My picture of my drawing.
Strange cat
Vietnam
Last days of a poet
My pictures: I have become interested in surrealism poetry….the writers use the unconscious mind to explain rational life. To free the imagination, poets use a variety of techniques that liberate the mind of conscious control…so …an attempt……
I first saw the dog, then the rabbit.
It seemed I could not keep up.
Out in the sky everyone was sleeping
sleeping, always sleeping.
The dog spoke first
“Be careful, life is not a dream”.
I thought one day spiders will take refuge,
in the eyes of the dogs…. from bitter wounds on fire.
And butterflies rise from the dead,
to count each beat.
That would be something.
Life while – you – wait
My Picture: Anyang, Henan Province, China.
This spring
with age and growing old.
A cloud, a bird
and beauty of youth.
Hide the moon, a gaping hole
and a loss too soon.
In loitered form
a glimpse of death’s grinning face,
filled with anxious, mounting fear.
For a soul filled and let fly,
here’s to spring memories.
So many lives in one day
I saw the pictures.
Shoes without children,
blood stained streets.
A world falling apart,
all in the name of God.
From some place, far away
they bury their dead, again, again and again.
I’m in deep sorrow, a bleak house
to see blood…..so random washed away.
Unknowing to the end.
Forget one, and then another.
We live with toy disasters
and lands that know lots of no news.
The earth soiled, once again
a touching without being touched.
Saturday 20th April, 2019
My Picture: Bookshop in the center of Xinxiang. I often go there to think and write.
Well versed in news this morning.
Parades are plentiful in Belfast,
a murdered journalist and omens from above.
What makes you think they will love you?
Elections in the Ukraine, jokers among the pack.
The crowd shouts ‘Why did the chicken cross the road”
But the joke isn’t funny anymore,
when ladder days are every day.
The BBC tells me that we have 12 years to save the planet,
but like you mother….. you can’t always trust the BBC.
So, all eyes to the heavens and silence on command.
As the desert moon probe crashes again, again and again.
Outside, in small towns a stream of voices shouts
“We’re innocent ….think of our children…..”
But nobody thinks of the children anymore,
it’s all on you.
In the end, I decided to sleep tight and be thankful.
Maybe I will write to complain about all the fake news on TV,
just like before.
Or listen to the midnight fear,
and the bells ringing in Washington, Belfast and Caracas.
The nearest thing to being alive, this morning.
This Easter Day
A picture sent to me by a friend in England…..his son on Easter morning.
Rain clouds conducting rhythm.
April fools, all around.
The daffodils wilting in sight of spring,
an early morning warmed.
And down this dusty road
words will make you a lemonade sun,
on this Easter day.
Georg Simmel
My picture: A wonderful gift from a friend….The design of the pen is based on the ideas of the German philosopher Georg Simmel.
“What is nature
…..what is society?”
I asked my friend as I looked at the pen,
a gift across the divide.
He was unsure what I was talking about…..
a pen based on social boundaries and sense.
A name….. Georg Simmel
from those never knowing, so I explained.
“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern
harbours of eternal silences….”
But he was slowly drifting away,
another ladder day.
The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence,
blew across the room and opened a familiar door
…..a semi -permanent thing.
Sleeping Beautiful
My pictures: Sent to some of my students who have an exam next week…..motivational.
In the margins of sleep,
I think of apoptosis and narcosis.
Patches of every drop of life,
undulating in silence and
gathering here every day.
Welcome to happy hour,
secreted fillers of flesh.
Those terminal moments,
on lungs and breasts
a cure for the urban blues.
A letter
My picture…a friend gave me a letter today…..
The letter was beautiful,
written in English.
A freeway of thoughts
and heartfelt emotions.
Like a closet being opened
to another world……
an earth therapy tugging at the future.
It is easy to think the world is shrinking,
and the mountains just repeat themselves…… for the few that
can still keep a straight face.
Yes, the world is smaller
but across those darkened skies
– a prelude to the awkward moments….
Words of magic and an acorn at the foot of an oak tree…. the future colds of winter.
Sanquan moment
My picture: Taken this morning.
A Wandering Poet 