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.

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.

Omelette

Omelette

Omelette

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

Beer Drinker

The Beer Drinker

Seven, the shop in the village closes at eight, something my wife

needed...so 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.

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.

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?