My Picture: Early evening, Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
Moving towards the night
Age
Dancing Ladies of Xinxiang
My Picture: Near my apartment: Xinxiang, China.
Half eaten by the moon
and wrapped in cold sheets of rain.
Their eyeballs roll and hips sway,
and the dancing begins.
Always at the same time,
and without a blessing or leaf falling.
Music supersedes their days
on the long march, bellowing
to us all across a great distance.
A ritual that a poet can understand.
An existence that become endless,
and the power of preserving.
City Lights
My Picture: Xinxiang City, Henan Province, China.
When I first came to the city,
I was so much smaller.
The city was busy with
stories, hidden away and unsung.
Fog played at my feet,
and cold mists of rain
chorused a life
of tragedy and contentment.
Among the soundless solitudes,
I found a crowded room full of poetry
and thoughts of hope.
Song of the City
My Picture: Taken tonight: Xinxiang City, China.
The water glistens
and the moon hangs low.
Scooters and cars float by.
The people yearn for the clouds,
and the clouds
pine for the water.
All have forgotten to mourn
and yet they meet.
Weaving their dreams
and living on the road,
one and the same.
Wakeful Things
My Picture
It began with a slight
pain in her side,
nothing new really.
She was witty,
knowledgeable and golden,
and she loved me.
Then it came,
somber the night was.
Dragging those
beautiful thighs,
from love and sleep.
To a hospital bed
and the dangerous tides of
palliative chemotherapy.
And death dropped from
the dark,
a ghost standing on a bridge.
And everybody hurts.
Cold Mornings
My Picture: Frozen River Wei, Xinxiang, China
I woke early this morning,
and grey marked the sky.
The many things that
claw and tear in my mind,
swept the crowded jungle clean.
In winter nothing stirs
along the ground.
An ample cold begins to fold,
a dullness touched my
thoughts of you.
Silent Fog
Xinxiang, China: Early this morning
There was fog in the city this morning.
It hung around for a while,
waiting for someone to talk with.
But no one came.
Living under a white
cloud paradise for so long,
they still blamed the fog
for their muffled silence
and loss of spirit.
The fog saw that everything
was dark, and began to howl
at the few passing cars.
But nothing happened.
So the fog moved on.
How to disregard me
My Picture: Burnt Scooter – taken today: Xinxiang, Henan, China.
Just tell them I am a frustrated poet,
that swears that he is an atheist,
and hates football.
But even this they did not get.
Just tell them, that
I promise never to listen to AC/DC again.
And I swear, I will never, never again read
that alcoholic sexist pig
Bukowski,
at least not for a while…
But even this statement of my ill-intentions
they did not get.
Just tell them,
that I will get back to teaching
cats and dogs, and promise to give more
time and marks for beauty.
After all, every day is judgment day.
And as they drift,
and fade away so slowly.
Some said
“you cannot be a poet”
Even though, I could show it.
Then I realized that I am at their mercy.
And a life on the road seems a good
way to sink into my dreams,
and write my open poetry.
On Reflection
My Picture: River Wei Today: Xinxiang, China
Observing all the things I meet
on downtown walks,
reminds me of walking through life.
You can yell at this direction
or that direction,
a fire garden of illusions
Either way, the wind takes
your voice away.
And you see the shadows
of your mother,
or any other empty reflection.
In the end, two people can look
at the exact same thing, and see
something totally different.
Only to doubt what
is presented to you.
Passing Time
My Picture: Statue of Vietnamese Woman: Hue, Vietnam.
A Wandering Poet 