End of poetry

EndThe End of Poetry

I refuse, refuse to write anymore my head

 is a winter turnip you can slice fry and pretend

it is snitzel served with spinach and mashed

potatoes, all  of them are veggies that refuse to

be eaten but have little choice but to surrender

at the motto of “Let us try this once more.”

Dreams are the last to go, she was sleeping and

dying woke up and said she had a funny dream

she told me about it delightful memories she

didn`t have of a happy childhood and a pony,

touched my deeply. Two hours later she died in

the middle of another dream and stark reality

sat in a corner crying. Pallid faces took her away

as I repeated to myself, I refuse to believe what

have occurred, reality had lost its rudder.

I accepted the avoidable opened a door and was hit

 by a storm full of spate and hateful thoughts,

but I refuse to write about that. of poetry

Mystery ship

Mystery ship

The Disappearance

It was a hot afternoon when a big bulk carrier left a harbour

 on the coast of Bengali bound for Sydney, Australia, with a cargo

of scrap iron of ships that once had ploughed the seas that had

 a retreat for some and work for others.

Then the sea parted the ship fell into timeless zone where life

repeats itself the cook is making soup and the captain studies

a map of ocean currents and lived in the now.

150 years passed, a convulsion through the zone and the ship

was back on the sea surface again and the cook served his soup.

The captain called up the harbour authorities needed a birth for

a ship no one had heard of, but its manifest stated, Sydney,

they let the ship birth on a disused pier far from the city to

 the disappointment of the crew who had wanted to go ashore.

 When the pilot left he was pale and shaken he felt as he had

been talking to the ghosts through layers of yesterdays.

The official from shore found quantities of cigarettes and whisky

products that had been illegal for the last sixty years in the chief

 stewards store, only marijuana was legal, good for the health if 

smoked in moderation.       

 The crew was arrested send them to a camp for interrogation, but

it was clear they were brainwashed not even water torture helped.

Then it was noticed the crew of the ship were getting older first slowly

then rapidly, nurses were called for, to look after men who could no

longer walk and many were incontinent suffering advanced Alzheimer

disease and chronic heart failure.

One morning nurses found skeletons, dark in colour and very old,

like waterlogged wood that had been thrown ashore by an irate

Storm and onto the strand of time by. This was the same time

as the ship they came in sank and broke into pieces of rusty iron.

There were rumours in Sydney about aliens, those who knew were

forbidden to speak, and experts could continue to talk about how

a ship sank so suddenly and disappeared in the sea of Bay of Bengal

 on a hot afternoon 150 years ago.  

    

shades of green

shades of green

Shades of Green

I have a green windbreaker, but it looks like

a uniform jacket I impulsively I put it on looked

in the mirror, an old general on an alpine  walk

hoping to find a shrine of his hero. I was unwell

in my jacket and it was a struggle to get it off

clung to me like a shower curtain, an unwanted

friend, I don`t like to be rude to, yet find bores

me to distraction.

There was a military camp near the farm

I had been sent to, the food as not up to much

but the soldiers fed me well, and that is why

I grew to be much bigger than my siblings.

Alas, the war ended the enemy took the train

home, an epoch was over.

I rolled the green jacket into a plastic bag

and put it in a collection box, that happened

to be green too, and since you ask no I never

 met the grand Mufti of Jerusalem

Ratcatcher

Ratcatcher

 I feel repulsed when he is near I ought to have

 compassion for this cripple a twisted foot and

 an arm that does not function right a beggar with

scabby skin eyes as black as looking into the dark

side of a wishing star. This is not a man you

can be nice to the more you give him the more he

hates you and wishes you an early death.

 His diversion is to follow funeral processions but

not into the cemetery no one wants him there 

I have wondered why I hate this man so much

it must have had a background of my childhood

and I found it. After the war in Norway there was

 some hunger in the land but I had noticed at

the gymnasium where the children of the middle

classes went to become our future suits, a concrete

box for trash and unopened parcels of lunch food.

But I had to be quick rats knew it too had a parcel

 in my hand when a rat jumped up tried to grab it

 and its eyes shone of loathing it hated me for being

human just like the cripple who dislike humanity he

blames for his perpetual hardship. In the knowledge

he will hate me more I now give him a shilling or two,

this dirty little man who never takes a bath has a mother

denying she gave birth to this satanic being, but I fear

 him too, four black horses and he, the only mourner.

Self Poems : Birthday : DU Poetry

Self Poems : Birthday : DU Poetry

 Birthday

A day of sadness and wasted years a poet who

has to pay to be published how pathetic  is that?

We, my companion and I found a restaurant and

for lunch she ate something  African.

I had  a schnitzel  that looked as the white meat of

a rat that had taken the pledge lost my appetite.

Instead I had a double portion of fresh cut salad

followed by a tomato salad with a bit of mozzarella.

I lifted my glass of water saw the eatery  through

tears not shed, the few friends I had in Algarve

have all gone they could not stop in time.

The conversations, wit and bottles of red wine  

 kept flowing, it had to stop so I took the bus home.

Now it is only my beloved and I left and every year

I love her more. At night with a heart full of dread

I snuggle up to her, she strokes my somnolent head

until I fall asleep again and sadness drifts away.

the queer

The Queer   

My best friend was gay when we first met

he said: I`m gay better tell you before

the lunatics around here tell you.” We became

the best of friends in a way quite unlikely

he spoke English and made the language sounds

like verses of Shakespeare.

My English was rather more basic, English picked

up in late night bars and by whores I met on my

hellish dive into the futility of debauched love.

We could speak to early morning about literature

and acting- my friend was a jobbing actor and

 as a young man had dreamed of becoming one.

Then cancer came and killed him

I wrote a necrology about him and sent it to

the local paper that didn`t publish it because  

the word “love” was inappropriately used.

Tom was my best friend and there will be no one

like him again  

clubbing it

clubbing it

 Clubbing

Once I went to a night- club in Albufeira a dreadful place with

garish colours and a man with a Hammond organ also played

many instruments with a total lack of talent, when he rested

 a jukebox took over played so loud the windows shook.

Around the dance floor – arena – skeletal women sat crows

that looked at men’s crotches and piercing eyes looked into his

wallet the  three ugly sisters had felt at home, their fairy-tale

opulence could have lent this place dignity and humour.

Driftwood from all over Europe t men swarmed around them

Like bees around a jar of honey, a few caught a bee in time

a dream come true golf lessons swimming pool and garden-

 Then they got old eating a lettuce a day, slept the afternoon

away  in the evening and hungry they had the ails and hair to

do and still dreaming of the right man to rescue them of this

ennui , prisoners of faded beauty and their former lovers

lived at the old folks home up the hill in the interior of Algarve

 Yet I could not help feeling sorry for them helpless old age

 stuck on a slowly liner and no life raft, as they  resignedly

waited to be engulfed by cold green sea and

Albufeira continued its dance around tourism a place for

the “hard working worker,” erasing what once had been

a peaceful fishing village along the coast of romance.    

Condoms in a pond

It was summer and I wore sandals and white socks

my feet looked English. A snob with sandals on

manicured toes murmured about shameless taste.

Offended took the white socks off through them

Into the pond where they floated forlorn as

spent condoms, like there had been ejaculations

by a thousand submariners  on shore-leave and

now sadness remained cast a shadow on still

water an omen of evil intent. Sober, I regretted

my hurriedness fished the socks up, wrung and put

them back on. My English feet which applauded,

why should we care what a man with manicured

toes thought.    

let us try this again

Now let us try this again writing a document

With one letter marching nicely in front of the other

Like adding instead of using numbers to give the written

words prettiness, even if the theme is about unnatural sex.

The fact is the diesel smell at the bus terminal

Six o`clock in the morning when the cleaning lady starts her

low paid work, has nothing to do with anything, had they

bothered going to university they could sit in fine offices

and gone to the hairdresser at nine a woman who can just

read and write luckily for the ladies she skipped school.

The driver of the bus enters he farts loudly and that is ok

But I could have showed some respect. It is odd to think

if all women had higher education looked up to the blue

sky who should make my dinner?