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.