Sanquan moment

17th Apr 201917th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: Taken this morning.

Dawn just breaking, a simile in my mirror.

A tiny spiders web

glistening on silken threads.

Catches thoughts unfurling, don’t worry. ….

wrong prey to pounce on today.

Me, you and sorrow

16th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A simple drawing

I often dream,
sometimes I can almost
taste the sea and the islands.
Your face is less clear now,
but I can hear the old songs
we danced to.
And see the sadness, grinning
in front of our faces.
Flowing in some bedroom, some street corner,
and some Spanish beach.
Always grinning…..

Then the morning arrives,
but I still think that someday…..
I will run my fingers through your
wet hair, as my lips purge your soft tender skin.
One more time…..

Rejected

15th Apr 201915th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture of my picture

My poetry was rejected this morning,
early morning China time.
A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated
……facing a long and uninventive day.

The magazine gave no reasons,
just the manner of things
No emotions…..
“We have decide not to keep your poems”

The curious thing for me
was that, I felt in good company.
Bukowski was rejected most days,
and Dickinson almost never published.

They just left large droppings of their lives, all around.
For people like me to pick-up,
in between reading Camus and Chomsky…..
spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.

So, I made some coffee, drew a picture
and wrote a poem.
Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me.
A concrete man, then the real morning began.

Two worlds collide

14th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: TianNing Pagoda in Anyang…almost a 1000 years old…..taken yesterday on a trip to the city. A contrast between old and new….which reflects a discourse in China and the world….

She was given the world
one long shot into the darkness.
Laughing at the moon
more sound than song.

Now gasping for air,
so much she couldn’t see.
This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA.
And we stay in our worlds.

The death of Fish

13th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Taken today in Anyang City, Henan, China.

Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture.
Frantically whipping-up
the crisis below, unseen.
A tarnished bitter shame,
and freeze frame once more.

And the empty plastic bottles,
that cry like tears.
Surrounding the place
with their uselessness.
And nobody minded at all.

So, I went home and took a shower
with love and everything.
The heat turned up listening to AC/DC,
splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place.
I think this will be good for the fish.

Wounds of Time

12th Apr 201912th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

fznor

hdrpl

My Pictures

And so
I drank my coffee
ate the carrot cake
Ms. Gu gave me.

Coffee
Cake
Ms. Gu

To a sound
of
‘The Carpenters’
attempting to mend love.

I listened
and
stared….
The young man called me ‘uncle’
“Have you ever been old” I asked.
But I think it was lost in translation.

But now ‘The Carpenters’,
a taste of wet gold
and fingers in the ashes.

And all around
dreams of that perfect love,
horses with gentleman.
And homemade carrot cake.

Black Hole

11th Apr 201911th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

WeChat Image_20190411210639

https://www.wired.com/story/scientists-reveal-the-first-picture-of-a-black-hole/

I woke this morning to darkness visible,
a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands.
Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed……..
I wonder what is beyond….

A voice from the depths of nothingness,
who cried in pain for a long time searching.
A life…before it bursts……
It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.

No birds this morning

10th Apr 201910th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture

As it starts to clear,
and aged mirror for us all.
Empty car park spaces,
in the morning shadow.

Speed limits rarely broken.
A closed soft sun,
hidden by fog familiar words
and silence from friends.

A slight chill and common sound
…. and the colours too.

Rest for me

9th Apr 20199th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture

What’s so wrong with this night?
Sky, moon and stars
all saying nothing.

And the clouds,
they often have something to say.
Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.

Now hunched over art
eyes shut and silent.
Till death comes knocking at their door.

No noise, this time is uttered.
Out there, tends to diminish
a release of pleasure….. here to stay

An aged mirror, for us all
or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts?
So what’s so wrong with this night…..

You understand?

8th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture

I once followed the seasons,
pleasant souls to celebrate.
In motion, wings of memories
back and forth.

Now, there are no seasons…..
only one…..
To survive the guts and spillage of glances smiling,
once fashioned there.

In helpless, grim fascination
I watch every sunrise and sunset.
A slight depression in the ground,
and a blushing sun turned to rust.

Now the eerie, cold and delicate sounds
pound my body through this growing landscape.
And dance alone in the high, morning sun.
The nearest thing to being alive….. today.

Dawn just breaking, a simile in my mirror.

A tiny spiders web

glistening on silken threads.

Catches thoughts unfurling, don’t worry. ….

wrong prey to pounce on today.

I often dream, sometimes I can almost taste the sea and the islands. Your face is less clear now, but I can hear the old songs we danced to. And see the sadness, grinning in front of our faces. Flowing in some bedroom, some street corner, and some Spanish beach. Always grinning…..

Then the morning arrives, but I still think that someday….. I will run my fingers through your wet hair, as my lips purge your soft tender skin. One more time…..

My poetry was rejected this morning, early morning China time. A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated ……facing a long and uninventive day.

The magazine gave no reasons, just the manner of things No emotions….. “We have decide not to keep your poems”

The curious thing for me was that, I felt in good company. Bukowski was rejected most days, and Dickinson almost never published.

They just left large droppings of their lives, all around. For people like me to pick-up, in between reading Camus and Chomsky….. spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.

So, I made some coffee, drew a picture and wrote a poem. Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me. A concrete man, then the real morning began.

She was given the world one long shot into the darkness. Laughing at the moon more sound than song.

Now gasping for air, so much she couldn’t see. This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA. And we stay in our worlds.

Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture. Frantically whipping-up the crisis below, unseen. A tarnished bitter shame, and freeze frame once more.

And the empty plastic bottles, that cry like tears. Surrounding the place with their uselessness. And nobody minded at all.

So, I went home and took a shower with love and everything. The heat turned up listening to AC/DC, splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place. I think this will be good for the fish.

And so I drank my coffee ate the carrot cake Ms. Gu gave me.

Coffee Cake Ms. Gu

To a sound of ‘The Carpenters’ attempting to mend love.

I listened and stared…. The young man called me ‘uncle’ “Have you ever been old” I asked. But I think it was lost in translation.

But now ‘The Carpenters’, a taste of wet gold and fingers in the ashes.

And all around dreams of that perfect love, horses with gentleman. And homemade carrot cake.

I woke this morning to darkness visible, a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands. Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed…….. I wonder what is beyond….

A voice from the depths of nothingness, who cried in pain for a long time searching. A life…before it bursts…… It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.

As it starts to clear, and aged mirror for us all. Empty car park spaces, in the morning shadow.

Speed limits rarely broken. A closed soft sun, hidden by fog familiar words and silence from friends.

A slight chill and common sound …. and the colours too.

What’s so wrong with this night? Sky, moon and stars all saying nothing.

And the clouds, they often have something to say. Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.

Now hunched over art eyes shut and silent. Till death comes knocking at their door.

No noise, this time is uttered. Out there, tends to diminish a release of pleasure….. here to stay

An aged mirror, for us all or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts? So what’s so wrong with this night…..

I once followed the seasons, pleasant souls to celebrate. In motion, wings of memories back and forth.

Now, there are no seasons….. only one….. To survive the guts and spillage of glances smiling, once fashioned there.

In helpless, grim fascination I watch every sunrise and sunset. A slight depression in the ground, and a blushing sun turned to rust.

Now the eerie, cold and delicate sounds pound my body through this growing landscape. And dance alone in the high, morning sun. The nearest thing to being alive….. today.

I often dream,
sometimes I can almost
taste the sea and the islands.
Your face is less clear now,
but I can hear the old songs
we danced to.
And see the sadness, grinning
in front of our faces.
Flowing in some bedroom, some street corner,
and some Spanish beach.
Always grinning…..

Then the morning arrives,
but I still think that someday…..
I will run my fingers through your
wet hair, as my lips purge your soft tender skin.
One more time…..

My poetry was rejected this morning,
early morning China time.
A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated
……facing a long and uninventive day.

The magazine gave no reasons,
just the manner of things
No emotions…..
“We have decide not to keep your poems”

The curious thing for me
was that, I felt in good company.
Bukowski was rejected most days,
and Dickinson almost never published.

They just left large droppings of their lives, all around.
For people like me to pick-up,
in between reading Camus and Chomsky…..
spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.

So, I made some coffee, drew a picture
and wrote a poem.
Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me.
A concrete man, then the real morning began.

She was given the world
one long shot into the darkness.
Laughing at the moon
more sound than song.

Now gasping for air,
so much she couldn’t see.
This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA.
And we stay in our worlds.

Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture.
Frantically whipping-up
the crisis below, unseen.
A tarnished bitter shame,
and freeze frame once more.

And the empty plastic bottles,
that cry like tears.
Surrounding the place
with their uselessness.
And nobody minded at all.

So, I went home and took a shower
with love and everything.
The heat turned up listening to AC/DC,
splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place.
I think this will be good for the fish.

And so
I drank my coffee
ate the carrot cake
Ms. Gu gave me.

Coffee
Cake
Ms. Gu

To a sound
of
‘The Carpenters’
attempting to mend love.

I listened
and
stared….
The young man called me ‘uncle’
“Have you ever been old” I asked.
But I think it was lost in translation.

But now ‘The Carpenters’,
a taste of wet gold
and fingers in the ashes.

And all around
dreams of that perfect love,
horses with gentleman.
And homemade carrot cake.

I woke this morning to darkness visible,
a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands.
Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed……..
I wonder what is beyond….

A voice from the depths of nothingness,
who cried in pain for a long time searching.
A life…before it bursts……
It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.

As it starts to clear,
and aged mirror for us all.
Empty car park spaces,
in the morning shadow.

Speed limits rarely broken.
A closed soft sun,
hidden by fog familiar words
and silence from friends.

A slight chill and common sound
…. and the colours too.

What’s so wrong with this night?
Sky, moon and stars
all saying nothing.

And the clouds,
they often have something to say.
Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.

Now hunched over art
eyes shut and silent.
Till death comes knocking at their door.

No noise, this time is uttered.
Out there, tends to diminish
a release of pleasure….. here to stay

An aged mirror, for us all
or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts?
So what’s so wrong with this night…..

I once followed the seasons,
pleasant souls to celebrate.
In motion, wings of memories
back and forth.

Now, there are no seasons…..
only one…..
To survive the guts and spillage of glances smiling,
once fashioned there.

In helpless, grim fascination
I watch every sunrise and sunset.
A slight depression in the ground,
and a blushing sun turned to rust.

Now the eerie, cold and delicate sounds
pound my body through this growing landscape.
And dance alone in the high, morning sun.
The nearest thing to being alive….. today.