A State of Mind

2nd Oct 20182nd Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Picture: China Daily

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease,
his hands permanently clenched shut.
The power, once contagious at birth
no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain,
and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely.
They once dreamed of sweet genesis,
a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor,
touched in slow succession
on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and
wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty
does it look dirty”
She asked

I held his hand.
And sitting softly, in my soul
I told him that his
life has not yet been cancelled.

Note

Statistics show that almost half of the ten million people affected by Parkinson’s Disease, or PD, worldwide are in China. The disease has become the third most deadly disease for elderly people in China. About 1.7% of the country’s population above 65 suffers from PD and nearly 100 thousand new cases emerge each year. The World Health Organization estimates China will see six million PD patients by 2030.

Fragments

1st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Outside Sculpture: Hoi An, Vietnam.

.

When alone, I think
I’ve lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now.
My eyes, half open barely
touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure.
Only half caring a moment longer.
A day half offered, slowed to silence
that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured
life, and lessen my hopes of harder love.
Or wait…
to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

On The Move

1st Oct 20181st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Ethnic Headdress: Beijing Culture Museum, Beijing 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.

Life

A State of Mind

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease,
his hands permanently clenched shut.
The power, once contagious at birth
no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain,
and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely.
They once dreamed of sweet genesis,
a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor,
touched in slow succession
on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and
wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty
does it look dirty”
She asked

I held his hand.
And sitting softly, in my soul
I told him that his
life has not yet been cancelled.

Fragments

.

When alone, I think
I’ve lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now.
My eyes, half open barely
touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure.
Only half caring a moment longer.
A day half offered, slowed to silence
that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured
life, and lessen my hopes of harder love.
Or wait…
to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

On The Move

Everybody in China is moving now,
clapping hands for fair visions
and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday
when the sun shines brighter.
The old, familiar songs
a voice, a chime.

Now everybody
carries something.
Names, stories, memories
from the mountains.
And the dust from
the cities of concrete.

On days like these
there is no sadness,
no rancor.

Just a desire to taste
the salted tea.
And the wind breath
of the naked river beds
at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads
cry once again on padded knees.
And call upon the distant
twilight ghosts, shy and sullen
to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it.
And the last race is over,
for another year.

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease, his hands permanently clenched shut. The power, once contagious at birth no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain, and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely. They once dreamed of sweet genesis, a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor, touched in slow succession on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty does it look dirty” She asked

I held his hand. And sitting softly, in my soul I told him that his life has not yet been cancelled.

.

When alone, I think I’ve lived half a life. A small corner of the noise. Half a fish. Half, come winter. A small white canvas, unfinished. Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now. My eyes, half open barely touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure. Only half caring a moment longer. A day half offered, slowed to silence that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured life, and lessen my hopes of harder love. Or wait… to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

Everybody in China is moving now, clapping hands for fair visions and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday when the sun shines brighter. The old, familiar songs a voice, a chime.

Now everybody carries something. Names, stories, memories from the mountains. And the dust from the cities of concrete.

On days like these there is no sadness, no rancor.

Just a desire to taste the salted tea. And the wind breath of the naked river beds at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads cry once again on padded knees. And call upon the distant twilight ghosts, shy and sullen to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it. And the last race is over, for another year.

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease,
his hands permanently clenched shut.
The power, once contagious at birth
no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain,
and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely.
They once dreamed of sweet genesis,
a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor,
touched in slow succession
on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and
wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty
does it look dirty”
She asked

I held his hand.
And sitting softly, in my soul
I told him that his
life has not yet been cancelled.

When alone, I think
I’ve lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now.
My eyes, half open barely
touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure.
Only half caring a moment longer.
A day half offered, slowed to silence
that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured
life, and lessen my hopes of harder love.
Or wait…
to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

Everybody in China is moving now,
clapping hands for fair visions
and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday
when the sun shines brighter.
The old, familiar songs
a voice, a chime.

Now everybody
carries something.
Names, stories, memories
from the mountains.
And the dust from
the cities of concrete.

On days like these
there is no sadness,
no rancor.

Just a desire to taste
the salted tea.
And the wind breath
of the naked river beds
at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads
cry once again on padded knees.
And call upon the distant
twilight ghosts, shy and sullen
to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it.
And the last race is over,
for another year.