The Voice of the Cicadas

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My Picture

It’s the edge of the world,
and I am tired.
The sound of water
says what it thinks.

Fish are walking
and sparrows singing.
Too often hinting of past things,
how far-off they are!

The moon taps at the window,
tap, tap, tap…..
Searching for the spotlight,
a slatted loneliness.

By the mountains, graceful
a kite ascends…
As the wind beats the wind,
pitying a lonely cicada voice.

Afterglow

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My Picture: A accident on the way home this evening…our coach hit a car…all is well…but the fragility of life is all around us.

He sung this song

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child….. a long way from home…..

It took me back…..

Apples….. bruised apples

late October’s final song

an old dog by a cracking fire

nursed toward a loving light

grasping at the sky

even your life is tender

And then the call is made

a dull material world

numbed by mouth

and the song…..

‘call my brother…….’

How to spend a Sunday

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A picture sent to me by a friend yesterday.

Before sleeping I often consider
what I would do, what to be the next day.

Shall I be a mother, beautiful and delicious… flying kites in the park
as the sun sets on another unrequited day?

Shall I be a teacher, not much interested in another awakening
of a long dead language to come?

Shall I be a writer trying to meet others as lonely as myself?

Sometimes there is a strange justice, working for something….

So, I marked some English papers…..
I am exactly what I am supposed to be.

China dream

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My Picture

A dog watches me,
across a busy road
across our age and
difference.

Tree-by-tree,
the winter fog fades.
By song alone,
a spot of sunlight.

When I hear it,
I’m older now.
The wind that brought me
here, goes on.
Surrounding my bones.

Interrogative Blues

My Pictures

Steve Reich in class today,
blowing in 18 musicians.
Discordant……
harsh and jarring…..
a lost harmony.

But I could see,
a blues haiku
entwined in my mind……
switch them awake.

Structure without structure…..
a Bukowski moment,
how to teach writing
to lit up heads…….

Slow bloom inside you
memories of failure,
turning….. glowing….. humming.
A lost phase……
and slow motion sound.

Too long this sense of obligation
and solitary existence.
But then again……a timid word
emerges from this despair.
A first line together…maybe.

A woman’s day

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My Picture: Local Artist Painting, Vietnam.

Each girl walks with a boy,

but no one feels the fire at  3 pm.

Bathed in sunlight, for now

Yet soon the winter winds of Harbin

will caress their hair.

And lead them in a contracted dance

bounding the battered, shell-like dreams.

Button-bright eyes quietly growing,

an awkward bend of recognition.

How strange, how different

this parody of life and death…..

compared to running before this dull life, slowly realized.

A brief moment skimming the clouds,

then disappeared.

Falling through branches

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My Picture

Across the frozen field,
a horse breath.
I hear a chime of bells…
a table for one.

Paper flowers,
the old songs
and words we can’t recall.
The poet is out of rhythm.

Hospital waiting rooms,
and jazz in the park.
A mother’s cowlick
squawks the moment.

Walking sticks are left
dropped into a hole.
Foreigners are talking
to a young dog, barking.

A tired flagpole slumbers,
reflecting the new world order.
Bars with under-age concubines
proclaim business as usual.

Growing quiet and suddenly still,
I can see the rice fields glow.
Shyly spreading wispy memories,
with broken and dark stained teeth.

Birds and Flight

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My Picture: Some friends I met in Xiahe in Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu, China.

A deep black satin of the night…
happy hour……
nourishes these broken crowns
…..and words outside their usual habitations.

The only know language
a whipped-up, fading cobalt sky
….and traces of thought
as thin as pins.

And as the girl settles her garments,
a spider with a hidden sting…..
spark fast the blackness of the night.
Like the days before rock and roll
…..and syncopates of love.

Journey to Work

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My Picture: ‘Roasting Nuts: Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China.

Neil Young
was singing about saving the world,
and how to burn love.
The trees looked bare,
behind life looked unpainted.

Xinyun bus, number 25
passed by…..
windows blacked out.
The air hung lowly…..
we need to call the cops…..it will never stop.

Another ‘jam’ but no music,
just people walking away.
So…I got out….
and danced like a giant down the road.

Swift for them I disappeared…..
and then they stopped, as lonely as a poet.
It’s only 7:30 am…..and the cops are late……
How did it come to this?