winter lake a collection
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Winter Lake, a collection
By Jan Oskar Hansen
Sixty eight pages of
Prose poetry
Ok. Day
On a day like this
With sunlight
Clear sky and mild breeze
And I know
There will not be a day
Just like this again
There will be other days
Just as good now as the almond
Tree bears fruit.
Illusion
Don´t mention the moon, but it looks
like a rocking chair made gold platted
by lovers restless hands and dreams.
Park benches soft as duvet when you
hold around her not trying to blow
cigarette smoke in her hair.
Moonlight has made her face forgiving,
you know she has been married twice
and has two grown up children.
Yet you love her tonight
while the moon paints her hair golden.
The Birth of Innocence
Farm workers didn´t go into the barn at night,
they had all seen him and feared him but they
never mentioned his name.
Late one night I went into the stable and found
animals at rest free of the harness of humanity,
on the wall I saw my own shadow
The “him” I didn´t sense only the warmth and
aroma of animals and the loyal mare which
neighed softly wanting a pat on her long neck.
O, so tired I was switched off the light fell asleep
on straw, near the mare, woke up by animals
noise a calf had been born.
Porajmos
Porajmos, if the name means nothing to
you it was the Roma people´s holocaust.
But while Jews got their own state and
sit by the top table of the mighty, they
are still misjudged and treated with scorn
and abuse. From the haze of the past they
came (from India?) artisan by trade, but
without a homeland a place to feel safe.
Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani.
Gassed by the Nazis (about a million) but
this was never mentioned or ignored by
Europe that lost no time shunting them
around like they should be the plague.
They recently came to Norway, citadel of
freedom and democracy, in the hope of
finding work, but they were hounded out.
Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani.
But history will tell us when roads sprout
weed and bushes, oil is dry, the gypsies
will prevail, for they are not used to excess
of riches, greed is not in their heart.
Jamal, Jamal sing for me Romani, sing so
narrow minded people can hear your litany.
Gunplay 1
They don´t have guns in heaven only tooth picks,
but god has got a golden gun, given to him by
the producer of James Bond movies.
He toys with it just for fun when newcomers
arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top
of the bible he wrote once upon a time.
Not that he has copyright, he will be the first
to tell you, but with the help of strange people
who insisted he had spoken to them.
Sometimes when god is alone he put the gun
to his temple and…click... nothing happens
it is all in jest or is it? Infinity can be a burden.
Now, if you wonder about the tooth picks,
angels like to welcome you with a bright smile.
Night Fliers
As I flew low in the summer night
my arms got tired and I landed on
a leafy tree in a park.
Sat on a bough fell asleep, woke
when sun shone through lime leaves,
jumped from the tree onto soft grass
From other trees men jumped down
stretched, yawned and went for a coffee.
To think I thought I was special.
Senryu
On the outer field
A mass of birds congregate
Migrating southward
Haiku
Mist on old roof tops
Drips morning dark thoughts
Autumn’s reflections
Senryu
Through the haze
Mules under a carob tree
Sees a red tractor
Senryu
Seagulls’ invasion
Screech triumphantly
Occupying farmland
Senryu
Mare on pampas
Sees the encroaching city
Worries for her foal
A ponder
If rats had bushy tails would it had made
a variance? We could keep them as pets,
ten in each house and five in the garage.
Guess that would have kept Manx cats
away hiding at the bottom of the garden
being poisoned as revolting creatures.
I have come to the conclusion rats have
cute faces and humorous eyes it is their
tails I can´t abide so scaly and rodent like
that I rather have a cat
Sun Tan
On the way to Benafim there is, to the left, a savanna land
surrounded by low ridges that look heat hazy and distant
and I think of it as Africa. In the afternoon after five o´clock,
when sun is less fierce and I can look up without being blind
I drive on my scooter taking the sun. Aware I´m not Tarzan,
but here I´m only overlooked by fantasy lions in tall, sun pale
grass, and grazing sheep. The drive takes about an hour and
gives me a nice tan, till I reach upland. A narrow river crosses
here too it has been dry for years, who knows, there might be
crocodiles under the parched mud. But my African sojourn is
somewhat disturbed by plots of vines that will be harvested in
September when new dreams begin.
Senryu
An ink spot
The fate of a poem
Rejected.
Senryu
In the netherworld
Of bitterly deleted poems
A ceaseless murmur
Senryu
Soldiers never die
And dismissed poems
Return in disguise
A Surreal Day
Behind the coastal village the land is flat
except for a blob in the middle, a sorry
excuse for a mountain, and is a stream
muddy, yet full trout that swim noisily
near the surface in a flabby manner and
taste of peat. We live on a diet of leek,
blueberries, carrots and bark bread.
There are lots of rabbits about but they
had “don´t kill me eyes” so I don´t, but
suspect my dog kills some when I´m not
looking because it is quite fat, I thought
it lived on greasy chip paper blown from
the village´s only café. I´m a vegetarian
therefore a sabre toothed rat gave birth
under my bed, but I do hope the rat will
not make a habit out it. Yesterday I saw
a goat it looked tasty so I killed and ate it.
Austerity?
Expensive cars chocking the approaches
to Vilamoura, the yacht and seaside town.
No austerity today, a man in an old Fiat
was laughed off the road, probably a waiter
on the way to work. No poverty no beggars
only shampooed dogs with golden collars.
And as always the poor, the silent majority,
stayed in their howls, sun is exclusively for
the perma- tan set in August.
Epigram
One man´s dream is man´s ennui
we feign interest like an insincere
elephant who self-deprecates its
total apathy to human banalities.
Epigram
It is not possible to be a poet without
taking a stance against the inequity of
what is happening, but those who will
not hear call it political propaganda.
Epigram
What people want from poets
Is a jam sandwich with butter,
and a nice sunset, but nothing
to reflect upon tomorrow.
Epigram
While you admire the sunset a drone
strikes kill people who have not been
found guilty but being a likely enemy
of your ignorance.
Love…Such Long Time Ago
Summers I dream of you and I say to myself if I had
played my cards right my life would have taken another,
path, only I don´t play cards and love has nothing to do
with poker, you can´t win in love even if you have aces.
It takes commitment, honesty and no fear of passing
rejection. I wanted to take you to USA, drive through
the states an make love to you in everyone and I would
kiss your beautiful body, inhale your fragrance and not
worry about tomorrow. I had the air ticket and money,
Florida the first objective, but you were so impossible
beautiful and I could not cope if you said no; and if you
had said yes, how would I cope with your loveliness?
I feared that on our journey you would find a bloke who
could dance, leave let me continue a boundless journey
through the USA. I would not know how to get home cause
you are cleverer than me and knew how to read a map…
my map was love for you, sometimes, that is not enough.
My love is infinite and as it is it will continue this way
… a dream and children I never had. I ask: forgive my timid
heart and let me sleep.
The epiphany of Love.
This was a love of dreams and a confused mind
I wanted all of her, not only the fragrance of
her hair but also to kiss her sweet mind.
I wanted to be absorbed by her so she would
always be mine.
We woke up entwined her green eyes looked
at me and I drowned, but she shook me back
to life told me I must go, she had things to do
and ring her later in the day I did, she wasn´t
there and had left no forwarding address.
People spoke to me I didn´t hear I was inside
a fog of misery, of confusion…why, why?
Could I not find her…had she been a dream?
I walked into the forest, torn by spiky bushes
and slapped by tree branches.
Finally a clearing where I fell asleep and woke
up to silence and clarity. My love for her had
been obsessive she could not breathe and had
to escape, and I too had lost my soul for love.
I came out of the woods bloodied, yet sane.
Epiphany, she had never existed, yet the forest
sang her name. Walked in the street where she
had lived, but the aroma of her hair had gone,
she never spoke to me not even in my dreams
Rednecks
Long time ago when a man called Goldwater was
running for president, I was walking along a road
just outside Mobile, Alabama. What I was doing
there is long forgotten but I recall having a day off
from my ship, and going from bar to bar.
I did notice that the sidewalk was weedy clearly
people did no walking. A pickup truck stopped,
three burley men wanted to give me a lift, dared
not refuse they had gun racks and armed for civil
war that steadfastly refused to appear.
They asked me about Goldwater whom I had read
about in “Newsweek” but I stated ignorance.
They drove me back to Mobile and I assured them
I loved America; gave me a six-pack, warned me
not to speak to black people and commies.
Capital punishment
When a state
Kills a convicted murderer
The state
Becomes like the killer
Murdering the defenseless
In the toxic word
Of justice
The Loss of Faith
Fated priest when he walks in front of a funeral
procession his gait is often wobbly, says it is stiff
joints; smells of aftershave lotion and brandy.
Lost his faith years ago, in the night his prayer
echoes in the village church.
Thinks it his fault that god has left him in a vacuum
of disbelief a penance for not having a total godly
deference. In his dreams he meets god who speaks
in a language he doesn´t understand; he wakes up
bedroom bleak, and the voice of god has gone.
He says as Jesus once did, why have you forsaken me?
Has a brandy goes back to a restless sleep.
And there is no peace as sexual needs takes over,
actions he will not abide. Morning and he is thankful.
Routines of the day someone has died, funeral service,
and a woman who wants confess her banal sins,
he murmurs prayers, waits for god to answer why he
has lost his faith, but there is only silence.
River of Doom
Sad sight dry river, and twenty years ago it was
three metre deep and had trout. We caught some
with nets and, fried them on a small fire and felt
like cavemen. Delicious fish meat we ate with our
fingers. Every year I have seen the river getting
smaller even in the winter when it rains irregularly,
it is no more than a beck. There is no fish not even
the skeleton of children caught by a wall of water,
when it had been raining upland and into the river.
Their father was arrested it was said he had killed
the children, fed them to the pigs, but for a single
button in the sty they sat him free. Terrible rumors
every summer I see him walking along the dry river,
muttering to himself trying to find his children
Nostalgia
The heat is unusual even the olive grove
looks tired, old trees gasping waiting for
sundown. Yet the evening is still hot and
no breeze soothes tired leaves.
Every august I tell myself that next year
I´ll go to Norway to cool down. But what
I´m going to do there, it will be raining and
I never had an umbrella.
In my old home town I will be walking up
and down streets trying to catch the old
magic, that perhaps wasn´t there in
the first place, there were moments when
on Sunday forenoon, I used to walk to my
aunt´s house, we smoked cigarettes, drank
coffee and ate coco macrons.
On my walks I will only see young faces of
a new generation who has not in common
with me, and it will sadden me to see old
building torn down and replaced with new
shining office edifices ….And I will take
the first plane back to Portugal where my
elderliness is not a handicap.
A Message
Our old captain was pensioned off, he had been
the master on the same ship for ten years and at
sixty five he didn´t know where to go as his whole
life had been the sea. The first officer was taking
over. He had noticed the old man every morning
went on the bridge, opened a locked drawer and
read something from a folded piece of paper.
The first officer having sewed on an extra ring on
his uniform, now had four, was curious opened
the drawer. On the paper was written: starboard
is right and portside is left.
A French Visit
Early they arrived, my relatives, unpacking of suitcases,
kissing, jubilation and breakfast, during which all the latest
family gossip was shared. Then they all went to the beach
leaving the house in utter chaos. When returning we had
prepared a buffet, they had brought their wine, the French
are skeptical to wine not made in their country… how talked
talked. I have a small house had to sleep in my study, got up
at four working, but I liked the silence of people at slumber.
About five there were stirrings, people going to the toilet
and murmur of voices, I went back to bed or on my sofa.
Woke up at ten, they had already breakfasted and ready to
leave, kidded me for sleeping so late. Then an intense late
talking, like everything had to be said and crammed into
a few minutes, good byes lots of kisses and the old house
settled back to its usual quietude.
Unreported Violence in Vilamoura
The couple was nicely suntanned, but the woman had
a black eye, he was very courteous to her tried to hold
her hand, but she didn´t want to and his face reddened
angrily, so she let him hold her hand. Both were nicely
dressed on their way to a restaurant; no doubt when
meeting friends a droll story would be told how she got
that eye; polite laughter. Men would believe the story,
women would exchange glances because in the eyes of
the hapless woman they saw the truth. They would find
out- women talk- when they went to the ladies to
powder their noses. The unlucky one would beg them
not to say a word. “ He loves me, but has a bad temper;
and when I nag him he slaps me, it is really my fault for
not understanding him better. He was so sorry for giving
me a black eye last night that he cried, promised not to
hit me anymore.”
A Christmas Remembered
Day before Christmas it was cold and we walked down
to the harbour to buy a tree and I remember the sea
that slapped against the dock was apple green and foamy.
Mother bought a tree, for next to nothing, since its top
was broken and it looked like a rejected child that waited
for a car to come pick it up and bring it to the orphanage
By putting the tree on top of the dinner table and a star
and a bit of glitter it looked nice in a child’s eye.
Mother was angry we didn’t know way, and went to bed.
We children sat on the floor and ate lukewarm rice pudding
and there was nothing under the tree. Mother got up told
us to dress and we walked to my uncle’s house. At first he
didn’t want to let her in, but when he saw us children he
opened the door. We had plenty to eat although my aunt
had a sour mien. But happy we walked home and thought
we had had a splendid Christmas.
Intimate Relationship
Saw the rusty old tramp-ship on the glittering
blues sea mowing cumbersome eastward.
My god, I knew her, more than many, had spent
two years in her hot interior and long nights
listening to her reassuring heart beats.
When sea was rough she rode the waves like
a swan, shuddered sometimes as to get sea off
her deck. Here she was again, under alien flag,
disappearing slowly as a dream remembered.
Wondered if she was on her way to Caribbean?
She liked it there, warm water good for her hull.
And like me she knew every little port, she could
birth blindfolded. Glad to see her again, yet sad
feel as I betrayed her for leaving; pitiable she, not
anchored in the inlet of peace by now.
Factory Made Food.
A perfect microwave dinner for one
sunrays drink from the wine bottle
The dinner is tasteless,
and the rest of the wine is warm
as a cat licks its paw and has no worry
about the morrow.
Who invented tuna fish with mashed potatoes?
It must be someone without a mother,
or if he had one, she must have been
a busy executive and time poor.
At the orphanage they eat left over of dinners
they never had, forever made into a stew
children do not care; yester-days loaf.
He sits in his mansion, count his money and
think of other variety of frozen food he can
invented preferable something that looks
looks like vomit.
He is a vegetarian and hate mankind for
liking meat…he hates greedy little children too
even his own, serves them burger made of
fat full of sugar and salt.
Knows he will follow them to the grave and
be the longest living man on earth.
A House in Paris
The house on the steep street was grey and
old fashioned with big rooms and tall ceilings,
but as the house was built long ago it didn´t
have an indoor loo, people had to walk into
a courtyard to find it. There used to be an old
stable too, that now has been converted into
a communal bathroom, but since its boiler is
erratic, people mostly do their absolution in
the kitchen. Six well-trod stone steps up to its
entrance an imposing big door that once had
been green. On the outside wall, a bit too high
up, was written: “Edith Piaf was born here.”
Fear of the Ocean
It is quite odd really I was a merchant seaman for
thirty years. When the ship left harbour for open
sea I trembled seeing a darkening sky and an ocean
stretching before me as a menace that would swallow,
me and the ship, and bring us to a place where we
were forever upted anchor and dim time was falling
on a sea that had no compassion or sense of wonder.
“This too shall pass.” a friend of my, in A. A, once said,
he lives by slogans, which helps him through the peril
too much sobriety. And the sea was apple green as
a pile carpet in in Elvis´s living room and my private
fears were assuaged by his music. But every night I saw
coloured bubbles as I sank into the green inferno of
the timeless.
Career Choice
This was long time ago, the third officer kindly let
me steer the ship, all I had to do was to look at
the compass needle and follow it. He went into
the chart room to do some calculations, stayed
there for a long time, perhaps he was no good at
reckonings, but when he returned the ship was
heading back to Amsterdam… a port we had just
left a few hours ago. Navigation wasn´t my game,
so I became a cook instead. I mean making meat
cakes with a soupspoon, how you can go wrong.
The art of cooking, if we can call it that, is quite
simple science, but now a days since no one cook
chefs have been elevated to TV star and we gush
with admiration when they boil potatoes, and
use a spatula when frying eggs.
Lady Beautiful
Fifteen years on, where has time gone?
Since the tragic accident in Paris, and
a usually restraint people, went mushy.
Caught by the glare of fame, she could
not get off, this insecure woman needed
them they called her beautiful and sex,
her narcissistic mind craved assurances.
A sea of flowers and a beautiful song,
her kin walked softly, and look grieved.
Mysterious is time, she could have been
a middle aged mother worrying about her
wayward children, or belong to the flock
called worldwide Jet set; or, heaven forbid,
a pink-gin soaked prematurely aged lady
packed away in a damp castle somewhere
on the Scottish highland.
End of a Vacation
On the night sky I see a plane going north; high up it flies but I see
light on the wings like mystic stars. The carrier full of tourists going
home and I hope they had a good holiday. Tomorrow they have to
get up early and begin work. Are they relaxed or do they hate going
back to routine life? Or do they glad the holiday is over bored by
doing nothing, life at the office is much more interesting? The ritual
of vacation, has become a must a burden to be endured once a year,
and costly too. A couple in the plane and their five years old who can´t
sit still, the husband thinks of fun holidays of yore with his mates,
orders a whisky, his wife tells him he has to drive home when the plane
lands, he has a soft drink. Tomorrow he will be at the office, and he
will talk about the great holiday he and the family had.
The Slog.
The old Indian gentleman has invented water- bike with it
he will cross the channel from France to England, the land
of his dreams. But the immigration authority will stay there
ankle deep in North Sea brine, and ask him for documents,
if he hasn´t got them he has to bike all the way to France
who will tell him he has go back to England as he hasn´t got
a valid visa for France. Years will go by and he will became
famous as a man with no passport. Since he is the silent type
he will carry on till a big tank ship hits him and; dead he will
be known for a week. Everyone will write about it what
shame that no one saw his great achievement and never gave
him a gold medal as the man who crossed the channel by
water-bike four hundred and fifty times.
Unforgiving
We know who you are
Your father was a Nazi and you
Are, his oldest son.
We also know sons grow to be
Like their fathers
We therefore will keep an eye on you
We´ll read what you write and
Listen to your speeches
Ready to attack and put you low
Because we do not trust you
The son of a Nazi.
The Gypsy
I hate you gypsy so do not try to seduce
Me with your romantic violin music or
Your sexy guitar… Ok, so you have not
Exterminated people like the Nazis did
You are thief stole my bike when I was
fourteen, and that is what I remember
best through time.
It is a man´s World
In the beginning it was all naked sex and fidelity
and according to HIM, the serious one, they had
to live in a Paradise of plenty but not eat or be
tempted by delicious fruit.
It started with Adam, who picked up fermented
grapes and hastily ate them; this made him giggly
and he dared Eve to pick an apple, the poor snake
had nothing to with this.
The great HIM was angry not with Adam but with
Eve who was weak and had been let astray by her
man ( I suppose HIM liked a glass of heavenly mist
in the evening after a long day creating things.)
Ever since women have been accused of everything
gonorrhea, syphilis and Aids, blame it on the female.
And for HIM sneaking in late at night and knocking
up Virgin Mary; I intend to say nothing more.
HIM as we now know is a man unwilling to blame
Adam so HE made the snake poisonous and
accused it for humanities fall; and thus everything
is a gigantic plot to keep women down.
Broremann the Boy
The boy was eight years old and pretended to have one leg
shorter than the other, by walking with one foot in the gutter
and the other foot on the pavement. He tried to run that way
but it was difficult lost his balance and fell. A strange boy
often alone dreaming about what to do, he had told his mother
he wanted to be an actor and play many roles and be everything
at once. Either that or to an opera singer be, famous, traveling
around the world. His mother didn´t think much of his plans and
anyway this was his last day in this town tomorrow he was being
sent to farm, that had cows, horses, and sheep. He had no say in
the matter his mother was sick and had to go to a sanatorium
He didn´t mind it so much liked horses and could be a cowboy but
he had to go to school to and the children was sure to mob him for
talking city like. Down at the docks a big ship was birthing she came
all the way from Conakry in Africa. The boy decided to be a sailor,
and walked home to tell his mother.
August
The massive heat which paralyzed any thought of going
outside during the day, the heat was as a huge military
blanket glued to the body like skin of grief, wars fought
for no gain other than the knowledge that new masters
who promised peace and freedom, will renege first thing
when safely in power as sure as August will return.
The September evening is soft and gentle as lover´s sigh
the breeze is cooling wooden telephone poles, it is now
possible to ring without hearing the crackling of agony of
sap dripping dowels. The voices of people eating their
meal on terraces and porches are like forgotten a tune
remembered; this, a moment to be cherished when rain
and fog comes and turns the village into gloom and we´ll
under our umbrellas say:” August wasn´t that awful.”
Short verse
Old man on park bench
Looks like a child
Who has stopped crying.
September, falling leaves
A mist of sorrow
Old man has watery eyes.
Cumulous
On the sun-deck I saw two big clouds a man one
and a female, they met kissed and the man cloud
was transformed into a plucked chicken.
Not that the female cloud fared better for behind
her came huge troll cloud that absorbed her up its
nostrils. In the world of clouds you never see
the same formation twice, in this immaterial ever
changing world; it is as the saying goes: You can´t
cross the same river twice. Now a massive dark cloud
erased the picture, and as I didn´t want a drab cloud
hanging over me, I got up walked into the galley and
had a mug of coffee, while the cook fried pork chops.
The dress Revolution
Sometimes the longing for the past is like a constant
hunger by the underfed. Summers were endless and
I was the first to wear shorts and sandals in town;
had bought them in Aruba, coming off a ship going
home I met my mother and sister, they were shocked
no one dressed frivolous back then. I wore a T. shirt
too on it was written: “I Love New York.”
Mother thought I ought to change into long trouser,
wear a proper shirt, preferable white, and tie, sister
was impressed though. I loved my youth to be different
from the norm. But time was changing fast, five years
on everyone wore shorts and had long hair, Jogging in
the park I was the only one, now you can´t walk for joggers.
I started this revolution, but where is my plaque?
Broremann the angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
The Price of water
The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
Senryu
Emptiness in a glass
A promise not rewarded
Surface dust shimmers
Fragments of another Reality
We, my wife and daughter whose face is always
in a shadow, and me, embarked from the liner in
a coastal town that was strangely subdued and
cars which passed were noiseless; and passers-by
were silent. We hired a limousine and drove to
the outskirt of the town to visit my uncle, a place
with big villas, gardens of apple and pear trees,
it was all gone replaced with avenues and glass
towers. I sensed by daughter was restless and she
also wanted an ice-cream, but no one sold it here,
ice-lollies and chocolate were outlawed as bad for
the health. She cried now, my wife took over driving
I sat in the backseat stroking my only child´s hair.
At the border crossing there was a delay as no one
could see her, but eventually they let us through…
Back home I placed my daughter on the window -sill
she likes to sit there and see the world go by.
Pets
Do we love dogs because we can dominate them?
They do as they are told (after some struggle)
and love us unconditionally because they know it
is their only chance of survival; and after a while
do they really love us as a slave loves his master?
Wolves on the other hand will never give a paw
they refused to be enslaved, want to be free of
human’s interference and we hate and fear what
we cannot dominate or train to do our bidding;
maybe it is wrong to keep pets?
Dogs have been with us since stone age when
being with humans were less stressing than
having to compete with wolves for food?
When the moon is full dogs howl their distress
asking if they have made the right choice?
September Evening
In the afternoon light the wooden telephone post
near the house, is in sharp reliéf to the firmament.
It is slightly crooked like the burden of having twelve
lines attached to it is too much.
I wonder if it has had dry rot treatment.
It is like I see the pole for the first time, if it falls down
or break in half I will be without TV and computer.
The clouds, in the sky look like exquisite silk scarves,
scented and whispering of lost love and promises.
Now planes begin crossing the sky cutting through
the lovely scarves going north and west like white
worms eating the silk with greedy ferocity.
I look at the, pole twilight it´s like an ancient man
who wants to go home but has forgotten where it is.
Untouchables
From the window at the hotel I could see
the back yard as a deep canyon of fear and
bins overflowing of half eaten food.
It was night in the canyon a life, cruel and
vile was taking center stage.
A big Rattus Norvegicus was sticking her
snout out of a disused drain pipe, sniffing
the air it was raining slightly, which was
good it kept cats away, those evil ogres
adopted by humans….As Pets!
She had given birth to six pink and blind
babies, and could not stay away for long,
other rats might find and eat them in this
world that knew no compassion and life
ended in violence.
Quickly, yet alert, she ran to the bins found
food, mostly burgers and fried potatoes.
Back in the lair her babies sought nutrition
and warmth; for a moment, in this world of
total outcasts, there was harmony and bliss.
Broremann’s war
Spring, 1945, German troops in his town were walking about not
carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner.
Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home
there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers,
middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids
chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by
Mormons).
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory,
the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread
with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many
of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no
dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the
local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler
than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent
five war years in his town. They drank together and declared
it had been a peaceful war.
The Apparition
I saw a man kneeling beside the dead body Gadhafi
with a smirk on his face holding thumbs up… eleven
months later he was slain just like the tyrant….
He became an envoy a friend of the wrecked country,
a buddy working to make the country a rational state
the US way; a client state to help oil flow freely to
the west. But he forgot, as many do, the infamy Arabs
has suffered in the hands of the west… even if people
were glad a tyrant was gone they still found the picture
offensive. For they see the inequity of the selective way
the west pushes democracy on the weak.
A ghost looms, a cuckoo in the nest, it will not give up
until it has full power of the defeated and we blindly
follow this cuckoo´s call into the abyss.
False Spring
End of September is a strange interlude
in Algarve´s countryside.
Flowers suddenly bloom and yellow grass
turns green, for a few weeks it looks like
spring before sinking back to winter gloom.
The cork tree, dark and nude its dress has
been turned into bottle stoppers and
and no leaves protect its misery.
Still it is looking inwards pretend not to be
there while waiting for spring, when
my almond three strews pink snow flakes
on the sandy lane and life begins again.
The Unspoken
“End of time itself”
Spoken on the radio by
A dramatic actor.
When time ends the past
Never existed, not even
As a dream
And there will be no one
To record what didn´t
Happened.
Yet we who live cannot
Believe this as a cosmic
Dream that never was
To think all this life
Is not even an illusion
Death is like that.
And it pains me to know
Your name didn´t exist
As my love for you was timeless.
Love by the River.
I carried the old fashion gramophone,
she carried the records to the river.
We sat and I kissed her while listening
to 1959 records.
Let´s have a dip. Naked we swam in
the moonlit river that cleanses disgust.
Her armpits had the aroma of clover
Started gramophone again, music back
then was so trite, lyrics boring and her
body looked enchanting in moonlight.
I threw the bloody music machine into
the river, she did ditto with the records.
We made love in stillness as trout waked
I regretted not having brought a fishing rod.
A Spot of Rain
Noon, suddenly it was dark, sunlight on
whitewashed walls no more.
Switched on ceiling lamp it looked pathetic
blinked like a dying star, changed the bulb.
Rain came, big drops, one followed, the other
in organized fashion and since it hasn´t been
raining since May, nature sighed in delight as
dogs and cats hid in the barn.
So this what winter looks like, the dimming of
the light, no more bike trips in green shorts
pretending to be seventeen behind sunglasses.
But wait, sun is back, lifts an old man´s spirit
The Promenade.
Another day Sunday at the seaside resort luckily there were
no carousels, few kids and those who were there behaved
textbook like, with their grandparents loyally eating ice cream
and drinking soda pops; since they were given everything they
wanted, there were few tantrums.
The latest trend now (for women) is to wear long, lose fitting
flowering dresses and my wife said she still had dresses like that
going back forty years; she will wear one of them tomorrow.
Grand yachts at the marina I counted three “Aston Martins”
wondered if Prince Charles was around. Yet on the promenade
I saw mostly pensioners who had been saving for a year to have
this one vacation. I was the only one who murmured darkly if
the rich had paid their taxes; but what do you expect of a man
who wants to bring back the guillotine.
Time has mellowed me the weather was summery I wore blazer
and looked posh (that´s what she said) and I did my best to keep
my stomach in. This is an enchanting time we tried not to think
of tomorrows as we sat on a bench eating ice-cream yogurt
…it has less sugar.
Love Unrequested
The lady across the road had beautiful grey hair, thick and
glossy, I admired her mane because she was eighty five.
Her hubby about her same aged died, I attended the funeral,
open casket, in death he looked handsome, old man asleep.
When people get old some do not realize how old they are,
and the old lady, since I had admired her lovely hair, thought
we could be a couple; only I was fifty two at the time and not
overly interested. The lady took offence felt humiliated since
she already had told the villagers I loved her.
A day when I was doing a bit of weeding around the house
she came out; called me a womanizer hit me with her umbrella.
Well I´m not heroic, fled into the house and bolted the door;
and the villagers were greatly amused. She moved to a rest
home and I could go out without being assaulted. I read in
the paper she had just died at hundred and five, but I will not
attend her funeral….I think.
Time for Clearance
I was in Norway once, the paradise of social democracy,
I saw many beggars, mostly Roma people who
the inhabitant wanted to get rid of or send them out of
town in the woods where they were not seen. If you are
beggar you got to beg where the people are, foxes and
sheep and have nothing to give. There is a strong sense
of nationalism in Norway. The police did not hesitate to
round up Jews and send them to death camps, and when
the war was over most of the police officers continued in
their work upholding the law. Norway as a nation has never
looked at itself and taking tally of the nation´s behavior
during war years, instead it is lauding the few who resisted
the Nazi occupation and made them into icons. They shot
Quisling but it didn´t stop what made a quisling possible.
Still has not done so. Oil made Norway rich, yet there
is poverty amongst the low paid and incomers for whom
there is little charity. The dark side of Scandinavia- violence,-
hate against people who are different from them… those
who do not fit into the nice, but untrue picture the country
has of itself.
The River
The river that crosses the high plain like
an artery has only muddy water since it
didn´t rain in the summer.
Wild horses and donkeys come here to
drink, but often they look up and scan
the horizon weary of man and his dogs.
They served mankind for thousands of
years but with modern farming methods
they are no longer needed and have gone
feral. Free now, but freedom comes at
a prize, winter can be hard and often they
are hunted by sportsmen who kill for fun.
By the mountain there is a corral but only
the stupid and sick go there, the rest know
they are fattened up and used as sausage
meat, which the town uphill is famous for.
Every Octobers there is a gigantic party in
the hill town, beer is senselessly drunk and
tons of sausages eaten, the river, that crosses
the plain, becomes a putrid pool of human
waste till winter rain falls and clears it away.
A war´s Aftermath.
After the war flats was hard to get, but when mother´s
uncle Adolf hung himself in the kitchen that had cement
floor and sun stayed away as to tell us something about
the nature of hate. Mother´s uncle believed in new order
and they had given him a uniform which he used when
going to the park to feed the ducks. He had once been
an officer In the merchant navy and missed no being in
charge… the kitchen only had cold water and a hole for
water to disappear into, we also used it to crap in since
we had no loo. Mother put a slab on the hole when not
using it or rats would come eating our food. At night when
I had to pee there was a pot under the bed because I did
not dare to go into the kitchen, because I once had seen
him hanging there. Adolf, not a big man, once I tried his
uniform on, it was big and on his cap there was a skull.
I walked out in the street to show the other kids, they
were impressed. Mother, very angry burned his uniform,
but amongst the ashes I found the cap´s silver skull.
Dream On!
Clouds hang low today covering the ridge,
if I drive up there on my bike I can hide in
a steel blue cloud and people will say:
where is he? Him! He is trying to find
the milky way where postmen wear red
uniforms and say good morning sir before
handing you the gas bill.
Sigh, here back on earth the post has been
privatized low status, casual work, they
wear jeans and anorak and have no time for
a chat, their route is long and a man with
a timepiece follows them around.
When coming down from the ridge I will not
carry tablets, stay silent drive home and
make a cup of coffee.
The Beginning
There is at the top of the easterly ridge a halo
the nearest I will ever come to godliness.
Than the light spreads coming down the vale
as a freedom of dark thoughts.
The night had been ominous and starless,
in grip of melancholy and longing to know.
Then the sun still pale rose above the ridge
warmed my face, another beautiful day.
Even then I saw and knew threating clouds
from the North tried to spoil it all.
I had seen the sunrise, the god of the Maya;
Allah has many names, but there is only one.
Anniversary
Birthdays when you are old reminds you of the grave,
you see it a freshly dug hole waiting just for you.
People bring you wine, what else do an old man needs?
Guests getting high on wine they brought you and it is all
jolly. I try to join in. wife has made an effort candlelight
and so on guests are people I never see unless meeting
them at a pretentious art exhibition; and I think of my
childhood when birthdays were important, I tell stories
of a past of poverty and need; wife disrupts saying
I should forget about the past, how can I it shaped me
for what I´m today? Cakes I think of are those I never had
in my infancy; cakes I baked, with condensed milk, when
the captain had his birthday -if he was an ass hole I spat in
the dough-, on ships made into nails somewhere in hot
Bangladesh. How tired I´m lost in the past. Guests leave
the old man´s party, but my wife is not stunned when calm
falls I have to collect the dirty glasses and do the dishes.
The Life of Sex.
We do live in a sex obsessed world, if we see
two men in an animated discussion we assume
they must be gays, or if women, lesbians.
In the old days when two men shared a hotel
room they were sharing the cost.
How would you like to wake up one morning
and be the world riches man and eighty five
wearing shorts married to a woman forty years
younger than you with big knockers and slim
body… but you would still be 85?
Or wake up, sleeping in a cardboard box in
a supermarket´s doorway, and are told to piss
off, guards speak like that, and be only twenty?
It is all about sex and how much it costs, when
you need it the most it is not available; when
you are old and can pay for it, you can´t do it.
The world speaks about sex and sex, but forgets
the most important thing in life is called love.
The posh Tart.
She, an old fashioned girl, when walking past me
dropped her handkerchief, gallantly I picked it up.
and hand it to her, it was scented and had enticing
aroma of womanhood. Said her price and my face
fell into the street where it was dragged along by
a cleaning car. She didn´t look that way- short skirt
beret and red handbag-. Said she only picked up
gentlemen, I was going home from a literary party
consisting of pork pie, hot air and warm red wine.
I walked into a bar, had a double whisky thought
about what she had said… calling me a gentleman.
From the inside of the bar I saw her drop her silk
hankie again, like bait, this time she caught a fish
and off they went to make posh love, I marveled
over my everlasting naivety and wondered if she
called him a gentleman too.
The Hunter.
The man who crosses the field carries his shotgun
tucked into his left arm. In his belt five rabbits hang.
This is not a hobby hunter in camouflage outfit,
but a mall time farmer who uses the wildlife to
augment his meager income… his dog that has been
walking at heel runs in front of him, barks, and up
from the tall, dry grass a rabbit springs a shot and
now he has six rabbits hanging from his belt….
He will sell his catch later at a hotel or restaurant.
The man who crossed field, his face is naturally dark,
by years spent outdoors, walks into a landscape of
trees and bushes and disappears from view.
The Naked and the dead.
Naked I walk through the town but no one sees me
no more than they see a shadow on a sun drenched
wall… and I awoke my son´s name, he who was
aborted twenty years ago. My son I have given you
a grand education, all my money has gone to make
you middle class and respected in this town…speak
now and stop your silence I need your support and
do not be ashamed of your father who swam from
the sea penniless but begat you my wonderful child
unborn, cause your mother wanted to be attractive
forever. you are what I never became a man of class.
Do not leave me know, do not be ashamed of your
sailor father who had nothing to give but his love for
an unborn child. Night is so long I wait by the phone,
just one call to tell me you have been successful and
that you love me.
Extraterrestrials?
The man, in my infancy, who said there were people
on the moon, was laughed at; he was wrong, but not
wrong in thinking there was other life forms on remote
planets. Years ago a big plane got vanished and landed
on the back of the moon where temperature is an even
22 Celsius and there were an abundance of green fruit
that looked like, bananas and nutty tasting blue grass.
Adults missing meat ate each other till there was only
one left, the pilot, and dejected jumped off the moon.
The youthful passengers and children got used to their
surroundings and could cook bananas in fifty variations.
They built caves and decorated them with chairs from
the plane and as beds they used dried banana leaves….
And as time went by the earth became a myth an idea
of paradise lost. This generation of moon dwellers wore
no clothes, what´s point? Only women, on certain dates,
wore dried green skirts. So the man who believed there
was life on the moon may be right after all.
The Galaxy
On the terrace in the sun I closed my eyes
and saw coloured light dancing under my
eyelids like a galaxy that only existed inside
of me… or is the real galaxy an illusion.
Scientists watch stars in their great telescopes
but only see what is in their heads…
And we agree because we too only see what
is in our own mind. Ruby stars and pink moons
and the dream of immortality that our souls
fly to a mysterious planet like our own where
death has been vanquished.
The classless society
It is now official the working class is dead
we are all middle class except for those
who clean the office floors, make products
and make cheap clothes, they have no right
nor a future, we accept that as we need
this minority of current slaves to keep up
our illusion we are a modern nation.
This minority -luckily for us –does not see
their power if no one produced anything or
cleaned streets and offices, we would drown
in filth and overflowing sewers; we would
pay a them handsomely and respect those who
keep our cities livable.
Eternal Love.
All those years ago it must be fifty gone
I still hear your sweet voice.
Back then I didn´t know… how much
I loved you… if you hear my heart beat now
I´m so far away…will you remember me?
And if you do will you smile a secret smile
and move your lips so I can see your
hidden tongue of love fulfilled?
Lives’ beautiful harmony is given to me
because I will always love you.
In my mind I hear you whispering of love
and the promises we gave each other.
Now at midnight time I´m dying for
your smile…please darling… remember me.