A fable

Lost Riches

 It is so much time ago now that few remember it

the small coastal country that lived on fish and sheep meat

many also kept pork, chicken and cows no one was poor

 nor were they rich except for the king.

Then gold was found on a mountainside a little bit of gold

the mountain behind its grey facade was pure gold and

the population jubilant and they bought big horses from

foreign lands. A horse for every man the slogan went.

Feeling good and mighty they fought battles in places that

had nothing to do with them they just liked flexing muscles

gold became blood stained lost its lustre and a hard time came

the people had to go fishing again and milk cows.

It was a country now where no one was rich or poor but

living in peace just ordinary citizens skating in the town`s

park dam when winter was cold and greed was a thing of

 the past,  a small country  that welcomed victims of war.

Narcissism

Narcissism

Narcissism

A good day the mirror in the hall said I looked smart

 except that, I was bald and had yellow teeth. No,

do not do this the mirror said when I was unbuckling

my belt feared to be whipped said I had nice skin.

The feminine said of me mention lipstick it would not

come amiss; she thinks happiness involves makeup

I flexed my arm muscles and them mirror was mortified

closed its reflection and went blank I walked into

the vacant space turned around my god, who is this old geezer

preening himself?

this day

this day

This the day I will be lazy and not
read and not even attempt

  
to write about  spring flowers
they will soon disappear and bathers

 
 who come to stay have sun and
sand on their mind

  
Flowers do not make themselves beautiful for us but to pollinate,

  
attract bees which we stupidly try to kill with pesticide and we`ll know

 
the shrivel up of nature and hunger.

 
I know of a colony of bees in the back yard but I leave them in peace,

 
but fear their sting: a bee will never be your friend

What happened to the bumble-bee I
saw one big as a helicopter circling

my house it was looking for a place
to rest but the sparrow wouldn`t let it.

No, I will do nothing today except making
a mental map of the world on

the cracked wall on the house
opposite mine

a poet is amused

a poet is amused

A Poet is Amused

Now when we say good bye give me

a promise with your hands and lips

no, I didn`t mean an apple.

Object

Plutocrat

Advocate

That has nothing to do with
grammar.

Who said it did?

The first time I saw naked woman
was a September night

she stood by the fire cleaning her
private part

soapy pubic hairs

overcome by desire, I ejaculated
fell to the ground

in someone else’s garden.

Poets are like whores sell romantic
poems and show

their filthy souls to anyone in
need of a dream.

He goes to the nearest tavern and
has a dram

and doesn’t let grammar get into it
only wishes to live

in a society that ban full stop and
comma.

armless

armless

 In need

When I feel lost and in pain, I think of the armless man

who came into my café he needed a pee badly

Everyone looked up to the ceiling I had hoped a nurse

would stand up, where are the nurses when one needs one.

I`m no hero, but I helped and since he was armless

I washed my hands.

Later I gave him a coffee which he drank with a straw,

they were going to fit him with artificial arms, he wore

his belongings in a rucksack and he smiled to everyone

as bodily dared people often do who wants to help them

 I hoped he would leave before he needed to evacuate,

 but I should have asked him why he travelled  alone.

fun haiku

Short fun haiku

God didn`t like snakes

 So he told lies about me

Man loath and fears me 

I`m a crippled tree

In the middle of a wheat field

Doing nothing

I`m the big rock

The farmer ploughs around me

One day he bitterly says.

It was the tallest tree

In the petrified forest

Lightning struck in half  

I`m the smallest tree

In the woods of trepidation

I starve to stunt growth

At the restaurant

I`m the last the waiters see

Serving stops at three  

blank screen

Blank Screen

I have read the Hitler book why didn`t anyone laugh him

off the stage. Right now I’m reading “The king is dead by

Sarah Shankman for the second time when not looking at

a blank screen that yields nothing, white as a hospital sheet

that doesn’t tell how many died and soiled it.

 The old man couldn’t find his peeing bottle and the nurse

on night duty was having sex with the ambulance driver

 she wasn`t pleased and had to forego of her orgasm.

 There are some spots on the screen often called verbs it

can also be fly excreta, I could have said shit, but lately

I have become ever so cultured. I try to scrap off the shit with

my thumbnail, but they are word all I need to do now is to

weave them into a coherent sentence without pilfering from

Sarah, not that she would mind. A man caught shoplifting

 cat food it was so pathetic they let him go, he couldn`t forgive

 himself and killed the moggy.

So never read a book written by evil men like Adolph Hitler he

too blamed the innocent and to think once he was a child.

a bus ride

a bus ride

A Bus Ride

I took the bus into town today its passengers were

mostly elderly, old women and generally fat as women

of the land tend to be, busy feeding the family they

spend too much time in the kitchen yes, I was the oldest

but would not like to have slept with any of them

and according to their lack of interest in me, it was
mutual.

That is ok; they are good at putting flowers on graves.

I was not buying much just wanted to get out of the house

I will be moving there it`s good to know where the cheapest

lunch cafes are situated, that`s where the Portuguese

bank staff and workers go both groups are equally bad paid.

Going home three hours later the same women on board they

were animated had bought skirts, blouses, and shoes at

 the Chines shop less
than half the price of ordinary shops

theirs had been a good day.

Portugal on my mind

Portugal on my mind

Portugal on my Mind

The nature so lush I felt like a horse I had to feel my eyes

With beauty and scent

 left the asphalted
road and walked on a track

till I was consumed by bushes  and the sound of the growing

sat on a stone wall took pictures and two hours had gone

and I fell asleep as the sun was setting.

I didn’t hear the mobile ring but woke up when a big dog
barked

a black woman came down the track she was worried

If I were ill wanted she could drive me home

I have walked this track for 330 years. She laughed but
insisted  

I drink some cold water at her house; the water came from a
deep well

why do they not make wine that good?

The dog, a pointer, followed me to the asphalt road; its job
was done,

the phone rang again my wife wanted to know where I had been

while she was out visiting friends, out walking darling just
walking

initiation

initiation

The Initiation

It is not easy to be young at 16 I
was a galley boy

on a tankship that even then 60
years ago was ancient

crewed by old mariners who spent
their free time

playing cards and talking about
whores and now the ship

had docked in Le Havre.

It was dark when I went ashore sat
in a bar and drank

Pernod I think. I didn`t go in
there had promised my mother

to stay away from alcohol and
women.

Light rain and the street light was
sparse like there was still

a war on, a small girl standing in
the rain looking like

a sparrow with a broken wing.

We went to a mall hotel, but I
didn`t have enough money

I got to keep my virginity for
another day.

Walking back to the ship it was
still raining and the old men

sat drinking one of them saw me and
invited me in I accepted

by now I was so lonely and needed
someone to talk to,

it was not like I could ring my
mother from a cell phone and

anyway, we didn`t have a phone back
home.

The ancient mariners carried me on
board.

the long road

the long road

The long Road

 I`m going out for
another walk at home the silence

are oppressive most of the villagers have moved away

and some are dead or senile she hates my house,

my home it is too silent, and she wants to move in

to a town and meet people.

I understand her, I partly agree it`s only this, I re-built

this cottage and the best years of my life is here

I found what I had lost my self-confidence I knew they

 laughed at me  of my dreams I was an eccentric, but

here I healed my broken self.

I walk on an asphalted road it`s easier that way. I don`t

want to go home and be met with truculent silence

I wish to walk and walk till the roads end or split into

a fork and a sign post will tell me what to do

whether I should return or carry walking northward

   

working class poet

working class

Working class Poet

It had been a long day at the factory but

when there was a break he jotted down a few words

and during the day it became a poem- he always

had a pen and block ready words were so flighty he may

forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.

Coming home told his wife

 I wrote e whole poem today I think it`s good

his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree

the one at the entrance of the village.

His wife went back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad.

The poet came out of his cocoon, said to his wife:

all my poems are about you, my muse with you at my side

I can`t write about the old tree at the entrance of the village.

They kissed and made up they both lived long had good death

blissfully unnoticed by the world.

high Tide

high Tide

High tide

 May, warm sunlight, mild breeze and under

a parasol casts a cooling shade.

The hum of insect

A barking dog

White clouds on blue velvet

The peace is restless a sense of
danger

the big powers have been banging on
their war drums

conditioning us

we are being groomed for war

It is like psychoses, we want war
now

fight for the fatherland against an
enemy not defined

the noble death

The song contest in Europe has done
a coup, but it

Is not enough

Two jet fighters streak across the
sky they are flying low

piloted by flinty eyes.

Perhaps the coming war is a natural
progression

a bloodletting that happens in
regular intervals

nothing can be done like Thor`s
hammer it strikes

when it want to

evening now grass are asleep

the shade has become night

we can`t but wait 

the seeing mind

the seeing mind

The Seeing Mind

He had been to Antarctica

As a tourist

How was it, I asked

Expecting him going on

About the majesty

Of the place

He hesitated and said:

It was full of ice, snow

And shitty penguins

the clowns

the clowns

The Clowns

Happiness has an empty centre

It is thoughtless as the surface of
the moon

A passing cloud

A hindrance towards contentment

Brutal and sadistic

Totally self-centred

A smooth tool to hide hatred

The denial of other people’s right

Smugness of the winner

Making fun of the losers

Happiness is the devil`s domain

And the smaller the brain, the
happier

Is its owner

That is way idiots laugh a lot.

So why do film stars insist being
happy

blood on the carpet

blood on the carpet

Blood on the carpet

In Brazil

A minority

Of rich

Corrupt

Men in suits

Have taken

Power

They find

Social help

Cost too much

And scrap it

The poor

Want democracy

For the people

Not for

A minority

Of white

Politicians 

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

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  will

not be sent a Christmas card that year.

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

Sebastopol

Was it a dream

Soldiers

In thick ankle deep

Overcoats

And I had none

It gets dark early

In Sebastopol

A blessing

A tried to buy

An overcoat

Was arrested

Sweet wine they sold

For cigarettes

Sent back on board

Brezhnev

Did the driving

What do I know

It might still be

The darkest place

On earth. 

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

Nature sonnet

I have been walking in a domestic land abandoned and

Left to go wild and there is a struggle for dominance among

The trees the olive and carob tree especially

Grow tall and imposing while berry bushes use their long

Claws like talons to attack and hinder a walker by letting
him

Bleed and fertilize the ground where cows and mules no

Longer leaves behind their residue.

I`m waiting for my favourite plant a small bush so
shimmering

light it is transparently green take lift after a few days

To the planet wench they came.

I`m glad the hunting has stopped for now to give animals

A chance replenished and be shot and hunted by dogs
fall.     

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

Her I Love

The moist

smile

that dances

on you lips, 

the amazing

brown eyes

that crosses 

the room

and

looks

my way,

are they

inviting

my smile

to join yours

for a slow

waltz?

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

Was it Arizona?

Endless road, in flat landscape of shrubs and sand, no
elevations

no distant ridge of a mountain, no coast and sunlight
gleaming on

a calm ocean.

Trapped, I drove slower and slower, doomed to drive on this
road forever;

the thought of getting out and start running, when I saw a
few trees at

 the distance, soon
some houses too and a petrol station,

I needed to fill up the tank; the attendant wasn’t there
walked over to a café,

where an old man sat reading his paper,

didn’t look up when the swing door slammed shut behind him

A fat black woman, behind the counter, was watching daytime
soap on

 an ancient TV  set

she turned and looked at me; I said: “coffee please.”

She gave me a cup and said “fifty cents,” turned her massive
back on me,

continued watching TV. I looked and out saw the attendant,
hurried out,

wanted to be sure he didn’t take off again; I never drank my
coffee,

not that anyone took any notice.

The man looked foreign, and I said: “must be lonely living
out here?”

“Yeah, but it sure beats living in Baghdad, the he
murmured.”   

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

The God Thing

I often think of God but Morgan Freeman`s face get in the way

So know we know god is a handsome actor looking godlike and
that is

Ok if he had looked Chinese I might have objected

Death is a conundrum we accept the physical death, but the
problem

Is what is happening to our thought from experience?

After a long life we like to pass knowledge it on but
selectively as we

Cannot talk about our blunders and our sexual misconduct

I have lived a totally egocentric life and it is the only
way I write

but if I have written something to anyone for whom the big
sleep

means nothing I`m glad.

saving the world

saving the world

Saving the world

I drifted out too far, turquoise water, tried to swim on my back,

water in my mouth, agonizing panic.

That’s how they torture prisoners in Guantanamo, only it isn’t called

it tortures but enhanced interrogation and was  coffee served

The Nazis did the same, those found guilty were hanged.

 So tired, pain in chest and throat I’m giving up, a boat comes, mariners

 help me onboard. “You shouldn’t swim out that far, you’re too old.

” Yes, quite, but I was dreaming. The tortured have little to confess, say

to whatever you like them too, I admitted it was me who painted

the moon blued and swam with the dolphins grooming them for warfare

From a drug to keep him quite an alcoholic awoke, shocked to see what

had been done in his name and set about to correct it, alas a lame duck

they won’t let him out of the office, the world will not know that once

he gave ten dollars to an obscure charity that helps orphaned children of

the catastrophe that befell Palestine people.

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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



Television



My sister, a seamstress was the first in our street to buy TV, an ugly,

shiny mahogany box in the corner, and since it was early afternoon and

no program on, stood there blinking as having dust in its eye.

Monday, film night on TV, the whole neighbourhood came and brought

things to be sewn; curtains drawn even though it was summer and still

daylight, we sat in darkness, in silence caused by our awe.

Back then the TV was run by people who wanted to educate us and we

resisted all the Bergman movies, yet we watched enthralled by

having a cinema at home that brought news and weather forecasts  

Glistening cars in the rain, where her house once stood there is now

a parking lot; I’m the only one alive, but every face, the evenings are

 etched on my mind, glass clear in black & white

the heat

the heat

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings cast shadows
in

the olive grove, the docile mule bolted kicked over the
bucket of water,

I had carried from the well it jumped over a stone fence
didn’t make it

 fell broke a leg. I
called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something

unresolved from his childhood I think

All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched
ground, where

autumnal flowers sprung up and hid the dead body in an orgy
of colours,

that got brighter and brighter when feasting on decay till
they exploded

into a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and
it rained;

huge drops- bigger than crocodile tears after laying eggs in
the sand and

digging them up when time is right, taking them down to the
water

hoping they would survive in their cruel habitat we call nature.

Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had
happened,

but under an olive tree, I found a knife with dry blood, my
neighbour

was yonder trimming almond trees that now have brown leaves
and

full of nuts. 
“Hollered didn`t you shot my mule last night?” 

“He shouted back it was a mistake I shot my mule your mule
is OK,

It just had a wounded knee.

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

 Fresh water mermaids

Under a big crowned tree near the lake three land mermaids

sat knitting swimsuits, the saw me and sat still as rabbits,
I pretended

not to see them but did use the corner of my left eye,

I notice many things that way

Thought of taking a picture but would not like to scare them
back into

the lake again, inland mermaids have scaly leg and webbed
feet,

not an edifying sight, but they can dress in trousers like
Yoko Ono

and having the bearing of exotic artists.

Curiosity got the best of me I sneaked back to take a photo
but

a bird whistled a tune they saw me and called me something
bad in

a language I never had heard before, it sounded like frogs`

under a rainbow coloured waterfall made of a child`s tears,

besides they could run much fast than me so, I made a rapid
retreat

while rabbits gleefully danced in the glade and crows
strafed me

 with the precision, a
Luftwaffe pilot would be proud of.

'Cracks in the Mirror' Poetry & photography

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

The Valley and Hunters

It was by chance I stumbled into this valley protected as it
was

by thorny bushes poisonous snakes and scorpions  a sting from them

and you had five minutes to scan the sky looking  or an answer

Intrepid is my name and my dog`s name fearless.

tired and battle scared we came down to the well and drank
till

we needed water no more.

We met a 60 years old camel a survivor of a circus I put my
dog

between the camels humps to scan the landscape.

I swam in the pond among amorous crocodiles till the dog
barked

and morally reminded me I was a human.

How happy we were back then thought we had found blessedness

until a shot was fired and the came collapsed blood coming
out of

its nostril running into the lake and forever it was
polluted

This the last explored place for hunters had been breach by
a tractor

the Portuguese hunters hated us, I picked up the dog and us

found our way back to the main roads finding another valley
was

not easy but we had to try… perhaps Spain it is not like
Portugal

with inbred people who love killing things.

But my dog was not well I carried it home gave it water and
it

did not want to eat, in the morning it was dead in my arms I
think

looking for bliss became too much for her tender heart-