Autodidact

Autodidact

Autodidact

The small forest or the woods by the white road made of

crushed sea-shells, was a place of enchantment squirrels

had no fear of solitary dreamers stumbling over oak roots.

I used to walk here when cows were milked, fed and

the mucking out was done and fresh straw strewn in their

stalls and the barn had chewing contented animals.

I could do so many things in the forest be an Indian or take

out of my pocket pornographic pictures the farmhand in

the village gave me and masturbate.

I was especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus the women

seem to enjoy this form of sex more, and I was horrified when

told it was not a manly act, yet the pleasured faces stayed on

my mind. Years later I drove the forest was a private estate high

walls and posh villas and no squirrels, I laughed out loud they

will never know my secrets here where I dedicated trained for

a hearty sex life to come.

a little fish

a little fish   A Little fish

I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for my evening meal.

Headless and nicely packed they were except for one that

 had a head on and was alive . I filled water in a glass jar put

 the sardine in and fed it bread crumbs.

The headless sardines in the tin so still and dead I could

 not eat them put the tin back in the fridge.  

My little sardine grew too big for the jar cats were circling

the house looking for a way in, so I took it to the empty lake

that once had Bluegills fished to extinction,

set my sardine free to feed on rotten vegetation-

I don`t know how fish reproduce but a year later a school

of sardines were swimming around except for one that

swam the opposite way- Bonanza! Grilled sardines and

the people rejoiced thought it was going to last forever,

and then there were none except one my sardine in oil.                 

I went down to the lake when it saw me it was so glad

it jumped up in the air and was caught by a passing bird.

Empty lake a dead eye in the wilderness tells no story.    

thursday afternoon

thursday afternoon

Thursday Afternoon

I came to Portugal for its summer weather

now I`m here for her winters

when the sun shines in my back yard and

protected by old walls, warms my face.

till four o`clock when it gets too low not

reaching over the wall and it is time to go

inside and start doing some serious reading.

The dog that is not mine but likes to enter

lies in the sun away from the cold wind, has

gone too, chasing cats that view dogs with

imperial disdain, and I`m full of years need

no tea for my evening meal.

the master

the master

The Master

Once I had a dog

I was her god, and that was scary

So much power

I could put her down

Tie her up in a dank basement

I shudder to think about it

Instead, I choose to love her

And when she died

I cried

world war 3

World War 3

And now as the generation that remembers how bloody

a world war is, and how many millions suffered and died,

is forgotten a distant past and again the black winged

Bird of war is flapping its wings.

I will go to Papua New Guinea, buy a big piece of forest

and plant more trees when needed, I will keep pigs that

soon will be wild and invite people to kill them with a bow

and arrow. I pig head on the wall and a trophy wife in

the bed, idiots will pay a lot for that.

By preserving the forest, I will help save the world from

carbon emission, if it is not too late and the world cannot be

saved from the colossus NATO and those with no memory

who get excited by demagogues and are ready to make

the wrong decision and eradicate them.

I will also keep cassowary as pets, but not indoors as they

do crap a lot, and like to sleep in your bed.

I will sit here and wait till radio signals are silent and I know

 War is over, and the world far away is a smoking ruin

Incinerated bibliotheca, obliterated literature and we shall

not know about our short but illustrious time on earth.

leaves of fallen words | Write Out Loud

leaves of fallen words | Write Out Loud

The leaves of fallen words  

Leaves falling from trees a picture of autumn

auburn foliage without a goal blown about a bit

then it rains and the crumble into soil their duty

done now they can be forgotten

Poetry is like that drifting about mostly unread,

but if a poem touches a heart, makes someone laugh

or in Sam`s case cry, the job is done and the poet

who wrote it can be forgotten.

the last hospital stay

the last hospital stay

The last hospital stay

After the surgery, I was flat on my back and not

allowed to move an assistant - nurse came to feed me.

A stern looking woman older than the others

soup she fed me, open your mouth wide she said, I did

and her eyes softened her figure became motherly she

scolded me gently when spilling soup on the nib.

When I didn`t want any more soup, she said I had to

to eat it all. I felt drawn to here as a baby to her

mother it was a beautiful moment; she tucked me in and I
fell asleep.

Then it was morning, and I was allowed to sit up and

later stand up I looked out the window a football pitch

the players’ red and yellow shirts it looked like mating

ritual, the one who scored the most goals, get the sexiest

 girl, that`s ok, but
I got to be a baby and remember it.

Nothing

Nothing

Nothing

 Two o`clock this
Wednesday afternoon protected by high walls

 the sun is too hot I
will have to wait till three before going back

out sit for half an hour getting a tan, my vanity knows no
limit.

I do not want to write today weaning myself of this feverish
drug

this internal conversation argumentative as an old Jew I
once knew

in Leeds.  I will
think of nothing but sadly fail to stop this stream of

 lava bubbling from
its crater the smell sulphur of rejected thoughts

that will one day prove me wrong and plants shall grow.

But I stray from the subject thinking of nothing, what is it
like? since

it can`t have any shape, form, smell or colour. Get up from
my

chair in the sun too quickly collide with the door and fall
unconscious

 into a void, so know
I know that nothing looks like nothing.

some doomsday

some doomsday

Some Doomsday

The heaven is held up by eight boa constrictors, when they shift

positions cause thunderstorm and blizzard. They feed on stars and

sometimes when you see few of them it is because the snakes have

been eating too much, luckily big snakes can go for month without

food so new stars can breed and if the Christmas night is clears we

can go on the veranda and admire the stars and be filled by the bliss  

of sleeping to ten tomorrow. Every year the heaven descend a bit

the boas are getting tired, some are dead and rotten pieces of them

fall down to earth with an almighty splash usually in Siberia.

One day earth and heaven will be a pair has long desired one

another and in their deadly embrace all life will be extinct except for

polar bears and there will no one around to ask why them, but

I think they will be the new crab louse

Observational Poems : Paris by night : DU Poetry

Observational Poems : Paris by night : DU Poetry

 A Vision

Eifel tower the old whore is lit up again

her wide open legs still drip blood, and

her hips are white and slim and she   has

blue-rinsed hair. She is ready to welcome

the masses people without an ideology

 and those who think that having sex in

a hotel near the Seine where millions of

condoms that slowly find their way to

the sea is the heights of romantic living.

Young men came, they had a creed wanting

to destroy this Sodom and Gomorrah, but

the tart in the centre of Paris tells us we will

survive because we are Godless and place

lust for life first

the stiff and a naked imp | Write Out Loud

the stiff and a naked imp | Write Out Loud

The Stiff and a nude Imp

They lowered the dead body into frozen soil and

frost smoke arose or was a door opened into hell?

A nude imp stood by the door to welcome the dead.

Who giggled the imp walked so funnily on hooves.

The imp saw the snigger and took offence the dead

one apologized after all it had been a long day.

They sat in the ante- chamber and chatted about this

and that the imp asked what are you doing here

I thought you were destined for the place at the  pie

in the sky.  Can`t
bear bloody harp music and virgins

with damp hands. The imp went purple when blaming

the Chinese for taken the last reserve of coal and hell

 would freeze over they
had to go above ground to use

the solar power.  You
are coming to the right place

the four horsemen are riding again, the dead one said. 

what remains | Write Out Loud

what remains | Write Out Loud

What Remains

In a man`s life

There are two happy stages

Childhood

Not a teenager be

And old age

When you have nothing to lose

King or poor man

You can afford to treat with equality

Or contempt

Yet some fears remain

People who want to teach me their way

I fear the illiberal amongst us

Racists and warmongers

And those who have forgotten to laugh

14/11 Paris | Write Out Loud

14/11 Paris | Write Out Loud

 14/11. Paris

14/11 another fine day in Portugal to wake up for but the news

from Paris turned the sky grey and the sun a spent cartridge

cooling in the body of a man in a café, beer, wine and blood.

 Allah Akbar, god the great and merciful, what a horrible irony

in the streets of deaths.

I walked in the sunlight that unashamedly shone on a day of dread

and it warmed my cold face and somewhere in Paris a man sits

outside and plays “Imagine” on a piano it is heart -breaking and I`m

filled with conflicting feeling anger and trying to understand what

 is impossible to grasp.

 I fear the backlash and the fascist demagogues who can use the shock

 to their political goal and they will be believed by an incensed mob,

Arabs will be killed for belonging to Semitic tribe that have suffered

unbelievable bad luck that never seems to end.

Spiritual Poems : what remains : DU Poetry

Spiritual Poems : what remains : DU Poetry

What Remains

In a man`s life

There are two happy stages

Childhood

Not a teenager be

And old age

When you have nothing to lose

King or poor man

You can afford to treat with equality

Or contempt

Yet some fears remain

People who want to teach me their way

I fear the illiberal amongst us

Racists and warmongers

And those who have forgotten to laugh

Fictional Prose : a bus ride : DU Poetry

Fictional Prose : a bus ride : DU Poetry

A Bus Ride

 I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home,

 a half an hours ride
up to my village.  I looked at the
headlines

and noticed the paper had no date, were I reading
yesterday’s

today`s news or tomorrow`s? 
The bus was empty this afternoon

and it struck how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of

 rubber against the
asphalted road.

Then the bus stopped for the first time on this journey outside

my house, so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on

 the steps waiting
just for me. The bus door opened with a sigh,

but the dog didn`t run to me.  I hesitated something was wrong it

 was the same house, yet
not the same this one looked immaterial

the flowers were pale; this was a copy or a painting
forgotten at

 a rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP.

 Not my village, I
said to the driver and sat down

“Are you sure?” the driver asked I didn’t answer and the bus
rolled on.

 Opened the newspaper
it now had the right day and it was Monday.

the last viking

the last viking

The Last Viking

There had been a war in my part of the world, peace there is never one,

people fight wars in other parts of the world more brutal than ever before.

The first winter of peace was the coldest anyone old could remember and

ducks feet froze on the ice they could not move and became prey to rats

and human scum who threw stones at the ducks satisfying a biblical instinct.

A tree in the park had fallen and a skeleton was discovered it was to be

excavated the next day, but it disappeared I think it had reassembled itself

broken into a dress shop and covered his bones with the skin of dead people.

A long very thin man had been observed outside a lady`s lingerie shop late

one evening, masturbating, what else to do after being dead under a tree for

five hundred years.

At a museum in the Isle of Man, I saw the thumb of a Viking in a glass cage

within a glass cage surrounded  by precious objects ladies wore at the time

It was pathetic there he was fighting and living not knowing his thumb would

live forever in a tiny glass cage

a cloud`s romance | Write Out Loud

a cloud`s romance | Write Out Loud

A cloud`s romance

 White butterflies
covered the glade like a film star`s living room

still unspoilt by drops of red wine, cake crumbs and vomits.
 

They suddenly flew up over tree tops became a white cloud
drifting

about looking for another green dell that was perfectly
happy being

green, yet pleased when the cloud landed and became a white carpet.

Mind, it had wanted to be occupied by many-  coloured butterflies

it had happened to the clearing before and the forest`s
animal came

to admire the beauty of a carpet that only appeared once
every

200 years.  The oldest
animal in the forest a boar that had survived

 when hunters come by
rolling itself into a lump pretending to be a rock

peed on by dogs, man`s best friend, what a joke cowardly
creatures

serving man and betraying their own, told of a day when the
glade was

golden one morning dazzling everyone but in the end it was
buttercups

a delicatessen for rabbits and feral cows also called elks.

Elk or caribou as some say are animals wolves like to kill
and eat, and

humans hunt and kill for fun.  Elks cannot be used domestically as

they have small udders dry meat and tend to be belligerent
and will not

sit up and beg like a dog that has lost all its dignity.   

Meanwhile, a white cloud is wandering on blue just being endearing.

the winning game

the winning game

The Winning Game

 From the town`s park and up to our houses was a steep hill

we ran up Ole-Jan and I and I lost, and hated it blamed

his long legs. When went to feed the birds in the park we ran

too and I lost except once when I ran into a car that

had luckily stopped, he had seen the car I had not, but after

tears and nose bled I insisted the race was mine.

He always won, when playing Monopoly he had all the hotels

and I ended up with a side street no one had heard of.

In later years I reflected on winning and losing and based

by my experience it was better to be no3, you get a medal

for that too and no one makes a fuzz.

I won a bronze medal for running 60meters showed it my

mother who pointed out that Ole- Jan had won gold,

Life is like this whatever you do there is one who does it better 

Adjourned

  Adjourned

I was up early had a shower and was smelling

like newly opened jar of honey.

Underwear and clean socks a must and I combed

my five strands of delicate hair.

The pacemaker did not work properly, not that

I had noticed as I`m not a marathon runner.

At the hospital, they told me the surgery was

postponed till the end of the month and to

think I had been awake all night worrying about it.

I didn`t throw a tantrum, not a good idea amongst

cardiac patients, my wife did the smiling.

There was shaking of hands with the personal   

we had breakfast I glowed over my lack of grumpiness

but I didn`t tell anyone I was secretly glad I do not

like surgeons, they are secret mass murderers whose  

kismet stopped them from using an axe.  

Adjourned

Adjourned

 Adjourned

I was up early had a shower and was smelling

like newly opened jar of honey.

Underwear and clean socks a must and I combed

my five strands of delicate hair.

The pacemaker did not work properly, not that

I had noticed as I`m not a marathon runner.

At the hospital, they told me the surgery was

postponed till the end of the month and to

think I had been awake all night worrying about it.

I didn`t throw a tantrum, not a good idea amongst

cardiac patients, my wife did the smiling.

There was shaking of hands with the personal   

we had breakfast I glowed over my lack of grumpiness

but I didn`t tell anyone I was secretly glad I do not  

like surgeons, they are secret mass murderers whose  

kismet stopped them from using an axe.  

bagatelle

bagatelle

Bagatelle

You see a thing like the old olive tree

At the entrance of the village and take it for granted

Until you suddenly see the tree is dying

Yet, it has about it a none communitive dignity

An acceptance that life`s unplanned cosmic shortness.

Dying slowly, the medical profession are trying

To get more mileage, but in the end the car mechanics

Of the body see the case as hopeless, but are bound by

The Hippocratic Oath and let us live passed our sell by date.    

To be dead is to be unborn there is no second coming

Not even for a 300 years old tree.

Yet, the morning wakes us up with a dance on the duvet

And small thoughts take over buying, a pair of shoes

All those little bagatelles are the sum of our existence.