Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
decline of rich men
The decline of rich Men.
The numbers of American millionaires have declined
I read this as a news item and was amused.
I know of an old man who became a lotto millionaire
He had a facelift, and married a young woman.
But time was only on the woman’s side and he couldn’t
Cut the mustard…and sank into despondency.
Clutching dollar bills he went to hospital and begged
Doctors to restore his potency…they could not.
Expensive divorce, lawyers she had the best money
Could buy, and then he as poor again.
His old wife took him in but he has to live in the dog
House, feeds him rice pudding and combs his hair.
The numbers of American millionaires have declined
But I will not speculate on the reason why.
The numbers of American millionaires have declined
I read this as a news item and was amused.
I know of an old man who became a lotto millionaire
He had a facelift, and married a young woman.
But time was only on the woman’s side and he couldn’t
Cut the mustard…and sank into despondency.
Clutching dollar bills he went to hospital and begged
Doctors to restore his potency…they could not.
Expensive divorce, lawyers she had the best money
Could buy, and then he as poor again.
His old wife took him in but he has to live in the dog
House, feeds him rice pudding and combs his hair.
The numbers of American millionaires have declined
But I will not speculate on the reason why.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
as days pass
As Days Pass
What happens to the day? Not long ago it was morning
and I was struggling valiantly to read Norman Mailer’s
“Harlot’s Ghost,” 1380 pages didn’t he know when to stop?
That is why I like Hemingway, he was so mercifully short.
I was thinking of this when sitting in the local bar nursing
a whisky with ice water, but then all the farmhands came
they were noisy, played cards…so I gulped down my drink
and left. At home I put Norman back on the book shelf,
decided to leave him for a long winter evening; and since
it doesn’t get dark till nine, I drove towards the sunset and
wrote a true ghost story about a sunray that danced at
midnight and picked flowers for his beloved, a moonbeam.
Alas, in nights blooms are grey or colorless, she refused his
offer, his ardour too hot for her… she flew back to moon.
What happens to the day? Not long ago it was morning
and I was struggling valiantly to read Norman Mailer’s
“Harlot’s Ghost,” 1380 pages didn’t he know when to stop?
That is why I like Hemingway, he was so mercifully short.
I was thinking of this when sitting in the local bar nursing
a whisky with ice water, but then all the farmhands came
they were noisy, played cards…so I gulped down my drink
and left. At home I put Norman back on the book shelf,
decided to leave him for a long winter evening; and since
it doesn’t get dark till nine, I drove towards the sunset and
wrote a true ghost story about a sunray that danced at
midnight and picked flowers for his beloved, a moonbeam.
Alas, in nights blooms are grey or colorless, she refused his
offer, his ardour too hot for her… she flew back to moon.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
a ghost...me
The Ghost…Me?
The dog woke me up came into my bedroom looked unnerved
and whimpered. In the living room that once had been a stable
A mule stood munching on straw, but it was not the animal
the dog was frightened of, but of a little man in the corner of
the stable asleep on a hay bale, beside him an empty wine jug.
When he saw me he screamed like he had seen a ghost and ran
through a door that was no longer there…the mule easy going,
followed suit. In 1952 the owner of the stable claimed he had
seen a ghost, a strange person who looked like a foreigner.
When I bought the stable/barn and converted it into a dwelling
the villagers told me the place was haunted, but also with a sly
smile, said the previous owner was fond of his homemade wine.
The dog went back to sleep, while I picked straw off the floor;
the poor man had seen the future and I had seen into the past.
The dog woke me up came into my bedroom looked unnerved
and whimpered. In the living room that once had been a stable
A mule stood munching on straw, but it was not the animal
the dog was frightened of, but of a little man in the corner of
the stable asleep on a hay bale, beside him an empty wine jug.
When he saw me he screamed like he had seen a ghost and ran
through a door that was no longer there…the mule easy going,
followed suit. In 1952 the owner of the stable claimed he had
seen a ghost, a strange person who looked like a foreigner.
When I bought the stable/barn and converted it into a dwelling
the villagers told me the place was haunted, but also with a sly
smile, said the previous owner was fond of his homemade wine.
The dog went back to sleep, while I picked straw off the floor;
the poor man had seen the future and I had seen into the past.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
whales
Whales.
What can I say about whales? I’ve seen them blow geysers of hot water
on the coast of Canada and Norway. Great innocent beings with small
brains living in peace, but for man. So much meat and fat; have you ever
tasted whale meat, it is dark and tender but it has to be soaked overnight
in vinegar or it will taste like cod liver oil. In the old days its fat made liquid
was good to lit lamps. We have got electricity now, so if you want a steak
kill a cow, they are plentiful, mind they are innocent too, graze and do not
know they are targeted to end up as burgers. The whales have a complex
language marine biologists say I don’t think it is hard at all, they are saying
in surprisingly feminine voice … where are you? I’m here two miles away
from you and watch out for boats, with propellers”. “Ok, thank you”
Sven Foyn, the whale murderer, nearly hunted them to extinction with his
exploding harpoon gun, but thanks to a few nature lovers this cruel practice
ended… Today there are many whales in the ocean sooner or later someone
will say there are too many of them, we have to cull them and make a little
money on the side. And unseen by us, but known by whales, a dark hulled
ship with a captain Ahab onboard is still hunting for an illusory white whale.
What can I say about whales? I’ve seen them blow geysers of hot water
on the coast of Canada and Norway. Great innocent beings with small
brains living in peace, but for man. So much meat and fat; have you ever
tasted whale meat, it is dark and tender but it has to be soaked overnight
in vinegar or it will taste like cod liver oil. In the old days its fat made liquid
was good to lit lamps. We have got electricity now, so if you want a steak
kill a cow, they are plentiful, mind they are innocent too, graze and do not
know they are targeted to end up as burgers. The whales have a complex
language marine biologists say I don’t think it is hard at all, they are saying
in surprisingly feminine voice … where are you? I’m here two miles away
from you and watch out for boats, with propellers”. “Ok, thank you”
Sven Foyn, the whale murderer, nearly hunted them to extinction with his
exploding harpoon gun, but thanks to a few nature lovers this cruel practice
ended… Today there are many whales in the ocean sooner or later someone
will say there are too many of them, we have to cull them and make a little
money on the side. And unseen by us, but known by whales, a dark hulled
ship with a captain Ahab onboard is still hunting for an illusory white whale.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Monday, June 4, 2012
Friday, June 1, 2012
Cuba 1958
I remember it like the day before yesterday Cuba 1959. Batista,
the corrupt dictator, had fled, but this was revenge time and
many of his collaborators were rounded up and shot; and what
often happen in such occasions there were onlookers cheering
and having their bloodlust satiated.
There was one man, man wearing a panama hat in his left hands,
refusing to wear a blindfold or have his hands tied behind his back.
On top of some steps he stood against a white wall, ready, but
there was a hesitation; waved his hat to the weary executioners.
A volley of fire, blood trickled down the steps, deep red, rich.
They but the body in a coffin, but there was silence, one man’s
courage had shamed onlookers and soldiers into pensive silence.
The revolution didn’t matter anymore, but human dignity did…
Is this all, does nothing change have we just ended one dictator
with another one in the name of the people.
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