The Golden Pond
On the pond of good memories
a duckling swam, undulated like
an unwanted thought of demise,
on a spring wedding in Brussels.
Flat stones skipped on the pond,
in the night it surfaced, quacked,
refused to be spit out like a half
chewed toothpick and forgotten.
Expelled the duck, sent it aboard
a ship that sails for the Saragossa
Sea, to a shadowy, barren island
where the monster Amnesia lives
But I warn you keep away from
there if the ogre gets hold of you
it will not only eat the unwanted,
But all you ever knew and loved.
Pink and blue billows, on the poetic sky,
dripping of eager words. Alas, towards dawn
a westerly wind blew, cleared the sky and in
the morning it was as blank as a screen, that
lit up when the sun came through the skylight.
But the sun passes, as it must, and the screen
grays while, in vain, it waits to be written on.
To be dreamless is a curse, slow death, listless
looking at sky and finding only blandness, but
also words by other poets that I cannot steal.
If I sigh and say: “wish I had written this” and
my friend says: “you will Oscar, you will,” then
I will not fret, and cry in my absinth- laugh, say:
“You’re a droll fellow,” go on dreaming and wait
for a versifier cumulous on the morning sky
If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?
On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.
An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.
I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
is dear in Sweden; mind, I never visited him again.
I had invited friends to a café where the desert begins
and you can see the blinking lights of Spain at night.
The food took long time coming, but there was wine
served in pitchers, didn’t think the wine was any good
so I went to the main bar to get bottled wine; they had
none. But I got two one litre jugs of cold wine, (cheap
wine should always be served iced it is tasteless then.)
When I came back my friends had eaten, nothing left
for me, they where in an vivacious mood drank my
chilled wine sang, laughed and talking loudly.
I walked to the kitchen, a big tent in the back, asked
for food, but they only had meatballs left, I don’t like
meatballs. My friend had now gone into the wasteland
walking to Spain, it was dawn before they came back,
they had had a great time. I was now so hungry that
I went back to the tent and asked for the meatballs, but
they had given them to abandoned dogs that live around
here. Drove my friends to the bus stop it was just about
to leave and it struck me that they had not spoken to me
once, which made me think I had entertained strangers.
The mask near the window in the museum, of ancient
mostly stolen art, was asleep in the dark of the night,
its new director, an efficient man, doesn’t like waste
of energy. The mask shouldn’t be so near daylight as
it hurts its old eyes and, also, the mask had seen it all.
Tribal wars to mass hangings as seen from a camp SS
commandant’s window; the officer had worshipped it
as evil, a mask that had been carved by an artisan and
thus given soul. Himmel! An allied soldier had taken
the mask as a trophy, in the following years it was sold,
bought and stolen again till ended it up in a museum.
Yes, the mask should be left alone in a corner away
from prying eyes. It had seen enough. Also, gentle light
was good for the mask’s perennial complexion.
…As the Doctor Ordered.
I used to drink burgundy wine
every evening when watching
the TV, till, is my doctor
said a glass or two of wine was
good for my health.
After that wine tasted like
a tincture that is good for me.
I drink whisky now, but I ain’t
telling my doctor, can’t have him
say it is good my complexion
Clara’s Christmas :a sentimental verse
(I met Clara when she was 70 and I was 11 we became great ‘chuckle chums’. She had gone into service before WW1 and had many tales to tell.
The poem is about a Christmas visit when she sat happily smiling and I guess dreaming and could not hear us knocking at her door. )
As we looked in through the window at her silent night room
We saw no sign of sorrow or gloom:
Clara chuckling, dreams of happy play,
Cheered by the warm sights of her Christmas Day:
Singing for Uncle Sam, her young voice was a treat
Dancing like joy for her Aunts on tireless feet
Cuddling her Daddy and when she begins to tire
Saying prayers with her sisters and having a last warm at the fire.
Laughing again years later that the night of waiting was away
Helping her nieces unwrap their fun for their Christmas Day
Saying she’d never seen such a pretty doll in her life
Smiling no she’d never wanted to be a wife.
Gasping in their delight at the lights on the tree
Tracy crying because of a cut knee.
The favourite Aunt, they’d never leave but always love
Alone in her room, sat gentle and quiet as a dove.
The often-brought out Christmas cards standing on the shelf;
So much love waiting in one whom never thought of herself.
We knocked and knocked.
She never heard.
Soon she had died,
With so much life and love locked inside.
Decide whom you can visit for the sake of Christmas Day.
Knock louder than we did and don’t go away.
One day you may be old tired and cold.
One looking through your window,
Will see you with something warmer
Than old memories to hold.
Democracy (song contest)
Having suffered watching euro-vision song
contest I do not longer believe in democracy.
Russia won and that’s ok, they had skaters
and acrobats, so what has that to do with
a song? Don’t ask me, her nearest neighbours
liked it; as the Danes liked the Norwegian’s
tune, who in turn voted for the Swedish song
I sit here and can’t remember the wining song
nor can anyone else. Glad Russia won though,
they believe in managed democracy, as I do,
because the stupidity of people makes it clear
they are not yet fit for running anything more
important that a song contest, and giving first
prize to a sweet heifer at an agricultural show.
Memory, thinking of you still hurt, you stayed with me,
said you loved me, while waiting for Him to be free;
when he was, you left me, coldly ignoring my feelings.
Love conquers all; but it is also lies, hate and treachery.
Love starts wars, so when I killed him your scream of
Utter hopelessness reverberated, tore large chunks of sky
Into mist and woke god from his slumber. Too late now
For me to understand that your love for him was timeless.
I’m the lone tree you see on top of a hill, you
can’t avoid seeing me when you are scanning
the horizon. Yet many claim not to have seen me,
like I should be an anonymous tree in the forest;
I have no defense against the cold wind of change,
but my trunk is solid my leaves still green, a hawk
has its nest in my crown and in a hollow in my
trunk a red fox smile to no one in particular.
I have time wait for the wind to blows itself into
a zephyr that whispers soft words of appreciation,
preferable on a day when the air is so clear that
you can see forever and fly should you wish to.
The Lone Walk
I had been walking for hours in the bush landscape
around where I live, teeming wildlife this year I even
caught the sight of a boar, she had had her brood with
her good, she didn’t see me. Tired I sat on a boulder
and lifted my feet off the ground, this was great, but
only for a while a stone was hard and my back began
to ache, so I got up and began walking towards home.
My wife had gone away for a few days but now my
aloneness was beginning to hurt; mind the first night
was great, bed all for myself, slept well and got up late
and ate what wasn’t good for me. It was darkening,
soon it will rain, May has been very wet this year, and
it began just as I reached the front door, only I had no
key; must have lost it when I sat on that stone.
Nirvana and all that.
Since I don’t believe in heaven or the place stokers
go too- called hell- include me in your dreams when
I go, so I can dwell in your memories, till you too join
the non returnable. And since we both are tired of being
reborn, remember the time on the African savannah
when I was the proud lion king and you an elegant
lioness I used called “baby,” or was it the other way
around? I can’t quite remember. We’re warthogs once,
but let’s not dwell on that it made you so sad not being
able to have bath; we can then fly to Nirvana and find
everlasting peace in blessed oblivion. Failing that we
can always go to Iceland, it is said to be the most
peaceful place on earth; but I can’t help wondering if,
this treeless island is not too dreary for us?