A poem reflecting on the last three months of my life in Taiwan.

Horns and whistles
and moving clouds.
High-rise buildings
marinating in the
mid-day sun.
The air full of fire dust,
and small weeds
are soldiers sent to
the front.

When I look around,
the trees stand
and have nothing to do.
A childlike wisdom, strong
with effeminate voices.
A people, embraced
by a tribe.

hdrpl

A poem I just wrote, walking in the city

Three months
on this island,
and still the
farthest distance
from my heart.
Tonight, I will walk
to the seashore
or maybe a temple.
As a child, riding
a water buffalo.
Trying to feel
the wind, and follow.

qrf

There must be light
and sweet blossoms,
good enough to drink with wine.
To face the tears,
that drift across the sea.
And muted voices,
blind like owl’s in daytime.

Lucky for me,
I ended up in this place –
murmuring to myself.
As if bewitched by island sharman,
curbing the imminent chill.

A poem I wrote after seeing some news from home.

A Steve Reich day,
loop after loop
and only three steps.
I said no words,
time is collapsing.
Somewhere, beyond
the grey – a magpie for sacrifice.
Calling to a temple,
and wandering
‘who will lead the way?’

rpt

qrf

A picture and poem from a walk to the town centre . A reflection on this time in history.

The debris flows,
suffocates our breath.
A daily humiliation,
and pain all the way back
to the wilderness.

Long shadows,
through dead forests
and quite scholyards.
Just strategic misspellings,
with no paragraphs.

Yet, embraced in deep love
a time to overcome.
A new years parade,
beneath the dancing beast–
and feet of men.

A distant virga
and a coyote choir.
Shows its face
in the spring grass.

The needle, the code
and buffalo bones.
Still a strict rhyme,
in this prison graveyard.

In a dream,
Dylan’s ‘Times They Are A -Changin’,
for sale.                                                    For $2.2 million.
Clouds in a human eye,
fractured beyond repair.
The stuff that dreams are made of.
And nothing,
I didn’t know before.

It’s a tricky situation,
the dead come apart
and the rains of spring stall.
A thousand stories
sparkle on You Tube.
Egg-shell thick,
and fast coiling.
Another midwinter gloom,
down to the bones.
Now, the rain has come –
a late expression of humanity.

A short poem and drawing.

A cosmic glow,
of flowering seas
For those left behind.
A time now to overcome.
Fly lonely bird,
my sea spirits wait.

“Go away” she said
…. “it’s not your day”
Yet, here I’m still sad
and nymphaeaceae
storm my brain.
Each day mumbling
a rosy gratitude.
Heavy with everything,
except your love.