The roses are waiting

(this poem explores how Gunsel and I decided to leave our posh jobs for till jobs at Waitrose)

the roses are waiting

but I can not

and Gunsel can’t either

so full of cravings

my peace, her time

we seem to get neither

alas, we have tried

our best and our worst

to make this a living

the moment has come

we’re raising a toast

our jobs up we’re giving

don’t pity us, reader

don’t even try

to make this last longer

our jobs are dead

our heads are down

but our will just got stronger

we’ll pick up the brushes

we’ll handle the tills

the shelves we shall fill if we have to

so, no more debating!

at Waitrose (no-frills)

the roses are waiting



How to train your dragon

*

ieşi din starea bizon, darling

dacă vrei să scoţi fum pe nas

şi pleacă în direcţia cealaltă

sau în lapland

direcţia asta aparţine altor specii

descoperite din timp,

cu poze în enciclopedii şi viscere în formol

în multe din muzeele lumii

tu nici măcar nu mai ai nume latin

evoluezi cu un singur gînd pe an

ţi s-au lasat nervii mai jos de genunchi

şi dacă muşti nu mai moare nimeni

lupii se uită la tine şi cască

şi tu

tu încă mai crezi că mărimea contează

*


snap out of the bison mood, darling


if you want to blow smoke up your nose

and aim for the other direction

or Lapland



this direction belongs to other species

discovered in due time

with pictures in encyclopedias and viscera soaked in formaldehyde

in many museums of the world

you haven’t even got a Latin name anymore



you evolve with one thought per year

your nerves have dropped lower than your knee level

and if you bite nobody dies any longer

the wolves are yawning watching you

and you



you still believe that size matters