Environment
Terms of endearment
My photograph of a painting by a local Vietnamese artist, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.
We woke each morning
mapping our lives across the bedroom wall.
Cobwebs in the corner,
each thread a new conscience nagged.
Home was home
and this was the best kind of love.
Then we fell mute, dumb black stares
in the shadows of those winter mornings.
And silent rambles by the canal side,
each moment slowed to silence.
As years go by, I still see
the blue cotton curtains hanging still
on a ceaseless summer day.
And your perfect body, long blazing hair,
offering me endless endearments night after night.
Now, with the rain falling
they are just a few quick frozen closet snapshots,
left alone in a small corner of a foreign land.
Far beyond all that is now and will be.
Night Time Friends
My Picture: Taiyuan City., Shanxi Province, China
There was a time when it ended
that I drank all the time.
I would drink with Jim, the policeman
until one in the morning.
He would tell me how most women
did not understand him.
And how his latest girlfriend
satisfied him, most of the time.
He felt sure this was the right one.
But he had said this before.
I would drink with my neighbour,
she was older than me and always
answered in the negative.
Listening to her was painful, the more
she talked, the more I needed a drink.
As each evening tailed off into the night,
I would see the embittered face of my father.
And an early morning smile from you.
That told me I was waking up and no
harm would come to me.
I’ll never forget the smile as long as I live.
So I made up my mind to quit my drinking,
and write about unsavory details and delighted
moments, in all its forms of existence.
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”
Nights of Espionage
My Picture: Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
To die the way I live,
amongst the intersection of
ideas and words.
To show contempt for
the enduring loneliness
of a wandering exile.
A living spirit, turned
into a child again.
That is how I want it to be.
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.
Days into nights
My Picture: Sunset in the Gobi Desert. Dunhuang, China.
I live alone in a nice apartment
and read the news every day.
Most days I write poetry
and listen to music.
Rainbow dreams
and triviality are always present.
But I sleep alone in the dark,
a shady sadness.
And dream of you,
shining through the ages.
What I need to know
My Picture: Xinxiang, China.
Some jobs you like,
and others are so dreary and pitiless,
that you stay in bed.
Motionless in time and
watching the sun climb.
But then,
many who stay in bed
have a history of grief.
An empty doorway,
and a faded family photograph.
Nothing to do with their job,
just tricks of the mind.
Memory by memory,
it is easy to forget that what’s here isn’t life.
And nothing can ever happen unless you say so.
Especially Time
My Picture: Mỹ Sơn , Vietnam
A Wandering Poet 