A picture sent to me by a friend yesterday.
How to spend a Sunday
Blogging
Sunday Morning II
My Picture: River Fen, Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
Big wheel spinning round and round
a sketchy truth about the finer things.
Spring grasses echo a brave soldiers dream,
life forms in places our fingers and lips touch.
Memories firmly held….. grown up without symbols
fire burns the cracks….. passing time.
Fela Kuti flies the eagles, lonely as the poet
a few lines scratched….. by night.
Writing is weighing, a greater void left behind
‘Don’t be stingy with the whisky’…said Bukowski
Call it gray and call it tired, but also call it life.
It’s late, and few want to learn to dance.
In the morning, new mercies I see
as humble yellow hands reach out to me.
Thoughts in a silent cafe
My Pictures: Taken today.
Sometimes it is difficult to straighten
my saddened thoughts.
I make my bed, drink some coffee
and catch up on the world.
But it is not always enough.
I muddle through the day
swimming upwards, backwards
and from time-to time
finding moments to write
and see things differently.
On occasions I read Bukowski,
then I realize that things could be worse.
So I read Dickinson,
to find a tangible mind and spirit.
In the end, my thinking
always seems to end up in another room.
A landscape of the spirit,
blue sky and thinking open mind.
Summer grass
A picture sent to me by a student.
Winter numbness
with clouded eyes,
memories full of the past.
A passing songbird
on a blazing street side,
still sadly the heart beats.
And yet I see the old dog,
a dawns light betrayed by the past.
Still hopeful of life floated above.
Somber moments and dreams
brisk departure, echo another day
and sooner the sun.
Winter–lull
My Picture: A book I found in a cafe in Xinxiang today.
Alone at 3 am.
A droll moon…..
because of the silent snow,
chews a hole to the sky.
An icicle drifting through
the morning coolness,
floats away through
the street dust.
Deep in my notebook,
the to and fro of a
lake of the mind.
Silence as the
dancing moon shadows,
and nothing to doubt.
Christmas Eve
My Picture: Words have magic….
A messenger delivers
and everything I feel.
Big stories, with small bottom lines.
The quite boy with the simple smile.
He never knows what to say
to his mother, who is never satisfied.
The girl with the straight ‘A’s
who does not want to be a doctor,
and hides a dark family secret.
The old man hiding the pain
and fire inside,
consumed by ill-fate and
dragging himself from day-to-day.
A woman who told me
her husband had not kissed
her for eight years…….She
was beautiful.
A cautious loner
who once was a king.
Now he drinks each day,
and shouts at the moon.
Everybody’s searching for them,
everybody’s consumed by them
…and my story?
My eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul….
A voice within
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”
Putting in the Work
‘My Cafe’: Xinxiang, China.
We sat drinking coffee,
both making our way home.
He told me about a lost faith,
and working 17 hours a day.
No proof of skill or
dreams that keep time.
Only a red-eyed wake
each morning.
I thought some jobs you like.
Others are so dreary and pitiless,
they make you want to stay in bed.
And think about the
waitress you met last night.
And if God has a name.
How to disregard me
My Picture: Burnt Scooter – taken today: Xinxiang, Henan, China.
Just tell them I am a frustrated poet,
that swears that he is an atheist,
and hates football.
But even this they did not get.
Just tell them, that
I promise never to listen to AC/DC again.
And I swear, I will never, never again read
that alcoholic sexist pig
Bukowski,
at least not for a while…
But even this statement of my ill-intentions
they did not get.
Just tell them,
that I will get back to teaching
cats and dogs, and promise to give more
time and marks for beauty.
After all, every day is judgment day.
And as they drift,
and fade away so slowly.
Some said
“you cannot be a poet”
Even though, I could show it.
Then I realized that I am at their mercy.
And a life on the road seems a good
way to sink into my dreams,
and write my open poetry.
The Indifferent
A Wandering Poet 