Neptune

Neptune
 The king sits on a wooden throne on a turf of
dry land, his country has been swallowed up
by the sea, turns to his premier and says; why
didn´t you ask the Dutch for help, their flat
country has been beneath sea levels for many
years... and as a result they have grown to be
the tallest people in the world, this so they
look over dikes and keep an eye on the ocean.

The king takes off his green wellies and asks
for dry socks, a flunky puts them on, but sees
the king has webbed feet and wonders why.
The monarch knew his country would sink,
and was prepared, his kingdom will be big and
limitless.
 

ghost

Yesteryears Ghost

Walking around the town where I had grown up and left 40 years ago,

I found myself outside the flat where mother and I lived in on the second floor.

When I came home late I used to throw a pebble up to the window,

for her to come down and open the door, not that I didn´t have key it was just

the hallway was dark and once I had seen a ghost perhaps not seen, but had

felt its cold breaths on my neck.... Eventually mother moved to a nursing and

when everything was cleared out- not that there was much to clear- I was

the kitchen and listened to silence, when the door opened and I saw a ghost,

perhaps I didn´t actually see but I felt its cold breaths, and I remembered

a popular song  at the time: “They are coming to take you away ah ha.”   

 

pre beatle fame

Pre Beatles Fame

 There are times when long time ago really is long, yet seen

with a cosmic sight, a speck of dust in the eye of the sky.  

I think it was In 1956 I saw the Beatles perform at a place

called the cave in Liverpool. I was about seventeen worked

as a mess boy on a ship, cleaning pots and pans in the galley.

 Back then the wages were low, yet we didn´t feel poor and

we had money for a pint of beer and a packet of woodbine,

potato crisp with a packed of salt inside...big deal.  

 Oh, shallow youth I found their music noisy and intrusive

I was trying to chat up a girl at the time, she was swaying

to the tune said the lyric was fantastic and I quickly agreed

became a fan overnight, yet never conquered her heart.

back on board - pubs closed early- I sat smoking cigarettes

listening to Hank William’s western music on the radio.

the day the world ends

The Day The World Ends.

Sky and earth were lovers their children; sea, rain, sun and thunder; but they

had no space, stuck in the middle of the lovers, so they prised them apart and

thus were free. The Parents cannot meet again and look on as their children

rake havoc on sky and land. They know the day will come when there will be

silence and just enough time for  a last embrace before the world turns into

a snowball that flies beyond the galaxy where the unknown is a shivering tree

that has yet to exist, since there is no consciousness. But is it right to say only

insight is suitable as prove of life? Dipterous exist well without it and the filthy

 cockroach  has its brain in its stomach. Life created has a purpose, a function

we don´t see, practical suited to natures self are regulating cleaning purpose.

The shivering tree does not know it does not exist, if the world ceased to be,

 and when the world reappeared after a long recreation it has no recollection

of a past, and there is no room for philosophical speculation of the rhythmic

wonder of life. 

first thought

First Thought

The rich, famous, notorious, and singers get their lyrical poem written

by harp playing bards who as thanks get to eat and sit on the left side

of the most illustrious person and whisper flattery into ears that cannot

hear, but one voice.  The muse has been corrupted by poets, who flew

too near the power, I feel like writing a poem to Saddam Hussein,

he used to, when young, sell cigarette in Al Basrah, kept Iraq intact till

 warrior democrats arrived and turned the country into a failed state,

but I will desist; after all I have stopped smoking.

The tendencies to believe what our leaders say has yet again destroyed

a country and a voice in my head tells me how insignificant poetry is,

 when it tells the truths about us, it doesn´t matter anymore, because no

one no listens. The poor are dead or frail and religion is an instrument of

torture as the world nears its total destruction, and all words written on

paper of trees slaughtered trees´ last breath will, be ash in the wind.

the day of our valentines

The Day of our Valentines

Valentine´s day is when horrors begin at dawn on

the island/town of Hashima abandoned now,

not a soul, only a black and white TV is on silently

re running life as it was lived here before humanity

suddenly left. On a grey wall a faded drawing of

a heart with an arrow through it ,and words written

underneath: Happy Valentine´s Day.

We know now, should humanity be eradicated by

a dervish wind of pestilence, what will be left is

decaying buildings, rotting books,   and the eerie

silence of what we were not able to say.

(a small Island in the bay of Nagasaki)

lepidopterist

Lepidopterist

He was a collector of natural beauty, a lepidopterist, a title he was rather

proud of made him sound like a doctor. Over the years he had become

an authority of butterflies and moths, and people came to see his immense

collection. When visitors asked how he was able to almost keep dead

butterflies to keep their natural colours, he said it was important to stick

a needle through them as soon as possible, before their normal tone

began to disappear gradually. But he had never been able to keep their

usual blush of his dead butterflies like of those in the wild.

One day he saw a rare butterfly ran after it with his net and just caught it

when he fell down a deep hole that had spikes at the bottom. He bled and

no one heard his call for help. The insect in his net he set free and saw it fly

up to the sunlight, a sight that made him happy like seeing his own soul

seeking the freedom of weightlessness. The spikes had severed an aorta an

when morning came his face had lost its natural outdoor colour. 

Fimbule frost

the grief

The Grief

Big windows are nice, but the sun heats up and

the room gets hot up quickly, we need to shut

the blinds and close for the view of the sea line.

We visited a man who lived alone and he didn´t

want his day changed by us, switched on the TV

as he always did at noon and we sat there seeing

a program about lion cubs in Africa, giraffes and

hordes of gnus and zebras.

TV is a great human voice silencer, the art of talk

Is being overshadowed by the visual to see others

act and carry on a useless conversation so we do

not have to do it. Perhaps the man estimated our

errand, hoped for more time before being told his

wife had not survived when her plane fell down. 

defunct soldier

Defunct Soldier

When I met him he was an homeless old soldier, one who has fought

every war in the last hundred years, cannon, fodder for big business

and those who say that our society needs to be saved from migrants.

 The last war he fought was in Fallujah this time he was an American

soldier who believed in the righteousness of his mission, only to find

when he came home and demobbed, he was alone in a world that

took no interest in his war of freedom.

Undeterred he went to Afghanistan and fought there, another war that

had no meaning other than keeping licensed warriors in employment.

The common soldier is forty and never rose above the rank of sergeant,

old soldiers are not officer material, they just go on fighting were they

are sent, and sadly since the world War Two there has not been a honest

war, but that is not the concern of the nameless soldier who every year

 in Paris, we put flowers on his grave.

neophyte

Neophyte

What can I say the pot plants in the yard are fed tiny rain drops

saintly tears of a girl rejected by the abbess to join the order

because she detect a wild sensual abandonment behind eyes that,

 at first glance, are mirrors of chastity.

The abbess knows the young girl is not seeking god rather she seeks

shelter from the raving craving of her body, the relentless dreams

so alive she  feels the weight of her fantasy lover´s alabaster body,

a young priest at the local church.

 Sacrifices, in god´s name is always demanded by religious orders,

and mother superior has a quota to fill, but she is not looking for

troubles She needs compliant novices, Indian girls from the slum

who will forever thank god for escaping Calcutta´s poverty. They

will be slaves of Jesus and married to him, clean his underwear

endure ignominy for three square meals and a bunk bed to sleep in. 

slave mentality

Slave Mentality

I had a dog for twelve years, a friendly dog it loved me it was a slave,

had to, in order to be accepted in human society, suppress its instinct.

Nature is a hard place fight for food is endless; canines found it easier

to make a pact with the man; give up their freedom for a can of dog food.

Often, by insecure people, slaves are spoilt allowed to be indoors sleep

on the sofa and made to think they are the masters of the household.

Wrong, dogs are slave to be anything else puzzle them, they want you

to be the leader and as they make you love their fidelity.

Slaves defy their masters in subtlest ways, my dog slept on the sofa when

I had gone to bed. Big corporations are our masters tell us what we like and

dislike; we comply, it is the easiest way not to be critical of the employers

the hand that holds the nine tailed cat. We get our trivial revenge stealing

a little free time when we can.  After all democracy on an empty stomach is

 not worth fighting for; freedom is our masters’ grand illusion. 

 

a winter tale

A Winter Tale

I was going out driving to the shops and buy food, switched off indoors lamps,

only the grey winter light came in, and the living room looked like the depth of

a severe depression, the moment when you check your gun and sigh because it

is not loaded, and you will live a day longer.

I left the heater on low switched on a couple of side lights this gave the room

a cosy feeling. The room luxuriating in its own slightly seedy look, used furniture,

settee, chairs and a books shelve that is a picture of literary disorganisation.

It was raining outside I looked into my own room, had not drawn the curtains,

the room looked inviting and thought why should it have the privileges of  

slow lifestyles while had to buy firewood and keep the room warm.

I was standing there, a foundling looking into a rich man´s house Christmas Eve,

with only a box of matches that, only paedophiles would buy. I need no newspaper,

joined my room switched on the TV, together we enjoyed a comfy winter evening,

that had the romance of apple strudel and Grimm`s fairytales. 

virtual children

Passchendaele

Passchendaele

Morning mist hung over the front line like a dirge,

as far as one could see the landscape was gray as

a German infanterist´s uniform and the few trees

left standing had been hit by shrapnel a thousand

times. Lead heavy stillness no bird flew across this

corner of carnage, but the soldiers had gone and

the dead had been carried away. Farmers moved in-

sons of the land- ploughed fields of sudden death,

 and planted seeds. And the soil, rich by the blood

of unknown soldiers, exploded in many hues of green.

 Few traces of war left, except for trenches crossing

here and there, but they were a good place for rain

run off when earth got soaked and a place for hares

to hid from the farmer´s shotgun. 

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