My picture: A simple drawing
Me, you and sorrow
Vietnam
Rejected
My Picture of my picture
My poetry was rejected this morning,
early morning China time.
A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated
……facing a long and uninventive day.
The magazine gave no reasons,
just the manner of things
No emotions…..
“We have decide not to keep your poems”
The curious thing for me
was that, I felt in good company.
Bukowski was rejected most days,
and Dickinson almost never published.
They just left large droppings of their lives, all around.
For people like me to pick-up,
in between reading Camus and Chomsky…..
spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.
So, I made some coffee, drew a picture
and wrote a poem.
Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me.
A concrete man, then the real morning began.
Two worlds collide
My Picture: TianNing Pagoda in Anyang…almost a 1000 years old…..taken yesterday on a trip to the city. A contrast between old and new….which reflects a discourse in China and the world….
She was given the world
one long shot into the darkness.
Laughing at the moon
more sound than song.
Now gasping for air,
so much she couldn’t see.
This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA.
And we stay in our worlds.
The death of Fish
My Picture: Taken today in Anyang City, Henan, China.
Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture.
Frantically whipping-up
the crisis below, unseen.
A tarnished bitter shame,
and freeze frame once more.
And the empty plastic bottles,
that cry like tears.
Surrounding the place
with their uselessness.
And nobody minded at all.
So, I went home and took a shower
with love and everything.
The heat turned up listening to AC/DC,
splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place.
I think this will be good for the fish.
Wounds of Time
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My Pictures
And so
I drank my coffee
ate the carrot cake
Ms. Gu gave me.
Coffee
Cake
Ms. Gu
To a sound
of
‘The Carpenters’
attempting to mend love.
I listened
and
stared….
The young man called me ‘uncle’
“Have you ever been old” I asked.
But I think it was lost in translation.
But now ‘The Carpenters’,
a taste of wet gold
and fingers in the ashes.
And all around
dreams of that perfect love,
horses with gentleman.
And homemade carrot cake.
Black Hole
https://www.wired.com/story/scientists-reveal-the-first-picture-of-a-black-hole/
I woke this morning to darkness visible,
a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands.
Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed……..
I wonder what is beyond….
A voice from the depths of nothingness,
who cried in pain for a long time searching.
A life…before it bursts……
It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.
No birds this morning
My Picture
As it starts to clear,
and aged mirror for us all.
Empty car park spaces,
in the morning shadow.
Speed limits rarely broken.
A closed soft sun,
hidden by fog familiar words
and silence from friends.
A slight chill and common sound
…. and the colours too.
Rest for me
My Picture
What’s so wrong with this night?
Sky, moon and stars
all saying nothing.
And the clouds,
they often have something to say.
Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.
Now hunched over art
eyes shut and silent.
Till death comes knocking at their door.
No noise, this time is uttered.
Out there, tends to diminish
a release of pleasure….. here to stay
An aged mirror, for us all
or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts?
So what’s so wrong with this night…..
You understand?
My Picture
I once followed the seasons,
pleasant souls to celebrate.
In motion, wings of memories
back and forth.
Now, there are no seasons…..
only one…..
To survive the guts and spillage of glances smiling,
once fashioned there.
In helpless, grim fascination
I watch every sunrise and sunset.
A slight depression in the ground,
and a blushing sun turned to rust.
Now the eerie, cold and delicate sounds
pound my body through this growing landscape.
And dance alone in the high, morning sun.
The nearest thing to being alive….. today.
Dreams left behind
My Picture: Tablecloth in a coffee bar I frequent.
I sat down for coffee,
in the shadow of a Xinxiang sky.
Without effort, I watched
people talk with their phones
hoping to make the moment work.
A young woman is making herself
look pretty, for a selfie……
trying to take off her unbecoming frown.
She seems to be struggling, I want to help
but she may misunderstand my motives.
She….is already pretty
beautiful black hair, shiny, as straight as can be
with a pick bow half- lost in an aimless flight.
Her lips as red as a rose, with all the allure
of a fleeting symbol of life.
Then, I left for home
bowing to the faint rays of light and sunset crosses.
Strange place, I thought
but no sadness on this day, at least.
A Wandering Poet 