My Picture. Hue War Museum, Vietnam.
The Beauty of War
A trip on the Mekong
My Picture: The Mekong River, Vietnam.
The Mekong River, an evergreen
coconut land.
A tasteful me of Vietnam.
Sleepy river towns pass by.
Uprooted trees, uprooted country
swept downstream by hopes
of a better life.
Bamboo fish traps rest on the bank.
Naked children play in the muddy water.
Wet hair and wooden paddles in their hands,
chasing the fish that escape.
The hired longboat pilot smoked
his last cigarette, and pointed
to the rooftops of the buildings.
Each dotted with red satellite dishes,
sitting side by side with the dark spiders
and crocodile lizards.
My Picture: The Mekong
The slender wooden beams of the stilt houses,
that fill the dreams of the poor and the
tourists pass by.
Skinny and dark as mosquitoes that turn
the southern sky green.
A county built on stilt legs
and fireflies that come and go.
And a river once full of sadness
and companions lost in love.
Now cries a different life.
A life of flesh and security of bone.
Of a Dollar and a soul adjourned
for a future time.
And “Vietnam” is their only reply.
Hanoi Tales
Women of Vietnam
What is life for you?
One bitterness
One sadness
and one of joy.
Full of breath
and hope kissed.
Each day your burn
to give us light.
To give to me.
Your tears as heavy
as the human body.
And hastily washed away.
The Streets of Hanoi
I am sleepy now.
Too many hours walking
the streets of Hanoi.
Dull reflections on
Hoan Kiem Lake.
I would rather a life of poetry.
Than bashing about these
timid days without a breeze.
And little comfort in passing.
First Morning in Hanoi
My Picture: First Morning: Outside My Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam.
Motorbikes and scooters
rough miles in the city,
a grinning vice of ever sound.
Women bearing baskets
of strange coloured fruits.
And war heroes carrying
bundles of fake t-shirts
to market.
Slip-slap, slip-slap
the sound of the sandaled
street walkers.
Holding their babies
and selling cheap fans,
made in China.
Young girls crushed with eyeliner,
smile as I pass.
And stray cats strut their tails
in acts of defiance.
A lone saxophonist plays
in a back ally
“I think is Coltrane”
Said the tourist
and smiled anyway.
So I listened to the solo,
invading the city.
Life is on the street in Hanoi.
Vietnam
My Picture: Hoi An: Vietnam
I recently took a ‘road trip’ in Vietnam. I started in Hanoi in the North and after a month of traveling arrived in Ho Chi Minh City in the South.
To fall ‘in-love’ with Vietnam and the Vietnamese people…..was easy for me. With its dramatic landscapes, fascinating history, epic food, pulsating energy and kind and helpful people…it is a country that created many indelible memories for me.
So as I traveled I was able to write some poems…poems about moments, people, places and about just ‘being’ in a culture, a country, a place that I had never experienced before. The next few poems I post will reflect this journey for me.
I hope you enjoy some of them.
Remnants
A picture I took: River Fen: Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province. China.
On this early morning
the clouds are listless
and foreign shone.
The street cleaners,
bent to the wind
sweep away the
faded remnants from
jubilant patriotic days.
An old man is placed outside,
a thousand days before.
Still left with lonely regret.
He learnt the secrets
of distance long ago.
The radio switched
to a distant broadcast.
Plays the lopped faded voices
from mountain retreats,
that talk of days of flags
and queens.
And Autumn traps
the fading light.
A wakened echo that once
held a mighty rage.
Sunday Afternoon
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.
Meeting Emily Dickinson
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.
A Life Through Colours
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.
Night fishing
A Wandering Poet 