In the street energy is released
hanging in the air the fog moves so slow
It can take the air away
bearing the real names
the only one proven
by real science
only in the city
can they make such claims
the focus of your eye her
hair fake blond and solid
turning the corner
you can see she believes
in her movement and time
only in the city you find
pieces of glass so flat
and final
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
The Odium
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collection was, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
Camera Angle
We have
been
to Rome,
look here’s
a photo of
St. Petersburg’s
square.
Isn’t that’s
in Russia?
Is it?
Sorry,
we have
travelled
all over
Europe
been so
busy taking
pictures,
never had
time
to see
a thing.
it is here one again
the even and the odd
the square and the cube
offset by a hand
and disguised as a shoe
the wheels turn and grind
and they catch you again
making memories noting
the passage of time
in small dollops of
tears coursing down cheeks
the grandmother who holds her breath
under the dancing waters of the river
overhead the screaming in her eyes
as she looks up past you
she seeks your inspection
but you can not see her
from where you were
it is the passing of
the ripples that you see
the surfaces of things
as they creep up and
before you know it
it ends
May 7th
shadows and echoes silhouetted amid weeds
on well-dressed windows, hindering, the view
of stripped auditors with CEOs, in the introverted night-light,
the fading moths in the shadows, a satiated cat, in the meadows,
the factory, a raven lacking in wings, eager to take off ,
wind bouncing off unhinged tin sheets shrieking a howl of grouses
in a stunning spasm akin to a fake frisson, the inexplicable insides
murmuring an old contraption’s stutter;
crunched credits lay side by side
with unwashed linen in a bunch,
among bank badges,
‘wrenching’- hooks, ‘black holed’ sledge hammers, mindless and tainted
among pledged stocks ; salt-rubbed , branded goodies, abandoned,
oiled, greased and tattered skirts, under the table,
skeletons of a skirted albatrosses in the neck,
culpable fallow rubbers, inflatable, making a child’s innocence afloat,
lingering, lacy longings unvoiced among the umpteen pads of invoices.
the silent phone with saturated giggles,
the corroded columns, like so many phalluses,
incomplete, pending stimulus.
A Painter and the Pandemic
An old lady in our village died last night… flu,
but since it was not the swine variety no one took
notice, the world press will not come here, we’ll
not see our houses on the TV. There are many
disappointments, Amazon floods, many dead, alas,
not from The Flu, survivors can sit on mud banks
without face masks, and wait for all we care.
Gauguin cut Van Gogh’s ear off, at a whore house,
then he went off to Hawaii painted native girls with
big bosoms and flowers behind well formed ears.
Now we know why. A pity none of the women who
worked there, didn’t write down their memoirs, so
a relative could proudly announce that my great, great,
great grandmother knew them both.
The Suitor
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five, milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
The umpteen icons stayed secreted in the rocks, like so many fetuses united in consciousness. The sky endured blues in the earthen pots. The night whispered in the shade, as a horse’s neigh muffled the feigns of the galloping desire’s reign. The breathless ether tried to break the facades. The rocks became shores when destroyed to pull out idols to be tamed to eternal shackles; to lead a relic’s life. The sky was masked by blue and the sea obscured by waves. Pretentious clouds performed like quacks hastily disappearing to shelter. A chameleon’s rebirth as star was an apparent redundancy in the northeastern firmament; though the ever changing hues freed me from the clutches of many a symbol’s fetters. The dissonance of noises hushed the truth of silence. Then, ice was ultimately broken to make salt dolls to be bathed in infinite oceans. The sheaths, peeled off and heaped in, now became trees for men to perch on as birds.
Senryu
As the night thickens
And darkness tranquilises life
Dawn is welcomed.
Senryu
Banality of greed
To shop for the sake of buying
Not for what you need
Senryu
Fear not the dead
They are only a copy
Of your future self
Senryu
Those who work long hours
Feel holly and virtuous
But get arthritis
Senryu
Give me a free beer
You fiddler of drink optics
Petty is your greed
Old Lovers
If I tell you I love you I do so of self interest
but being with you is better than being alone
so I tell you lies every day and I see your
smile, which warms my heart and I think how
lucky I’m to have found you.
I know very well that had I told you the prosaic
truth you would have been so disappointed
and I hate to see you cry, because you’re
the only one I have met who do not tell me how
to behave and I adore you for that.
I know you like to go dancing dressing up and
those things, and I go with to art places and
pretend to like what I see, but I’m watching
you because you look so lovely when talking
and I know how lucky I’m that you love me
The Vanishing Future
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.