morning in the city

Morning in the city

Through the half open curtains, day came

the world was silent and deep down there

into city caverns cars stood still but since it

had rained during the night pools of water

and diesel oil had made perfect rainbows.  

A bus stopped, two women entered they

looked as low paid cleaners, yet modest

morning light made their unpainted faces

into works of art.  The city yawned drank

coffee and began the bustle of commerce 

longitude

The Longitude

Woke up by the stream

of kind nature

I had no recollection

of a past,

this was now, an expanding

presence,

as water rings made

by a stone thrown into a lake,

till it runs out of energy

sinks to the bottom

where other stones that,

used to be mountains rest,

and there is

for the exceptions of

a few commas

unpunctuated stillness

a Racial moment

A  Racial Moment

He was the family´s black sheep, which was awkward since his father was

the president of a racist party. No black people here the grim father said;

they come here with machetes and try to kill us, we have to protect our

belligerent Viking culture from these begging ruffians.  But his opponent

shouted your son is a black sheep he has chimney sot on his face and he

has suckled on the breast of a coloured woman, who are you to lead us?

 Show your mettle your passion to and preservation to white culture, but

do not mention the Nazi thing it was an apparition, but kill him now.

The father grabbed a machete from a black teenager, to slaughter his son,

but a Sheppard came gave the father a lamb to kill, and there was great

jubilation and beer was drunk. Later in bed, the wife asked: did you really

meant to kill your son? No the father said it was pre arranged, politics my 

little darling. This in his wife´s eyes, was betrayal, odium, felt a delirious

hatred running like lave through her, she got up and killed her husband

with a single blow of the machete. The moral of this absurd tale is: don´t

keep secrets from your wife. 

precipitation

Precipitation

The wall on the other side of the road used to be

full of translucent sunlight, and no shadow dared

to cast its evening spell before five o´clock.

It has been raining for weeks now, grey sky and

drizzle the wall looks unpainted like melancholy

seen in the eyes of the old.

See how the indoor light gives tear drops on

the window pane a tiny rainbow each, as to say

there will be a sunny wall someday.

  

the painting

The Painting

The sky is pale,

white clouds have eaten

all the blue,

then diminish into fading mist.

Pales sun brightens

as the sky gets deep azure

when the day darkens into

a mature afternoon.

No aisle to hold a canvas

no brushes or paint

Just what the artist wanted

and tries to emulate.

And he had succeeded

an expert on colour blue

and leafless trees, a pity

his name was Hitler.

the value of money

The Value of Money

Once I was a multi millionaire it was shortly after the war ended

in 1945, when I found a bundle of German marks from 1914.

Think I found them on a shelf in an abandoned house used by

German officers, there was so many things they left behind like

gas masks and bikes and I learned to cycle on a pilfered bike,

it was black and had a Nazi symbol painted on its frame, but my

uncle Harold painted it over. I was lucky who found money, some

of the lads found live hand grenades and blew themselves up.

The winter of 1945 was cold and we often used my millions

to get the fire going in the morning and mother said we were

so rich we could afford to burn money. In the village where I live

there is only one rich person, he is a miser and live behind tall

walls, his car has dark windows, and I have never seen smoke

coming out of his chimney; ash of notes white as snow.  

by the river

By The River.

At the estuary of the Amazons the water is muddy and shallow and

there are no undercover bosses, pretending to be one of the people

who live in houses on stilts on the small islands where the river

meets the sea, blends and loses its power; for those who have sailed

the oceans no river is big. On the delta, of the great river, live people

who get their income from fishing they are poor yet free from prying

bosses those who buy the river and the sea for exploitation and make

people into low paid worker; destitution without pride.  

Every group of houses on the islands have a shop that sells sweets,

cigarettes and Coca Cola, the fisherman smokes, children drink cola,

America´s cultural export reaches every corner of our cerulean orb,

Camel is a brand not an animal, Winston is a night riding cowboy.

 This means nothing for the people here, who try to catch the Boto,

(pink river dolphin) which is rich in protein and tastes good.