Art
Saturday 20th April, 2019
My Picture: Bookshop in the center of Xinxiang. I often go there to think and write.
Well versed in news this morning.
Parades are plentiful in Belfast,
a murdered journalist and omens from above.
What makes you think they will love you?
Elections in the Ukraine, jokers among the pack.
The crowd shouts ‘Why did the chicken cross the road”
But the joke isn’t funny anymore,
when ladder days are every day.
The BBC tells me that we have 12 years to save the planet,
but like you mother….. you can’t always trust the BBC.
So, all eyes to the heavens and silence on command.
As the desert moon probe crashes again, again and again.
Outside, in small towns a stream of voices shouts
“We’re innocent ….think of our children…..”
But nobody thinks of the children anymore,
it’s all on you.
In the end, I decided to sleep tight and be thankful.
Maybe I will write to complain about all the fake news on TV,
just like before.
Or listen to the midnight fear,
and the bells ringing in Washington, Belfast and Caracas.
The nearest thing to being alive, this morning.
The death of Fish
My Picture: Taken today in Anyang City, Henan, China.
Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture.
Frantically whipping-up
the crisis below, unseen.
A tarnished bitter shame,
and freeze frame once more.
And the empty plastic bottles,
that cry like tears.
Surrounding the place
with their uselessness.
And nobody minded at all.
So, I went home and took a shower
with love and everything.
The heat turned up listening to AC/DC,
splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place.
I think this will be good for the fish.
Wounds of Time
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My Pictures
And so
I drank my coffee
ate the carrot cake
Ms. Gu gave me.
Coffee
Cake
Ms. Gu
To a sound
of
‘The Carpenters’
attempting to mend love.
I listened
and
stared….
The young man called me ‘uncle’
“Have you ever been old” I asked.
But I think it was lost in translation.
But now ‘The Carpenters’,
a taste of wet gold
and fingers in the ashes.
And all around
dreams of that perfect love,
horses with gentleman.
And homemade carrot cake.
No birds this morning
My Picture
As it starts to clear,
and aged mirror for us all.
Empty car park spaces,
in the morning shadow.
Speed limits rarely broken.
A closed soft sun,
hidden by fog familiar words
and silence from friends.
A slight chill and common sound
…. and the colours too.
Rest for me
My Picture
What’s so wrong with this night?
Sky, moon and stars
all saying nothing.
And the clouds,
they often have something to say.
Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.
Now hunched over art
eyes shut and silent.
Till death comes knocking at their door.
No noise, this time is uttered.
Out there, tends to diminish
a release of pleasure….. here to stay
An aged mirror, for us all
or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts?
So what’s so wrong with this night…..
I have loved forever
My Picture: Statue outside my apartment complex, Xinxiang, China.
A cold shoulder,
darkness silently screaming.
Yet, not lost
and feeling accepted.
A paper-weight
blow about.
Sleeping, walking
what else is life’s dream!
Slants of light slip away,
almost knowing.
Life sees life
none can teach it.
Teaching poetry in Vietnam
My Picture.: A gallery I visited in Ho Chi Minh City…a collective of local artists.
Big wheels turn round and around,
live it our way and live it long.
Lights going down, never satisfied
a first faint line without substance.
Midnight valentines shooting the moon,
following snake tracks on the road.
Clipped roses litter the ground
and blind birds drink from a dark puddle.
Something in the way it all moves.
A night walk slowly approaching, open in hunger.
Dark against the near dawn,
filling the corners with light.
A moments decline
My Picture
Uncertainty,
trotting timid minds out
in a closed space.
A pale gray train appears
stirred empty on the silent outskirts,
proclaiming a second coming.
His life, a kind of a freeze frame
a non-thinking matter.
Smothering the earth with a fast silver-whitewash
Not too unpleasant, these days.
The beauty and fun of it all,
a quick free trip with no return.
Understanding
A picture sent to me by a friend in England.
A Wandering Poet 