Free
Verse
Sunday
at the Marina
Water in the marina,
clear as diesel
fish swimming close to the surface
in peace with the seagulls,
which know they stink of human
waste.
This is not the fish that
will feed the five thousand.
A child strews bread crumbs into the water,
ignored by the fishes.
Seagulls’ shrieks and fall from the sky.
A man drops a glass of gin & tonic, on
the deck of the yacht,
claws at his chest.
Ambulance and a nervous doctor
tells him not to smoke cigars—
too late.
Young widow,
I hope she sells the bloody yacht.
The Sea
of Discontent
Grey painted tank-ship—stripes
of rust like excrement.
From the hot Persian Gulf (sand and storage tanks)
carrying oil to some stinking refinery a hundred miles
away from the nearest city, getting provisions onboard—
and
time is money. How pale I was, indoor life and nights
spent reading, dreaming of the day I could go home on
leave—see
a tree, grass, flowers and pat a dog’s head...
Yes, even snow was welcomed. So why did I do it?
The pay was good and for us recourse-less a way to get
an education, climb up the ladder out of the slum and
lice;
buy a house. And just as I began to see the shifting
hues
of the oceans came the fall, unsuited for life at sea,
they
said.... A sea legged fledgling had to learn to fly
again.
The
Last Dance
They had been dancing
to the tunes of a juke box—
now it was dawn and they were alone except
for the barman who was asleep leaning his head
in his folded arms on the mahogany counter.
Soon the sun would break through followed
by the day and they had to face the dreaded future.
Both were married but to each other—was
their
love strong enough to survive the glare of the day?
They didn’t know the answer, just one more dance.
Hell will come tomorrow with its heart ache and
loss,
but not yet. My god, let this moment last forever.
The
Vale of Peace
It is
overcast in the valley with rounded hills—luckily
there
is no coal here—no
slag heaps disfigure the quit scenery;
this is quieter now than before—people
only drive when
they must in this time of austerity and high gasoline
prices.
The wind is acerbic and in no mood to be nice, although
it blows from the south, which often gives a lovely
aroma
of milkmaids' breaths and contented, cream drinking cats
and engaging, giggly love amongst hay stacks.
The shepherd and his flock cross the road—he
has a dark
outdoor face, craggy as a volcanic mountain and it
carries
a melancholic mien of one who spends much time alone;
his sheep look like terracotta figures in fading light.
Wooly-backs are not known for being conversationalists;
except for bleating now and then, they eat. I sit also—
this
is not a day for walks, better to light the fire—
to
be contemplative and gently subdued on this overcast
day.
Saved
by a Mouse
The old man
had always been particular about hygiene
and the way he looked. He fell asleep on his sofa
and while he slept, peed on himself. He changed—
had a
shower and hoped it was just an accident;
it happened again—this
time it was even worse;
he had defecated in his trousers. He showered—
put a
suit on—shaved
and then combed his fading hair—
he anchored a hook in the kitchen ceiling beam,
climbed up a ladder and jumped. But before he did so
he made a sandwich of fresh bread with cheese—
it
tasted lovely. Even in death indignity—his
bladder let go
and his life dripped on the floor. As he hung twisting
in the breeze
from the window, a mouse came out of a hole, climbed up
on the kitchen counter and began nibbling on the
camembert
he had left behind. This made him angry—he
got a foothold
on the ladder again and removed the noose, killed the
mouse
and ate the rest of the cheese.
Knickers and a Moralist
It is
not true—the
rumour that I once was Peter Pan.
I never liked children not even when I was a child.
Those snotty little beings whose sport is peeing up
against a wall and taking delight in farting
stridently.
I never enjoyed their laughing when knickers were
mentioned—knickers
are nothing more than nappies
for adults, and what is sexy about that?
The
Rainbow Man
There was a
man, who built a massive kaleidoscope;
I think he was a borderline communist looking for
equality amongst colours…and he walked in to it.
He was so enthralled by his finding, that yes, indeed
all are different but very equal—even
white and black
had an important place in the scale of shades.
He didn’t come out to eat—thought
he could eat hues instead,
which according to him, in his colour induced delirium,
tasted like marmalade on a fresh loaf;
so he was left in his heaven and forgotten.
Years later when he was found, they discovered
a pink skeleton wrapped in non conformity.
The
Schooner
On the flatland between
the vales I could see the sea; I had been
walking uphill for a long time now—after
the plain it was downhill
and the way to the coast was easy enough only it was
getting
cold and I wore a light navy uniform (had been on
furlough).
Then I saw a protestant house of worship, but it was
there on its
own—no
other houses to be seen, not even a lone light from a
farm.
A window was open and since it was also getting dark I
was tired—
I climbed in and rested on a pew.
Fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music—the
church was full
of matelotes singing psalms. The pastor spoke about sin,
redemption
and god’s glory; then his flock silently left. Dawn, I
saw a magnificent
sunrise and continued my walk to the coast.
In an open café I told a girl behind the counter where I
had slept;
she looked confused—as
far as she knew that church was torn down
years ago—it
was haunted because it was built of planks
from a schooner that ran aground with the loss of all
hands.
