Vietnam is a country that I have enjoyed visiting. I was looking at some picture I took on my last trip. These are pictures of the Mekong River. Reflecting on times on the river, I wrote a poem this morning.
Form on the river
Fresh breeze
rpt
rpt
rpt
I visited a local Buddhist temple yesterday.
On my bed
little by little waking.
All around,
stones in stillness.
Grains of sand, lost,
unknown and fleeting.
Suddenly a gust
raises the deep night.
And I walk to touch
all I see – reaching for
the fleeting sand.
Origin and wisdom imparted.
My task complete,
I return home.
A revisit
Pictures taken this afternoon at a local Buddhist temple
Looking back,
I remember that death
comes in quantity.
I’ve not forgotten
the sorrowful birch,
flushed with the fight – and
bowed to every single passer by.
Indifferent and silent,
as a fox howls.
Smelling the blood.
What I notice about death
I will not die, half hidden
amongst the unwanted dead –
with no I and no other.
At the moment of death,
the morning bells will ring out.
And I will see a young woman,
her red hair an elegant wave –
smiling and always loyal.
A fleeting dream world,
to salve yesterday’s pain.
In this ghastly white, I will
turn to ash – and
to hell with the wind.
Eastward or Westward,
wherever the wind might carry me.
The day is the end of the poets work.
A street with no name
Some pictures I took on my travels and a poem I wrote late last night.
Outside, a faithful dog barks
against the darkness of the time.
But few are listening.
” Go away”, they say –
like a refugee floating
in the water…. “go away”.
In this darkness,
I wonder if white bones care
who bleeds under
the darkening sky.
Since time began
The solitary poet,
loves the river.
Walking raises dark days
and deep nights.
Suddenly, I hear a
single cricket cry.
Then another takes the wind.
At that moment… I know there
is life, yet untouched.
My dream goes wandering
A poem I types this morning
Nights grow short,
barren branches left behind.
From here I will speak to the moon,
and become a spirit.
Because such men,
have no death spot on them.
Just shadows from a lingering sun.
Within your life, and mine.
As lightly as it fades
A picture a friend sent me. A poem I wrote this morning.
You’re crying here,
silence but in darkness.
A thousand poems,
grafted from
the waves at dawn.
My dreams, hold more solitude
than noisy crowds.
A single echo returning
as it came – a life of moon,
sun and flowers.
I’m amazed there’s still
all this space inside me.
A few small wars
A place to drink coffee
and write poems,
the evening has ripened.
Pointing a way home,
a salt wind ripples
across the river.
A beautiful lady
doesn’t see me,
again no words.
What sadness,
confronting the dark
alone.
I heard the sound of raindrops
A Wandering Poet 