Sweet memories


Do you remember the
merry-go-round by the pier.
Your hair waving in
a wind of colours.
You tantalized me
with your smell of happiness.
I shook at the touch of fresh flesh.
My pale skin tone beginning to blush.
In another place, the sad wind
continued to slaughter the sweet
sounds of the cicadas.
But I was only concerned,
with kissing the tears of
happiness from your eyes.
And washing you all over,
with my words.

A moment in and out of time


I walked around the city,
trying to find the temple.
North and south, east and west.
I though there must be a Buddha
somewhere in this place.
Whilst searching for the temple,
I decided to search for meaning.
But I ended up just as lost.
Then, as if by magic,
there was the temple.
A distraction fit
on a hot summer’s day.
But it was closed.
What blue, I thought-
looking at my old tired feet.
So, I called the burning sky
and the loneliness of
a wandering poet.
Silently, a bird flew
into the empty street.
In one shrill cry, everything
appeared in summer clothes.
And once again, I was able
to find my way home.

Walk with me


​Walking just walking.
Ten thousand steps, already.
The answer comes to me.
Along the road goes no one.
In a moment,
a dragonfly passes by.
And I can hear the
sound of prayer drums
from Báimǎ Sì.
As my life, begins again.

July days in Luoyang


I am for the open streets.
The peoples face
caressed by the breeze.
And the butterflies,
with halcyon wing –
who tune the rivers flow.
Such are the spells,
that end those mournful days.
And claim a kinship,
with the sky, the people
and the butterflies.

The ghosts of summer​


​Is there the clarity of a sky –
​or just the billows of summer?
​In hot weather ghosts are
unthinkable – but they are here.
​Skins smocked with heat-rash
​and words we no longer believe.
​As Bukowski said – it is just a
​tale of ordinary madness.
​And I think, no one really cares
​about ghosts anyway.

Addressing the fog


I left, a white indifferent sky.
A simple place, if you want
to stand by the road, and wait.
Did you see me, as I passed you by?
A Manchester peat- bog of memory.
On his way to find Buddha.
And leaving behind, a magpie
hectoring from its nest.
And that white indifferent sky.

What will you remember?


When you hear thunder.
Will you remember:
that all I wanted was words.
Honest words.
Rippling around our sky,
until they become
pleasures of the mind.
I think not.
But, at least the
flowers wave and nod.
A passing breeze, leaving
their love upon my forehead.

Distant hills echo


​Unable too say goodbye,
your breath freezes
like fine lace.
I leave, with strength
and words of love
from my soul.
And while the clouds
hide the sun from sight.
There is no better home,
that sad memory’s forgotten.
And a woman to call my own.