The Trust
When the azure far mountain smokes Turkish
blend that is a whisper in the air as a stream
meanders amongst clover, leafy trees and
pretty flowers. And the sea is liquid mirror that
reflects the blue sky and wooly lambs graze on
a heavenly canvas. That’s when we love nature
and give thanks to an absent god.
When the sea rages, sinks ship and lashes shore
tsunami waves, and Thor wields his hammer and
sends embers fly through the night, streams burst
banks and drown flowers, and the mountain blasts
darkens the sky and the earth trembles. We start
over again build a cathedral to honour the absent
one; blaming god is a waste of time.
The Time of Dreams.
Harbour light a welcomed sight, weeks
of ennui, when days reluctantly drag
themselves from dawn to dusk; a day
in the middle of the Pacific is twice as
long as a day in Brussels, where bustle
makes the clock tick faster
Zombies on tank a rusty tanker’s deck
gripped by a melancholic loneliness
they cannot shake off even long after
leaving the sea. Lost souls doomed to
pace the long shores of life and dream
the impossible
The Precious
Diamonds on her manicured,
Elegant fingers have the look
Of petrified pain,
The price one has to pay
For a flawless beauty that last
long after agony is forgotten.
Gem stones on my mind are
Remembered, but their sheen
Have gone,
Frozen capsules of what
Was once a longing to love,
That now has lost its passion
Only a onyx of reflective
Melancholy glimmers in
Shadowland
Denial.
Morning dread, something said
Last night that should have been
Unsaid, the smell of lonely sex
And an empty bottle under the bed
Sunlight tries to break in through
Tears in tobacco yellow curtains,
Expose dust on dead plants and
Spot of rot on night’s red roses
My conscience troubles me, it’s
The only thing of moral left, if
I wake up without guilt one day
Will I be free to run away?
Morning in Dreamland
My street is a tunnel of
Whispering night that
Sighs-dies as dawn
Sneaks in from the east
My garden’s miasma
Gracefully arises and
Disperses, tears on
Blades of green grass.
The sun gleam reaches
Over a wall, dry morning
Sorrow as a joyous child
Awakes and laugh.
A Dog’s Night.
From a square light on a dark
Tenement building words fell
Hit the street, rolled on dust
Like morning phlegm.
A dog sniffed broken syllables
Licked a few individual letters,
Spat, the heat of lingering anger
Was not to its liking
Looked up, waited for morsels
Of human wisdom to rain,
To fill its starving mind…this
Long violent night.
A Spare Moment
Inside the green-house
I laid out wizened roses
Heat and the smell of
Dead nature made clear
Not to waste tears on
Infertility, as the beauty
Of dust sparkle in shafts
Of light and dance.
Epitaph.
None existence
Is the aftermath
Of death,
Who fears?
The long sleep
When there is
No night.
To be
Never born
Is bliss.
Fear not my
Brother
No evil shall
Touch you.
Life was but
A brief
Interlude on
Your way to
Nirvana
The Pauper
The lame gypsy who begs at the traffic-light
hasn’t got a fucking chance a man so tested
by life’s vagary that even a slum priests look
another way and think of Sunday sermons
and afternoon tea in the garden of the rich
who donate money to his charity. I sense that
behind his inane smile, there is a green of
mockery and deep in his stupid, amber eyes
a burning hate flicker I think he is an angel
who made fun of god, expelled from heaven
dumped on earth and cruelly stigmatized.