All I need

29th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

rhdr

My pictures: I went to see a concert tonight at Henan Normal University in Henan. To hear Western classical music played with such individual interpretation and passion… by Shi Meng Xiao… a post graduate student at Henan Normal University…. was simply a very special moment for me….

Relentless April days,
it hit me without warning.
Schubert , the most poetic musician
Absorbing light, deep within
……a soak right to the bone.

Until that moment there’s pain,
for simply being.
Then tall birds gathered
Chopin and Bach,
and three became as one.

Water margin

28th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A dragon fish….my friend keeps these fish…so I wondered about the life of this beautiful creature.

Open in hunger,
we slowly approached.
A fish of silver, flash
with barbed mouth.
And a poet, inner soul red
and time wounded.

The fish spoke first
“You know….. there are rain clouds
at the window, hiding their trail.”
So I took out my pen
and tapped on the glass.

Strange cat

26th Apr 201926th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture of my drawing.

So sick of being honest,
so tired of being an artist.
When all around the cats
swallow their shadows
murmuring ‘you can’t do that’,
and dream of the suns defeat.

I’m probably going to die
like Edgar Allan Poe,
falling delirious
on an empty street……calling out
“Emily where are you…”
Guess I could fake it………

Last days of a poet

25th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My pictures: I have become interested in surrealism poetry….the writers use the unconscious mind to explain rational life. To free the imagination, poets use a variety of techniques that liberate the mind of conscious control…so …an attempt……

I first saw the dog, then the rabbit.
It seemed I could not keep up.
Out in the sky everyone was sleeping
sleeping, always sleeping.

The dog spoke first
“Be careful, life is not a dream”.
I thought one day spiders will take refuge,
in the eyes of the dogs…. from bitter wounds on fire.
And butterflies rise from the dead,
to count each beat.
That would be something.

Life while – you – wait

24th Apr 201924th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Anyang, Henan Province, China.

This spring

with age and growing old.

A cloud, a bird

and beauty of youth.

Hide the moon, a gaping hole

and a loss too soon.

In loitered form

a glimpse of death’s grinning face,

filled with anxious, mounting fear.

For a soul filled and let fly,

here’s to spring memories.

So many lives in one day

23rd Apr 201924th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

http://www.bbc.co,uk

I saw the pictures.
Shoes without children,
blood stained streets.
A world falling apart,
all in the name of God.

From some place, far away
they bury their dead, again, again and again.
I’m in deep sorrow, a bleak house
to see blood…..so random washed away.
Unknowing to the end.

Forget one, and then another.
We live with toy disasters
and lands that know lots of no news.
The earth soiled, once again
a touching without being touched.

Saturday 20th April, 2019

22nd Apr 201922nd Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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.

This Easter Day

21st Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

A picture sent to me by a friend in England…..his son on Easter morning.

Rain clouds conducting rhythm.
April fools, all around.
The daffodils wilting in sight of spring,
an early morning warmed.
And down this dusty road
words will make you a lemonade sun,
on this Easter day.

Georg Simmel

20th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A wonderful gift from a friend….The design of the pen is based on the ideas of the German philosopher Georg Simmel.

“What is nature
…..what is society?”
I asked my friend as I looked at the pen,
a gift across the divide.
He was unsure what I was talking about…..
a pen based on social boundaries and sense.
A name….. Georg Simmel
from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern
harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away,
another ladder day.
The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence,
blew across the room and opened a familiar door
…..a semi -permanent thing.

Sleeping Beautiful

19th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My pictures: Sent to some of my students who have an exam next week…..motivational.

Relentless April days, it hit me without warning. Schubert , the most poetic musician Absorbing light, deep within ……a soak right to the bone.

Until that moment there’s pain, for simply being. Then tall birds gathered Chopin and Bach, and three became as one.

Open in hunger, we slowly approached. A fish of silver, flash with barbed mouth. And a poet, inner soul red and time wounded.

The fish spoke first “You know….. there are rain clouds at the window, hiding their trail.” So I took out my pen and tapped on the glass.

So sick of being honest, so tired of being an artist. When all around the cats swallow their shadows murmuring ‘you can’t do that’, and dream of the suns defeat.

I’m probably going to die like Edgar Allan Poe, falling delirious on an empty street……calling out “Emily where are you…” Guess I could fake it………

I first saw the dog, then the rabbit. It seemed I could not keep up. Out in the sky everyone was sleeping sleeping, always sleeping.

The dog spoke first “Be careful, life is not a dream”. I thought one day spiders will take refuge, in the eyes of the dogs…. from bitter wounds on fire. And butterflies rise from the dead, to count each beat. That would be something.

This spring

with age and growing old.

A cloud, a bird

and beauty of youth.

Hide the moon, a gaping hole

and a loss too soon.

In loitered form

a glimpse of death’s grinning face,

filled with anxious, mounting fear.

For a soul filled and let fly,

here’s to spring memories.

I saw the pictures. Shoes without children, blood stained streets. A world falling apart, all in the name of God.

From some place, far away they bury their dead, again, again and again. I’m in deep sorrow, a bleak house to see blood…..so random washed away. Unknowing to the end.

Forget one, and then another. We live with toy disasters and lands that know lots of no news. The earth soiled, once again a touching without being touched.

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.

Rain clouds conducting rhythm. April fools, all around. The daffodils wilting in sight of spring, an early morning warmed. And down this dusty road words will make you a lemonade sun, on this Easter day.

“What is nature …..what is society?” I asked my friend as I looked at the pen, a gift across the divide. He was unsure what I was talking about….. a pen based on social boundaries and sense. A name….. Georg Simmel from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away, another ladder day. The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence, blew across the room and opened a familiar door …..a semi -permanent thing.

In the margins of sleep, I think of apoptosis and narcosis. Patches of every drop of life, undulating in silence and gathering here every day.

Welcome to happy hour, secreted fillers of flesh. Those terminal moments, on lungs and breasts a cure for the urban blues.