My Pictures: A new bookshop opened today in Xinxiang.
What we overlook
Health
Even the darkness has hope
My Pictures: More treatment today on my shoulder …..
The sorrow pain agony,
still continues.
It is never satisfied.
Coughing here and there
on the Xinxiang streets.
Yet I can still see,
the sun streaks that kissed your hair.
And the daily love dance,
broken, but now stronger.
Reborn with death together,
where hope had seemed left behind.
Now each drop of ink,
preserves a love lost in time.
To remain inside
My Picture: I had acupuncture on my left shoulder today…to many years playing rugby…the Doctor said…….
I used to hide
around the shadows of the night.
Pain like a rose thorn…..
beautiful yet
prick sticks the tender…..
a constant companion.
Ice cold tears,
silent and tempted by voyages.
Then the sun came forth,
a work of art and words without sight
flowed and gave me a ride to a dreamscape.
Faith beauty floated above a Chinese sky.
Poems in high clouds and vintage bones,
there was nothing that I could not see
that was not a flower.
Pure like a sweet child’s heart
……I would sooner have the sun
Light in Zhengzhou
My Picture: Early morning is Zhengzhou capital of Henan Province, China.
I was driven to Zhengzhou this morning,
to have a medical.
Adopting the proper tone,
one of the Doctors asked me
how old I was.
I looked outside the window,
and saw an old man walking with
a dog by his side.
And wondered what the deal was.
So I told the Doctor that
that my anger has come to pass,
and that spring fever was
put aside long ago.
He leaned forward
like an indelicate December evening,
and told me there is nothing
wrong with me.
And everything continued
as I had written it.
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.
Wakeful Things
My Picture
It began with a slight
pain in her side,
nothing new really.
She was witty,
knowledgeable and golden,
and she loved me.
Then it came,
somber the night was.
Dragging those
beautiful thighs,
from love and sleep.
To a hospital bed
and the dangerous tides of
palliative chemotherapy.
And death dropped from
the dark,
a ghost standing on a bridge.
And everybody hurts.
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.
Days Like This
My Picture: New Membership Card
A new gym opening in Xinxiang,
and an unwanted fear of growing old alone.
I went to look, as the autumn leaves fell
and spoke of drearier days.
I met a beautiful lady, who reminded me of you.
On dull October days like these, a glistening
sweet kernel illuminating the air.
And a slow fermentation of patched-up memories.
So I joined the gym, and turned to the trees
no longer waiting for the skies to crack.
And the beautiful lady….well we said ‘hello’
and exchanged WeChat addresses.
Night Father
The Independent Newspaper. UK.
The United Nations High
Commission for Refugees,
told me that 1,500 died
this month.
Or maybe they told me
850 lives were lost
in June and July alone.
It’s probably fake news anyway.
But I hope someone finds a solution,
I’d like to help,
But I haven’t the time today.
I know you tried to save him,
He had a home once,
pictures from school,
his favourite toy, Buzz Lightyear
made in China.
Now his home is the
mouth of a shark, and
one dead night swimmer
is the same as another.
You tell of your anger,
fear and shame?
Of your hopes for the future,
as the world watches you die
A washed up tiny young life,
you say ‘sorry’ for disturbing the
sangria on a Mediterranean beach.
The world speaks English,
when we write poems.
And the poets would like to help,
but their hands are tied.
Yesterdays Sun
My Picture
A Wandering Poet 