Snow song

17th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: A walk in the backstreets this evening. Xinxiang, China.

In the cool gray morning
sounds of loud fireworks,
and the little dog trembles
to see such hope.

Braying aloud
and smiling from chin-to-chin,
he simply wants attention
and see you.

Form this mad place,
courage and creativity
is what will bring the days
and soft barks erupting.

Another body count

16th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: A place to walk: Xinxiang Medical University.

Innumerable raindrops
fell today.
I tried to count some,
Pen in hand….. a poets mind.
But I stopped…..
when my Chinese friend
told me to go back inside..
And only count the winter flowers.

Razored through to a void place,
I saw the future of my bones.
A sudden applause and fog
filled streets.
This is no place for a poet.

Summer grass

15th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

A picture sent to me by a student.

Winter numbness
with clouded eyes,
memories full of the past.
A passing songbird
on a blazing street side,
still sadly the heart beats.

And yet I see the old dog,
a dawns light betrayed by the past.
Still hopeful of life floated above.
Somber moments and dreams
brisk departure, echo another day
and sooner the sun.

Slow drift of winter

14th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture…my gift.

The lady with the dog
gave me a gift.
We cannot speak the same language,
but I knew what she meant.

In this cold Xinxiang sun,
repeated each day….
a sweet note.
Of two people
who drink from the beginning.
A flower shift….
out of a shadow.

Winter–lull

13th Jan 201913th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: A book I found in a cafe in Xinxiang today.

Alone at 3 am.
A droll moon…..
because of the silent snow,
chews a hole to the sky.

An icicle drifting through
the morning coolness,
floats away through
the street dust.

Deep in my notebook,
the to and fro of a
lake of the mind.
Silence as the
dancing moon shadows,
and nothing to doubt.

Waiting out the storm

12th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Pictures: Taken this afternoon, Xinxiang, Henan Province , China.

Birdsong
bearing down.
Sometimes
a darkness to deep
to take outside.

A wind roars in,
my imaginary lover again.
The only living thing
in Xinxiang.

Interchange

11th Jan 201911th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

A favourite place to walk: near my apartment, Xinxiang , China.

From the future,
a wind will arrive.
A storm unfolds
and words will play about
the edges of the clouds.
And the disaffected
will dance on tied-up
haiku, and rhymes
and meters in need of mending.

After the thoughts it raised,
all will appear as if seen before.
But the poets will know
how we all danced to measure.
And wrote of such dark goings,
all of which were words, words, words.

What to ask yourself

10th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Evening Exercises: Xinxiang City, Henan, China.

At the height of an argument,
I cannot name most of me.
Remembering her,
I grow logical.
My pleasant soul shrieks at me.

Back inside something lingers,
before theirs and mine.
Listening to ‘Talking Heads’,
as we followed the seasons.

Mind wings full of motion,
and one-by-one
we proclaimed “Once in a Lifetime”
was our song.
Baked into our souls
till death came knocking at our door.

January Dusk

9th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Harbin: Heilongjiang, China: sent to me by a friend today.

Confronting the dark,
what sadness there has been.
A feathered longing
retrieved from a thorn,
a dull commotion of typewriter-keys.

Beneath the feet
of a dancing dragon,
old age now grazing the barriers.
And yet…..
out of solitude
I swallow all things up,
and see a poet
surprise his audience.
With the neon glow of his words,
and thoughts turned inside out.

Drinking under the moon with Li Bai

8th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

rbsh

hdrpl

My Pictures: Wall Posters , Xinxiang City, China.

A Wandering Poet

As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.

Age

Snow song

In the cool gray morning
sounds of loud fireworks,
and the little dog trembles
to see such hope.

Braying aloud
and smiling from chin-to-chin,
he simply wants attention
and see you.

Form this mad place,
courage and creativity
is what will bring the days
and soft barks erupting.

Another body count

Innumerable raindrops
fell today.
I tried to count some,
Pen in hand….. a poets mind.
But I stopped…..
when my Chinese friend
told me to go back inside..
And only count the winter flowers.

Razored through to a void place,
I saw the future of my bones.
A sudden applause and fog
filled streets.
This is no place for a poet.

Summer grass

Winter numbness
with clouded eyes,
memories full of the past.
A passing songbird
on a blazing street side,
still sadly the heart beats.

And yet I see the old dog,
a dawns light betrayed by the past.
Still hopeful of life floated above.
Somber moments and dreams
brisk departure, echo another day
and sooner the sun.

Slow drift of winter

The lady with the dog
gave me a gift.
We cannot speak the same language,
but I knew what she meant.

In this cold Xinxiang sun,
repeated each day….
a sweet note.
Of two people
who drink from the beginning.
A flower shift….
out of a shadow.

Winter–lull

Alone at 3 am.
A droll moon…..
because of the silent snow,
chews a hole to the sky.

An icicle drifting through
the morning coolness,
floats away through
the street dust.

Deep in my notebook,
the to and fro of a
lake of the mind.
Silence as the
dancing moon shadows,
and nothing to doubt.

Waiting out the storm

Birdsong
bearing down.
Sometimes
a darkness to deep
to take outside.

A wind roars in,
my imaginary lover again.
The only living thing
in Xinxiang.

Interchange

From the future,
a wind will arrive.
A storm unfolds
and words will play about
the edges of the clouds.
And the disaffected
will dance on tied-up
haiku, and rhymes
and meters in need of mending.

After the thoughts it raised,
all will appear as if seen before.
But the poets will know
how we all danced to measure.
And wrote of such dark goings,
all of which were words, words, words.

What to ask yourself

At the height of an argument,
I cannot name most of me.
Remembering her,
I grow logical.
My pleasant soul shrieks at me.

Back inside something lingers,
before theirs and mine.
Listening to ‘Talking Heads’,
as we followed the seasons.

Mind wings full of motion,
and one-by-one
we proclaimed “Once in a Lifetime”
was our song.
Baked into our souls
till death came knocking at our door.

January Dusk

Confronting the dark,
what sadness there has been.
A feathered longing
retrieved from a thorn,
a dull commotion of typewriter-keys.

Beneath the feet
of a dancing dragon,
old age now grazing the barriers.
And yet…..
out of solitude
I swallow all things up,
and see a poet
surprise his audience.
With the neon glow of his words,
and thoughts turned inside out.

Drinking under the moon with Li Bai

In these years,
what I like is still
the shell I take.
Swollen shut
and looking for something
from the inside.

I love the lonely grasses
that thrive by the roadside.
Waiting for the rain to give witness,
and the sun to send forth its faint rays.

In silence to and daffodil mornings,
I listen to shell sounds
and bursts of wet clay.
While the moon wanders the sky,
sober and unrequited.

In the cool gray morning sounds of loud fireworks, and the little dog trembles to see such hope.

Braying aloud and smiling from chin-to-chin, he simply wants attention and see you.

Form this mad place, courage and creativity is what will bring the days and soft barks erupting.

Innumerable raindrops fell today. I tried to count some, Pen in hand….. a poets mind. But I stopped….. when my Chinese friend told me to go back inside.. And only count the winter flowers.

Razored through to a void place, I saw the future of my bones. A sudden applause and fog filled streets. This is no place for a poet.

Winter numbness with clouded eyes, memories full of the past. A passing songbird on a blazing street side, still sadly the heart beats.

And yet I see the old dog, a dawns light betrayed by the past. Still hopeful of life floated above. Somber moments and dreams brisk departure, echo another day and sooner the sun.

The lady with the dog gave me a gift. We cannot speak the same language, but I knew what she meant.

In this cold Xinxiang sun, repeated each day…. a sweet note. Of two people who drink from the beginning. A flower shift…. out of a shadow.

Alone at 3 am. A droll moon….. because of the silent snow, chews a hole to the sky.

An icicle drifting through the morning coolness, floats away through the street dust.

Deep in my notebook, the to and fro of a lake of the mind. Silence as the dancing moon shadows, and nothing to doubt.

Birdsong bearing down. Sometimes a darkness to deep to take outside.

A wind roars in, my imaginary lover again. The only living thing in Xinxiang.

From the future, a wind will arrive. A storm unfolds and words will play about the edges of the clouds. And the disaffected will dance on tied-up haiku, and rhymes and meters in need of mending.

After the thoughts it raised, all will appear as if seen before. But the poets will know how we all danced to measure. And wrote of such dark goings, all of which were words, words, words.

At the height of an argument, I cannot name most of me. Remembering her, I grow logical. My pleasant soul shrieks at me.

Back inside something lingers, before theirs and mine. Listening to ‘Talking Heads’, as we followed the seasons.

Mind wings full of motion, and one-by-one we proclaimed “Once in a Lifetime” was our song. Baked into our souls till death came knocking at our door.

Confronting the dark, what sadness there has been. A feathered longing retrieved from a thorn, a dull commotion of typewriter-keys.

Beneath the feet of a dancing dragon, old age now grazing the barriers. And yet….. out of solitude I swallow all things up, and see a poet surprise his audience. With the neon glow of his words, and thoughts turned inside out.

In these years, what I like is still the shell I take. Swollen shut and looking for something from the inside.

I love the lonely grasses that thrive by the roadside. Waiting for the rain to give witness, and the sun to send forth its faint rays.

In silence to and daffodil mornings, I listen to shell sounds and bursts of wet clay. While the moon wanders the sky, sober and unrequited.

In the cool gray morning
sounds of loud fireworks,
and the little dog trembles
to see such hope.

Braying aloud
and smiling from chin-to-chin,
he simply wants attention
and see you.

Form this mad place,
courage and creativity
is what will bring the days
and soft barks erupting.

Innumerable raindrops
fell today.
I tried to count some,
Pen in hand….. a poets mind.
But I stopped…..
when my Chinese friend
told me to go back inside..
And only count the winter flowers.

Razored through to a void place,
I saw the future of my bones.
A sudden applause and fog
filled streets.
This is no place for a poet.

Winter numbness
with clouded eyes,
memories full of the past.
A passing songbird
on a blazing street side,
still sadly the heart beats.

And yet I see the old dog,
a dawns light betrayed by the past.
Still hopeful of life floated above.
Somber moments and dreams
brisk departure, echo another day
and sooner the sun.

The lady with the dog
gave me a gift.
We cannot speak the same language,
but I knew what she meant.

In this cold Xinxiang sun,
repeated each day….
a sweet note.
Of two people
who drink from the beginning.
A flower shift….
out of a shadow.

Alone at 3 am.
A droll moon…..
because of the silent snow,
chews a hole to the sky.

An icicle drifting through
the morning coolness,
floats away through
the street dust.

Deep in my notebook,
the to and fro of a
lake of the mind.
Silence as the
dancing moon shadows,
and nothing to doubt.

Birdsong
bearing down.
Sometimes
a darkness to deep
to take outside.

A wind roars in,
my imaginary lover again.
The only living thing
in Xinxiang.

From the future,
a wind will arrive.
A storm unfolds
and words will play about
the edges of the clouds.
And the disaffected
will dance on tied-up
haiku, and rhymes
and meters in need of mending.

After the thoughts it raised,
all will appear as if seen before.
But the poets will know
how we all danced to measure.
And wrote of such dark goings,
all of which were words, words, words.

At the height of an argument,
I cannot name most of me.
Remembering her,
I grow logical.
My pleasant soul shrieks at me.

Back inside something lingers,
before theirs and mine.
Listening to ‘Talking Heads’,
as we followed the seasons.

Mind wings full of motion,
and one-by-one
we proclaimed “Once in a Lifetime”
was our song.
Baked into our souls
till death came knocking at our door.

Confronting the dark,
what sadness there has been.
A feathered longing
retrieved from a thorn,
a dull commotion of typewriter-keys.

Beneath the feet
of a dancing dragon,
old age now grazing the barriers.
And yet…..
out of solitude
I swallow all things up,
and see a poet
surprise his audience.
With the neon glow of his words,
and thoughts turned inside out.

In these years,
what I like is still
the shell I take.
Swollen shut
and looking for something
from the inside.

I love the lonely grasses
that thrive by the roadside.
Waiting for the rain to give witness,
and the sun to send forth its faint rays.

In silence to and daffodil mornings,
I listen to shell sounds
and bursts of wet clay.
While the moon wanders the sky,
sober and unrequited.