My Picture: Xiahe, Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu , China.
Romantic Interlude
Age
The thoughts that poets have
My Picture: Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China.
It seems at times I can’t be older.
A white haired smile
and a fossil imprint,
infused with a hunters despair.
Exotic summers still remain,
and winter days without
a breeze are wildly wept on.
I still remember how the stillness dazed.
As night pushes into day,
I taste the fragrance of your flesh.
A flower soaked in persistent rain,
a tiny track in fallen snow.
Each step, and again is silent.
The tragedy of dreams
My Picture: Xinxiang, Henan Province, China.
Like most others
I have come through
sadness and
loves deep nights.
And let them have their moments.
Now I see through
the wasted landscape,
and broadcasts
that say nothing.
Lamenting only a
laugh and an echo passing by.
A grey cry of the future,
is enough to make things grow.
And suffer the castigation
of my thinning dreams,
now so quickly dispatched.
Of life and death
My Picture: Books I used today.
Arguments come and go,
but they are always
hidden in some place.
Cunning counterfeits
trying to make
their way home, to take
root…
I had an argument today,
about sub-health
and the cause of disease,
I think.
Nothing it seems is familiar,
and treatment
is always rearranged.
They told me the wisdom in the world,
I felt like a dizzy moth
confused by all the lights.
Staring at a diseased gift
that you have, you still have.
Putting in the Work
‘My Cafe’: Xinxiang, China.
We sat drinking coffee,
both making our way home.
He told me about a lost faith,
and working 17 hours a day.
No proof of skill or
dreams that keep time.
Only a red-eyed wake
each morning.
I thought some jobs you like.
Others are so dreary and pitiless,
they make you want to stay in bed.
And think about the
waitress you met last night.
And if God has a name.
Street Shadows
My Picture: Frozen River Fen, Taiyuan, Shanxi province , China.
Shadows cast by
neon lights, ripped plainly
from the future.
A world now
only of memory,
and frozen snapshots
of unclaimed territory.
Each moment experienced
more violently,
with every sleep
secured.
Some people
are never wrong,
and others yearn for love.
Idle comments are
left hanging,
on an empty white space.
I find myself watching
endlessly, searchingly
for whimsical lines
and a poet with all the answers.
But in the end, it is left to me
to tell it as it was.
Love Confronted
My Picture: Wall Painting: Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
There was only one love.
Or shall I say,
I only loved one woman.
But now I know,
beyond the remote borders
I loved myself more.
And the words
spoken in an ancient forest,
now hauled away without compassion.
Winter is so far away from spring,
it sours my soul.
But this is my design, mine alone.
Walking under the moon
My Picture: The moon tonight: Xinxiang, China
Long walks at night—
I asked the moon to talk to me,
just the two of us.
But the moon would not talk,
it slept within.
So we both never said a word.
I hope one day soon
we can meet again.
With a desire, and a yearning.
Imitation of Life
My Picture: Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
A bird sat
on my windowsill.
Each movement
and habit
carefully planned
and uncontested.
A poetic truth
I thought.
I was moved
to see such
outstanding
imitations of life
on this
cold morning.
Their Day
My Picture: Quoc Hoc High School, Hue, Vietnam.
A Wandering Poet 