the writer

The Writer. When young, long before the computer was invented, I rented a cabin in the north of Spain, serious and Nordic I wanted to be a writer and brought with me a travel typewriter – you will find one at a technical museum- ready to stun the world. North of Spain is winter cold the wood in the shed was damp gave off smoke and little fire. Daytime not bad a frozen pond and a pair of skates kept me warm. Nights, however, was cold till a flock of sheep was seeking shelter I let them in, soon the cabin was warm if smelly; mucking out in the morning took time. Keeping company with sheep and ice skating is not an ideal intellectual pursuit, to make matters worse I had no ribbons – a sheep ate them- Having read Ernest Hemingway I knew I had to live a little and find my own way of telling a story.

not being born

Not being born. Has anyone thought how it must feel sailing in utter darkness in a place of no place waiting to be born. Hundreds of years go by the unborn is dead, yet not so even there is no one missing it. To exist, yet not exist.... in the cold starless night Then it happened, a chance to be born, but someone changed their mind, fun night gone wrong. This time there is no waiting, no hope. Eradication is final as ultimate as masturbating into the kitchen sink when home alone.

useless waterways

Useless Waterways It is a long river goes on till water meets the sky and as I have no oars have to follow the waterway till the place when all things are the same Nirvana, some people say other calls its nothingness. But there rivers that run into the sand never given the chance to flow and dream of becoming a Nile or an Amazon.... Stillborn they are. The lucky river runs deep underground and has fish with no eyes and frogs white as new fallen snow. The river ends up in a lake where fishtailed women live. If you stop and listen you can hear the lake sigh and the river throbs, it never misses a beat. Mermaids have no uterus cannot bear children and lament that sex is more important than babies.

Abortion

Abortion When my mother was pregnant with me, she was too poor to get an abortion and it was also against the law in those far away days. My aunt gave her the advice to try skipping Luckily for me, mother was not very athletic and I was born. Abortion should be legal, as a human right but I think a woman should think long and hard of the world she stops the unborn from seeing

blood in the sand

Blood in the Sand There is a war in the Middle East people against people in the name of Islam, chop heads of one another like it should be a sporting prowess and then holler Allah. I’m sick and tired of these people who have mindsets that are 300 years behind us how can we have a sensible talk with such persons who in the name of their god kill anyone, mostly them for reasons one has to have a 300 years old mind to understand how they can accept their blood thirst done in the name of an abstract god. And then there is betrayal they are forever betraying each other to the enemy. But it wasn’t always thus and we must accept we have made it worse. Yet there are Jordanians, Palestinians, Syrians, Persians and Arab -Israeli (the Jews and Christians not) too who are not like the cruel of sword swinging Muslims we read about, they are the people who can bring the unrestrained, wild -eyed backward people to book because I’m exhausted of defending the indefensible.

Foreigner in Portugal

Foreigner In Portugal At the local shop I met an elderly woman, mind most of the women I meet are elderly but this one was primordial, she dropped her bag when seeing me and exclaimed is it true you have two hearts? Not wishing to disappoint her I confirmed rumours she had heard. I even let her touch the battery just under my skin. Nothing keeps a secret in a small village, it appeared they knew before me, the doctor who did the job came from farming stock, perhaps he rang someone. Odd people live here, those who were young when I came here have middleaged children now, but forever I’m referred to as the English, telling people I’m from baccallao land is met with a smile...I’m English so there.

oil change

Oil Change I’m not a poet never was, but I like to tell stories Most of the stories are for my inner ear, But for some reason my collections are called poetry. I’m a practical chap, just changed oil in my car and Filled up the coolant, which is pink coloured. Later I will drive to the local garage and see if the tyres Have the right amount of air, and then clean the car. When I write about carob trees and my special tree The almond, which in my mind, strews flowers on mine Fevered often walked track, I do so in tenor like oiling The hinge of a door or hammer a long nail into a wall, Nothing can be less poetic. In Kaleidoscope once I saw My future lover’s face, can that be called poetry?