a pair of brown shoes

A Pair of Brown Shoes I once slapped my brother across the face, it hurt me more than him, the palm of my right hand is still red. You see, we lived in a small flat- I had bought a pair of shoes, they were un-walked in and shiny; was going to put them on that Saturday evening to impress my friends; but my brother beat me to it. I was so furious I cried; “it is only a pair of shoes,” my mother bleated in the background. This was fifty years ago I now know the difference of what is important and what is nothing to bother about, but sod it all... he shouldn’t have taken my fucking shoes

mortality

Mortality There is death and there is big deaths Mr Bloom. An industrialist died and there were shockwaves in Europe, he had a white moustache and we are Told he was flamboyant and there will be a sea of flowers, The president will kiss his wife’s hand and there will be tears....some of them real. Meanwhile at a place where children day on daily basis one of them died before he got to suckle his mothers meagre breast. No there will be no president there no kisses to the mother for her lamentable loss, only silence. Some humans are more valuable than others but in the end Both have in common they will never speak again.

childhood

Childhood. I read, in a newspaper, with following black white & photo of children used as slave labourers many years ago, I was one of them, but I didn’t share the misery described. I was sat with my little suitcase on a bus that trundled through a flat landscape, told to sit there until a man called my name. It was a small farm and the farmer’s wife gave me a thick slice of bread with strawberry jam on. Then I was shown my room a tiny loft span with a straw mattress and it was bitterly cold. I started work at six next morning, with a glass of milk and a slice of bread, my job was to muck out the cows shed shuffle the residue down a hole in the wall, the manure was later used fertilise the land. School was every other day and a bit bothersome till I hit one of my torments with a brick over his head and poise of fear was restored. I quickly got the hang on the farm work, got on well with the farmer and was spared the dirtiest work. Years I spent on the farm, but then my mother came home from sanatorium I wanted to be near her; apparently it was not legal to just leave like that but I left anyway. One day many years later, feeling nostalgic I went back to the farm, it wasn’t there anymore, had been turned into a housing estate. Poverty, struggle, need and were all forgotten incidental as life itself, but I owe it to them, after me there will be no one left to tell the story

texas

Texas An explosion in the engine room and the ship needed urgent repair in Houston ; I rented a car...a Buick I think a big box like monster that skidded on slightest wet surface. Mind I could only drive the car on my afternoon break. Sundays was my day I started early took the whole off as a chief steward I could do that leaving the cook to sort and he was free to drink beer without me scolding him. I stopped at a stud farm rented a horse, pretended I was a cowboy, till got saddle sore, which I never got back at the farm Norway when I rode bare back. A tee bone steak with backed potatoes life was perfect but I left early feared to get lost, Texas is a very dark place after sundown. Back on the ship the captain told me to stay on board on Sundays that he was the captain and not me. I should have invited him on the trip too, but I preferred to be alone.

Debris There was a time when I was a seaman travelled with a cardboard suitcase and my best shoes wrapped in newspaper. I always wore khaki mainly because people would think I was an American, back then I thought it a great country; still great but But her leaders look like nine to five clerks. I have read many books but mostly cheep pot boilers. Due to my shyness spent most time in my cabin and left my ship when there was no more to read. I did developed a fondness for Hemingway he never overwrote is books. But for me reading had its hidden hazard as I tended to become the person I read about. I once read a report about me it said I was grumpy drank too much - I must have been reading Hemingway at the time and had no social skills and never mixed with others. I was a lousy seaman and only enjoyed going ashore places I had read about and had an historical meaning I could connect with. Well all this is in the past I was not to know I was ill and introversion is a burden.

dictators and the disagreeable

Dictators and the disagreeable We sit in the bar, we the insecure here we are masters of our own dreams...tomorrow, always next day and never in the morning. People who have to stop drinking often develop peculiar fads, like defending Hitler. Mind it is easy to blame on and excuse the rest. Once Hitler was a child, his mother dried his tears. It is much easier to get an obsession concerning the pope or Obama, the first black President, to defend his record or lack of it is easy and one will have many followers on twitter or facebook. And on can also bask in the warm glow of popularity and admire his close circle of advisers. I have taken I have taken a shine to Saddam Hussein lately his brutality was saner than the so called democracy few people in the Middle East want, but we are not listening to the majority, but only to western educated stooges. I have never met a nice dictator, but some of them have turned out to be quite wise.

the loss

The Loss Dream time, lazy and long, is over It lasted a generation But real life Came and stole the colours Home baked bread no more everything is easy shop bought and taste of the average. I now of a woman who stole Flowers for her son’s coffin It stood there in the snow Grave diggers on strike. But a bouquet of flowers don’t Mind what they were intended for Rootless and decaying anyway So let the mother be she didn’t Do anything wrong, just rearranged Flowers bought in a shop from a grave The had too many to her son’s Whose no flora in the world could hide Hide a mother’s grief

equines

Equines One really ought to start with the beginning only it goes so long back That it is impossible to remember. I remember being born but that was just an interlude, cold and Unpleasant and being kiss by strangers. I like horses though but that has nothing to do with my inception . But then was anyone ever born, we are just a part of a bigger Broader picture where we but an unconscious number But I do like horses and would have loved galloping across some Grassland and jumping over brooks. And now we have emboli fever which is either over hyped, Ten thousand dead by September or it is the new plague coming To reduce our number ...and yet, and yet I would like to be a horse. As I wonder if USA will ever be able to live for a whole year Without starting a war somewhere

the stallion

Stone Stallion A big rock in the field he dedicated twenty years of his life to make it look like a horse When he gave up The rock looked as beautiful As the first day he saw it.

the precious | Write Out Loud

the precious | Write Out Loud

The Precious

I picked up a stone it was green but not jade

Even I could see that.

Took it home rinsed it in the sink it was still

Green and did not pretend to be jade

Put the stone in the windowsill where sunlight

And winter shade gave it ordinariness.

Threw the stone away knew it was not jade

But it could have been fucking something