Xinxiang. Henan Province, China

It’s raining in Xinxiang.
Nothing but the wild rain.
Still pools outside my apartment,
and listening to ‘Left, Right and Center’
talking about dismay and limited hope
in the Trump Administration.

I’m trying to mark some papers,
But I remember a small town,
shades pulled down and
listening to ‘The Smiths’.

I was young then and there
was no alternative…

Left was Left

And…..

Right was Right.

I knew about the fog or war,
and connecting with silent hunches.
As defense was born in El Salvador, Nicaragua
and old shipyards in Poland.

Now words of mouth go with the wind,
a cobweb of lost poetic credence.
I’m writing now.
And the left are still not happy with the President.

Last night I dreamt about you.
Footprints in the summer dust.
A voice of waves that leaped in time,
a star that shined brightly in the Xinxiang sky.

The dream was brief, always the same distance apart.
And yet, an intimate gift of silence that we knew.

The essence of the dream, dark clouds brooding.
A tiny breeze of purpose and mood.
And yet how still this landscape stands
in placid tones and minds of endless sleep.

Fen River, Taiyuan. Shanxi Province. China

Laden with memories
walking by the Fen.
I saw the dusk and tipsy wind
ride upon the tide.
Living under a white cloud paradise.
And dancing from memories
that still lingered.

Rambling through a life of dreams
and ghosts of distance shrouds.
I watched the day disappear.
And saw your lips, for the touch.

Our hearts once more drawn.
I told myself never to think again
of those lustful haunting days.
And how we longed for something far away.
Listening to each breath we gave.

The River Wei,
Autumn solitude
and a thousand eyes.
A moth-rich summer darkness
that warns the soul.

The slow fat queens,
cold-blooded, green and orange.
Spin and turn gasping for breath.
The last of their sins surrendered.

Flashlights and flasks,
a meditation on a fragile soul.
Chasing the silver fins,
the struggle and the toil.
Forty years of night fishing.

Wei River Winter 2018, Xinxiang, Henan Province, China

The sun dimly white and thin
hangs over the Xinxiang rooftops.
Frozen thoughts swim
to the dry banks of the Wei River.
Locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever?
A constant companion sang the cat.
A perfect octave in a moment of intervals,
between margins of half-heard music
and the last light of unclear whispers.

Now the days and nights are wounded.
A hallmark of all the hidden places.
Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed,
something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window,
I can see clouds breaking the morning.
Turning to see your shy-flushed face,
that carries the shreds of a dream
that I can’t remember.
Delicate spaces between us
separate me from the world.

Xiahe :Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu province, the People’s Republic of China

In came to me in red rainbow dreams
and Rochdale girls that buy beauty.
A picture of Che and the
East Sea winds of Qiu Jin.
A spirit and passion born.

Some said this was a wasted landscape.
My history teacher, too weak to carry on
and full of thinning dreams.
Told me “Just partake with others”

Now, cold in the delicate snow
the poets are silent.
Dying and dying with no reason to make things grow.
Bruised and bloody and beating a course
of sound and sense.
A few frozen snapshots and secret codes.

The idle and the lazy all dazzling with moonlight.
Left hanging and ashamed of saying nothing.
And the Rochdale girls, no longer productive.
Look for the dead poets
And the Beat’s flowering of days gone by.

ERiver Fen, Taiyuan City. Shanxi Province, Chinanter a caption

Once by the banks of the River Fen,
nothing fell out of place.
You told me that you did not like AC/DC,
but we agreed it was hard in this city for
two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever,
a gentle breeze played with falling leaves.
Creating landscapes of spilled remnants.
But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings
and counterfeit trees, and wondered
about sound and silence.
And if human memories always find empty spaces,
in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.

Now, a portrait of a moment, singular and more