)
Mellifluence A flow of harmony Smooth verbum Easy read Hemingway at his finest I will drink to that
Shadorma (Dipterous.)
An insect Walks on the ceiling A hideous Blue bottle Hope it does not lose its grip And land in my soup
Birthday Party
Wolves and foxes had promised me not to fight on my birthday and I made meaty cakes just for them; But black ravens I had not invited, came too, egged them on, while also cruelly harassing sparrows in the plum tree. I had put lights up on the trees in the garden but they could not on my, day behave. I took the cakes inside, switched off the lights went to bed and cried. A rumble in the forest, a bear came told them to behave and be kind to me, mainly because I had baked it a straw berry tart. The party continued, and squirrels sat on trees squeaking happy birthday to you as I threw them nuts. In the animal world it is all about food and as long as you can provide you’re a friend. Except the raven they do not care, are contemptuous of my feeble, attempt to be loved by unruly members of the Corvidae family.
Trolls or Frogs
It has been raining for days, fine gentle precipitation and the sun ravaged ground, where I walk among olive trees, has turned deep green hiding gray stones in a verdant blanket of love. It is like a second spring minus a hot sun, a respite before the real winter sets in. A few big frogs cross my path it appears they wear black woolly coats, but perhaps I’m mistaken, they could be tiny trolls only seen by a privileged few. They live under the stones and since they do not read or have computers I wonder how they spend time. What did I do before computers and the lure of the internet? I did read hundreds of novels, but I have little patience for long books now. But I do read poetry, mainly written by the not so famous. The landscape smells new and fragrant, like it has had a bath and is half asleep. The ground is soft as a carpet in a luxury hotel, so I have to try walking lightly and not upset new plants. Deep silence except from a silky murmour, I think it is stones talking. The light is fading; time to go home light the fire, switch on the computer read and see how the world is getting along. The frogs, or trolls, can jolly look after themselves, but I remember eating frog legs in Alabama... tasted like chicken.
Love in the Afternoon.
The bus had steamed up windows she had a red hat on, and waved as the bus left the terminal. She will be in Lisbon in the afternoon- about four- promised to ring when she arrived. Two days she will be away, and I’m missing her already. She cooked food for a couple of days, all I have to do is to take it out of the fridge, warm it in the microwave. Ok, I’ll do that, for heaven’s sake I used to be chef; two days is a long now that I’m time short. Love is a strange ting it settles and grows with years we wake up at the same time at night to go to the loo, as I take longer than her I let her go first. On Sunday when I drove her to church, she is catholic, worship is important to her; sometimes I envy her faith, I reversed and nearly hit her, she joked and said I was tired of her, but when she saw my pale face, she stopped and kissed me. Yes, I have promised to shave and take a shower every day. What is wrong with this confounded woman, I’m not a child.
Time To Come
Years ago I went to a fair in Glasgow they had an elephant there it was chained on each foot. The pitiable animal was moving its head from side to side, everyone with an ounce of empathy could see it was in pain, yet small humanity admired its penis size and laughed making coarse comment. One of the chains snapped and creature lunged forward and humanity fled in horror; but it was still chained and could not get far. The elephant was put down as it could not be trusted amongst people. When they killed the great beast I was not in Glasgow, but In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, but woke up in the night and heard its call of complete anguish a protest against our cruelty and lack of insight. I knew the day will come when elephants would roam unbound and birds fly unmolested by shotgun fire, but will we be there?
All Souls Day
Suddenly a big hole opened up in the sea, the ship sank into it; the vessel rests on the bottom where shiny star fish light up the dark before they are swallowed by sharks .The captain on his bridge, cook in his galley, the first engineer in the engine room, as it was dinner time when she sank ,her crew are in the mess room, dancing ghoulishly around as the sea gently sighs. And sometimes the skeletal face of the deck boy peeks through a porthole asks when the ship arrives in New York, a girlfriend waiting for him; there is a moment of hilarity as dead sailors’ moves about free of man’s burden. The cook rests in a in a large pot tells himself he must wake up, bake bread and do the bloody the dishes as he tries to get his cigarette lighter to work. Her captain bobs up and down trying to find his charts, maps of the oceans currents and wonders why the radar isn’t working. The engineer is trying to find out why the engine stalled. I knew them all, but dastardly left them in Rio de Janeiro just because I met a girl called Maria.
Late Night Movies.
I wear denim trousers and matching jacket in winters, this because I always wanted to be a cowboy, the simple life, what can be simpler than herding cows. I can’t afford to buy a horse, but nearly bought a donkey once, I have no stable and couldn’t leave it indoors you can’t toilet train donkeys. Oddly enough, once upon a time my living room was a stable; a pile of manure was the first that greeted me when I bought the dwelling. Time moves on there are no beasts of burden left, only tractors litter the landscape and the good smell of sweat animals has been replaced by diesel fumes .I wouldn’t mind being a monk though especially now that my sexual drive is in a steep decline, but I’m not ascetic or contemplative enough to fit in. So I’ll stick to being a horseless cowboy while trying to walk like john Wayne and watch late night western movies.
Neigh, My Lovely Foal.
The mare heavy with foal stood on a knoll looking down at the grassland below her. A place, open and luxuriant, ideal for horses. But she was worried out there, by the horizon, a monster of a housing estate was creeping nearer, and on days if the wind came from the west she can hear its roar. Relentless now and when the environment people come to try stop it the fiend will point the facts on the ground and build more. When the ogre has finally got enough, the land left will be too small for horses, there would be stampede. What future, her foal? Or, for that matter the whole group? The best thing if her tiny tot could be adopted by some nice people where it could trot around a white fenced field with people’s children on its back. It would be a good life plenty of hugs, fodder and not too strenuous work. A flock of colts were galloping across the land just for the great fun of liberty. The mare sighed this was freedom her foal shall never know.
The Absence of Mind
There is an elephant in the room it’s in the corner eating my straw mattress the one I have had since childhood and could not bear to get rid of, because all my dreams are hidden in the stalks of cereal plants; white now as an old man’s beard, yet soft as the fleece of a spring born lamb. Ah, memory of a good life lived; sing for m let me write down what happened so long time ago when time was forever and forgetfulness was a youthful distraction on a jubilant day. Poor memory is more sinister now, what is forgotten will not be remembered, so I need my dreams. It is true that once upon a time I was seafarer, but since I do not recall well, I have to invent my tales, yet I have seen and feared the irate sea. I must write all this down if the elephant eat the last straw my dreams will be blank screen.
Self Knowledge
And now that they have entered the abstract world of souls, the non existence of shadows and light, yet their actions the way they smiled, talked, moved and showed irritation with my curious mind, their voices still ring in my ears. But there is a difference, younger than me, I must smile how dare you talking to me; I’m older than any of you, show respect for my elderliness. A chuckle, they knew me as a child, I laugh too even that I’m the butt of their hilarity. There is silence in my late night room, they have gone, don’t visit as often as before, and that’s ok for as long as I remember I will be sane and remember them.
Embarrassment
A glass door How was I to know? Bloody nose Full cafĂŠ Ringing laughter, the bastards Crushed my exit.
Solitude
Late night cafĂŠ in New York The short order cook fried me a burger A lit cigarette hung from his lips
The street outside rain heavy and desolate Big cities are such lonely places, When you’re a million miles from home.
Round Trip to Italy
From Bangkok Plane landed in Rome Transit hall Drank some wine You been sent home in shame By fulsome jesters
Try Genoa Martini…for sure A new job Easy now Don’t let the fuckers catch you Keep your head down.
Round trip to Italy
Ship sails noon From shores of misery Screw them all More wine mate Wake up tomorrow midday Drink a cold beer.
Tell the truth You overslept‌sorry It’s no lie Be contrite Your young face oozes of sincerity And moist blue eyes.
A War to Come.
The elites Prepare us for war Iran? Yes. Stop them now They cannot have what we have Nuclear arms Lies are told Reckless is Iran Islamists Destroyers Of our cherished democracy War for lasting peace. Rallying cry We must act at once Neighbour says Bomb them now Don’t let them be dominant As us unique ones.
A Fairy Tale (sonnet)
On a forest’s lawn, where elves dance on nocturnal summers, snow had fallen. Since the little people wears no shoes their dainty feet can only bear ductile mould and grass in slumber. They have moved into their cozy houses under green bushes, homes lit up fireflies caught in summer when evening lasts till midnight and they need not hide their light under a bushel. But boars are not so delicate they rough and tumble in snow and rock around the clock all night when stars are bright and heaven is near, till the stars get very tired and stop their glow. Much more snow will fall and hide their irresponsible dancing, and the snowy stage is taken by white attired hares that jump about for no reason at all, till the sly red foxes come prancing. The tall cow of the forest arrives, scrapes away pristine flurry looking for fine moss to munch and the forest falls eerily fluffy.
A Christmas Tale
When a child we had small live candles on the Christmas tree; the fire service had a busy night. Mum had a bucket of water by the tree and kept an eye on it as we children forgot. The tree caught fire; my uncle was there, but before mum could douse it he opened up a window, threw out the tree. Not a smart move the curtains caught fire too and he had to throw the curtains out as well; mum was furious with him. Uncle a genial man worked on the docks and tended to react before thinking. Blinds burning in the snow, uncle brought back the tree plus the unburned decorations. But gifts under were saved. Uncle had to buy new drapes when the shops opened. Next year electric candles came on the market, and our fire service was less busy, but my uncle had died; a bag of rice fell into the icy harbour water, he dived after it forgot he couldn’t swim.
Hibernation
Occupy falling snow; claim it make a snowman with coal eyes and carrot nose before winter is over and your task runs through your fingers as water into soft the soil and is privatized when it runs into a deep lake and you must pay if you want a drink or take a shower. A carrot not enough to make soup, pieces of coal are not enough to warm your cold hands. The barons of money have bought streams, forests and mountains, fenced in and there are gates, you must pay if you want to walk and see nature at her most enthralling liberty. And you will think; where is our emancipation to express ourselves? Nothing is free, why should it be? This is democracy the right to buy and sell the world’s resources and charge whatever the market says. And you pay for what is rightfully yours. If you do not occupy it now it will be too late, spring is the name of misery and it is your fault for sleeping when snow fell in your garden.
Lonesomeness
At the news agent’s a woman in her forties spoke to me, said she had lived in Algarve for two years, from Romania, used to be a doctor, but here she could only get a job as a cleaning lady. I dislike being spoken too by people I don’t know; perhaps I look of avuncular and reliable. I commiserated with her plight and began walking away, but I can’t out walk anyone she followed said she was looking for a friend in this cold, cruel world. I occurred to me since she was lonely had become a little unhinged. Men tend to drink too much when alone, women fantasize about true romance, for both it is often a one way road to oblivion. I was waiting for my wife she had been to the bank, when she showed up the other woman shrunk off, but my wife wanted to know who that woman was, like I would know. No one should be so alone they accost strangers in the street it is sad and scary for those spoken too. Loneliness is a curse and can make people mad.
Tango in Argentina It was eons ago, in Buenos Aires, many of us around a table at a cafe I can’t remember why I was there think it was something to do with buying race horses. A woman asked me up to dance I first declined, shyness is my bane, after prodding I trotted up on the dance floor. The band played a tango, not that I hadn’t dance before, mother was a dance teacher, something happened, I forgot about my timidity just danced floating on a cloud of pleasure. We’re alone on the floor, when the music stopped, applause. Back at our table dad gave me a glass of wine, the dream continued. I wanted to marry Dona Juanita, my dancing partner; dad said no, she was married and too old for me. But I have never since been able to emulate the magic of the moment When I see a colt galloping across the pampas I know of the physical pleasure it feels, once it was me feeling exuberant and timeless in a world of everlasting youth.
Poetry Soup
On a stone in the forest a rusty pot full of soup, I tasted it with my right index finger it was still warm. I felt dizzy around me darkness descended it embraced me and I became a part of this weird mass, without will of my own. Wind blew me around like I was in a centre of vacuum till I lost all sense of time and place. When I woke up on soft moss it was sunset and I saw lovely forest maids with boar tails, their job is to protect saplings, swimming in a tarn. When they saw me they became furious, called me a pig, got out of the water and chased me out of their enchanted forest; all the while I was slapped by tree twigs, scratched by thorny bushes and called a Peeping Tom. Next day I tiptoed into the forest saw the pot of soup on a stone, but wisely desisted a taste; the tarn was still and deep.
To be wise We first have To be idiots.
Winter Evening (Shadorma)
Five o’clock Sun is a pink cloud Cold seeps in Tuesday gone It was a beautiful time Now for a wee dram.
Melancholy (shadorma)
Homesickness Twenty years away I dare not Travel there A stranger on foreign shores Who knows me now?
Winter Evening
Wednesday Twilight in heaven Fire place roars Easy heart Flickering fire consumes logs Ashes to ashes
A Cook’s Battle
The ship -cook was tired it had been a long day, the ship was old full of cockroaches, one had found its way in his bread dough and when the captain cut a slice of bread it was there, a brown raisin; the old man had been very angry. The cook’s trouble was roaches they were everywhere. He had asked to have the galley fumigated when the ship was in dry dock, but no it was far too expensive. Every week he boiled a big pan of water and squirted into corners, it helped a bit and he had buckets full, but soon they were back encroaching his galley. Then there were mites in the flour which he had to sift before baking bread, not his fault yet he had to take the flack. He often worked till late evening to keep the galley clean he had even painted it so on the surface it looked bright and nice. He was losing the battle against insects he often felt he was losing his mind as well, they appeared in his dreams strangulating him. Time was hard not easy to get a job, still when his ship docked in Bombay he was off and the crew could get someone else to insult.
Mystery 1.
Wistful lake In the forest hides Stillness deep Silky silt Where quiet dreams softly sigh Where is my child?
Baby mine An infant’s smile Take my child Forever still Keep it in your soft embrace Until I return
Aghast.
The full moon Throws blue light on clouds Winter night Dry landscape And all lovers sit indoors Watching “Come Dancing”
A Sort of Fame
Stealing shoes Na誰ve thievery Deserves scorn Disrespect Why not bust a savings bank And get a fat pension
December Paris
Winter Paris pavement cafÊs vacant chairs and poor sparrows look for baguette crumbs. Artists had gone to their loft conversions, in bed with their models and plates of goose liver pate, waiting for a better time. I came across a posh bistro people inside wore silk suits, doors locked; invitation only. A famous philosopher came out, said something deep about peace- in broken English- then asked where the camera was. When he saw I wasn’t a journalist he said: Merde, and walked back in. At the bookshop Shakespeare, academic tourists had assembled they looked through books of famous writers, thought of saying that two of my poetry collections were there, but they looked so educated, wore capes of superiority and poetry workshop shoes I lost my nerve. Rain, found a bistro at a side street, had coffee with an Armagnac, thought of the days when Ernest Hemingway scribbled away here, other writers too, when Paris was not so haughtily conscious of her artistic status.
Missing Link.
A sickly child I was frail on the sofa in the living room. A knock on the door, mother opened. The man who entered I knew it was my father. Whose child is this? “It is your youngest son” mother said. The children in the street all had a father, I had waited for him. He ignored me, gave chocolate to my sister and brother, then he drank from a bottle, mother threw him out. Next day I asked mother,” are you sure he is my father.” She slapped my face and cried.
Jerusalem
When they burn down our olive trees we’ll plant new ones, it will take many years, but we are patient and we will go on planting the tree of life in our land. Plants ruined, date back to biblical time, but our history, on his holly land, will live on in our shared memory. In the air there is a whiff of freedom. Vandals shall perish one day and the olive trees, bear fruit when time is right. We’ll not be bitter but ask our pretenders to harvest the fruit of our labour with us, we know for they have suffered too. Together we will have a land of plenty; the world will know we are a family.
Our Humanity
They got him in the end, not a pretty sight, dictators are humans too. Now we are hunting his many sons and the rest of his family. We have seen their photo album they sit on sofas smiling kindly to the camera, just like us on a happy day. We have not evolved our lack of empathy is intact we still want to destroy a family, blood thirsty ogres we are gloating over a suffering face as a man dies. Instant justice, easier that way, the family, might have much to tell about us. When our side, men in expensive suits and soft hands, kill the perceived foe, we say nothing, but a trail of blood and injustice will one day lead to our doorsteps.
Simplified (Moral)
When the good guys Behaves like the bad guys The bad ones have won.
Because:
We have become like them And we have lost Our moral compass.
Just One More Cigarette...Please.
It is evening they take him out of his cell and into the walled court yard. An officer offers him a fag he accepts , and smokes it slowly inhaling deeply. The officer says, “don’t worry it will soon be over. “ Then they tie his hands behind his back, blindfold him and place him against a pockmarked wall. The officer asks if the prisoner, has a last word, a message to the world or his family. The damned shakes his head, a long silence, and a volley of fire. Today, after being told by my doctor I’m an idiot, I have stopped smoking.