It looks to me like the iconic photo was shot on a Sunday
Behind an abbey that was soundless with loud prayers
The traffic was more human than mechanical
On the broad, asphalted spine of a skinned, dead zebra
Where four men created a useful, eye-catching scene
With their stern military march of youthful legs,
Coming together, yet drifting solemnly apart,
Each carrying that weight of something serious.
A Bus Ride
I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
was I reading yesterday’s
today`s news or tomorrow`s
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.
On a busy Marescaux Road where
No one cared for an injured dog,
Where motorists do not come to a slow,
And honking horns hammer
As impatient traffic competes toe to toe,
There on the asphalted heat
The painful cry of a wounded creature
Pierced through the peak-hour hub of the street.
Out into the throbbing traffic
The Wolmarian girl stepped
Caring none except
for that injured dog– whimpering, pleading,
Fighting with its final breaths.
And the honking swelled and motorists yelled.
From their faces, I could discern
They were void of an iota of concern.
Above the chaos, I heard her whisper
Gentle reassurance to the timid creature.
The Wolmarian girl bent
and slowly lifted her casualty
And walked back to the sidewalk
With ceremonious dignity.
And I have always wished to be as brave as she
Who defied the odds to honour her humanity.
Green leaves on trees
The tall carob trees that bear long oblong fruit
black as the hands of a Gambian, sweet as sight
of the snow-clad mountain reaching the blue sky
when lost for weeks in the African hinterland
flanked the asphalted lane meandering among
the trees that had massive crowns of thick leaves
cooling in the summer heat.
Sitting at the root of a tree seeing the lush grass
that still has pearls of morning tears on venation
a mild zephyr softly moved the tree leaves and
shadows and sunlight synced in perfect harmony
until soldier ants emerged, biting the intruder.
A picture
Behind the mountain, as seen in this photo
I lived, in a small village, for 31 years
The hillside of the mountain only had a few farms
narrow tracks fit for sheep and mules
The houses had narrow entrances because
the people were not of tall stature and lived modestly
and believed in God
The men didn’t live long, and the women usually
went on living twenty years more; the reason for this
I blame the Medronho, which is imbibed too often.
The hillside exploded one-day building activities
for people (tourists) to find Portugal a beautiful
a place to live and get old.
Only when people get old do hanker
for the country, they came from and sold out
that was good for real estate, and prices went up
so much so that the hillside became a sought-after place
almost posh, with garages and newly asphalted roads.
When driving to my home behind the mountain
I had to drive around, but now it is possible to drive over
the top and down, which is good for those who like heights
But it must be said, the old road was more seer friendly
Nevertheless, the mountain is charming in winter light.
PS. The phone was not charged
Riches
Once, in the shallow river where sunlight makes the stone look
like gold nuggets, I threw into its water an engagement ring,
made of silver. I had paid plenty for it on my low earnings,
but compared with the river`s gold it was junk.
Saw her kiss a man in a café where I could not afford to take her,
my misery was total my disgrace deep, how could I be so
deluded to think she would take my silver to his gold.
I threw mine into the river; amidst shiny stones, my ring looked trite
as a sliver of moonlight after ancient God`s bacchanalia.
And forever I will be silent, not speak to her about this: a young man`s
the heart is impossible romantic.
The river is now an asphalted road, deep down the precious stones and my silver engagement ring.
The summer Island
On the island in the fjord where we use to go bathing
there is now a bridge over, a parking lot and you have to pay.
There are toilets- no peeing behind a bush- and kiosk selling
soft drinks and cigarettes, asphalted lanes to walk on and
signs, plenty of them, telling you what you cannot do
Last time I was here with my aunt and her lover the island
had bunkers and rusty iron bits from a long bitterly cold war.
A marina had been built and had a restaurant but you needed
to be a member and wear a blazer with golden buttons and
a white sailor cap; they resented local bathers it was no longer
a place for us workers, they strive to make life better but end
up privatising what used to be free
The summer Island
On the island in the fjord where we use to go bathing
there is now a bridge over, a parking lot and you have to pay.
There are toilets- no peeing behind a bush- and kiosk selling
soft drinks and cigarettes, asphalted lanes to walk on and
signs, plenty of them, telling you what you cannot do
Last time I was here with my aunt and her lover the island
had bunkers and rusty iron bits from a long bitterly cold war.
A marina had been built and had a restaurant but you needed
to be a member and wear a blazer with golden buttons and
a white sailor cap; they resented local bathers it was no longer
a place for us workers, they strive to make life better but end
up privatising what used to be free
Sobriety
In the beginning, it is like walking on a narrow track
With olive roots over the ground to trip you up and branches
Of trees slapping you in the face, if you fall get up and
Continue to walk to be tired is not an alternative for a rest
The track gets smoother and wider, but it rains muds up to
Your ankles and you have to cross a stream.
After the ordeal you look back and wonder who helped, you inner
Strength the id it stepped in when most needed
Ahead is a shiny asphalted road waiting just for you.
I can`t promise you happiness and Hallelujahs,
But promise this when at home and the day was long you
Will smile feel contentment for you have walked the walk,
Your feet are dry and life is not as bad as you thought.
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
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
My Way
I saw the three tenors sing “I did it my way” mind, the fat one died,
and the two others hate each other and never appear in public if
they can avoid it. Of the two one looks like an aging matinée idol
the other suffers from being mobbed at school and looks scared
has nightmares and takes to tears before going on stage.
I still like Frank Sinatra`s rendition of that song better he sang
it so relaxed with a clear diction and made me think of a man
with six pack ambling on his way home he too is dead to
“My Way” is about human hubris we think we are masters of our
destiny when we are leaves blowing along a wet asphalted road
in the autumnal half-light.
Thinking back- I can afford to- I never got a thing my way which when
young caused me bitterness the highest prize eluded me kismet knew
I could not handle illustriousness it would have made me look absurd
a swaggering fool hated by colleagues, on the stage of life. Yet, when
dancing the tango at a nightclub in Buenos Aires 54 years ago the applause
I received still rings sweetly in my ears.
A Bus Ride
I had bought a newspaper in town and was taking the bus home,
a half an hours ride up to my village. I looked at the headlines
and noticed the paper had no date, were I reading yesterday’s
today`s news or tomorrow`s? The bus was empty this afternoon
and it struck how silent it ran could only hear the swishing sound of
rubber against the asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped for the first time on this journey outside
my house, so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting just for me. The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me. I hesitated something was wrong it
was the same house, yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale; this was a copy or a painting forgotten at
a rural art exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP.
Not my village, I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked I didn’t answer and the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper it now had the right day and it was Monday.
Umbrella of Love.
If you drive along the asphalted narrow road that runs
Parallel with the vine plants, turn left, you will see
A muddy road more like a track now after rain,
From here you have to walk till you see a quiet little
Corner where two stone walls meet; and you will
See- not a great deal- the place I’m going to plant
A carob tree comes spring. The reason for the corner
Is two brothers who couldn’t agree whom it
Belonged to so they left it untended and with time
No one took an interest in weeds and stinging plants.
The tree will be in memory of a girl a met a day of rain
And she shared her pink umbrella with me.
Not a big thing, but I was home from the sea and lost
In the big city, she gave me the shelter I needed.
Behind Mount Sinai
On the asphalted road to a seaside town there is a hole in
the road, a nasty hole a car hitting it could have a bad puncture.
A rocket, albeit a puny one, caused this.
Fired by people who will not take no for an answer they refuse
to acknowledge this grand scale theft of their country.
Well, one has the right to defend oneself, so bombs, rockets fall
on a tiny piece of land no bigger then fly dropping on a map.
When Arab pride and goliath are sated there will be peace but
the underlying causes of this ritual and one-sided bloodshed will
never go away till goliath sees sense he is not David with a sling
fighting the whole world in the odd belief he is both the chosen and
the persecuted people. Jerusalem was promised to the Jews,
but not them alone; the pledge was made by Jewish soothsayers,
who knew when a lie is told often enough it becomes a truth.
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