Archive for October, 2013


To stand alone again in morning light,
after another argument of wasted words,
yes, you know to hit them where it hurts
but you don’t realise you do so at the time.

One day you’ll know what they expect from you
and more so, what is better left unsaid
but for the moment, alone again you stand, and tread
into the morning light that is too eager pleasing.

Eden Camp

Eden Camp,
a contradictio in terminis perhaps,
is nevertheless a tourist’s must have been
so I went there to feel with my own eyes
what I could not have read in a brochure.

Here once Italian prisoners of war stayed
and now it was a museum of the second world war.
The authentic scent of old clothes and artefacts
in some thirty barracks, called huts,
took me back to a time before I was born.

It was not a busy day.
Old people with happy smiles, listening to Vera Lynn,
were enjoying themselves, reliving times they remembered
while in the canteen I thought of my father who had liked Vera Lynn.
The whole location was him for some reason.

“They are all over the place,” a caretaker in a pink cardigan said,
trying to get the elderly visitors back to the bus. “Won’t you help me find one, love?” she asked. “I seem to be missing one of my ladies.”
So I went looking in all the huts, from The Home Front and The Rise of Hitler all the way to the Toilet Block.

As I walked back, I noticed
that there indeed was an old lady
sitting alone in the otherwise empty Music Hall, humming a tune.
“Hallo, madam,” I said. “The bus is waiting for you.”
“I won’t be joining the others,” she said. “We shall elope.”
She smiled heavenly. “Don’t tell Dot.”

Out of nowhere came a young man,
dressed in an old-fashioned soldiers uniform,
and he approached her.
She rose and he gave her his arm.
Then there was music. He led her into a waltz,
and she seemed younger and younger, then of they went,
out the door. Silence.

I waited a bit before returning to the canteen
to bring Dot the news.
“I can’t find the lady,” I said.
“Never mind, love, I’ve got them all now,” was Dot’s answer.
The pensioners left the camp to go to the bus,
smiling, though they were one lady short I think.

This actually happend (more or less) in 2007 when I was there. Maybe it is not a poem though?
Eden Camp

To be there

I would like to be in a place for a while
where only hasty people live,
where streets are treeless gutters
and noise is all around me,
the smell of human nature in colognes
streaming out of bank offices
and everywhere plastic, lots of bright coloured plastic,
I would like to be there
just to be homesick.

The alien

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I walk in nature where I am an alien,
my clothes, my thoughts are fabricated
by chemicals and other people’s smart ideas.
Nature never made the words such as I think.

Unisono the crow hacks in my spine.
I am the stranger in the forest, or the long-lost child.
And even treading her on careful clean bare feet,
the earth resents my being here and sends me spiders.

We are not one with trees and birds,
only observers of how life would be
had we not dwelled from Adam’s garden,
had we not found a way out of this murder scene in green.

“Amor” released !

I am very happy to announce that my anthology of love poems, “Amor”, is now released!
Like “Veritas”, my first English poetry book, it is published by Winter Goose Publishing.

The book is the story of a love in 227 poems. I hope you will enjoy!

Amor now available!

My books through Winter Goose Publishing

More about buying AmorAmor_FlatforeBooks



More or less completed dressing
after a nice encounter on the sofa
we watch each other
looking for the thing
that used to make us smile.
I can’t see the love no more.
More or less the same
as we were before but in another mood
we take eachother’s hand,
walking on slowly.
We move on until we stand
where we so often stood yet we don’t see,
we must keep looking
and find a replacement
for the freaking blown fuse
in the meter cupboard.

Her husband is in hospital

“I gave you seven sons
every birth a fucking nightmare
you always too drunk to call the midwife
or help me into bed.
I got them all on the freaking sofa,
and the stains never went out of the fabric.
All sons have your features,
all of them drink with your speed
except for Ronny who joined the ballet
and who gives me roses on my birthday
which was a hell of a day for my mother
who loved dancing
but after her eleventh child
she could hardly walk anymore
let alone cross her legs.
She would have liked Ronny
as he can do a split
so don’t be too hard on him
for hitting you with that spade
after you called him a flipping faggot.
He didn’t mean it in a bad way
and the doctor said
you might still get some feeling in your spine.
Imagine that.”



There is abhorrence in the landscape
where no flowers grow to hide the truth.
Beside the graves your tired soul keeps post,
unseen to watch us move for hours
towards the new digged hole
as one we loved the most is gone
and we must bury and move on.

The tree trunks stare at us,
their rinds are tortured faces,
disapproving of our thoughtless tred
disturbing as we pass their resting places.
Nothing is said. The rain falls
on the leaves above us and in a million shots
all hope of resurrection is destroyed.

Appalled the grass knows
that it will be crushed under our weight.
This is the date that no one wants to have.
The grave we lay you in, smells of decay
while all of us throw in a handful sand.
A scream comes from the earth,
she takes you back the way she gave you birth.


It was a phenomena when his wife stopped talking altogether
and in stead of making him her black burned meatballs
she just stared as if she had seen enlightenment or a ghost down the road.
People were surprised and called her holy, they only whispered in her presence.

When after a month she still sat there in silence
without touching her tea nor her Weetabix, her stout, her gin and tonic, her muffins, her duretics,
they worshipped her for this miracle of complete abstraction
as she was holy no doubt and people claimed they were healed by her stare.

Then this snotty boy from across the street noticed
how she was falling apart, smelled like a dead rat
and was it not a bit odd
that she had not taken a breath for thirty days?

Thank God the priest who came by every day
took the little pest home
where the sinner got a good spanking
for his disruptive behaviour.
Are flies not creatures of God as well?

You know…

…once we made babies
now we make an effort
same difference you claim


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