"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

Landfall.

Normandy, the day the allied landed,

should like the holocaust not be forgotten,

it spelt the end of a malevolent empire.

When landing crafts hit the shore, many

brave soldiers died before they could step

ashore on the golden sand of Normandy.

By blind courage and a will of steel many

soldiers got to where banks are steep

seek shelter and rest before carrying on.

This, a hard war, yet an honourable one;

there are times when wars must be fought

as we cannot afford let the world drown.

Dictators come and go, but we must not

shirk in our duty to face them squarely

and kill the darkness of their rotten souls.

Outcast

Man with the cloven foot walks through the night, harsh and frustrated,

he was the result when a farmhand had intercourse with a cow... and

when cow a cold February day gave birth on a snowy field, people fled in

distress; the devil has been reborn they screamed and ran away.

The father of this obscenity hung from the rafter in the barn and bitterly

thought it had all come to this because his wife slept with bloomers on.

The child licked by warm cow tongues survived behind a hollow of a stone

and farmers wondered why his cattle gave so little milk.

Cloven foot, how could he hide from peoples fear and utter disgust other

than being evil and cursing mankind, he who had done nothing but being

a victim of a farmer hands unbecoming lust. Priests gave him the name

Satan, although he was never been baptized.

He survived wears a built up shoe to hide his defect, works in finance,

spreads mayhem and poverty. “Love me he says, and I will bring peace

but you must become vegetarians because i will not allow you to turn

my flesh and blood into hamburgers or Sunday roast.

Tanka

Roses like soft rain

Deluge kills them brutally

Fallen pale petals

Drowning in a pool of regrets

As rain makes furrows in soil

Senryu

Floor cleaners are

Floor managers, wear logos

But pay is lousy.

Senryu

A man from Timor

Selling flowers to lovers

Lives on rejections

When Meeting Beauty

I read the menu at the restaurant looked up and saw

a pair of brown leg stretching up to heaven and thought

this waitress is from Senegal, as all beautiful women are

born there, a poor country which God compensated by

given the people physical exquisiteness.

In my old man’s confusion I ordered goat chops which

was quite apt for my unbecoming thoughts.

When she served the food I looked demurely down

but did see her white teasing smile and saw her walk away

moving like a schooner on the high seas.

No, I’m not an improper dirty old man and didn’t make any

leering remarks, but it was a moment when I wished to

be young and be able to admire beauty openly and my

admiration would have been met with a smile....and perhaps

a chance of a warm embrace.

Burden of a Hasty Marriage.

He saw her at the cafe she a cup of cacao and eating a cream cake,

he had a sandwich with cheese and ham. She looked up and smiled,

he knew she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Shy, as he was, still found the courage to get up and walk over to her

table and ask if he could eat his modest sandwich with her; she said

yes and they sat there in silence, just eating. Dimly he knew he had to

say something, but couldn’t but couldn’t find the words so he ate

the cup and saucer, the table cloth, serviettes and crumbs of her cake,

when he began eating the table she told him to stop. Ice broken he said

he loved her, she said she loved him, not to waste time they got married

in the afternoon. Found a hotel room and stayed in bed for a fortnight.

Made love in every position one could think of; they even forgot to eat.

Entwined they slept until a knock on the door, something about paying

for the room. For him was a welcomed distraction, got up had to go to

his bank he told her, two weeks in bed it stunk like a pig sty. Paid his bill

but didn’t enter their room, he was cured of love based on sex alone

First of May, Workers Day

The wind that blew cold from the north has slowed down,

First of May in the village and I hear silence speak.

Workers day, the smithy’s hammer lies idle on the anvil.

In the big town toilers are marching today carrying flags

and banners, demands equal rights, and work for all.

They will walk past banks, palaces haughty architecture,

that has no problem with... rights. Ah, this austerity and

now it is raining on the parade and the wind sneezes, but

on the green field I see millions of watery pearls and each

one reflects the overcast sky that promise nothing except

more drizzle. Yet it doesn’t deter the working man, it is

good to meet others drinks a glass of cheap red wine, eat

meat roasted on a grill, slices of homemade bread and

hope life will get better tomorrow.

The Business of War.

In this clearing in the woods so full of butter coloured flowers

I know there is a mass grave underneath, a forgotten war,

bones of the nameless that died for a cause that was not theirs,

but they were loyal and when told to fight and they often died,

many never knowing why. At the edge, of the yellow field,

there are pale poppies the dead have no more blood to offer.

I think of Afghanistan, poppies there are more deadly, I wonder

if western soldiers who lost their life in a cause that is unclear,

will get their own graveyard and have their crosses there,

in a Moslem country, tended to with fresh flowers, but go easy

on the poppies. The skeletons under my feet, died because of

salt that, once upon a time- before oil- was big business, but I’m

sure the soldiers were told lies about nationality and freedom.

Land of Milk & Honey.

The president has banned the verb “work,” there are no job seekers

or unemployed people, but those who administrate the state are on

duty. Since all is mechanized, digitalized and robotozied there is little

need for citizens to do anything, but receive a monthly card to spend

on food, clothes and other things, and they will be well enumerated.

At last the masses have been set free from the toil of labour.

They can sleep as long as they want, walk in the park or pursue sport,

meet in the evening and read poetry, with the understanding “work”

is not mentioned, ‘cause the state know some poets are insubordinate

and will try to sneak in “work” by calling it something else. If the state

censor find out the writer will be banned from all public gatherings and

not being able to buy yogurt till he repents and writes nice things about

the beautiful colour of plastic flowers, made by a robot called Rose.

It has taken mankind thousands of years to reach this stage of maturity,

and they will look up to the clear blue sky and say: “Truly this is Utopia.”

An Abridged Story of Wine

The bottom of the nave used to be a lake’s bed, but one night,

when moon was white as search light and the sky maroon,

the lake vanished. Dead fish and toenail clippings at the bottom,

but the soil was rich, and the people who used to fish for a living,

planted vine which bore healthy grapes, but grapes fermented

and wine was discovered. A drink that made them merry, they

sang, slapped flat stones together and made music.

But if drinking too much they ended fighting and used stones as

missiles, and given to arguing about the quality of snow that fell

the year before. In clay pots they sold red wine and became rich,

till Moslems came, forbad the making of wine, they planted pale

yellow orange trees instead. But the juice of sweet blue grapes

has an unstoppable allure it fills heart with music, the production

was moved to hidden dells in Alentejo. When Arabs, defeated by

Christian hordes, fled; Iberia had abundance of red wine but also

sugary orange juice.

Portugal in May

These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush

green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no

jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when

making Portugal, had women in mind.

A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look

up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are

to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched

over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob

tree and wonders what's for tea.

Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,

perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in

translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil

of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in

the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,

a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,

the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.