the lost tribe

the lost tribe

The Lost Tribe

Holocaust, this tragic word, millions of life lost in its
name, and it has not ended. This time,

 it is the
Palestinians who are victims of a people

who have learned only one lesson, to survive one has to be
shit and able to tell lies and

cynically play on Europe’s common guilt.

Hitler wasn’t able to remove the Jews, we, the Christian
wouldn’t let him.

The people of Israel, who has taken upon themselves to
emulate their former tormentors,

will not be able to eradicate the Palestinians, we, the
despised and cowardly Christians,

will not let them. 
The raw disregard the Israelites show against their Semitic brothers,

 borders to self-
hate; it will corrupt them, they will sink into nihilism.

Dust upon dust the story could have been so different hadn’t
they decided that kindness

was a hindrance when creating their tribal paradise.  

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography: poetry and social comments



My quit Uncle

The room in the attic had a bed, bare commode floorboards on which dust

 danced as sun rays light came from a loft window.

The murmur stopped the room waited for my next move; I looked around nothing

 here to bother about and closed the door.

My uncle lived here, he only left his room and came down for his meals,

when he didn’t vanish for weeks “The Drink, the mother said.

One day he didn’t return, mother went to the police and reported him missing

, after that no one mentioned him again.

I was selling the house and looked around for something of worth

I saw on the bookshelf a small book, poetry written by him; odd no one

had told me that.  A man had written of the wonders he had seen,

 landscape and seascape coloured by his mind, the forgotten had sprung

 back to live.

I sat on his bed and read, till daylight faded and it was night, looked out of

the window and saw what he had seen, the beauty and his loneliness.      

The room was silent now it didn’t need to sing, or whisper its sorrow.

I had heard his song and will carry his voice into the future.

the entrepreneur | Write Out Loud

the entrepreneur | Write Out Loud

The Entrepreneur

I`m thinking of the man who was clearing land

He wanted to grow cabbage, a good idea especially

Since farmers get subsidies from EU for planting orange
trees

The country drowning in orange twice a year

There many stones on the ground here and looks like

The extracted teeth of giants, so the man decided

 To construct a
pyramid for the untrained eye the mound

Of stones look like a heap of rocks, and it has also become

A Paradise for rabbits

The cabbages his soil produced were pathetic, so he gave

It up, he didn`t have the long view as a farmer needs.

He went to Franc instead and worked on a winery there.

He saved his money and began driving a Taxi I Paris but

Lost his licence for drinking wine on the job

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography: poetry and social comments

A Stone Wall

 I was taking pictures
of some old stone walls when

When my feeble mortality struck me,

The stone dug up from rust red road to divide for all

Time whose property it was

And they will be there long after I have gone.

Not that I wish to be a stone like the ones in the wall

Rain and the sun it must be boring

Still I reflect upon my demise and cannot make up

My mind cremation or giving my body back to the earth

And my bones will be turned into gravel in someone’s

Drive in, this confounded old age I have sagging ears

Like an elephant but I’m running out of years

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography: poetry and social comme

Haiku like poem

Only the raven

Sits on the branches

Of a dead tree

Bark falls off

Porous and rotten

Exposing dry wood

Skeletal branches

Seeking succour

Forsaken by god

Thunderstorm

Lightning strikes   

Pyre and ashes

the golden lighter | Write Out Loud

the golden lighter | Write Out

The Golden Lighter

I met her in a small Spanish coastal town

she was a gipsy and barefoot in the dust

a flowering skirt and laughter.

I was 18 years old and knew with certainty

this was the love I had been looking for

dark eyes and lips slightly apart I could see

her perfect teeth, yes, she loved me too.

She might have been Juliet, but I was no

Romeo, her father, came took my lighter and

told me to stay away from his daughter.

This was the moment when I should be strong

and fight to get my lighter back or the girl.

went back onboard and pretended I had lost it.

the near things | Write Out Loud

the near things | Write Out Loud

Finding the Lost

I sit still- difficult- and contemplate several pairs of
glasses most with low-cost frames.

On my desk the driving glasses 15 years old are in a right
mood for it has been a struggle

 for the glasses to be
accepted again after I bought a new pair that cost me a fortune

The state of the art frame, 
yet useless and I am not buying new ones.

 My old glasses
purchased in a small shop that had no pretention of being unique as

 master of Spectacles,
alas you have to tell people you are wonderful and apex and that

cannot be surpassed, if not people avoid you and go for the
liers and cheats in suits.

I fell for ads bought the overpriced pair that could not
difference between red and green

What relief it was to rummage through my office drawers to
find my old glasses.

This is not what I wanted to say what I meant was by looking
at the lenses if they

could tell me a story and remembering something I had
overlooked  a thing on

my mind lost in the life of April

the gift of rocks

the gift of rocks

The gift of Rocks

It is a lovely warm forenoon I`m walking around

just outside the village the wayside and filed are

full of flowers in greenness this will not last long

and heat will turn the landscape into yellowish

dejection and the foliage on trees will lose the

brilliance, what remains are stones

a landscape littered with rocks, houses are made

of stone as are fences picked up from the earth

and made into homes and enclosures backbreaking

work but the builders didn`t have watches; how

beautiful water from the well must have tasted. There

are many shades of grey I prefer the dark ones,

where I grew up the landscape was littered with dark

rocks, come to think of it I didn`t move far, yet there

is something safe about stones and boulders they

will not leave tomorrow as my youth did.

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography: poetry and social commen

Footsteps to Ruin

This spring makes my heart beat faster

went for a walk saw a verdant field sprinkled

with xanthous flowers nodding

in the mild zephyr

 I must take a photo.

Walked onto the field to find the prettiest ones

looked behind me, my heavy boots

had ruined lesser beauties 

the Islamisation of the world | Write Out Loud

the Islamisation of the world | Write Out Loud

The Islamisation of the world

Birds began falling from the sky, first a few but then

millions of birds fell dead to the ground one had to take

cover for not being killed by the mass of feathered deaths.

The sky was poisoned by our underarm sprays and other

stuff we used to cover our natural human scent, days of

silence but not for long, insects had no enemy bred fast

 and we slithered
ankle deep in bird droppings.

Summer,  not a
pleasure everyone sat indoors feeding

canary birds while swarms of insects clouded the sun.

a burqa that covered the whole body was the solution,

aftershave lotion and perfumes were forbidden and there

were aroma patrols walked around the neighbourhood 

50 lashes and six months jail for anyone who wore the
slightest

a whiff of perfume; and overnight we became Muslims.

lunch cafe

lunch cafe

At the restaurant, I noticed a man taking his meal

he ate chicken with chips and salad, I had fried liver

with onions, cabbage and carrots and no potatoes.

In front of him a full glass of beer I wondered when

he was going to drink it. He had coffee the glass still

full, he paid got up and drank the beer in in one

long gulp, finally, I thought of going over to thank him

And there on another table sat Joao he had a full

bottle of wine with his meal and it was only lunch time.

no wonder he fumbled with the change when

I bought a newspaper. Watch the TV, she said but it was

too far away and blurry, I really wanted  to go home

and write about thousands of birds falling from the sky

swarms of insect making it impossible to go outside. 

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography: poetry and social comme

The Carrousel of sex

My sister held a party she lived across the road from us

my wife wouldn’t go she was not on speaking terms with

my sister as they often did.

There were many women there, and one was especially and

charming laughed at my feeble jokes and when it got late

I agreed to follow her home as it was dark and autumnally

we had sex on a park bench, but it struck me as sordid and

I pulled away said sorry and walked home.

I was riven by guilt and also anger this was a trap I a man

had walked headless into I cursed my stupidity.

back home my wife was fast asleep she had been a the gin

we had breakfast at ten, it was a Sunday, and I was quite
said

I was still tired and waited for her to berate me, she
didn`t.

In the affairs of the heart, it is better to tell an untruth

because women will only believe what they have decided

to be the  verity

Years later after we divorced- for another reason- she said

me she had been sleeping with the man who collected rubbish

every week and I thought of the woman in the park and my

sister who had a reason for disliking my wife

the Mistress`s revnge

the Mistress`s revnge

The Mistress`Revenge

Fog and rain full light on car and dark asphalt road

The house opposite is for sale through an agency

One of the salesmen takes his mistress there

During the week but never on Saturday or Sundays

It must be terrible to be a mistress.

Always hidden and eats with her lover where no one knows
them

Then sex on a hard camp bed

Tells her h loves her and will divorce his wife, the problem
is

The house and the kids

She knows where his wife lives it is a big house and a large
garden

She used to know this could be hers

A dream is slowly dying resentment fills her once loving
heart

And one day soon she will talk

And the man will lose his property, wife and his mistress

And being stupid he will walk the streets and wonder why

No one loves him anymore

romantic love

romantic love

Romantic Love

Some people when reading about love are embarrassed

this may cause a feeling of prying into other people

inner life while the in their lonely evening watch porn video

A person-not a woman- I say this because some people

are trying to introduce a third sex and I can only surmise

they have parts I have not got. For me, it is simple man has

penis and a woman have vagina.

Some romantic poems are sugar-coated tearful by its own

standard and profoundly dishonest, the poet doesn`t believe

what he has written and the delete button is a blessing

But on rare occasion, I read poem so honest and full of love

and tenderness that I do blow my nose and sigh.

I remember a girl from my youth our love was a rocket of

craving, yet that too ended; alas, love is evanescent.

Me a racist

Me a racist

Me a Racist 

It was overcast this morning with fine rain

but as the offensive  racist I’m

I forced myself to get up at eight and take

a shower.  The water was cold no more gas

I called myself some slurring racist words.

Kicked the mirror the one in hall that has seen

me nude and laughed, went out buying a new

 bottle, my racist wife- she is from Kinshasa and

 dislike men with red hair- asked why I didn`t

buy two gas bottle and keep one in reserve, like

I should be kind to a racist. 

the unredeemed

the unredeemed

The Unredeemed

There are flashes when my liberal views falter

and I ask myself, these people like Breivik and

the killers in Ankara and Paris would it not be

better to shoot them down like rabbit dogs?

my loathing for them is boundless but I will not

shot them and not ask other to do the killing

in my name or in the name of humanity.

Behind their fanaticism their hatred to a society

that will not listen to their rantings; there must

an inner voice telling them how despicable they

are, perhaps not today in the flames of hate, but

In time in their cell, they will ask for forgiveness

only to find stillness a mist of their breath and

they cannot forgive themselves.

autumnal thoughts

autumnal thoughts

Autumnal thoughts

Woke up with a start, the night was cold a dream had disturbed

nightly my peace; a black hole in the ground loose soil from its

edges kept falling into its endlessness. Got up looked out of

the window into a street of pale light, my breath fogged

up the glass I saw a distorted image of my youth; “How old you are,”

it mocked. I pressed my head against the glass, tried to make friend

with my tormentor; and behind stillness I heard the hum of the long

sea rippling on nirvana’s strand

 Pale sunrise, still- life- forest- a deer grazes in the clearing, suddenly

it jumps in the air, a red rose is born on its chest, and as a single rifle

shot echoes amongst trees, a day begins.       

a different kind of love

a different kind of love

A Different kind of love

Easily in and out you breathe, with lungs unsullied by cigarette smoke,

siesta nap a lazy Sunday on afternoon when flowers and sky are

recklessly nude

Breath taking, the silence, if you should stop; I would fall a chasm of

pale rainbows, stillborn moons, rusty stars where words of love are

unheard of.

Inhale and exhale my dear, snore too if you must, but don’t leave me

alone in city parks where old men sit spit and tell passers-by how old

 they are.

penguins

penguins

Penguins

 Are birds with small
wings, they can`t fly you to the moon but,

if you keep a hold on its tail it can carry you to the
Antarctica and

back to Australia in one day and seven minutes, it is
advisable you

wear a diver’s suit one that is not xanthous

Okras are as you know blue and white, and if one is born
aurulent it

is quickly killed okras are racists.

A world of okras that that is multi-coloured is an
unobtainable dream,

but we can with our feeble human brains see how stupid
racism is.

Not by pretending colours do not exist, taking in our
physical unlikeness

and the amazing fact that we are so amazingly like inside

when we bleed the colour is rubicund.

sink bucket

sink bucket

A sink bucket

Today I forgot to buy milk, black coffee in the morning it is so

easy to remember the past it shines like jewels lost.

It was the winter of 1964, it was dark my brother carried

a big sink bucket and I a smaller one, we were on our way to

the coal depot to- if we found a hole in the fence- to steal coal.

We were caught by a man who wore an arm band of the new

 people in command and they were taking no nonsense from

anyone least of all seven years old thieves.

I have often seen that, you put a uniform on someone who

who never had power and they behave like little Hitler sprats .

On the way home with two empty buckets we came across

a wooden fence that had partially fallen down we took as many

planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve 

Boa Constrictor

Boa Constrictor

 Boa Constrictor

 This is turning into
a diary of a slow death I had another fall

I was taking picture of some Interpretable bushes where I
was

sure I had seen an animal, not unlike the Tasmanian tiger.

I did not see the hollow up to my waste in plant roots
beginning

to strangle me like a nest of hungry squeezing snakes.

I knew of a man who had an anaconda in his basement and once

a week it gave the snake a sheep carcass, but then he had to
stay

in the hospital for three weeks, being an animal lover, he
checked on

his monster that mistook him for a sheep carcass strangled
and

swallowed him shoes and all, weeks past, where is Jonas when
they

broke into his house they found a hungry snake, and that was
all.

Regarding the roots I cut myself loose with my knife which I
always

when falling into a hole and have rabbits snarling at me and
black

crows are cackling with glee.

Vera

Vera

Vera

Death is everywhere this Sunday morning many dead trees where

 I walk renewal everything has to go, but a dead baby rabbit blocks

 my way the night had been too cold and her mother killed by a fox.

A steep track I stumble over an exposed root or was it death that

had a bit of fun, the sky and earth swivel I have to get up before big

earth ants carry me away there are millions of them ten thousand of

then dragging me underground starting with my gums then my tongue

fleshy penis and reluctant balls are reserved for the queen she will be

displeased and give my genitals for her slaves to chew on.

I have to bend down again to retrieve my camera full of ants I pee on

 them and the scurry away I have to buy a new camera but why should

I record what no one will ever see, a reluctance to accept morality.

The track is too steep another defeat only nature witness my tears of

frustration, back home I watch a TV program called “Vera” this mad

 woman police inspector wish I had her obsession to find the truth

 I sill struggle to find out what it means.

Refugees

Refugees

Refugees

 I know of a forest where all trees are equally tall

and the distant between them is strangely wide

this so they can get the same amount of sun and

rain will fall evenly on plants and mossy ground.

Trees grow fast here and next year they will be

harvested and new sampling planted.

For the birds, rabbits and foxes that had made

a home at what can be called a new estate will

have to move or find shelter in the old forest

that is full of thorny bushes deep shadow and

and vulgar boars that never had a bath unless

caught out in the rain

Nests will be too near others there will squabble

rabbits and foxes have to make new burrows

and they will be snubbed by the old dwellers who

will call them lazy or even worse new-rich should

the have shiny fur or colourful feathers and they

will not be sent a Christmas card that year. 

The Iberia rejected

The Iberia rejected

The Piece Iberia Rejected

I like to go to Spain one day soon

Portugal is so tiring and deceitful

It is a fantasy land

Where truth and lies blend

Into a bewildering version of

Arabic influence

That Christianity decapitated.

Spain is a big country with a great mind

Portugal is so much smaller

And their worldviews are that of

What you see in an olive copse

Besides I have family in Spain who reads

And like my opinions

I`m respected elder member of the clan

They want me to come home

And lead them now.

Portuguese politeness is based on avoiding

The truth at all cost

No matter how long you leave in Portugal

They will treat you with

A smiling contempt.

So it is time to leave this land

of sheep herders and lawyers

indelible belief in Dictatorship.

Gaza Slave

Gaza Slave

Gaza Slave

 The Gaza man looked
stunned he carried two

Jute sacks that were bloodied and reminded of

Someone who had bought meat 

At the illegal slaughter market

But it was worse than that he carried the remains

Of his family after yet an onslaught by the Israeli

Military machine mostly financed by the USA. 

Now the Gaza man had to sort out the remains

And bury the right pieces.

If you asked an Israelite sitting on a hillside

Enjoying the bombing eating something correct food and

Drinking beer he will look angrily at you and say

Israel has the right to defend itself

And if that means the eradication of the Palestine’s as a
people

So be it.

Israel to my sorrow has developed into a state that

Has lost its humanity

The Palestinians carry our forefathers’ anti-Semitic views

As a heavy burden

the Invader

the Invader

The Invader

August night, air condition off no electricity, dying in my

own “sweat,” a word I wasn’t going to use again. A sudden

gush of hot air makes the curtain move, in a surprised way

like an English castle ghost caught unaware in the armoury.

The gush is full of crematorium ashes, cling to my face

won’t come off; I’m tired have no strength, when I finally

get to the bathroom, my face is clean, ash has gone through

my skin followed the blood stream to my heart and brain.

I know share my body with someone else; a soul that didn’t

want to leave, but demanded more time. There have been

subtle changes I have a hankering for tea, no milk and two

lumps of sugar, I leave the loo lid down and keep bathroom

clean. The feminine side of me keeps my coarse ego at bay;

I do not sweat anymore but transpire.        

filling space

filling space

Filling space

This enormous white square is taunting me

daring me to fill its pristine quadrangular

with words to soil its surface and after the dead

send it back to the great non-existing world

Illusion called the internet where life has no

meaning the moment the computer is off.

A place so bleak it is the ultimate nothingness

No god or devil would intrude here lest they

Lose sanity and free them from nil and

Know there is no hell or heaven the promise

Betrayed on the altar of the last lie,

Oh, stupid humanity they have to create wars

Something to dies for to give pathetic life  

A meaning dying for a meaningless cause this

Is the dream of virtue of remembrance, but

It is the only gift god, and the devil can give 

Before night falls.

the lost tribe | Write Out Loud

the lost tribe | Write Out Loud

The Lost Tribe

Holocaust, this tragic word, millions of life lost in its
name, and it has not ended. This time,

 it is the
Palestinians who are victims of a people

who have learned only one lesson, to survive one has to be
shit and able to tell lies and

cynically play on Europe’s common guilt.

Hitler wasn’t able to remove the Jews, we, the Christian
wouldn’t let him.

The people of Israel, who has taken upon themselves to
emulate their former tormentors,

will not be able to eradicate the Palestinians, we, the
despised and cowardly Christians,

will not let them. 
The raw disregard the Israelites show against their Semitic brothers,

 borders to self-
hate; it will corrupt them, they will sink into nihilism.

Dust upon dust the story could have been so different hadn’t
they decided that kindness

was a hindrance when creating their tribal paradise.  

enemy of cooks

enemy of cooks

 Enemy of Cooks

I have a bullet taken out if a wall in the kitchen I
treasure

it as it could so easily have made the end of me.

I a cook at a restaurant a person hated me and during

the night fired shot into the kitchen there were
ricochets 

hitting a crawly thing its tiny blood plastered the wall.

I didn`t know what to do so I took to wearing sunglasses

when it was raining and when I fell on the bus people

helped me up it is too late telling them I`m not blind.

When collared as a spy I said I had only peeled carrots

and doing the washing up and at times had sex with

the female cook over the potato peeling machine I was

 asked why you said
female it is not PC, but I do not

Want to fuck a man so why can I not say so?

There was this man at a communal pissing place

offering to give me a blow –job I declined and when he

came out I took his wallet and went to a whorehouse.

lonely fisherman

The Lonely Fisherman 

He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord he wore a yellow raincoat

and a southwestern cap matching his coat` colour. Fine rain it

was like watching a movie an intellectual one and French.

I couldn’t stand by the window all day, so I sat down reading

a book that was too long a mind-numbing love story.

I read several pages then gave up looked out of the window

 the boat was there, and his cap was floating like a life raft for

a mouse I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got

up he had fallen in his boat perhaps slipped on a dead fish,

but other ways looked fine and with an oar caught his cap.

He began rowing to shore tied the boat to the small pier and

walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic

bag I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door

I don`t like fish but would end up buying a couple to be polite

and if he was of the talkative kind bore me with endless tales.

Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned and gave me the finger.