My death
Creative Writing
Solidarity
I took a trip to Zhengzhou yesterday, the capital city of Henan Province….I took in some sights and a slice of history. Then I wrote a poem.
Now faintly sounds a drumming,
down the broken trail.
The little men and women
reaching for each other, stir the empty clearing.
A chorused sound and screams of dying pain,
forward….. without forgetting.
Not cold enough
My pictures taken along the River Wei.
A skyline I could trace.
River coloured memories,
waving in the breeze.
All those long walks
now looking backwards
….. the river.
Walking by the river
My drawing.
That’s how it starts, a walk by the River Wei.
Tree branches reaching for the sky,
catching the breeze.
A single Red-crowned Crane flits by,
making its way back home….. the last time.
Then it starts, conversations grinding away
drifting on the unseen currents.
How I wish I could fly…..
Talking to the dying
My drawing.
Just by the hospital,
I met a man
who told me he talks to the dying.
Those sleepless souls
who have lost their shape.
“You feel deeply” he said.
“Just fragments” said I.
As I left, I thought
time and future have meaning.
And watched,
as the others lined-up
to talk with the man
….. trying to act casual.
All at once
My picture
I’m supposed to be a poet,
words coming night and day.
Wisdom in the dark,
and aware of death like a giant spider.
But sometimes, I have no idea
what I’m trying to accomplish
So, I wonder where the
summer flies have gone.
Then, as if by magic….. I recapture total clarity
and create a work of art.
The strange death of a fish
I saw the fish,
as I approached the river.
Black flies gathering,
leaves filling in the tangle.
Empty plastic bottles,
that cried like tears…..too recent to rot.
‘Poor soul’, I thought…..floating in the river.
A space between bricks,
and nobody minded at all.
Hard Times
My drawing this evening
I read some lines
“agony, always agony”
Some people think this
trying to face the sun
in the morning.
Others, when I ask them for help.
For some, just being dead
would be fair enough.
Words like ‘poetry’ and ‘rigor’
are very tiresome, in the wrong hands.
So, while the universe
tries to swallow us all….
I shut away nothing.
And listen for the birds singing.
Death wants more
Mt drawing.
I do not intend to stop for death.
To wait silently,
as a spider in a dank hole.
Not really knowing,
and at the end…. knowing.
No kneeling down,
filled with tears for me…..
Perhaps death is kind,
and will wait….. for a while.
But, I will dispute
my rendezvous with death
for as long as possible.
Or at least until spring returns,
with rustling shade.
And brings back those bright blue days.
Sleeping in the sun
My drawing. I came across a man sleeping rough this evening and tried to talk/ Language was an issue….but I tried.
A Wandering Poet 