My Picture: Frozen River Wei, Xinxiang, China
Cold Mornings
poems
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.
How strange to see a familiar face
in a Xinxiang Coffee Bar.
War marched through my mind.
I wanted to ask
how you addressed the fog,
and how to treat the ghosts.
But I know that time and space
describe nothing.
A dark side, often hidden
and all alone.
The Indifferent
Today was not a good day.
Some people never seem to think,
and weep with soft eyes
when you tell them you do not
fear men that torment you.
They try to establish a dangerous consistency,
as you talk with people about
Camus, Dickinson and Bukowski
all examined and returned again.
They laugh at you because you
know what happened in Guernica,
Nanjing and My Lai
“Only we know this truth” they cry
And as for how truth and love have been lost
time and time again.
Well…they know nothing of this.
I try to hum a tune
or write a poem, but it becomes
a fixed subject.
Because I care and know that
hope will be encountered.
So…my friend Sophia, a radiant
point in this indifferent place
took me for coffee, and told me to
“Grow your fixed ideas,
because you are true”
So, we drank the coffee,
and I bought some flowers.
I put them next to my Bukowski books.
A form of resistance
in this deep-rooted time.
Bob Dylan’s Harmonica
dav
dav
The book shop owner in Xinxiang
gave me Bob Dylan’s harmonica today.
At least he said it was Bob’s,
and that was good enough for me.
So I played a tune,
and it was like it used to be.
When my head was high
and I was a king.
Before the signs of the cross,
cold and blunt
and things that worry me.
Then everything had to be replaced,
and I forgot about being a king.
One future was traumatic enough.
Forests of the Imagination
My Picture: Mekong River, Vietnam
I walked outside today,
something from far off it seemed.
Nobody was talking to each other,
and yet
nobody seemed unhappy.
I found myself by a rapid, roaring
river,
a silent spirit broken.
Hiding itself
underneath its lonely cave.
The fish, unfed for days
wasting away.
And yet….
still concerned about their
autumn splendor.
In this place,
I am a stranger.
Nothing to guide me through this silence
or mist of faded smiles and tears.
Where is all the inspiration now,
and yearnings after beauty.
To spin with words of wonder,
that is my only hope.
A drifting fragrance
My Picture: A bird landed on my windowsill …a caught moment.
Sometimes I feel lost,
a place far off it seems.
Hidden by endless
autumns of traditions,
and demanding something deeper.
Five hours this afternoon,
sending documents and
talking on QQ.
Trying to wake them
from the dreaming forest.
Memorizing or creative thinking,
Who cares….
Not Jenifer Aniston
or Kate Winslet.
They are shown on high
definition screens
24 hours a day, on endless repeat.
Each new thought being lost,
and stretched far behind.
This is deep and secret to me.
A failed drifting fragrance,
from a time before the new age.
And I wonder…
where have the wrong turns been made?
A Supermarket in Xinxiang
A plant I bought from the supermarket
A Wandering Poet 