Thursday, September 18, 2014
America the beautiful
America the Beautiful
The heartland of America of peace and old farmhouses,
the country I read about as a young man it is still there
although news we are served is of riots and mass shooting.
Sturdy farmers in blue overall at the bottom of the road
have collections of old stuff from recent past things
collected for the love of it, but you can buy some if they
feel like selling; canny know the value of scrap metal.
Nice roads in a green landscape and tall three, and no
police sirens scream around winding corners and bullets
do not fly through the air hitting a child.
This is America the beautiful, I will go there someday,
perhaps buy a rusty old Dodge that has been standing under
a tree for twenty five years-who cares- and talk to the old
farmer about this and the sorry life of city dwellers.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
posh avenue
Posh Avenue
Beautiful avenue big trees on both sides lend dignity to palatial homes,
tall walls with broken glass on top and silence. Yet it is the wrong kind
of hush like a solid melancholy that April days are unable moderate.
This wide avenue has little traffic except for patrol cars driving up and
down protecting the values of houses that are empty and gloomy.
These dwellings are bought as an investment for rich foreigner, who can
use them as a bolt hole if the situation in their own countries wears
towards revolt by the people tired of odious kleptomaniac affluence.
Homeless people sometimes try to break in to one of the houses
the dream is to sleep under silky duvet hot shower and scented soap.
Alas, there is no hot water, all is turned off and the mattress is bare.
the night in the splendour of immense room is a cold and lonely as
the intruder waits for the rain to stop so he can flee to freedom of
relative poverty, food banks and supermarkets´ out of date yogurt.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
verse
verse
What is my verse ?
Often so angry
Of being cheated of life
Soiling the beauty that is all around us
The lovely line in
An old woman’s face
Those who only see dancing girls
Do not see beauty
Only lusting after effervescent
That is no more than a bubble
In a glass of cheap champagne.
My verse get mad when seeing poverty
Yet the most beautiful sight I ever saw
Was outside a shack
An empty paint can full of flowers
Picked a dawn
In the mythical forest
Injustice is the chainsaw that cuts down
Christmas trees that are made into vulgarity
Of artificial snow, blond angels
And toy bells that lacks the tone of truth
I find my verse in the simple life
In the unspoken and unknown
Where everything is real, clean and blameless.
Monday, September 15, 2014
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