Tired I rest at the top of the plots

above the roofs of the bordering houses

and watch the crowded clouds slide by.

A straggled flight of starlings dots

the sky and wheeling lower rouses

unseen others from nearby

to flutter up and join the display.

More birds appear out of nowhere,

from trees and bushes soaring high

to join the swirling corps de ballet,

all swooping left and right together,

dancing the curtained backdrop sky.

But soon the choreography palls

whether from boredom or fatigue

no way of humans knowing why.

And gradually the outline falls

as more and more begin to leave

until like clouds the last slide by.

Then time for me also to depart

joyed with a fresh uplifted heart.

I wish I could play an instrument,
piano preferably,
but I've been too busy trying to write
eternal poetry.
With a smidgeon of musical skill I might
previously, who knows,
have given up penning verse so trite
in order to compose

instead of this boring doggerel shite
an eternal melody.

The Sertao, Brazil, November

A flat infinity of stunted bushes like skeletons of thin black bones;
a crewcut fringing bald pates of boulders riskily pallid in the sun;
the burning earth as if submerged under patient scrub,
an occasional cactus or palm tree coming up for air;
the dry land waiting for water, imploring rain;
all life in limbo.
Then the sudden shock of vivid yellow blossom on some roadside trees.

I don't answer women that ask my age
vainly hoping they'll think me younger
and most times they're unable to gauge
it accurately in my favour.

I'm not so coy when it's men that ask
though the chances of that are slight
so it was annoying when, given the task,
one guessed it almost exactly right.

And lately things get even worse
with one woman thinking that I'm older
by several years than I really am -
so perhaps I should have actually told her.

My wrinkles are an obvious burden
so maybe I ought to don disguise
or find some helpful plastic surgeon
and pay him to debag my eyes.

The singer was good doing Elton John
but I couldn't stop watching the keyboard player.
Seated in front of him, eyes dead level
with his chubby fingers as he played,
crustacean-like his hands crabbed sideways,
scuttling to and fro, left and right
as if always seeking some tastier note.

Don't travel the world to see the sights

made famous from iconic photos

for when you get to the actual places,

either they look just as you expected

or more likely they're not as good.

The cameraman who took the photo

had the skill to judge the angle,

catch the quality of the light,

select the appropriate exposure

to create that competition winner.

But you, dear traveller, take pot luck

on season, weather, time of day.

We all know the need for novelty,

for something new not too far ahead

to work and plan for but try to resist

the insistence of image, obsession of idea.

And if you just want to say you've been there,

trying to impress your friends  -

it's a bit sad  !

I hate my ancestors, and parents,
for the features of my face:
the nose too long, the mouth too big,
the ears stuck out in space.

I try to make myself attractive
but the boys still pass me by.
My friends are all much prettier.
Oh God, I want to cry !

I do my very best with make-up,
perfume, all the latest gear.
I try to keep my weight in check
and spend a fortune on my hair.

But what's the good when I'm still cursed
by my unlucky family look.
Deep down I've almost given up,
for all the pains I've took.

If only I had cash enough
for plastic surgery, I'd find
someone to re-shape my face
and cut despair out of my mind.