Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
tanka
Tanka
NATO…is
A mean military machine
Looking for a war
It found one in Libya
A monster’s sweet taste of blood
Tanka
Hurricane Irene
Poured rain on Manhattan
The world press aghast
A coast guard shack damaged
U.S. under siege again
NATO…is
A mean military machine
Looking for a war
It found one in Libya
A monster’s sweet taste of blood
Tanka
Hurricane Irene
Poured rain on Manhattan
The world press aghast
A coast guard shack damaged
U.S. under siege again
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
fruit tree
The fruit tree.
Twilight, soon it will be dark, sparrows are flying back, god knows
where they have been. A flock meet in my plum tree, there is livid
arguing, who is going sit where. My tree doesn’t bear crops, yet
it is a fruit tree, my neighbour says so. I’m a plum tree too grew
up tall and stylish women flocked around me, I married five times
... and not a bloody plum. Grey trunk, limp leaves and when dusk
comes no one sits on my twigs; I have to invent stories of plums
I never had. Fine plums, juicy plums all of them females that never
matured and left me alone to fend for myself in time of solitude.
Night, and in my heart there a is longing for the unfeasible.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
stretched time
Stretched Time
Twenty years! TWENT YEARS! I have lived in this tiny hamlet
a lifetime…for some. Maybe I have been here hundred years
and the time before I came is shrouded in a mythical dream.
Deep oceans of pasts that wash up on the strand of illusion
and must therefore be reinvented.
On top of a hill I can see the ocean…and yes it has sunlight on
and glitters just like a postcard or a holiday brochure.
Vaguely remember, didn’t I used to be a seafarer who spent
too much time alone, in a blue cabin, reading too many books
about intrepid travelers so I could forget my own voyage?
I wonder if Nelson Mandela remembers he once was president,
or does he dimly remember it as a youthful dream?
My dream was to be a cowboy not a shipboard cook cleaning
pots and pans and endless, the Irish stew, bacon and meatballs.
Twenty years, yes it has been a long time, a lifetime…for some.
Twenty years! TWENT YEARS! I have lived in this tiny hamlet
a lifetime…for some. Maybe I have been here hundred years
and the time before I came is shrouded in a mythical dream.
Deep oceans of pasts that wash up on the strand of illusion
and must therefore be reinvented.
On top of a hill I can see the ocean…and yes it has sunlight on
and glitters just like a postcard or a holiday brochure.
Vaguely remember, didn’t I used to be a seafarer who spent
too much time alone, in a blue cabin, reading too many books
about intrepid travelers so I could forget my own voyage?
I wonder if Nelson Mandela remembers he once was president,
or does he dimly remember it as a youthful dream?
My dream was to be a cowboy not a shipboard cook cleaning
pots and pans and endless, the Irish stew, bacon and meatballs.
Twenty years, yes it has been a long time, a lifetime…for some.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
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