Who Was I Before You?

16th Sep 201816th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Wei River Winter 2018, Xinxiang, Henan Province, China

The sun dimly white and thin
hangs over the Xinxiang rooftops.
Frozen thoughts swim
to the dry banks of the Wei River.
Locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever?
A constant companion sang the cat.
A perfect octave in a moment of intervals,
between margins of half-heard music
and the last light of unclear whispers.

Now the days and nights are wounded.
A hallmark of all the hidden places.
Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed,
something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window,
I can see clouds breaking the morning.
Turning to see your shy-flushed face,
that carries the shreds of a dream
that I can’t remember.
Delicate spaces between us
separate me from the world.

Thin Dreams

16th Sep 201816th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Xiahe :Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu province, the People’s Republic of China

In came to me in red rainbow dreams
and Rochdale girls that buy beauty.
A picture of Che and the
East Sea winds of Qiu Jin.
A spirit and passion born.

Some said this was a wasted landscape.
My history teacher, too weak to carry on
and full of thinning dreams.
Told me “Just partake with others”

Now, cold in the delicate snow
the poets are silent.
Dying and dying with no reason to make things grow.
Bruised and bloody and beating a course
of sound and sense.
A few frozen snapshots and secret codes.

The idle and the lazy all dazzling with moonlight.
Left hanging and ashamed of saying nothing.
And the Rochdale girls, no longer productive.
Look for the dead poets
And the Beat’s flowering of days gone by.

The Last Time I felt Love

16th Sep 201816th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Woman’ by Bich Ngoc (Vietnamese artist)

I know that some morning
when the skyline is set.
And the white over white clouds
break up and reform.
I will turn over and see you there.

My fingers, a spin daze of
nervous ecstasy.
Will rifle through your soft
clean black hair.
The thinnest slither of the moon

A song that I have not heard
for so long.
The dips and spills of
a churned-up dance.
Patterns unpicked,
a long wave opening.

Lost and silent conversations.

16th Sep 201816th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

ERiver Fen, Taiyuan City. Shanxi Province, Chinanter a caption

Once by the banks of the River Fen,
nothing fell out of place.
You told me that you did not like AC/DC,
but we agreed it was hard in this city for
two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever,
a gentle breeze played with falling leaves.
Creating landscapes of spilled remnants.
But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings
and counterfeit trees, and wondered
about sound and silence.
And if human memories always find empty spaces,
in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.

Now, a portrait of a moment, singular and more

The Journey Begins

14th Sep 201816th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Welcome to my poetry site.

A small corner of the web in which I post my poems.

Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions, opinions or thoughts.

“I’m Nobody! Who are you? – Emily Dickinson

‘Me’: By the Fen River: Taiyuan City. Shanxi Province, China (2018)

A Wandering Poet

As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.

Who Was I Before You?

The sun dimly white and thin
hangs over the Xinxiang rooftops.
Frozen thoughts swim
to the dry banks of the Wei River.
Locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever?
A constant companion sang the cat.
A perfect octave in a moment of intervals,
between margins of half-heard music
and the last light of unclear whispers.

Now the days and nights are wounded.
A hallmark of all the hidden places.
Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed,
something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window,
I can see clouds breaking the morning.
Turning to see your shy-flushed face,
that carries the shreds of a dream
that I can’t remember.
Delicate spaces between us
separate me from the world.

Thin Dreams

In came to me in red rainbow dreams
and Rochdale girls that buy beauty.
A picture of Che and the
East Sea winds of Qiu Jin.
A spirit and passion born.

Some said this was a wasted landscape.
My history teacher, too weak to carry on
and full of thinning dreams.
Told me “Just partake with others”

Now, cold in the delicate snow
the poets are silent.
Dying and dying with no reason to make things grow.
Bruised and bloody and beating a course
of sound and sense.
A few frozen snapshots and secret codes.

The idle and the lazy all dazzling with moonlight.
Left hanging and ashamed of saying nothing.
And the Rochdale girls, no longer productive.
Look for the dead poets
And the Beat’s flowering of days gone by.

The Last Time I felt Love

I know that some morning
when the skyline is set.
And the white over white clouds
break up and reform.
I will turn over and see you there.

My fingers, a spin daze of
nervous ecstasy.
Will rifle through your soft
clean black hair.
The thinnest slither of the moon

A song that I have not heard
for so long.
The dips and spills of
a churned-up dance.
Patterns unpicked,
a long wave opening.

Lost and silent conversations.

Once by the banks of the River Fen,
nothing fell out of place.
You told me that you did not like AC/DC,
but we agreed it was hard in this city for
two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever,
a gentle breeze played with falling leaves.
Creating landscapes of spilled remnants.
But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings
and counterfeit trees, and wondered
about sound and silence.
And if human memories always find empty spaces,
in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.

Now, a portrait of a moment, singular and more

The Journey Begins

Welcome to my poetry site.

The sun dimly white and thin hangs over the Xinxiang rooftops. Frozen thoughts swim to the dry banks of the Wei River. Locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever? A constant companion sang the cat. A perfect octave in a moment of intervals, between margins of half-heard music and the last light of unclear whispers.

Now the days and nights are wounded. A hallmark of all the hidden places. Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed, something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window, I can see clouds breaking the morning. Turning to see your shy-flushed face, that carries the shreds of a dream that I can’t remember. Delicate spaces between us separate me from the world.

In came to me in red rainbow dreams and Rochdale girls that buy beauty. A picture of Che and the East Sea winds of Qiu Jin. A spirit and passion born.

Some said this was a wasted landscape. My history teacher, too weak to carry on and full of thinning dreams. Told me “Just partake with others”

Now, cold in the delicate snow the poets are silent. Dying and dying with no reason to make things grow. Bruised and bloody and beating a course of sound and sense. A few frozen snapshots and secret codes.

The idle and the lazy all dazzling with moonlight. Left hanging and ashamed of saying nothing. And the Rochdale girls, no longer productive. Look for the dead poets And the Beat’s flowering of days gone by.

I know that some morning when the skyline is set. And the white over white clouds break up and reform. I will turn over and see you there.

My fingers, a spin daze of nervous ecstasy. Will rifle through your soft clean black hair. The thinnest slither of the moon

A song that I have not heard for so long. The dips and spills of a churned-up dance. Patterns unpicked, a long wave opening.

Once by the banks of the River Fen, nothing fell out of place. You told me that you did not like AC/DC, but we agreed it was hard in this city for two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever, a gentle breeze played with falling leaves. Creating landscapes of spilled remnants. But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings and counterfeit trees, and wondered about sound and silence. And if human memories always find empty spaces, in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.

Now, a portrait of a moment, singular and more

Welcome to my poetry site.

The sun dimly white and thin
hangs over the Xinxiang rooftops.
Frozen thoughts swim
to the dry banks of the Wei River.
Locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever?
A constant companion sang the cat.
A perfect octave in a moment of intervals,
between margins of half-heard music
and the last light of unclear whispers.

Now the days and nights are wounded.
A hallmark of all the hidden places.
Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed,
something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window,
I can see clouds breaking the morning.
Turning to see your shy-flushed face,
that carries the shreds of a dream
that I can’t remember.
Delicate spaces between us
separate me from the world.

In came to me in red rainbow dreams
and Rochdale girls that buy beauty.
A picture of Che and the
East Sea winds of Qiu Jin.
A spirit and passion born.

Some said this was a wasted landscape.
My history teacher, too weak to carry on
and full of thinning dreams.
Told me “Just partake with others”

Now, cold in the delicate snow
the poets are silent.
Dying and dying with no reason to make things grow.
Bruised and bloody and beating a course
of sound and sense.
A few frozen snapshots and secret codes.

The idle and the lazy all dazzling with moonlight.
Left hanging and ashamed of saying nothing.
And the Rochdale girls, no longer productive.
Look for the dead poets
And the Beat’s flowering of days gone by.

I know that some morning
when the skyline is set.
And the white over white clouds
break up and reform.
I will turn over and see you there.

My fingers, a spin daze of
nervous ecstasy.
Will rifle through your soft
clean black hair.
The thinnest slither of the moon

A song that I have not heard
for so long.
The dips and spills of
a churned-up dance.
Patterns unpicked,
a long wave opening.

Once by the banks of the River Fen,
nothing fell out of place.
You told me that you did not like AC/DC,
but we agreed it was hard in this city for
two guitars, bass and drums to see the point.

The sun was out and we could see forever,
a gentle breeze played with falling leaves.
Creating landscapes of spilled remnants.
But you told me not to worry, they are just leaves.

We looked at the counterfeit buildings
and counterfeit trees, and wondered
about sound and silence.
And if human memories always find empty spaces,
in places where people no longer hear the buildings sing.