In the spirit of broadsheets of yore comes a handful of freeverse – written "white-hot" while exploring the entire coast of Portugal by the smallest roads possible then, stumbling through corners of Spain that surprised and thrilled me. Accompanying the poetry are a few paintings made along the way featuring backyards in Portugal and snippets of Galacia, Andalusia, and Catalunya. Download and print your own because when you've got a poet in your pocket, you've always got a friend.

1. Entire Coast of Portugal
Red roofs falling cliff high
into foaming waves
Old man watches sheep
who don't seem to mind
Wondering where Atlantico
turns into the inland sea
The signs say no tractors
or this way to ferries
Brick stoves & clay ovens
widely shown
the man with the donkey wanders by
She's happiest when moving fast
and straight
or eating small tasty thing
with sauces
"You are saying these strange things to me
but i don't know why"
Concrete poles
houses thick and white
red clay courtyards
wrapped in blue tiles
guarded by saints of forgotten names
protecting palms
Melted bold yellow walls
churrasquerias in empty yards
wood cut even, stacked in jumbles
Posters of singers and toros
workmen piling info tipico
early lunch, dried cod
chicken blood, sardines
Waving she doesn't watch
crossing shady lane with tiny cars
the dog with the shortest legs.
Adieu Karol in color
Cerverjai dark, vino blanco
she opens it cold & hands it
sits down.Obrigato
In the back of the tipico
the swarthy introduces
Saint Virgilio of Figuero de Foz
Patron of wanderers, spicy clams and cold
sangria
Eyes grutas of secrets
grottos holding reflection of monoliths
and winters lasting deep into spring.
Painting Europa
The old Portuguese men in two button-up
sweaters and driving caps so old that when
taken off, the forehead stands gleaming
white against the baseball-glove-leather
texture of the faces.
To tell you about skinny alleys with rows of
habitations, colors as creative and fresh as I
could’ve imaged. Iris purple and lichen
green, the inside fruit of pomegranate.
Me losing my glasses on day four of a 21
day trip. Scenery becoming hazier as the
days go by, L. leads me by the elbow in
Sitges or Lagos, I can see the things just not
where they are.
Tile everywhere, sometimes in pictures,
sometimes in words, sometimes just deep,
rich, unique color. Built forever ago or
yesterday.
Me up in night on a dark veranda swirling
paints into dark windows with wrought iron
rails, dangling vines and chipped archways.
Standing atop Arc de Triumph with the
young one spiraling around the view of Paris
avenues of my imagination spoked out
everyway towards possibilities and
exploration. Sketching madly, drafting in a
thousand buildings.
continued...
Postcards from Atlantico ~ by Dave Olson

2. Night trains through Spain in a compartment
with four Catalan oldsters – digging my
paintings and scrapbook.
Sneaking away to find a train bathroom in
which the window opens for exhaling
Amsterdam’s amnesia haze.
Cheap bottles of wine and exquisite picnics
on empty beaches – bring me your finest
meats and cheeses and take me to empty
castles to clamber about!
Henry’s Tranquility
Navigating into nowhere
speculating on something
better than perfect
prince of confusion
or driven by pride
Please tell me it wasn't for greed, spices or
pope
but just to go
The cove protected heavy ships from
plunders
the point at the edge of the all anyone
knows
at this moment at least
Why didn't you turn right
dancing with Galacian girls
or left into well enough
now it's the ghost of you and Cristobol
me and two earnest Germans
watching everything heading into
somewhere
no longer new.
The wind blows the same
sometimes we wait
in Aljezur patching holes.
Sometimes we make it nowhere
Navigate elsewhere Henry maybe draw me
a line to divide something
and don't compare hard.
Santiago, April
Skin of bright olives, quizzical eyes
reflection flashing on a bike with bread
or books
cold on rocky step ledge
three spires fade into drizzly twilight
the bells ring again
Walking sticks clunking into a square
via sacred stairs
the bells ringing in discord and grief
As the Galacian girls laugh down a
impossible alley
twisted with greens and orange
Where las Templars hunkered
hiding three sets of bones
through generations of darkness.
now in a silver box of seashells.
Postcards from Atlantico ~ by Dave Olson