Saturday, May 16, 2015

the last forenoon

The last forenoon

It was Sunday I was sitting peacefully at my desk
when an interior storm burst knocked off me off  my chair
I witnessed machine gun fire hitting a wall just above
my head I was covered in dust like powdered dandy
and I thought, here we go first torture than a bullet.
The put an oxygen over my face a wounded soldiers
going home after losing yet another battle.

I was born again and could remember the constant
battle the never- ending war of my phobias,
Eight floors up, one lifetime is enough, but the soldier
could not break glass puny his hands weak his arms.
Yes I’m home but my smile is a Janus mask I cast no
shadows on the wall like the living do.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Self Repressing

Self Repressing

Self Repressing
As I write, words come
into my mind which I think are apt.
Sometimes the thoughts are racial and sometimes overly
critical of women who will not admit their primary role in
life is to bring humanity forward and men’s role in this
Is as tiny as the penis of a mouse.

And we have Arabs who feel neglected since we do not
want to adopt a religion based on heresy and ignorance.
Not to forget the Jews who feel the world owns them a living
for the holocaust which the Palestinians have to pay for,
and cleverly their politicians averted our eyes, we who are
guilty of neglect and
have a free passes providing we sing theirs

songs of their
suffering and endless reparations.

Sunday, April 26, 2015




Perfect omelette 
three eggs and three spoons
of cold water.
a pinch of salt.
butter in the frying pan
whisper the eggs softly
let the omelette it time to mature,
then if you must add cheese or bacon
fold it and let it
gently slide on your plate. and eat it
with love in your heart.

the friend

The Friend
I dislike morbidity the end of the world prophets,
yet there was a knock on my door, they were clearing
boulders from the field where I had buried my dog
between to big rocks, opened the bag a black bin liner
she was there ok, white bones and

This was a perfect Hamlet moment, but I’m not Yurok
and to use her head as a desk ornament was not on. 
There are no secrets in a hamlet, they knew the dog
remains belonged to me and I left the bag in the shed
till my wife discovered it. For the time being the dog’s bones
are in the back of my car, when driving I often see her face
in the back mirror, she wants closure. What we had is
memories something of no consequence the love
we shared, the flash when dog and man are in harmony

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Beer Drinker

The Beer Drinker
Seven, the shop in the village closes at eight, something my wife ok. I took the narrow road the one that has trees on
both sides it is a bit longer and I did not have to do this but I had
been drinking beer didn’t like to be stopped by eager police they
have been coming down on foreigner, giving fine for anyone over
the legal limit they get a percentage of the fine.

 In the middle of the road, I stopped light from my car casted
a un- earthly impression and I saw wolves crossing the road,
wild boars galloping as avoiding an enemy or enemies, hares
in burrows and glades trembled. The nightlife of the damned, their
night was not a cosy fireside where fairy tales were told, a struggle
to survive this night, to forage food, they are more scared of each
other than of me. Life of wild animals is short sharp and painful,
 - or is it- yet we have no right to interfere  for they are free and
live a life that within its confine has mirth and happy pairings.

And then the full moon came I got out of the car undressed
and bathed in its blue, silvery light, shivering but it was
worth being at one with nature which we lost and still think
we can regain. My wife never got her the garlic, but I was not
bitten through the night, but my love for the woman who

married someone else still appears in my dreams.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Balls and Balls...sonnet

Balls and Balls...Sonnet At the posh supermarket in Albufeira it sells Icelandic fishballs harvested from ten- year-old cods. They are white, and round just like other balls in size, say, meatballs, but they taste salty and tangy, perfect with chilled wine, almost like eating the Portuguese dish baccallao de nata the way they make it in Alentejo. The wine at this supermarket is overpriced, but some of them have fancy names on colourful labels as to make them more appetizing like we were going to eat the labels too. 99% of the shoppers are British and struts around patronizing us locals who came to gaze at the wonderful frozen food one can buy here as the English housewife cannot cook and take great pride in her incompetence.... men are hopeless too, that is why they go to British restaurants to eat pie with chips and mushy peas. I had friends, British – can you believe it- who lived here for years, when they needed cancer surgery they went to Britain to have it done, the waiting list was so long that both died; the Brits do not like being prodded by foreigner. So what was I doing here at this posh place? I had been told they sold smoked ox testicles here it was good for my flagging potency when I asked around the shop fell silent. No one knew. Insipid fishballs, but I saw men putting on their reading glasses for a closer look at shelves that sold foreign food.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

after Ingmar Bergman

After Ingmar Bergman And now that it is dawn And the sun will soon come over the mountain My wife’s warmth keeps me warm My screams of fear is now a murmur She dries spittle from my beard and speaks softly Soon she will get up and make coffee I let the aroma envelope me The terror of the night and death subsides and I will try to be kind and Believe in a god that will lift me up to his heaven And let me live forever. But who will publish my poetry collections?