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