My Picture: Early morning is Zhengzhou capital of Henan Province, China.
Light in Zhengzhou
Education
Of life and death
My Picture: Books I used today.
Arguments come and go,
but they are always
hidden in some place.
Cunning counterfeits
trying to make
their way home, to take
root…
I had an argument today,
about sub-health
and the cause of disease,
I think.
Nothing it seems is familiar,
and treatment
is always rearranged.
They told me the wisdom in the world,
I felt like a dizzy moth
confused by all the lights.
Staring at a diseased gift
that you have, you still have.
Their Day
My Picture: Quoc Hoc High School, Hue, Vietnam.
It’s been a long day.
Everybody wanted something from me.
Tracy wanted me to practice for
the line-dancing competition.
I said I couldn’t dance.
In the end I practiced the electric Slide,
cupid Shuffle and the Cha, Cha, Cha.
And felt like a dancing queen.
Josephine wanted me to talk to her
students on how to improve their English,
and good habits.
She gave me that look….it always gets me.
So I say ok.
Then Dave called me,
not in self-pity and something forgotten,
which is normal for him.
More, “I have an idea….”
It never strikes, but makes me despair at
the language and the scrutiny.
Now I feel like the only living boy in this place
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.
Passing Time
My Picture: Statue of Vietnamese Woman: Hue, Vietnam.
How strange to see a familiar face
in a Xinxiang Coffee Bar.
War marched through my mind.
I wanted to ask
how you addressed the fog,
and how to treat the ghosts.
But I know that time and space
describe nothing.
A dark side, often hidden
and all alone.
Oh yes.
My Picture: Vietnam Cultural Museum, Hanoi Vietnam.
The music started to play early this morning.
Not the usual traditional Vietnamese music,
but Celine Dion singling about love
…..Canadian style.
The swimming pool was full, of Spanish guests I think.
Jumping and screaming and wearing shades.
‘Mia’ the beautiful receptionist,
wearing an expensive and tight fitting
silk dress
asked me if I would like coffee this morning.
I looked at her face, her black hair and the dress.
She smiled at me.
“Yes” I said.
But I would have said ‘yes’ to anything right then.
I thought to myself,
it’s a good start to the day.
Lost Soul
Trying to find Charles Bukowski,
in some places is not easy.
It is easy to find Keats and Tagore.
They come running at you,
like a bright and dusty sun.
As subtle as love making on a drunken
Saturday night.
Yesterday a friend asked me
“Why would you wanna read Bukowski anyway, he
just writes about sex and drinking?”
“What else is there to write about?” I said
He paused…
“The jagged mind and shattered dreams…and all that”
So I thought about this for a minute and told him
“Nobody writes about this anymore, it doesn’t sell”
Neon Wonderland
My Picture: Hue, Vietnam.
At last a time to write poetry,
pleasure in a few lines and
put way outside the neon glow of the city.
Embraced as timeless ancient rites
hovering impatiently, underneath
an ancient whining sky.
Each day, I deal with teachers
digging for reflection.
Medical students scratching
for remedies displayed.
And English majors who think
all poetry is sad.
Now is a good time to be a poet.
To talk about words at the end of life,
and the gentle kindness of the human touch.
To cry out against the streetlights,
that scream their words at night.
Shimmering greens, blues and reds that
blanket the earth like bees around a hive.
And weave a neon mesh that
kills the power and hope of words.
Now is a good time to be a poet.
What I need to know
My Picture: Xinxiang, China.
A Wandering Poet 