Across the ridge

4th Jan 2019 / Rugby Lion / 3 Comments

My Picture: Taken this evening Xinxiang Medical University, China.

Fog….. sitting here
without the trees.
A deserted basketball court,
wind weeping through the hoops.

And in the distance,
the train to Beijing picks up speed.
Dragging the night stars out
one by one
….. by one.

Last Images of the Year

31st Dec 201831st Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / 3 Comments

My Pictures: Sun setting in Xinxiang, Henan Province , China.

The last day of the year
was cold……another art form lost in translation.
And hardly anything as beautiful
as the sun setting in Xinxiang.

I went for coffee with my friend.
We drank and talked about the picture
of Kurt Cobain on the wall,
and how he blew his brains out.

I told her that Hemingway
went the same way.
And that he was a concrete man.

The girl next to us told me to “be quite”,
she felt I was too loud.
I answered in the negative, and told her
“This is my world as well”.
It was only a moment.

Soon we will both be asleep
and only the shadows will remain
For some reason, I thought of Guernica
and dreams falling from the sky.

So I wished my friend a
‘Happy New Year’, and suggested that she
read more Bukowski next year.

Shadow King

28th Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Christmas Day Fishing – River Wei , Xinxiang, China.

Shadows cast by the street lights,
and a world taken for granted.
Haunt time walking by the river,
and the lateness of the world.

This is one picture, a second
ripped from the concepts of a life.
But one that each morning
rises and sinks again.

Each moment cast, held together
by lingering strands of hope
as only harsh things can.
Recalled and revised for another gathering.

Sailing on the yellow river

23rd Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: I held a small Christmas Party tonight….a gift from a students mother….

Before the winter fire
and shrill midnight cries.
I craved nothing.

Then the hunters silence
and fickle friends leaving,
surrounded my bones.

At the brink
an unseen bird sang
from the tree shadow.

I knew then of the road
not yet taken,
and some of the silence is me.

The language of medicine

21st Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: The end of the flowers…..

It’s windy in the courtyard,
but I can still hear
the chatter of the hour glass people.
A decade of things past,
like a winter night’s dream.
But a few aged words
will see me through the night,
and the world cloaked in moonlight frost.

Lagos Blues

17th Dec 201817th Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Picture: http://eyeswiredopen.blogspot.com

‘Mr. Follow, Follow’
Said Mr. Kuti…
Words a thousand years old,
now conspired with other creatures
to remain silent.
Sounds that echoed the senses,
now alternate passions
with your mouth closed and pen retired.

‘If you cannot create
how can you pay back?’
asked Mr. Kuti
Just follow, follow……..
the pained thoughts found
and close those eyes.

New Beginning

3rd Dec 20183rd Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Angus Young

I dreamt last night that I was Angus Young,
and then I was Bruce Springsteen
suspended in my masquerade
and open to pain.

Then, I saw you
as eyes should see you at last.
The way I wanted to see you,
a key to the universe…..
a beginning quietly forming.

A voice within

1st Dec 2018 / Rugby Lion / 1 Comment

My Picture: Helping a friend…..

The young woman asked me
“Why are you a poet?”
It was not a difficult question to answer.

I told her about the world being silent,
but for the gentle sound of a warming wind and the fluttering rain.

She looked confused.
Her eyes, so expressive
like a dangling drop of dew.

So I told her
“I am just glad to open-up and meet the thoughts of the past”

Romantic Interlude

29th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / 1 Comment

My Picture: Xiahe, Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu , China.

Romance has no part
in my life right now.

It can be cruel and merciless,
especially in another country.

Seasons have come and gone
and whatever the heart,
there seems no use for an aging poet.

There is an outside chance,
in this age of imagination.

At least, a will to love
and a survival to keep.

So, through me
with words that crash on the hard water
and dim lit backstreets,
I will find an answer to this stalled heart.

The tragedy of dreams

27th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Xinxiang, Henan Province, China.

Like most others
I have come through
sadness and
loves deep nights.
And let them have their moments.

Now I see through
the wasted landscape,
and broadcasts
that say nothing.
Lamenting only a
laugh and an echo passing by.

A grey cry of the future,
is enough to make things grow.
And suffer the castigation
of my thinning dreams,
now so quickly dispatched.

Fog….. sitting here without the trees. A deserted basketball court, wind weeping through the hoops.

And in the distance, the train to Beijing picks up speed. Dragging the night stars out one by one ….. by one.

The last day of the year was cold……another art form lost in translation. And hardly anything as beautiful as the sun setting in Xinxiang.

I went for coffee with my friend. We drank and talked about the picture of Kurt Cobain on the wall, and how he blew his brains out.

I told her that Hemingway went the same way. And that he was a concrete man.

The girl next to us told me to “be quite”, she felt I was too loud. I answered in the negative, and told her “This is my world as well”. It was only a moment.

Soon we will both be asleep and only the shadows will remain For some reason, I thought of Guernica and dreams falling from the sky.

So I wished my friend a ‘Happy New Year’, and suggested that she read more Bukowski next year.

Shadows cast by the street lights, and a world taken for granted. Haunt time walking by the river, and the lateness of the world.

This is one picture, a second ripped from the concepts of a life. But one that each morning rises and sinks again.

Each moment cast, held together by lingering strands of hope as only harsh things can. Recalled and revised for another gathering.

It’s windy in the courtyard, but I can still hear the chatter of the hour glass people. A decade of things past, like a winter night’s dream. But a few aged words will see me through the night, and the world cloaked in moonlight frost.

‘Mr. Follow, Follow’ Said Mr. Kuti… Words a thousand years old, now conspired with other creatures to remain silent. Sounds that echoed the senses, now alternate passions with your mouth closed and pen retired.

‘If you cannot create how can you pay back?’ asked Mr. Kuti Just follow, follow…….. the pained thoughts found and close those eyes.

I dreamt last night that I was Angus Young, and then I was Bruce Springsteen suspended in my masquerade and open to pain.

Then, I saw you as eyes should see you at last. The way I wanted to see you, a key to the universe….. a beginning quietly forming.

The young woman asked me “Why are you a poet?” It was not a difficult question to answer.

I told her about the world being silent, but for the gentle sound of a warming wind and the fluttering rain.

She looked confused. Her eyes, so expressive like a dangling drop of dew.

So I told her “I am just glad to open-up and meet the thoughts of the past”

Romance has no part in my life right now.

It can be cruel and merciless, especially in another country.

Seasons have come and gone and whatever the heart, there seems no use for an aging poet.

There is an outside chance, in this age of imagination.

At least, a will to love and a survival to keep.

So, through me with words that crash on the hard water and dim lit backstreets, I will find an answer to this stalled heart.

Like most others I have come through sadness and loves deep nights. And let them have their moments.

Now I see through the wasted landscape, and broadcasts that say nothing. Lamenting only a laugh and an echo passing by. A grey cry of the future, is enough to make things grow. And suffer the castigation of my thinning dreams, now so quickly dispatched.