My picture taken last night.
Tangerine dream
Poetry
Walking through rain
My picture: a rainstorm over the city.
Dark skies in Xinxiang,
liberated from the mask
of blue summer days.
A single soul, braves the dark
– bending to drink the rain water
…..in a shadow puddle left.
A tender wind
A sketch reflects a moment in my past.
Today my life was mirrored,
in clouds breaking-up.
And the voice of an oak tree,
with low true skies.
I tried to pack summer clothes,
to travel to a world I haven’t seen.
But as one leaf let’s go,
another takes the wind
…..a sudden death with eyes.
Recovery
My picture.
When you see me
sitting alone, writing…..
what do you see?
A pain that goes on and on,
counting his grey hair…..
more white shining.
Or a poet,
slashed by snaking tree lines…..
and sharp – rugged mountain peaks.
All I am doing is listening to myself.
To know the painful past,
and drum beat marching forward.
A truth is never taken
‘Regret’ – My Picture.
Once regrets come to mind,
they fall like leaves…in vain – from all around.
Sometimes with shame,
always with sadness.
A mirror awaits me, forever.
In between dreams
My Chinese friend said to me
“I want to study medicine at Tsinghua University
……but I’m not good enough…”
So I told her about a man in the 15th Century,
who wanted to fly above the bright skies.
A glory desired, and such assurances ran.
Upon a grey river and chatter of stars,
I suggested she talk with the moon.
Who never searches for sleep,
and tickles the dormant dreams
of those with clear firmament glows.
Necessary Inconvenience
My picture.
All winter and spring,
I have moved….a wall, a building
an argument.
It meant nothing,
it meant absolutely everything.
Now head down towards the meadow floor,
an eerie silence slowly coming into view.
The evening star glows to the right,
and panic whispers in my ear..
That kiss
A moment caught in time…a picture and poem…from this evening.
The way you looked at me,
the way I looked at you.
A white marble temple,
my lips with yours.. . with your tears
I know I shouldn’t, but I enjoyed it.
Frustration
A quick doodle this evening…after a frustrating day.
That’s how it starts…..
concrete walled cubicles.
A lock that will not budge,
and a soul that cried for relief.
They tell you to fake it,
beautiful words on a ugly canvas.
Small enough to be shared
and dreams that vanish…..in a moment, to fears.
My death
A Wandering Poet 