Agricultural words
I was writing words strung together
trying to stack them together and make a little story
not a poem that I don´t care to write
when the electricity took a break.
Not that I minded living inland this happens.
I had a killer ending and wouldn´t let the flame of inspiration die out.
Five hours later, the light came on; I sat too long
in the darkness, the killer ending forgotten.
As I said, I´m not a poet, a worker in the field of words
sowing and weeding, hoping for a good crop.
A farm-hand of words, I do my job and even unpaid
but proud of my cabbage and potatoes.
No, I have no orchids and roses.
Roll a cigarette, lit it and dreamily think of tomorrow
sitting on a stone fence built by heroes.
Ghostly
I sold my house to a Moldavian family
the drawback was they had two small children
the house came with two ghosts
as everyone knows, only children and poets see ghosts.
The children were not afraid they even played
with my dearly departed dog, it was just doing its
the normal routine at night, securing every room at night;
a thing it used to do before the transition.
The problem started when the children told the parents
they claimed I had not told them and demand the house sale
rescinded.
The dog is not the problem when it realizes its nightly
inspection is not needed hiding objects behind the sofa
is no longer amusing it will fade away.
As for the mule, it is not going anywhere, the house
used to be a barn and the living room a stable.
It has been here 90 years, happily munching hay.
You can even smell it on rainy days odour after
a long day, pulling the plough.
The estate agent told me not to worry about a court case
involving ghosts is a lost cause.
I wouldn´t mind if the dog came to the flat startling rats
coming up from the sewer I have to flush several times?
Before sitting down, and keep the lid firmly closed
with a heavy object on top.
this person you have never seen before.
If you saw Obama walking down the same street, you would
see him as a slightly balding man of colour, you certainly
would not call him a unless you are bigoted racist.
If you see George Bush along the same street, you may
think he is a retired school teacher whether he was good
at his job wouldn´t cross your mind.
If you saw Joe Biden, you would think he was an old man
walking from a restaurant to his car, and not think
about his political past, and the wrong decision he has made.
If you talk about the merit of people in power, do so
by knowing what they have done, name-calling is an emotive
reaction and blind us for what good they might have done.
At the hospital
I had an appointment
It appears my kidneys are in a bad shape
Due to my diabetes.
Leaving with this glad tiding
I went the wrong way out
And was brutally stopped by a Nazi guard.
I pushed back
And we ended up in a fight
that was stopped by my nurse
Who whispered something in his ear?
He let go.
I needed a pee, he wouldn´t tell me
Where the toilet was
The revenge of the small people.
I took my out ready to pee on the floor.
They hastily showed me the loo.
The guard said: don´t be so impolite,
And I said do not ever touch me again
And made a Hitler salutation.
When this happened, my wife was sitting
In a waiting room trying to call a cab
I told her nothing.
The problem with diabetes it attacks the body
And the mind.
The hurts in poetry
the touchstone of poetry
is the beauty of the pain of longing for lost beauty
walking an old track looking for the lost
I nearly stepped on a rabbit it was too late to run
we both pretended we did not see each other.
When the rabbit realized there was no harm it got
up smelled my shoes and slowly jumped back into
the bushes.
The forest was silent I had lost my dog she liked
to chase things she saw but made a lot of noise, but
there was a deeper muteness
of course, it was wintertime and hunter were out
with their dogs not today though.
If a hunter´s dog was not up to the chase if was
left behind it had nowhere to go.
The dogs in the village wouldn´t make it in, poor thing
cold and no food, how can we be so cruel?
It was left to my neighbour to find the lost dog
and end its life.
He could no rely on me since my dog was rescued
by insensitive people, and he already had five dogs.
The beauty was to see the rabbit leave not afraid
what do I know it might have thought I was a tree.
Heatwave
It is early, but the petrol station is open
and since it is already hot, I buy two big bottles of cold water.
the heat this morning is ominous it holds no promise
of summer and fun, more like the door of hell has been left open
I hear the screams of those who are burning forever (one would
think the body would be impervious to pain)
I don´t want to go in yet sit on a cold stone bench drink water
and dream of swimming naked in the lake of love.
Of course, the lake has gone as has its tributary, the river running
from the hazy mountain.
Suddenly it hits me over the head, the voice which says,
you are 81. How the hell did you manage this?
The news isn´t helpful either saying the heatwave is no suitable
for anyone over 74.
Do they think I´m English?
I drink some cold water pretend it is from a well somewhere
hidden in my imagination of an oasis and palm trees.
I think wouldn´t it be not very good if I invented a pill that made me
younger and younger till I disappeared unborn.
Let´s meet the happy-go-lucky man;
full-blooded,
neither craven nor valiant,
taking life as it comes with a touch of indifferent air,
good-humored, easy-going,
careless and not jealous.
Just It wouldn´t be bad to beam him a bit of mundane grandeur to be a perfect partner.
If it was not because...
We are actually referring to a dummy
The heart wants what it wants
The body craves what it desires
The soul searches for truth and meaning
And our brains are generally on fire
Singers describe their anguish in song
and doctors prescribe a pill
Theologians define the right and wrong
and psychologists send you a bill
Appetite and hunger
for all things under heaven and earth
Is the price of admission and the dept we all must pay
And the Almighty wouldn"t take away your endless longing-
even if he could- nor have it any other way
"Freedom from want" is a pernicious lie
Perpetrated by the "elites" and all that money
they never give up
Soupkitchen soul for the condescending folk
Plastered onto a groovy coffee cup
Appetite and hunger, from the cradle to the grave
is their ugly sin of omission, a rather obvious display
But God has the final word- even if you haven't heard-
on what is the final price we all must pay
The cemetery is like the last page of the book
It comes to fast and leaves dispair
It raises hair and tears you apart
I hope you know I loved you,
With all my heart
It tore me apart
And took half my heart
I loved you with a smile
Little did I know I wouldn´t see you for a while
Your first pages were brave
Your last pages came like an unexpected wave
Then before we know it you were lowered in your grave
This was a true story bout' this ole lady
and this baby who ain't hers you see cause'n its' white ya see
and she ain't she a mammie or a cook but to the honey child
she the baby mammie cauz' she more a moma to the honey child than the baby
mama
mammie been in that honey child face every science she poped out of the white
hefier and she wouldn' even feed her a bottle must less let her pull at her tit
honey child and mammie done got so close that white lady came back when
honey child was house broke and talkin' and walkin' and didn' even know that
white hefier was even her mama she say mammie who dat lady and mammie say
why honey child that white lady is yo mama and honey child say NO NO she ain't
my mammie you is my mammie and mammie told honey child baby she gave
birth to ya but you is right I is yo mammie and I will always be tha mammie so
ya go younder and speak to ya mama now ok be respectful and mind yo manner
like I done taught ya and don't make me have to tan ya hide ok honey child say
yes ma'm mammie
The Conversation
I sat on the roof reading a book
and eating a banana.
But as the day progressed
I got hungry and
tried to get down by climbing
up and over a low wall onto
the kitchen terrace.
Legs wouldn´t let me.
In the struggle I lost the book
it ended on the road face up.
My neighbour came
helped me over the wall and asked:
“What were you doing?
“I was reading Jose Saramago
In Portuguese and I read slowly.”
“Well, it is ok then.” He said
“But I didn´t like him he was
a communist and ex car mechanic
went to live in Spain after
winning the big literary prize.”
Sonata
It was about noon and I had nothing to do, I had not written
anything for a week, not since my girlfriend left me, had deadline
an article for a magazine, they wanted something about sharks,
like I should know, I had a pint of lager in a bar while reading
the papers; and another one, perhaps more while thinking about
sharks, my girlfriend and the deadline. I walked to the library to
read about sharks. But they wouldn´t let me in said I was drunk.
Please let me in I´ve to read about sharks; piercing library silence.
In the park I made notes about sharks trying to remember if I once
saw shark fins while swimming in the sea off the coast of Trinidad,
but I kept thinking of my girlfriend, so I picked some flowers for her
and was promptly arrested. My editor was nice about me faulting
the deadline and published an article I had written about Russian
wolves, like wolves should know if they are Russians or not.
Christmas Day
Christmas day no ships anchored in the bay which
has crested waves that turn into cream like spray
when reaching sandy shores.
The crew wouldn´t have minded that so much,
as it is they are on ships that rolls and pitches
endlessly in the Atlantic sea waiting for Yule to be
over when normal trading begins.
To day there are no revolts in Africa, and there is no
war in Syria, because bad news has been suspended,
but there is a movie about a carpenter trainee who
became a preacher, but since I have seen the film before
I will go for a walk and try not to think of seafarers´ lack of
sleep, or poverty that hides in the nooks of Cascais, a town
famous only because a king once spent a summer there,
The Missing Limb
I was driving a long when I saw half an arm, from
elbow and down to hand, on the verge of the road.
I stopped picked it up with my right hand and it
quickly grabbed my left wrist and wouldn´t let go.
A man came from the bushes: “it is my arm,” he
said and wrestled it off my wrist and connected
the limb to its rightful place, stapled and put it
between his shirt opening looking like Napoleon.
He told me that years ago he lost his own arm,
doctors sewed a new one on; works ok, but there
are tasks it doesn´t like to do like being helpful
when nature calls, I let my right hand do it but
sometimes I forget the left detaches itself tries
to run off. With that he went back to his field
mounted a tractor, his left arm worked fine, and
he disappeared in a blast of dust and diesel fume
New York
Dark outside all I see is a figure, which is bald and wears glasses.
I remember a time when there was a war and we had to use black
curtains so the enemy flying over the town could not see it, even
though it was on their map. And sometimes they dropped bombs
anyway just for the hell of it. My uncle a merchant seaman, told me
of the fantastic sight coming from a war torn Europe and seeing
New York lit up like a colossal Christmas tree, like seeing paradise.
New Yorkers treated foreign seamen with great respect and
much beer was drunk… my uncle survived after being torpedoed
three times. When he after five years came home to Norway,
he was told who lucky he was having avoided the hunger of war.
It is dark outside but not as dark as my uncle´s mind when he,
after the war tried to return to his New York, they wouldn´t let
him go because he behaved so strangely… five years of war and
know one understood he suffered post traumatic stress. And no
recognition came his way…alone by the shore of lost sanity he
dreamed of his beloved New York.
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