The Stones of
Castello Branco
Eons of
time ago before puny humanity crawled ashore,
from the cooling sea, and settled in trees,
giant trolls roamed with enormous strides around the
continent—
there was only one landmass then.
Their domestic animals were dinosaurs,
which they grilled whole. They were also fond of
fishing whales,
its meat they ate every Friday noon for a reason
long forgotten.
The trolls lived in a peacefulness
that was in a way too big for the world.
What can one say of people who use oak trees as
toothpicks?
There was a colossal lightning...
it turned the world blue for several minutes,
(still is, if seen from afar)
and the trolls had turned into mountains and jagged
rocks.
The round boulders you see dotted about the
landscape
of Castello Branco, were their children.
Perhaps that is why the people,
of Lusitania, are kinder to children than people
anywhere
else
in the world, with the possible exception
of Eskimos and north American Indians.
The Captain
When I
walked through the big liner in my splendid uniform
and many medals, everyone treated me with great
respect.
I’m a staff captain, a ceremonial title given to me
because
I have served my masters faithfully for sixty five
years.
The ship docked in my hometown,
but there was no one there to greet me.
I walked down the gangway, dark night--
snow on the ground and my feet were cold.
Too late, those I had wanted to impress had long
since gone.
Turned to walk up the gangway again,
but the ship had left without me.
Watched as harbour light was extinguished by dawn.
My opera uniform was rented from a shop,
my medals were bottle tops,
epaulettes made of cheap wine, labels.
Soon there would people about and I had nowhere to
hide.
A song in the Shadow
Listen to the stillness and hear how the spring
breeze whispers among green leaved trees.
Look up and see the mossy branches
of an old tree hanging over me,
threatening to hammer me into the ground.
looked down and saw my shadow.
Camera clicked. Got you!
Now it can’t run away as it tries to do when I
feel unwell.
Listen to the stillness and see how harmonious
green leaves move in the gentle breeze.
Among the bushes, a shadow, camera clicked.
No, I didn’t catch the shadow of the Tasmanian
Tiger,
the last one died the day I was born;
and all that’s left is a black & white photo.
We’ll meet again,
and it doesn’t have to be some sunny day
A Monument to Farm
Animals?
Amongst
the weed, stones are bleached white by the sun.
Mind, they are not really stones but fossilized
bones
of animals we have eaten through the times.
Goats, sheep, pigs, cattle and the odd dog.
If I collect the bones I will be able to build a
tall pyramid
that will look necromantic at night.
In my home town there was only one neon light
on top of a building--it read: “Jesus Saves.”
One summer night I shouted through the open window:
Saves what?”
I heard a whisper: “Souls.” It was followed by
laughter,
my brother and his girlfriend, in the street below
looking up having great fun.
I could have, on top of my great pyramid,
a neon sign that reads.“ Animal Saves.”
“Saves what?”
I could have said hunger.
But I don’t want vegans at my door offering me soy
burgers.
Carnivores we are, just like lions and tigers,
but since we are human we must treat,
the animals we eat gently and painlessly—
kill them before supper time.
Storm-Birds
I saw them one
morning a sea-gull couple—
white and grey. They were walking around the village
like a pair of tourists. They only took flight
when dogs or people came near.
They spent nights on my roof,
sparrows kept well away.
A storm blew up salt spray from the bitter sea
and reached up to the village.
When the storm abated the olive trees were white,
and the ground glinted of salt crystals.
I braved the cold—went
out looking for the seabirds,
but they had flown away, further inland
I think, to avoid the memory of the sea.
Where the Westerly
Wind Blows
What I
remember of the flat landscape was the immense sky,
I could see the next farm miles away, smoke arising
from its chimney.
The wind blew from the sea and I could taste bitter
tears
on the window panes.
In the hollow, a lake, gone in spring, but in winter
it is an ice rink and I was going to win the world
record in skating. Round and around I skated until I
had an epiphany—
I was back In the city slums and
poverty.
I lost the link between dream and reality, my father
wasn’t a drunk;
so I skated on in a dance of denial. Tired I have
won the race
against my horrors. Victorious I sat on cooling
snow,
one day I’ll be a captain and master the westerly
wind.
A voice reaches me, five o’clock and milking time.
But the voice I hear has a dreaming quality,
perhaps I’m a child, thrown into a world of a
callous god
where church bells toll of sex abuse,
shame, deaths and utter damnations.
April & Easter
Easter
and April go together especially on a sunny day.
The story of Jesus’ death and resurrection is such a
wonderful story
and fits well where I walk amongst olive and almond
trees.
I enjoy the part when they found the grotto bare,
only his shroud is there—it
ought to have blood stains—
his body had not yet been cleaned and
perfumed.
James, Jesus’ brother who was going to take over the
carpentry,
had warned his older brother not to go too far with
the elders,
not go around saying he was god’s son
when everybody knew his father Joseph was a
carpenter.
Adultery was a stoning offence in those days,
and also, it made Maria blush with embarrassment;
but she loved Jesus.
The first born followed him around and saw to it
that he had a bath and a clean burnoose.
Where I grew up the sky was vast in April
and once I saw a man, in a white suit, disappearing
as he walked along a long, empty road.
My father had once been a seafarer
and had bought a white suit in Panama,
but why was he walking away from me?
I cycled along the road to catch up with the man in
white.
Was it my father or Jesus I had hoped to see?
The sun hangs low—now
it is getting colder
and the shadow of the carob tree, where I often sit
unseen and dream, is loosening its spell on me.
Love Thy Neighbours?
He is so angry...the
non believer—god
doesn’t exist,
and he can prove it with reason alone;
poor man, he sees not that religion has to do with
faith not logic.
He is so full of rage, the believer. God does exist
god has spoken to him in his prayers;
poor man he doesn’t see that faith cannot be brought
by blood dripping swords.
Once upon a time I believed in Father Christmas,
it was an exciting time,
till the day I saw “the father” was Uncle Fred
smelling of booze,
losing his mask when falling into the tree.
My loss of religious faith was mundane
I grew up and did other things.
But I do dream of a better world of tolerance.
We need not love each other, holding hands
and singing sentimental song in tri-colour.
In Europe the Christian god is heading for the exit,
the show is over. But hold on there
don’t get too liberal and understanding, when other
faiths,
more demanding, do demand, that your, liberal way is
sin.
And we are caught in a spiral of religious bigotry
again
by a religion where god has got another name.
We, who only believe in dreams, must be careful
and preach tolerance that is based on the firmness
of true democracy;
love is a bonus but not a pre requisite.
You see, the believers and the non believers have
this in common:
They demand that you believe in them.
Palm Sunday (Easter Sunday)
End of
time splashes through yellow plastic tubes to meet
eternity
that ends in a sand box. Shriek! Let us do it again.
And we awoke
as bible words and slogans rained from an amused
sky.
I saw the four horse men on mules, ride slowly
through an abject cityscape to where air was clear
and there was grass for the animals.
The weather is always good when not punctuated
by TV weather forecast entertainment.
We have fortressed our home to avoid receiving
or hearing other voices. But strange men in black,
came and showed me a house in the lane, where
Barbara Streisand lived in a tent at the back, and
did her exercises
at seven o’clock sharp, every day.
Twenty eight people circled my house, two of them
came
and said they were termite inspectors,
but they were more interested in the kennel
where my poodle Hamas lived.
Next day the twenty eight had disappeared and my dog
lay dead
on the steps of the shed I use when sending secret
messages
to people who believe in everything just to be on
the safe side.
Barbara Streisand joined us, dressed in a Salvation
Army uniform,
urged me to buy the house, she promised me a new
dog,
I declined, and jumped on a passing bus.
The driver wore a laundry starched, burnoose
and past us flew twinkling, vibrant bushes--
green tutus looking for Margot Fonteyn.
It was Palm Sunday and not a good day to talk about
defensive Jihad.
A Free Verse Poem Celebrating Mother's
Day May 9, 2010:
To
Mothers Everywhere
