My Picture: Frozen River Wei, Xinxiang, China
Cold Mornings
China
Silent Fog
Xinxiang, China: Early this morning
There was fog in the city this morning.
It hung around for a while,
waiting for someone to talk with.
But no one came.
Living under a white
cloud paradise for so long,
they still blamed the fog
for their muffled silence
and loss of spirit.
The fog saw that everything
was dark, and began to howl
at the few passing cars.
But nothing happened.
So the fog moved on.
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.
On Reflection
My Picture: River Wei Today: Xinxiang, China
Observing all the things I meet
on downtown walks,
reminds me of walking through life.
You can yell at this direction
or that direction,
a fire garden of illusions
Either way, the wind takes
your voice away.
And you see the shadows
of your mother,
or any other empty reflection.
In the end, two people can look
at the exact same thing, and see
something totally different.
Only to doubt what
is presented to you.
Bob Dylan’s Harmonica
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The book shop owner in Xinxiang
gave me Bob Dylan’s harmonica today.
At least he said it was Bob’s,
and that was good enough for me.
So I played a tune,
and it was like it used to be.
When my head was high
and I was a king.
Before the signs of the cross,
cold and blunt
and things that worry me.
Then everything had to be replaced,
and I forgot about being a king.
One future was traumatic enough.
Forests of the Imagination
My Picture: Mekong River, Vietnam
I walked outside today,
something from far off it seemed.
Nobody was talking to each other,
and yet
nobody seemed unhappy.
I found myself by a rapid, roaring
river,
a silent spirit broken.
Hiding itself
underneath its lonely cave.
The fish, unfed for days
wasting away.
And yet….
still concerned about their
autumn splendor.
In this place,
I am a stranger.
Nothing to guide me through this silence
or mist of faded smiles and tears.
Where is all the inspiration now,
and yearnings after beauty.
To spin with words of wonder,
that is my only hope.
A drifting fragrance
My Picture: A bird landed on my windowsill …a caught moment.
Sometimes I feel lost,
a place far off it seems.
Hidden by endless
autumns of traditions,
and demanding something deeper.
Five hours this afternoon,
sending documents and
talking on QQ.
Trying to wake them
from the dreaming forest.
Memorizing or creative thinking,
Who cares….
Not Jenifer Aniston
or Kate Winslet.
They are shown on high
definition screens
24 hours a day, on endless repeat.
Each new thought being lost,
and stretched far behind.
This is deep and secret to me.
A failed drifting fragrance,
from a time before the new age.
And I wonder…
where have the wrong turns been made?
A Supermarket in Xinxiang
A plant I bought from the supermarket
What thoughts have I,
pushing my trolley
around this supermarket.
Another solitary walk
shopping for images,
and a beautiful
Chinese woman
to share my life with.
Open isles of pork chops
and my feet dragging
across the ground.
Passing the ladies selling
expensive hair conditioner,
to the weary and unrequited.
‘Where are we going’, asked Camus
I am reading him now.
There is meaning here,
at least for some,
and absurdity is a distant memory.
Everyone in this supermarket
seems to have a mission.
Following a 5000 year old star
to the end of the road.
They taste the sweet bread,
and stroll dreaming of
possessing every
frozen delicacy from a foreign land.
They are not scared or unclear,
or make love cry.
Everyone knows they are part of history,
except me.
Difference
My Picture: Red Coffee Cafe, Xinxiang. Henan Province, China
Some people think Chinese people are all the same.
I know they’re not.
In my apartment block there is Ms Chueng,
young and beautiful and
still looking for love at 27.
Each morning I see her and
we say ‘hello’.
She asks me about
football and the cold in England.
So I tell her that it has been
cold in England since the 1980’s.
Then on the 15th floor
there is Mr Wang, he lives alone
with two cats and reads Tang poetry.
I lent him a book of poems
by Emily Dickinson a few weeks ago.
Now he is fighting for love with the
teacher who lives above him.
Below me there are the Shan’s,
and their two children.
They have been to America twice.
They talk about trade wars and a
President who twitters all the time.
They think he lives under a floating moon.
I don’t tell them what I think.
So you see Chinese people are not the same.
They are a mind-map of personalities, ideas
and hopes.
Just like me.
Night Time Friends
My Picture: Taiyuan City., Shanxi Province, China
A Wandering Poet 