mammal

My mother was so proud of her breasts she would not let me suckle her tits. But our sow had just had a dozen mother put me with them the piglets didn't notice the difference. At the restaurant they served suckling pigs, I was naked and with an apple in my mouth before someone noticed An Arabic sheikh offered my mother plenty of money to eat me with pepper and salt, but that was the moment when my father made his great entrance. The sheikh had been too mean, anyway the police. I was sent to an orphanage and people there used to call me the sheikh. After my father died and mother was feeling lonely she said I could suckle her breasts, but by that time they were big an ungainly so I refused; I remember she cried and said I lacked consideration for her age.

to have and to have not

To Have and Have not I used to be outside looking in Saw light and food on tables I’m inside now looking out Much hunger and poverty I see Can’t do much about it Except eating cold soup For my evening meal It is not distribution of soup The world need But equal sharing of world recourses At 15, her father sold her hair Tears running down her chin Now a woman in the west can wear Natural hair extension But she made a sister child cry

homho

ho ho

ho,ho Ho, ho Ho, ho and ho; the last ho was not a ho Ho, ho and ho; the ho last was not a “ho” Santa Claus is old and has been so for a long Time, he has a yearly facelift in Argentina. He lives in the mountain range of Andes where The old junta had their summer villas but this Totally beside the point as the military had their Own Santa Claus, a retired General. The military Santa had a strange sense of fun Union leaders got to ride in a sledge, but had to Jump into the sea at the coast of Peru. Some made it ashore only to be caught by CIA Agents and given more water. Meanwhile, The civilian Santa had to traverse the world and Send Chinese- made toys down chimneys, And like the smiling pope, ask people to be happy.

to be or not to be a vegetarian

To Be or not to be...a vegetarian Christmas in Portugal is a dowdy affair, Supermarkets are open most days and there is no rush, and no expectation, the hunting for happiness, family union and all that shit. We had baccallao for lunch today, and the fish was salted and dried at a mysterious place called Ålesund, where the sea is calm and deep blue and teeming with cod and the fishermen/ women wear yellow overalls, speak Norwegian but change over to English in case we should miss something very important. Tomorrow we are driving to Alentejo to eat pork elbows, yes meat from the elbow of the pig, first cooked then roasted and served potatoes and cabbage. I like the cabbage the best as it has been cooked with the elbow- there might be a more culinary word for a pig’s elbow- looks it up yourself. I’m pissed off with this poem, my intention was to write something romantic about food. Tomorrow I’m going to Alentejo to eat Pernil, which is Portuguese for pig’s elbow, (why didn’t you say so in the first place) and I will eat cabbage and reject the bloody meat from the feet of brutally slaughtered animals.

the business of cuisine

The business of Cuisine Two tins of Swedish meatballs in cream sauce. The Swedish export their soul even if it is hidden in tins. Unsalted mind stem and a heart of creamy white gravy. The new world is about buying and selling, and that is ok, Chinese dumplings bought at a pavement cafe it took days to settle my stomach So you think I know nothing I have been dining at a posh Chinese restaurant with rotating tables I said then, but not too cosy up to the host, Chinese food was leading in the fields of cousin. That was when I had the misfortune to go to Paris. excellent food but served with an arrogance that was off putting. I thought is there nowhere were people serve food without prancing trays about. Finally, I did in Alentejo (Portugal) where food is served without fanfare, because the food is natural, wholesome and good.... and if you are not driving, try their superb red wine and avoid a French philosopher whose vanity is shifty as Libyan sand.

good intention

http://oskarthefirst.podbean.com/e/good-intention/

ghosts

Ghosts. I knew of a man who believed in ghosts but he didn’t believe in resurrection, he believed in dying as an end of all activity that was conscious. But he thought that some people left their mark on things they had cherish bend the wood to his will and when stroking his fingers on the table to make it polished, he leaves behind part of his being. so when you hear a murmur, it is left behind voices; someone walking in a hall on the way to the garden, the thought of the beauty they were going to see were felt by walls, halls and old paintings. Ghosts are the residue of feelings left behind by the truly holy people amongst us those who believe in the beauty and the use of nature and a true sense of the mysterious that always is surrounding us.

Ghosts. I knew of a man who believed in ghosts, but he didn’t believe in resurrection, he believed in dying as an end of all activity that was conscious. But he thought that some people left their mark on things they had cherish bend the wood to his will and when stroking his fingers on the table to make it polished, he leaves behind part of his being. so when you hear a murmur, it is left behind voices; someone walking in a hall on the way to the garden, the thought of the beauty they were going to see were felt by walls, halls and old paintings. Ghosts are the residue of feelings left behind by the truly holy people amongst us those who believe in the beauty and the use of nature and a true sense of the mysterious that always is surrounding us.

mercy

Mercy In Australia a mother appears To have killed Her eight children with a knife And before we think of vengeance Let our mercy reign What she did when her mind was confused Is an unbearable knowledge A burden so great Forgiveness is the only thing we can Offer her now.

verse maker

Verse maker Poetry is to see Ignorance in a sentence The filling out of pleasant words The intention being Making the reader cry a little A poet sometimes is a mockingbird A mimus humming bard of Christmas songs

Tanka

Tanka Wake up at dawn Listen to your gentle breathing Can’t bear the thought That fate should be so cruel Let me live after you,

Tears

Tears When I was young I cried for no one I drowned my sorrow In pride f being dry-eyed. And inside of me a dam of tears not shed. I had a dog she lived to fourteen I borrowed A spade and dug her deep into the soil. The dam busted. For days I cried for my parents, siblings, The dog and all those I loved so deeply but never said I did. Old now I cry easily when seeing children and animals Being harmed And it pines me to know This is the way of the world and no God Around the corner to save us.

Olsen's America

Olsen’s America If a Danish sea captain by the name of Egil Olsen had discovered America, would it be called Olsen’s land, and if so would it have become a more friendly land without ambition to become a superpower? I would not let the Name Egil come into it, people would soon change it to eagle and as we know that is more aggressive. And since no one had heard of Canada – not many has- it would have been Olsen all the way to Behring Strait. He would have to deal with red Indians though, let them dress the way they wanted and wear fur which, as we know, is frown upon in Europe; but most of all he must have kept the with missionaries out.... more banned them outright.... Funny thing names, America is like a uniform, fits all sizes, But an Egil Olson would have had a grey beard and be fond of beer.

washing machine

Washing Machine There was a time I always went home, by road rail, flight or by bus I always got there and still do. Even though when I get there I want to leave. The house shrinks every year sibling’s gone mother too, she never looked up from the romantic novel she was reading to say halloo. 1953, it was summer, well there are summers every year, some are warm, some not. I was home from the sea and had bought mother a washing machine and we were the only ones in the street that had one it was a warm summer, open windows, cold beer and laughter. Then for a reason I could not fathom a silence fell, the sky was grey and nothing was the same again; it was only me who kept returning home. The washing machine I bought in 1953 is still in the basement rusty and dusty, but it had for a short time brought happiness and an end to stifling poverty after the war ended, when factories stood still and it was hard to be working class.

politics of work

http://oskarthefirst.podbean.com/e/politics-of-work/

the writer

The Writer. When young, long before the computer was invented, I rented a cabin in the north of Spain, serious and Nordic I wanted to be a writer and brought with me a travel typewriter – you will find one at a technical museum- ready to stun the world. North of Spain is winter cold the wood in the shed was damp gave off smoke and little fire. Daytime not bad a frozen pond and a pair of skates kept me warm. Nights, however, was cold till a flock of sheep was seeking shelter I let them in, soon the cabin was warm if smelly; mucking out in the morning took time. Keeping company with sheep and ice skating is not an ideal intellectual pursuit, to make matters worse I had no ribbons – a sheep ate them- Having read Ernest Hemingway I knew I had to live a little and find my own way of telling a story.

not being born

Not being born. Has anyone thought how it must feel sailing in utter darkness in a place of no place waiting to be born. Hundreds of years go by the unborn is dead, yet not so even there is no one missing it. To exist, yet not exist.... in the cold starless night Then it happened, a chance to be born, but someone changed their mind, fun night gone wrong. This time there is no waiting, no hope. Eradication is final as ultimate as masturbating into the kitchen sink when home alone.

useless waterways

Useless Waterways It is a long river goes on till water meets the sky and as I have no oars have to follow the waterway till the place when all things are the same Nirvana, some people say other calls its nothingness. But there rivers that run into the sand never given the chance to flow and dream of becoming a Nile or an Amazon.... Stillborn they are. The lucky river runs deep underground and has fish with no eyes and frogs white as new fallen snow. The river ends up in a lake where fishtailed women live. If you stop and listen you can hear the lake sigh and the river throbs, it never misses a beat. Mermaids have no uterus cannot bear children and lament that sex is more important than babies.

Abortion

Abortion When my mother was pregnant with me, she was too poor to get an abortion and it was also against the law in those far away days. My aunt gave her the advice to try skipping Luckily for me, mother was not very athletic and I was born. Abortion should be legal, as a human right but I think a woman should think long and hard of the world she stops the unborn from seeing

blood in the sand

Blood in the Sand There is a war in the Middle East people against people in the name of Islam, chop heads of one another like it should be a sporting prowess and then holler Allah. I’m sick and tired of these people who have mindsets that are 300 years behind us how can we have a sensible talk with such persons who in the name of their god kill anyone, mostly them for reasons one has to have a 300 years old mind to understand how they can accept their blood thirst done in the name of an abstract god. And then there is betrayal they are forever betraying each other to the enemy. But it wasn’t always thus and we must accept we have made it worse. Yet there are Jordanians, Palestinians, Syrians, Persians and Arab -Israeli (the Jews and Christians not) too who are not like the cruel of sword swinging Muslims we read about, they are the people who can bring the unrestrained, wild -eyed backward people to book because I’m exhausted of defending the indefensible.

Foreigner in Portugal

Foreigner In Portugal At the local shop I met an elderly woman, mind most of the women I meet are elderly but this one was primordial, she dropped her bag when seeing me and exclaimed is it true you have two hearts? Not wishing to disappoint her I confirmed rumours she had heard. I even let her touch the battery just under my skin. Nothing keeps a secret in a small village, it appeared they knew before me, the doctor who did the job came from farming stock, perhaps he rang someone. Odd people live here, those who were young when I came here have middleaged children now, but forever I’m referred to as the English, telling people I’m from baccallao land is met with a smile...I’m English so there.

oil change

Oil Change I’m not a poet never was, but I like to tell stories Most of the stories are for my inner ear, But for some reason my collections are called poetry. I’m a practical chap, just changed oil in my car and Filled up the coolant, which is pink coloured. Later I will drive to the local garage and see if the tyres Have the right amount of air, and then clean the car. When I write about carob trees and my special tree The almond, which in my mind, strews flowers on mine Fevered often walked track, I do so in tenor like oiling The hinge of a door or hammer a long nail into a wall, Nothing can be less poetic. In Kaleidoscope once I saw My future lover’s face, can that be called poetry?

umbrella of love

Umbrella of Love. If you drive along the asphalted narrow road that runs Parallel with the vine plants, turn left, you will see A muddy road more like a track now after rain, From here you have to walk till you see a quiet little Corner where two stone walls meet; and you will See- not a great deal- the place I’m going to plant A carob tree comes spring. The reason for the corner Is two brothers who couldn’t agree who of them it Belonged to so they left it untended and with time No one took an interest in weeds and stinging plants. The tree will be in memory of a girl a met a day of rain And she shared her pink umbrella with me. Not a big thing, but I was home from the sea and lost In the big city she gave me the shelter I needed.

sea lion

Sea-Lion I saw a seal in Durban big and sleek and its smile Was wondrous, I think it had green eyes, right, But I’m not a very god swimmer and is sceptical Of water, mermaids and swimming pools. By, chance I saw a sleek woman cleaning a pool And it was morning, she had green or blue or Perhaps brown eyes of the type lionesses have When a lion, has caught a prey it has to give it Up when hyenas come around. Conquests are a hyena’s fare, but it lacks delight And the ability to laugh. The seal from Durban I remember so well, had a hearty laughter and A smile “thousand miles.” Am I getting confused Talking about lions and seals? Not at all but it was A female and she sat my heart aflutter.