In Paramaribo
I met a girl, half Indian and beautiful
there was a big church and a castle
to defend Dutch interest
A hot and swampy place, which I liked
coming from Norway, a cold country
with a poor working- class who sent
their sons to join the merchant marine
The housing estate in Paramaribo
consisted, mostly of shacks, among
romantic palms
Had I married the girl and settled
I would have been a beneficiary of
the promised oil wealth
As it is, as a Norwegian, I get a pension
so mean, I have to live in Portugal
because the rulers put the wealth in
sovereign fund for a future that
appears to be at the threshold of a war
The Big Green Fence
Life carried on
behind the big green fence.
It seemed negativity
could not penetrate
the faded paint outside.
Depression, wars, lost their sting
once one crossed that threshold.
I remember my uncle home on leave
dressed in his kilt and sporran. I did not know at the time
that it would be the last visit of the man I
recognized. He changed after the war
as if Uncle Joe had vacated the premises.
Uncle Stan was in the merchant Marine off of the
east coast. He came home with
a tattoo on his right arm. Time seemed slower
at the pace of the children living in
the grey stone house. We never feared strangers
or playing alone outside because the fence, like a warm
embrace, radiated love and safety. There were lawns of soft
plush grass to roll in and once a pony came by for pictures.
Flower beds well tended, jewels heaped here and there.
All of this floats in my memory now
a rainbow stream of myriad colours, softened by
time and distance. The remnants of that peace
remains grounded in my heart.
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