My Picture: Taken on Christmas Day, Xinxiang , China
Bai Juyi’s Dream
Environment
Winter Music
My Picture: Central Park. Xinxiang. Henan Province, China.
In deep winter, it is easy to be lost.
The uneven edges of life,
exposed by the cold hurried snow
leave little space between the stars.
Only the counted poems seem to matter.
I can envision loves, deep night
and the shapeliness
of lines borrowed from the past.
These lines of verse,
taut and unrepentant
offer the sun to my bones.
And the snow gathers on….
Shining in light
My Picture: Leaves of Xinxiang.
The city was quite this morning, it was early.
Only the street cleaners in their orange vests
occupied the streets.
Gone from the woods and the world they knew.
A couple came along, turning
everything into itself.
She had an hourglass figure,
and argued everything.
As the last leaves fell from the trees
I thought, when the trees die
the birds go insane
and darker in the mind’s eye.
Pulled down shade
My Picture: Xinxiang Medical University (taken this evening)
The questions usually come in swarms
“Why did you come to China?”
“How old are you”
“Are you married….”
“Have you had some food?”
So, I usually tell them
I came to China for money
and to find a beautiful Chinese wife.
Something I thought was not possible.
Or I tell them about a fire inside
that ended in dust and disarray.
So they can see what I am dealing with,
and how you can’t always plan on the heart.
For some this is a first awakening,
and for others….
they can see what happens
when you sink into your dreams.
Snow
My Picture: Xinxiang, Henan Province, China.
A few faded cracked snowflakes
softly down on my hair.
Decorate this silence,
whitewashing the patched
walls of Xinxiang.
A fire deepens the silence,
but my soul now has depth.
The tragedy of dreams
My Picture: Xinxiang, Henan Province, China.
Like most others
I have come through
sadness and
loves deep nights.
And let them have their moments.
Now I see through
the wasted landscape,
and broadcasts
that say nothing.
Lamenting only a
laugh and an echo passing by.
A grey cry of the future,
is enough to make things grow.
And suffer the castigation
of my thinning dreams,
now so quickly dispatched.
Walking under the moon
My Picture: The moon tonight: Xinxiang, China
Long walks at night—
I asked the moon to talk to me,
just the two of us.
But the moon would not talk,
it slept within.
So we both never said a word.
I hope one day soon
we can meet again.
With a desire, and a yearning.
Dancing Ladies of Xinxiang
My Picture: Near my apartment: Xinxiang, China.
Half eaten by the moon
and wrapped in cold sheets of rain.
Their eyeballs roll and hips sway,
and the dancing begins.
Always at the same time,
and without a blessing or leaf falling.
Music supersedes their days
on the long march, bellowing
to us all across a great distance.
A ritual that a poet can understand.
An existence that become endless,
and the power of preserving.
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.
On Reflection
My Picture: River Wei Today: Xinxiang, China
A Wandering Poet 