Silent Fog

13th Nov 201813th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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.

How to disregard me

12th Nov 201812th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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

11th Nov 201811th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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

10th Nov 201810th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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.

The Indifferent

9th Nov 20189th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

WeChat Image_20181109203407

Today was not a good day.

Some people never seem to think,
and weep with soft eyes
when you tell them you do not
fear men that torment you.

They try to establish a dangerous consistency,
as you talk with people about
Camus, Dickinson and Bukowski
all examined and returned again.

They laugh at you because you
know what happened in Guernica,
Nanjing and My Lai

“Only we know this truth” they cry

And as for how truth and love have been lost
time and time again.
Well…they know nothing of this.

I try to hum a tune
or write a poem, but it becomes
a fixed subject.
Because I care and know that
hope will be encountered.

So…my friend Sophia, a radiant
point in this indifferent place
took me for coffee, and told me to

“Grow your fixed ideas,
because you are true”

So, we drank the coffee,
and I bought some flowers.
I put them next to my Bukowski books.
A form of resistance
in this deep-rooted time.

Bob Dylan’s Harmonica

8th Nov 20188th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

dav

dav

The book shop owner in Xinxiang
gave me Bob Dylan’s harmonica today.
At least he said it was Bob’s,
and that was good enough for me.

So I played a tune,
and it was like it used to be.
When my head was high
and I was a king.

Before the signs of the cross,
cold and blunt
and things that worry me.

Then everything had to be replaced,
and I forgot about being a king.
One future was traumatic enough.

Forests of the Imagination

7th Nov 20187th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Mekong River, Vietnam

I walked outside today,
something from far off it seemed.
Nobody was talking to each other,
and yet
nobody seemed unhappy.

I found myself by a rapid, roaring
river,
a silent spirit broken.
Hiding itself
underneath its lonely cave.

The fish, unfed for days
wasting away.
And yet….
still concerned about their
autumn splendor.

In this place,
I am a stranger.
Nothing to guide me through this silence
or mist of faded smiles and tears.
Where is all the inspiration now,
and yearnings after beauty.
To spin with words of wonder,
that is my only hope.

A drifting fragrance

6th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: A bird landed on my windowsill …a caught moment.

Sometimes I feel lost,
a place far off it seems.
Hidden by endless
autumns of traditions,
and demanding something deeper.

Five hours this afternoon,
sending documents and
talking on QQ.
Trying to wake them
from the dreaming forest.

Memorizing or creative thinking,
Who cares….

Not Jenifer Aniston
or Kate Winslet.
They are shown on high
definition screens
24 hours a day, on endless repeat.
Each new thought being lost,
and stretched far behind.

This is deep and secret to me.
A failed drifting fragrance,
from a time before the new age.
And I wonder…
where have the wrong turns been made?

A Supermarket in Xinxiang

5th Nov 20185th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

A plant I bought from the supermarket

What thoughts have I,
pushing my trolley
around this supermarket.

Another solitary walk
shopping for images,
and a beautiful
Chinese woman
to share my life with.

Open isles of pork chops
and my feet dragging
across the ground.
Passing the ladies selling
expensive hair conditioner,
to the weary and unrequited.

‘Where are we going’, asked Camus
I am reading him now.

There is meaning here,
at least for some,
and absurdity is a distant memory.

Everyone in this supermarket
seems to have a mission.
Following a 5000 year old star
to the end of the road.

They taste the sweet bread,
and stroll dreaming of
possessing every
frozen delicacy from a foreign land.
They are not scared or unclear,
or make love cry.

Everyone knows they are part of history,
except me.

Terms of endearment

4th Nov 20184th Nov 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Today was not a good day.

Some people never seem to think, and weep with soft eyes when you tell them you do not fear men that torment you.

They try to establish a dangerous consistency, as you talk with people about Camus, Dickinson and Bukowski all examined and returned again.

They laugh at you because you know what happened in Guernica, Nanjing and My Lai

“Only we know this truth” they cry

And as for how truth and love have been lost time and time again. Well…they know nothing of this.

I try to hum a tune or write a poem, but it becomes a fixed subject. Because I care and know that hope will be encountered.

So…my friend Sophia, a radiant point in this indifferent place took me for coffee, and told me to

“Grow your fixed ideas, because you are true”

So, we drank the coffee, and I bought some flowers. I put them next to my Bukowski books. A form of resistance in this deep-rooted time.

The book shop owner in Xinxiang gave me Bob Dylan’s harmonica today. At least he said it was Bob’s, and that was good enough for me.

So I played a tune, and it was like it used to be. When my head was high and I was a king.

Before the signs of the cross, cold and blunt and things that worry me.

Then everything had to be replaced, and I forgot about being a king. One future was traumatic enough.

I walked outside today, something from far off it seemed. Nobody was talking to each other, and yet nobody seemed unhappy.

I found myself by a rapid, roaring river, a silent spirit broken. Hiding itself underneath its lonely cave.

The fish, unfed for days wasting away. And yet…. still concerned about their autumn splendor.

In this place, I am a stranger. Nothing to guide me through this silence or mist of faded smiles and tears. Where is all the inspiration now, and yearnings after beauty. To spin with words of wonder, that is my only hope.

Sometimes I feel lost, a place far off it seems. Hidden by endless autumns of traditions, and demanding something deeper.

Five hours this afternoon, sending documents and talking on QQ. Trying to wake them from the dreaming forest.

Memorizing or creative thinking, Who cares….

Not Jenifer Aniston or Kate Winslet. They are shown on high definition screens 24 hours a day, on endless repeat. Each new thought being lost, and stretched far behind.

This is deep and secret to me. A failed drifting fragrance, from a time before the new age. And I wonder… where have the wrong turns been made?

What thoughts have I, pushing my trolley around this supermarket.

Another solitary walk shopping for images, and a beautiful Chinese woman to share my life with.

Open isles of pork chops and my feet dragging across the ground. Passing the ladies selling expensive hair conditioner, to the weary and unrequited.

‘Where are we going’, asked Camus I am reading him now.

There is meaning here, at least for some, and absurdity is a distant memory.

Everyone in this supermarket seems to have a mission. Following a 5000 year old star to the end of the road.

They taste the sweet bread, and stroll dreaming of possessing every frozen delicacy from a foreign land. They are not scared or unclear, or make love cry.

Everyone knows they are part of history, except me.

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.