fznor
My Pictures: Last night I was taken to a farm, just outside Xinxiang….a very special place. An organic farm…I talked with the farmer and local people….and found a little solitude in the Chinese countryside.
Invisible birds
Art
Sunlight kisses
My Picture
You left me speechless,
fleeing visions of beauty.
Sun burst….
and
spectral sky blazes.
But dark
shadows and death waited.
And those graceful wings
took flight….
one final time.
Sorrows of the breath
My Picture: An early morning drawing.
Shudder in the dark
a drunken moon serenades me slow.
Craving more than in the last life,
like water dripping through dreams of love.
Her soul in my eyes
tells me nothing’s left to fear.
A doorway to stir in new hope,
that pedals forward inch by inch.
Silent journey
hdrpl
My pictures
back again,
my bones thrown together
with all my strength.
fatigue sapped
and gathering clouds.
the morning silence,
a preening goose
that stretches away
cherry blossom rain.
The stranger
My picture: Another doodle….but a self-portrait of sorts.
Strange how fast night comes,
a solid sound as jaded faces melt.
Then the night shivers out
an early morning drift, like a sigh.
In the wink of an eye,
a world cowed by wind and rain.
A summer’s backward glance,
and broken shells in disarray.
Tokens of regret left all around,
but dreams forget to come.
And sleeping now, life is sweet
all tucked inside dawn’s blue light.
See me as I am
My Picture: I am going through a phase of adding my drawings to my poems…another example.
A friend asked me about pain,
I told him I know something.
“A new diagnosis, an enduring ailment
and then the real pain comes”
He seemed satisfied,
that my heart was dark enough.
Sunday morning, again
A picture of my drawing…sadness is all around…sometimes.
A young woman sweeping
in the morning shadow.
Silently, I leave the bed.
Half fear, half hope
….. another
brick wall Sunday.
Cancer Days
My pictures and my drawing….reflecting on another time…another place…so far away.
All day long,
marking medical papers.
Divisions of cells,
seasons of mutations
and angel crowns.
Meditated by a yellow bird,
gently touching a sick wife.
The sickness is me,
I hope you’re not lonely.
When life has left
My picture of my drawing.
Her hair tells a story,
a geisha dance to the world.
Enough winters gathered
and lips turned icebergs.
Her blue sleek steps,
once a soul to our time.
Now withered memories
of pain thrown, and pale loss.
The sound of noise
My Picture: A simple doodle in my journal……
A Wandering Poet 