Winter Lake, a collection By Jan Oskar Hansen Sixty eight pages of Prose poetry
Ok. Day
On a day like this With sunlight Clear sky and mild breeze
And I know There will not be a day Just like this again
There will be other days Just as good now as the almond Tree bears fruit.
Illusion Don´t mention the moon, but it looks like a rocking chair made gold platted by lovers restless hands and dreams. Park benches soft as duvet when you hold around her not trying to blow cigarette smoke in her hair. Moonlight has made her face forgiving, you know she has been married twice and has two grown up children. Yet you love her tonight while the moon paints her hair golden.
The Birth of Innocence
Farm workers didn´t go into the barn at night, they had all seen him and feared him but they never mentioned his name.
Late one night I went into the stable and found animals at rest free of the harness of humanity, on the wall I saw my own shadow
The “him” I didn´t sense only the warmth and aroma of animals and the loyal mare which neighed softly wanting a pat on her long neck.
O, so tired I was switched off the light fell asleep on straw, near the mare, woke up by animals noise a calf had been born.
Porajmos
Porajmos, if the name means nothing to you it was the Roma people´s holocaust. But while Jews got their own state and sit by the top table of the mighty, they are still misjudged and treated with scorn and abuse. From the haze of the past they came (from India?) artisan by trade, but without a homeland a place to feel safe. Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani. Gassed by the Nazis (about a million) but this was never mentioned or ignored by Europe that lost no time shunting them around like they should be the plague. They recently came to Norway, citadel of freedom and democracy, in the hope of finding work, but they were hounded out. Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani. But history will tell us when roads sprout weed and bushes, oil is dry, the gypsies will prevail, for they are not used to excess of riches, greed is not in their heart. Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani, sing so narrow minded people can hear your litany.
Gunplay 1
They don´t have guns in heaven only tooth picks, but god has got a golden gun, given to him by the producer of James Bond movies. He toys with it just for fun when newcomers arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top of the bible he wrote once upon a time. Not that he has copyright, he will be the first to tell you, but with the help of strange people who insisted he had spoken to them. Sometimes when god is alone he put the gun to his temple and‌click... nothing happens it is all in jest or is it? Infinity can be a burden. Now, if you wonder about the tooth picks, angels like to welcome you with a bright smile.
Night Fliers
As I flew low in the summer night my arms got tired and I landed on a leafy tree in a park.
Sat on a bough fell asleep, woke when sun shone through lime leaves, jumped from the tree onto soft grass
From other trees men jumped down stretched, yawned and went for a coffee. To think I thought I was special.
Senryu On the outer field A mass of birds congregate Migrating southward
Haiku Mist on old roof tops Drips morning dark thoughts Autumn’s reflections
Senryu Through the haze Mules under a carob tree Sees a red tractor
Senryu Seagulls’ invasion Screech triumphantly Occupying farmland
Senryu Mare on pampas Sees the encroaching city Worries for her foal
A ponder
If rats had bushy tails would it had made a variance? We could keep them as pets, ten in each house and five in the garage. Guess that would have kept Manx cats away hiding at the bottom of the garden being poisoned as revolting creatures. I have come to the conclusion rats have cute faces and humorous eyes it is their tails I can´t abide so scaly and rodent like that I rather have a cat
Sun Tan
On the way to Benafim there is, to the left, a savanna land surrounded by low ridges that look heat hazy and distant and I think of it as Africa. In the afternoon after five o´clock, when sun is less fierce and I can look up without being blind I drive on my scooter taking the sun. Aware I´m not Tarzan, but here I´m only overlooked by fantasy lions in tall, sun pale grass, and grazing sheep. The drive takes about an hour and gives me a nice tan, till I reach upland. A narrow river crosses here too it has been dry for years, who knows, there might be crocodiles under the parched mud. But my African sojourn is somewhat disturbed by plots of vines that will be harvested in September when new dreams begin.
Senryu An ink spot The fate of a poem Rejected.
Senryu In the netherworld Of bitterly deleted poems A ceaseless murmur
Senryu Soldiers never die And dismissed poems Return in disguise
A Surreal Day Behind the coastal village the land is flat except for a blob in the middle, a sorry excuse for a mountain, and is a stream muddy, yet full trout that swim noisily near the surface in a flabby manner and taste of peat. We live on a diet of leek, blueberries, carrots and bark bread. There are lots of rabbits about but they had “don´t kill me eyes” so I don´t, but suspect my dog kills some when I´m not looking because it is quite fat, I thought it lived on greasy chip paper blown from the village´s only café. I´m a vegetarian therefore a sabre toothed rat gave birth under my bed, but I do hope the rat will not make a habit out it. Yesterday I saw a goat it looked tasty so I killed and ate it.
Austerity?
Expensive cars chocking the approaches to Vilamoura, the yacht and seaside town. No austerity today, a man in an old Fiat was laughed off the road, probably a waiter on the way to work. No poverty no beggars only shampooed dogs with golden collars. And as always the poor, the silent majority, stayed in their howls, sun is exclusively for the perma- tan set in August.
Epigram
One man´s dream is man´s ennui we feign interest like an insincere elephant who self-deprecates its total apathy to human banalities.
Epigram
It is not possible to be a poet without taking a stance against the inequity of what is happening, but those who will not hear call it political propaganda.
Epigram What people want from poets Is a jam sandwich with butter, and a nice sunset, but nothing to reflect upon tomorrow.
Epigram While you admire the sunset a drone strikes kill people who have not been found guilty but being a likely enemy of your ignorance.
Love…Such Long Time Ago Summers I dream of you and I say to myself if I had played my cards right my life would have taken another, path, only I don´t play cards and love has nothing to do with poker, you can´t win in love even if you have aces. It takes commitment, honesty and no fear of passing rejection. I wanted to take you to USA, drive through the states an make love to you in everyone and I would kiss your beautiful body, inhale your fragrance and not worry about tomorrow. I had the air ticket and money, Florida the first objective, but you were so impossible beautiful and I could not cope if you said no; and if you had said yes, how would I cope with your loveliness? I feared that on our journey you would find a bloke who could dance, leave let me continue a boundless journey through the USA. I would not know how to get home cause you are cleverer than me and knew how to read a map… my map was love for you, sometimes, that is not enough. My love is infinite and as it is it will continue this way … a dream and children I never had. I ask: forgive my timid heart and let me sleep.
The epiphany of Love. This was a love of dreams and a confused mind I wanted all of her, not only the fragrance of her hair but also to kiss her sweet mind. I wanted to be absorbed by her so she would always be mine. We woke up entwined her green eyes looked at me and I drowned, but she shook me back to life told me I must go, she had things to do and ring her later in the day I did, she wasn´t there and had left no forwarding address. People spoke to me I didn´t hear I was inside a fog of misery, of confusion…why, why? Could I not find her…had she been a dream? I walked into the forest, torn by spiky bushes and slapped by tree branches. Finally a clearing where I fell asleep and woke up to silence and clarity. My love for her had been obsessive she could not breathe and had to escape, and I too had lost my soul for love. I came out of the woods bloodied, yet sane. Epiphany, she had never existed, yet the forest sang her name. Walked in the street where she had lived, but the aroma of her hair had gone,
she never spoke to me not even in my dreams Rednecks Long time ago when a man called Goldwater was running for president, I was walking along a road just outside Mobile, Alabama. What I was doing there is long forgotten but I recall having a day off from my ship, and going from bar to bar. I did notice that the sidewalk was weedy clearly people did no walking. A pickup truck stopped, three burley men wanted to give me a lift, dared not refuse they had gun racks and armed for civil war that steadfastly refused to appear. They asked me about Goldwater whom I had read about in “Newsweek� but I stated ignorance. They drove me back to Mobile and I assured them I loved America; gave me a six-pack, warned me not to speak to black people and commies.
Capital punishment When a state Kills a convicted murderer The state Becomes like the killer Murdering the defenseless In the toxic word
Of justice
The Loss of Faith Fated priest when he walks in front of a funeral procession his gait is often wobbly, says it is stiff joints; smells of aftershave lotion and brandy. Lost his faith years ago, in the night his prayer echoes in the village church. Thinks it his fault that god has left him in a vacuum of disbelief a penance for not having a total godly deference. In his dreams he meets god who speaks in a language he doesn´t understand; he wakes up bedroom bleak, and the voice of god has gone. He says as Jesus once did, why have you forsaken me? Has a brandy goes back to a restless sleep. And there is no peace as sexual needs takes over, actions he will not abide. Morning and he is thankful. Routines of the day someone has died, funeral service, and a woman who wants confess her banal sins, he murmurs prayers, waits for god to answer why he has lost his faith, but there is only silence.
River of Doom
Sad sight dry river, and twenty years ago it was three metre deep and had trout. We caught some with nets and, fried them on a small fire and felt like cavemen. Delicious fish meat we ate with our fingers. Every year I have seen the river getting smaller even in the winter when it rains irregularly, it is no more than a beck. There is no fish not even the skeleton of children caught by a wall of water, when it had been raining upland and into the river. Their father was arrested it was said he had killed the children, fed them to the pigs, but for a single button in the sty they sat him free. Terrible rumors every summer I see him walking along the dry river, muttering to himself trying to find his children
Nostalgia The heat is unusual even the olive grove looks tired, old trees gasping waiting for sundown. Yet the evening is still hot and no breeze soothes tired leaves. Every august I tell myself that next year I´ll go to Norway to cool down. But what I´m going to do there, it will be raining and I never had an umbrella. In my old home town I will be walking up and down streets trying to catch the old magic, that perhaps wasn´t there in the first place, there were moments when on Sunday forenoon, I used to walk to my aunt´s house, we smoked cigarettes, drank coffee and ate coco macrons. On my walks I will only see young faces of a new generation who has not in common with me, and it will sadden me to see old building torn down and replaced with new shining office edifices ….And I will take the first plane back to Portugal where my
elderliness is not a handicap.
A Message Our old captain was pensioned off, he had been the master on the same ship for ten years and at sixty five he didn´t know where to go as his whole life had been the sea. The first officer was taking over. He had noticed the old man every morning went on the bridge, opened a locked drawer and read something from a folded piece of paper. The first officer having sewed on an extra ring on his uniform, now had four, was curious opened the drawer. On the paper was written: starboard is right and portside is left.
A French Visit Early they arrived, my relatives, unpacking of suitcases, kissing, jubilation and breakfast, during which all the latest family gossip was shared. Then they all went to the beach leaving the house in utter chaos. When returning we had prepared a buffet, they had brought their wine, the French are skeptical to wine not made in their country‌ how talked talked. I have a small house had to sleep in my study, got up at four working, but I liked the silence of people at slumber. About five there were stirrings, people going to the toilet and murmur of voices, I went back to bed or on my sofa. Woke up at ten, they had already breakfasted and ready to leave, kidded me for sleeping so late. Then an intense late talking, like everything had to be said and crammed into a few minutes, good byes lots of kisses and the old house settled back to its usual quietude.
Unreported Violence in Vilamoura
The couple was nicely suntanned, but the woman had a black eye, he was very courteous to her tried to hold her hand, but she didn´t want to and his face reddened angrily, so she let him hold her hand. Both were nicely dressed on their way to a restaurant; no doubt when meeting friends a droll story would be told how she got that eye; polite laughter. Men would believe the story, women would exchange glances because in the eyes of the hapless woman they saw the truth. They would find out- women talk- when they went to the ladies to powder their noses. The unlucky one would beg them not to say a word. “ He loves me, but has a bad temper; and when I nag him he slaps me, it is really my fault for not understanding him better. He was so sorry for giving me a black eye last night that he cried, promised not to hit me anymore.”
A Christmas Remembered
Day before Christmas it was cold and we walked down to the harbour to buy a tree and I remember the sea that slapped against the dock was apple green and foamy. Mother bought a tree, for next to nothing, since its top was broken and it looked like a rejected child that waited for a car to come pick it up and bring it to the orphanage By putting the tree on top of the dinner table and a star and a bit of glitter it looked nice in a child’s eye.
Mother was angry we didn’t know way, and went to bed. We children sat on the floor and ate lukewarm rice pudding and there was nothing under the tree. Mother got up told us to dress and we walked to my uncle’s house. At first he didn’t want to let her in, but when he saw us children he opened the door. We had plenty to eat although my aunt had a sour mien. But happy we walked home and thought we had had a splendid Christmas.
Intimate Relationship
Saw the rusty old tramp-ship on the glittering blues sea mowing cumbersome eastward. My god, I knew her, more than many, had spent two years in her hot interior and long nights listening to her reassuring heart beats.
When sea was rough she rode the waves like a swan, shuddered sometimes as to get sea off her deck. Here she was again, under alien flag, disappearing slowly as a dream remembered.
Wondered if she was on her way to Caribbean? She liked it there, warm water good for her hull. And like me she knew every little port, she could birth blindfolded. Glad to see her again, yet sad feel as I betrayed her for leaving; pitiable she, not anchored in the inlet of peace by now.
Factory Made Food. A perfect microwave dinner for one sunrays drink from the wine bottle The dinner is tasteless, and the rest of the wine is warm as a cat licks its paw and has no worry about the morrow. Who invented tuna fish with mashed potatoes? It must be someone without a mother, or if he had one, she must have been a busy executive and time poor. At the orphanage they eat left over of dinners they never had, forever made into a stew children do not care; yester-days loaf. He sits in his mansion, count his money and think of other variety of frozen food he can invented preferable something that looks looks like vomit. He is a vegetarian and hate mankind for liking meat…he hates greedy little children too even his own, serves them burger made of fat full of sugar and salt. Knows he will follow them to the grave and be the longest living man on earth.
A House in Paris The house on the steep street was grey and old fashioned with big rooms and tall ceilings, but as the house was built long ago it didn´t have an indoor loo, people had to walk into a courtyard to find it. There used to be an old stable too, that now has been converted into a communal bathroom, but since its boiler is erratic, people mostly do their absolution in the kitchen. Six well-trod stone steps up to its entrance an imposing big door that once had been green. On the outside wall, a bit too high up, was written: “Edith Piaf was born here.�
Fear of the Ocean It is quite odd really I was a merchant seaman for thirty years. When the ship left harbour for open sea I trembled seeing a darkening sky and an ocean stretching before me as a menace that would swallow, me and the ship, and bring us to a place where we were forever upted anchor and dim time was falling on a sea that had no compassion or sense of wonder. “This too shall pass.” a friend of my, in A. A, once said, he lives by slogans, which helps him through the peril too much sobriety. And the sea was apple green as a pile carpet in in Elvis´s living room and my private fears were assuaged by his music. But every night I saw coloured bubbles as I sank into the green inferno of the timeless.
Career Choice
This was long time ago, the third officer kindly let me steer the ship, all I had to do was to look at the compass needle and follow it. He went into the chart room to do some calculations, stayed there for a long time, perhaps he was no good at reckonings, but when he returned the ship was heading back to Amsterdam‌ a port we had just left a few hours ago. Navigation wasn´t my game, so I became a cook instead. I mean making meat cakes with a soupspoon, how you can go wrong. The art of cooking, if we can call it that, is quite simple science, but now a days since no one cook chefs have been elevated to TV star and we gush with admiration when they boil potatoes, and use a spatula when frying eggs.
Lady Beautiful
Fifteen years on, where has time gone? Since the tragic accident in Paris, and a usually restraint people, went mushy. Caught by the glare of fame, she could not get off, this insecure woman needed them they called her beautiful and sex, her narcissistic mind craved assurances. A sea of flowers and a beautiful song, her kin walked softly, and look grieved. Mysterious is time, she could have been a middle aged mother worrying about her wayward children, or belong to the flock called worldwide Jet set; or, heaven forbid, a pink-gin soaked prematurely aged lady packed away in a damp castle somewhere on the Scottish highland.
End of a Vacation
On the night sky I see a plane going north; high up it flies but I see light on the wings like mystic stars. The carrier full of tourists going home and I hope they had a good holiday. Tomorrow they have to get up early and begin work. Are they relaxed or do they hate going back to routine life? Or do they glad the holiday is over bored by doing nothing, life at the office is much more interesting? The ritual of vacation, has become a must a burden to be endured once a year, and costly too. A couple in the plane and their five years old who can´t sit still, the husband thinks of fun holidays of yore with his mates, orders a whisky, his wife tells him he has to drive home when the plane lands, he has a soft drink. Tomorrow he will be at the office, and he will talk about the great holiday he and the family had.
The Slog.
The old Indian gentleman has invented water- bike with it he will cross the channel from France to England, the land of his dreams. But the immigration authority will stay there ankle deep in North Sea brine, and ask him for documents, if he hasn´t got them he has to bike all the way to France who will tell him he has go back to England as he hasn´t got a valid visa for France. Years will go by and he will became famous as a man with no passport. Since he is the silent type he will carry on till a big tank ship hits him and; dead he will be known for a week. Everyone will write about it what shame that no one saw his great achievement and never gave him a gold medal as the man who crossed the channel by water-bike four hundred and fifty times.
Unforgiving We know who you are Your father was a Nazi and you Are, his oldest son. We also know sons grow to be Like their fathers We therefore will keep an eye on you We´ll read what you write and Listen to your speeches Ready to attack and put you low Because we do not trust you The son of a Nazi.
The Gypsy I hate you gypsy so do not try to seduce Me with your romantic violin music or Your sexy guitar‌ Ok, so you have not Exterminated people like the Nazis did You are thief stole my bike when I was fourteen, and that is what I remember
best through time. It is a man´s World In the beginning it was all naked sex and fidelity and according to HIM, the serious one, they had to live in a Paradise of plenty but not eat or be tempted by delicious fruit.
It started with Adam, who picked up fermented grapes and hastily ate them; this made him giggly and he dared Eve to pick an apple, the poor snake had nothing to with this.
The great HIM was angry not with Adam but with Eve who was weak and had been let astray by her man ( I suppose HIM liked a glass of heavenly mist in the evening after a long day creating things.)
Ever since women have been accused of everything gonorrhea, syphilis and Aids, blame it on the female. And for HIM sneaking in late at night and knocking up Virgin Mary; I intend to say nothing more.
HIM as we now know is a man unwilling to blame Adam so HE made the snake poisonous and accused it for humanities fall; and thus everything
is a gigantic plot to keep women down. Broremann the Boy
The boy was eight years old and pretended to have one leg shorter than the other, by walking with one foot in the gutter and the other foot on the pavement. He tried to run that way but it was difficult lost his balance and fell. A strange boy often alone dreaming about what to do, he had told his mother he wanted to be an actor and play many roles and be everything at once. Either that or to an opera singer be, famous, traveling around the world. His mother didn´t think much of his plans and anyway this was his last day in this town tomorrow he was being sent to farm, that had cows, horses, and sheep. He had no say in the matter his mother was sick and had to go to a sanatorium He didn´t mind it so much liked horses and could be a cowboy but he had to go to school to and the children was sure to mob him for talking city like. Down at the docks a big ship was birthing she came all the way from Conakry in Africa. The boy decided to be a sailor, and walked home to tell his mother.
August
The massive heat which paralyzed any thought of going outside during the day, the heat was as a huge military blanket glued to the body like skin of grief, wars fought for no gain other than the knowledge that new masters who promised peace and freedom, will renege first thing when safely in power as sure as August will return. The September evening is soft and gentle as lover´s sigh the breeze is cooling wooden telephone poles, it is now possible to ring without hearing the crackling of agony of sap dripping dowels. The voices of people eating their meal on terraces and porches are like forgotten a tune remembered; this, a moment to be cherished when rain and fog comes and turns the village into gloom and we´ll under our umbrellas say:” August wasn´t that awful.”
Short verse Old man on park bench Looks like a child Who has stopped crying.
September, falling leaves A mist of sorrow
Old man has watery eyes.
Cumulous On the sun-deck I saw two big clouds a man one and a female, they met kissed and the man cloud was transformed into a plucked chicken. Not that the female cloud fared better for behind her came huge troll cloud that absorbed her up its nostrils. In the world of clouds you never see the same formation twice, in this immaterial ever changing world; it is as the saying goes: You can´t cross the same river twice. Now a massive dark cloud erased the picture, and as I didn´t want a drab cloud hanging over me, I got up walked into the galley and had a mug of coffee, while the cook fried pork chops.
The dress Revolution Sometimes the longing for the past is like a constant hunger by the underfed. Summers were endless and I was the first to wear shorts and sandals in town; had bought them in Aruba, coming off a ship going home I met my mother and sister, they were shocked no one dressed frivolous back then. I wore a T. shirt too on it was written: “I Love New York.� Mother thought I ought to change into long trouser, wear a proper shirt, preferable white, and tie, sister was impressed though. I loved my youth to be different from the norm. But time was changing fast, five years on everyone wore shorts and had long hair, Jogging in the park I was the only one, now you can´t walk for joggers. I started this revolution, but where is my plaque?
Broremann the angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking, he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish. But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones, his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper and made their way back to the sea.
The Price of water
The little lake, not far from the houses, has been dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish. By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty. Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung, gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon. In the future the new commodity will be water.
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went. He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her. After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle. There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was newcomer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
Senryu Emptiness in a glass A promise not rewarded Surface dust shimmers
Fragments of another Reality
We, my wife and daughter whose face is always in a shadow, and me, embarked from the liner in a coastal town that was strangely subdued and cars which passed were noiseless; and passers-by were silent. We hired a limousine and drove to the outskirt of the town to visit my uncle, a place with big villas, gardens of apple and pear trees, it was all gone replaced with avenues and glass towers. I sensed by daughter was restless and she also wanted an ice-cream, but no one sold it here, ice-lollies and chocolate were outlawed as bad for the health. She cried now, my wife took over driving I sat in the backseat stroking my only child´s hair. At the border crossing there was a delay as no one could see her, but eventually they let us through‌ Back home I placed my daughter on the window -sill she likes to sit there and see the world go by.
Pets
Do we love dogs because we can dominate them? They do as they are told (after some struggle) and love us unconditionally because they know it is their only chance of survival; and after a while do they really love us as a slave loves his master?
Wolves on the other hand will never give a paw they refused to be enslaved, want to be free of human’s interference and we hate and fear what we cannot dominate or train to do our bidding; maybe it is wrong to keep pets?
Dogs have been with us since stone age when being with humans were less stressing than having to compete with wolves for food? When the moon is full dogs howl their distress asking if they have made the right choice?
September Evening
In the afternoon light the wooden telephone post near the house, is in sharp reliĂŠf to the firmament. It is slightly crooked like the burden of having twelve lines attached to it is too much. I wonder if it has had dry rot treatment.
It is like I see the pole for the first time, if it falls down or break in half I will be without TV and computer. The clouds, in the sky look like exquisite silk scarves, scented and whispering of lost love and promises. Now planes begin crossing the sky cutting through the lovely scarves going north and west like white worms eating the silk with greedy ferocity.
I look at the, pole twilight it´s like an ancient man who wants to go home but has forgotten where it is.
Untouchables From the window at the hotel I could see the back yard as a deep canyon of fear and bins overflowing of half eaten food. It was night in the canyon a life, cruel and vile was taking center stage.
A big Rattus Norvegicus was sticking her snout out of a disused drain pipe, sniffing the air it was raining slightly, which was good it kept cats away, those evil ogres adopted by humans‌.As Pets!
She had given birth to six pink and blind babies, and could not stay away for long, other rats might find and eat them in this world that knew no compassion and life ended in violence.
Quickly, yet alert, she ran to the bins found food, mostly burgers and fried potatoes. Back in the lair her babies sought nutrition and warmth; for a moment, in this world of total outcasts, there was harmony and bliss.
Broremann’s war
Spring, 1945, German troops in his town were walking about not carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner. Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers, middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by Mormons).
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory, the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent five war years in his town. They drank together and declared it had been a peaceful war.
The Apparition I saw a man kneeling beside the dead body Gadhafi with a smirk on his face holding thumbs up… eleven months later he was slain just like the tyrant…. He became an envoy a friend of the wrecked country, a buddy working to make the country a rational state the US way; a client state to help oil flow freely to the west. But he forgot, as many do, the infamy Arabs has suffered in the hands of the west… even if people were glad a tyrant was gone they still found the picture offensive. For they see the inequity of the selective way the west pushes democracy on the weak. A ghost looms, a cuckoo in the nest, it will not give up until it has full power of the defeated and we blindly follow this cuckoo´s call into the abyss.
False Spring End of September is a strange interlude in Algarve´s countryside. Flowers suddenly bloom and yellow grass turns green, for a few weeks it looks like spring before sinking back to winter gloom. The cork tree, dark and nude its dress has been turned into bottle stoppers and and no leaves protect its misery. Still it is looking inwards pretend not to be there while waiting for spring, when my almond three strews pink snow flakes on the sandy lane and life begins again.
The Unspoken
“End of time itself” Spoken on the radio by A dramatic actor.
When time ends the past Never existed, not even As a dream
And there will be no one To record what didn´t Happened.
Yet we who live cannot Believe this as a cosmic Dream that never was
To think all this life Is not even an illusion Death is like that.
And it pains me to know Your name didn´t exist
As my love for you was timeless.
Love by the River.
I carried the old fashion gramophone, she carried the records to the river. We sat and I kissed her while listening to 1959 records.
Let´s have a dip. Naked we swam in the moonlit river that cleanses disgust. Her armpits had the aroma of clover
Started gramophone again, music back then was so trite, lyrics boring and her body looked enchanting in moonlight.
I threw the bloody music machine into the river, she did ditto with the records. We made love in stillness as trout waked I regretted not having brought a fishing rod.
A Spot of Rain
Noon, suddenly it was dark, sunlight on whitewashed walls no more. Switched on ceiling lamp it looked pathetic blinked like a dying star, changed the bulb. Rain came, big drops, one followed, the other in organized fashion and since it hasn´t been raining since May, nature sighed in delight as dogs and cats hid in the barn. So this what winter looks like, the dimming of the light, no more bike trips in green shorts pretending to be seventeen behind sunglasses. But wait, sun is back, lifts an old man´s spirit
The Promenade.
Another day Sunday at the seaside resort luckily there were no carousels, few kids and those who were there behaved textbook like, with their grandparents loyally eating ice cream and drinking soda pops; since they were given everything they wanted, there were few tantrums.
The latest trend now (for women) is to wear long, lose fitting flowering dresses and my wife said she still had dresses like that going back forty years; she will wear one of them tomorrow. Grand yachts at the marina I counted three “Aston Martins” wondered if Prince Charles was around. Yet on the promenade I saw mostly pensioners who had been saving for a year to have this one vacation. I was the only one who murmured darkly if the rich had paid their taxes; but what do you expect of a man who wants to bring back the guillotine.
Time has mellowed me the weather was summery I wore blazer and looked posh (that´s what she said) and I did my best to keep my stomach in. This is an enchanting time we tried not to think of tomorrows as we sat on a bench eating ice-cream yogurt …it has less sugar.
Love Unrequested
The lady across the road had beautiful grey hair, thick and glossy, I admired her mane because she was eighty five. Her hubby about her same aged died, I attended the funeral, open casket, in death he looked handsome, old man asleep. When people get old some do not realize how old they are, and the old lady, since I had admired her lovely hair, thought we could be a couple; only I was fifty two at the time and not overly interested. The lady took offence felt humiliated since she already had told the villagers I loved her. A day when I was doing a bit of weeding around the house she came out; called me a womanizer hit me with her umbrella. Well I´m not heroic, fled into the house and bolted the door; and the villagers were greatly amused. She moved to a rest home and I could go out without being assaulted. I read in the paper she had just died at hundred and five, but I will not attend her funeral‌.I think.
Time for Clearance
I was in Norway once, the paradise of social democracy, I saw many beggars, mostly Roma people who the inhabitant wanted to get rid of or send them out of town in the woods where they were not seen. If you are beggar you got to beg where the people are, foxes and sheep and have nothing to give. There is a strong sense of nationalism in Norway. The police did not hesitate to round up Jews and send them to death camps, and when the war was over most of the police officers continued in their work upholding the law. Norway as a nation has never looked at itself and taking tally of the nation´s behavior during war years, instead it is lauding the few who resisted the Nazi occupation and made them into icons. They shot Quisling but it didn´t stop what made a quisling possible. Still has not done so. Oil made Norway rich, yet there is poverty amongst the low paid and incomers for whom there is little charity. The dark side of Scandinavia- violence,hate against people who are different from them‌ those who do not fit into the nice, but untrue picture the country has of itself.
The River The river that crosses the high plain like an artery has only muddy water since it didn´t rain in the summer. Wild horses and donkeys come here to drink, but often they look up and scan the horizon weary of man and his dogs. They served mankind for thousands of years but with modern farming methods they are no longer needed and have gone feral. Free now, but freedom comes at a prize, winter can be hard and often they are hunted by sportsmen who kill for fun. By the mountain there is a corral but only the stupid and sick go there, the rest know they are fattened up and used as sausage meat, which the town uphill is famous for. Every Octobers there is a gigantic party in the hill town, beer is senselessly drunk and tons of sausages eaten, the river, that crosses the plain, becomes a putrid pool of human waste till winter rain falls and clears it away.
A war´s Aftermath.
After the war flats was hard to get, but when mother´s uncle Adolf hung himself in the kitchen that had cement floor and sun stayed away as to tell us something about the nature of hate. Mother´s uncle believed in new order and they had given him a uniform which he used when going to the park to feed the ducks. He had once been an officer In the merchant navy and missed no being in charge… the kitchen only had cold water and a hole for water to disappear into, we also used it to crap in since we had no loo. Mother put a slab on the hole when not using it or rats would come eating our food. At night when I had to pee there was a pot under the bed because I did not dare to go into the kitchen, because I once had seen him hanging there. Adolf, not a big man, once I tried his uniform on, it was big and on his cap there was a skull. I walked out in the street to show the other kids, they were impressed. Mother, very angry burned his uniform, but amongst the ashes I found the cap´s silver skull.
Dream On!
Clouds hang low today covering the ridge, if I drive up there on my bike I can hide in a steel blue cloud and people will say: where is he? Him! He is trying to find the milky way where postmen wear red uniforms and say good morning sir before handing you the gas bill. Sigh, here back on earth the post has been privatized low status, casual work, they wear jeans and anorak and have no time for a chat, their route is long and a man with a timepiece follows them around. When coming down from the ridge I will not carry tablets, stay silent drive home and make a cup of coffee.
The Beginning
There is at the top of the easterly ridge a halo the nearest I will ever come to godliness.
Than the light spreads coming down the vale as a freedom of dark thoughts.
The night had been ominous and starless, in grip of melancholy and longing to know.
Then the sun still pale rose above the ridge warmed my face, another beautiful day.
Even then I saw and knew threating clouds from the North tried to spoil it all.
I had seen the sunrise, the god of the Maya; Allah has many names, but there is only one.
Anniversary
Birthdays when you are old reminds you of the grave, you see it a freshly dug hole waiting just for you. People bring you wine, what else do an old man needs? Guests getting high on wine they brought you and it is all jolly. I try to join in. wife has made an effort candlelight and so on guests are people I never see unless meeting them at a pretentious art exhibition; and I think of my childhood when birthdays were important, I tell stories of a past of poverty and need; wife disrupts saying I should forget about the past, how can I it shaped me for what I´m today? Cakes I think of are those I never had in my infancy; cakes I baked, with condensed milk, when the captain had his birthday -if he was an ass hole I spat in the dough-, on ships made into nails somewhere in hot Bangladesh. How tired I´m lost in the past. Guests leave the old man´s party, but my wife is not stunned when calm
falls I have to collect the dirty glasses and do the dishes.
The Life of Sex.
We do live in a sex obsessed world, if we see two men in an animated discussion we assume they must be gays, or if women, lesbians. In the old days when two men shared a hotel room they were sharing the cost. How would you like to wake up one morning and be the world riches man and eighty five wearing shorts married to a woman forty years younger than you with big knockers and slim body… but you would still be 85? Or wake up, sleeping in a cardboard box in a supermarket´s doorway, and are told to piss off, guards speak like that, and be only twenty? It is all about sex and how much it costs, when you need it the most it is not available; when you are old and can pay for it, you can´t do it. The world speaks about sex and sex, but forgets the most important thing in life is called love.
The posh Tart.
She, an old fashioned girl, when walking past me dropped her handkerchief, gallantly I picked it up. and hand it to her, it was scented and had enticing aroma of womanhood. Said her price and my face fell into the street where it was dragged along by a cleaning car. She didn´t look that way- short skirt beret and red handbag-. Said she only picked up gentlemen, I was going home from a literary party consisting of pork pie, hot air and warm red wine. I walked into a bar, had a double whisky thought about what she had said‌ calling me a gentleman. From the inside of the bar I saw her drop her silk hankie again, like bait, this time she caught a fish and off they went to make posh love, I marveled over my everlasting naivety and wondered if she called him a gentleman too.
The Hunter.
The man who crosses the field carries his shotgun tucked into his left arm. In his belt five rabbits hang. This is not a hobby hunter in camouflage outfit, but a mall time farmer who uses the wildlife to augment his meager income‌ his dog that has been walking at heel runs in front of him, barks, and up from the tall, dry grass a rabbit springs a shot and now he has six rabbits hanging from his belt‌. He will sell his catch later at a hotel or restaurant. The man who crossed field, his face is naturally dark, by years spent outdoors, walks into a landscape of trees and bushes and disappears from view.
The Naked and the dead.
Naked I walk through the town but no one sees me no more than they see a shadow on a sun drenched wall… and I awoke my son´s name, he who was aborted twenty years ago. My son I have given you a grand education, all my money has gone to make you middle class and respected in this town…speak now and stop your silence I need your support and do not be ashamed of your father who swam from the sea penniless but begat you my wonderful child unborn, cause your mother wanted to be attractive forever. you are what I never became a man of class. Do not leave me know, do not be ashamed of your sailor father who had nothing to give but his love for an unborn child. Night is so long I wait by the phone, just one call to tell me you have been successful and that you love me.
Extraterrestrials?
The man, in my infancy, who said there were people on the moon, was laughed at; he was wrong, but not wrong in thinking there was other life forms on remote planets. Years ago a big plane got vanished and landed on the back of the moon where temperature is an even 22 Celsius and there were an abundance of green fruit that looked like, bananas and nutty tasting blue grass. Adults missing meat ate each other till there was only one left, the pilot, and dejected jumped off the moon. The youthful passengers and children got used to their surroundings and could cook bananas in fifty variations. They built caves and decorated them with chairs from the plane and as beds they used dried banana leaves‌. And as time went by the earth became a myth an idea of paradise lost. This generation of moon dwellers wore no clothes, what´s point? Only women, on certain dates, wore dried green skirts. So the man who believed there was life on the moon may be right after all.
The Galaxy
On the terrace in the sun I closed my eyes and saw coloured light dancing under my eyelids like a galaxy that only existed inside of me‌ or is the real galaxy an illusion. Scientists watch stars in their great telescopes but only see what is in their heads‌ And we agree because we too only see what is in our own mind. Ruby stars and pink moons and the dream of immortality that our souls fly to a mysterious planet like our own where death has been vanquished.
The classless society
It is now official the working class is dead we are all middle class except for those who clean the office floors, make products and make cheap clothes, they have no right nor a future, we accept that as we need this minority of current slaves to keep up our illusion we are a modern nation. This minority -luckily for us 窶電oes not see their power if no one produced anything or cleaned streets and offices, we would drown in filth and overflowing sewers; we would pay a them handsomely and respect those who keep our cities livable.
Eternal Love. All those years ago it must be fifty gone I still hear your sweet voice. Back then I didn´t know… how much I loved you… if you hear my heart beat now I´m so far away…will you remember me? And if you do will you smile a secret smile and move your lips so I can see your hidden tongue of love fulfilled? Lives’ beautiful harmony is given to me because I will always love you. In my mind I hear you whispering of love and the promises we gave each other. Now at midnight time I´m dying for your smile…please darling… remember me.