Life while – you – wait

24th Apr 201924th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Anyang, Henan Province, China.

This spring

with age and growing old.

A cloud, a bird

and beauty of youth.

Hide the moon, a gaping hole

and a loss too soon.

In loitered form

a glimpse of death’s grinning face,

filled with anxious, mounting fear.

For a soul filled and let fly,

here’s to spring memories.

So many lives in one day

23rd Apr 201924th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

http://www.bbc.co,uk

I saw the pictures.
Shoes without children,
blood stained streets.
A world falling apart,
all in the name of God.

From some place, far away
they bury their dead, again, again and again.
I’m in deep sorrow, a bleak house
to see blood…..so random washed away.
Unknowing to the end.

Forget one, and then another.
We live with toy disasters
and lands that know lots of no news.
The earth soiled, once again
a touching without being touched.

Saturday 20th April, 2019

22nd Apr 201922nd Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Bookshop in the center of Xinxiang. I often go there to think and write.

Well versed in news this morning.
Parades are plentiful in Belfast,
a murdered journalist and omens from above.
What makes you think they will love you?

Elections in the Ukraine, jokers among the pack.
The crowd shouts ‘Why did the chicken cross the road”
But the joke isn’t funny anymore,
when ladder days are every day.

The BBC tells me that we have 12 years to save the planet,
but like you mother….. you can’t always trust the BBC.
So, all eyes to the heavens and silence on command.
As the desert moon probe crashes again, again and again.

Outside, in small towns a stream of voices shouts
“We’re innocent ….think of our children…..”
But nobody thinks of the children anymore,
it’s all on you.

In the end, I decided to sleep tight and be thankful.
Maybe I will write to complain about all the fake news on TV,
just like before.

Or listen to the midnight fear,
and the bells ringing in Washington, Belfast and Caracas.
The nearest thing to being alive, this morning.

This Easter Day

21st Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

A picture sent to me by a friend in England…..his son on Easter morning.

Rain clouds conducting rhythm.
April fools, all around.
The daffodils wilting in sight of spring,
an early morning warmed.
And down this dusty road
words will make you a lemonade sun,
on this Easter day.

Georg Simmel

20th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A wonderful gift from a friend….The design of the pen is based on the ideas of the German philosopher Georg Simmel.

“What is nature
…..what is society?”
I asked my friend as I looked at the pen,
a gift across the divide.
He was unsure what I was talking about…..
a pen based on social boundaries and sense.
A name….. Georg Simmel
from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern
harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away,
another ladder day.
The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence,
blew across the room and opened a familiar door
…..a semi -permanent thing.

Sleeping Beautiful

19th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My pictures: Sent to some of my students who have an exam next week…..motivational.

In the margins of sleep,
I think of apoptosis and narcosis.
Patches of every drop of life,
undulating in silence and
gathering here every day.

Welcome to happy hour,
secreted fillers of flesh.
Those terminal moments,
on lungs and breasts
a cure for the urban blues.

A letter

18th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture…a friend gave me a letter today…..

The letter was beautiful,
written in English.
A freeway of thoughts
and heartfelt emotions.
Like a closet being opened
to another world……
an earth therapy tugging at the future.

It is easy to think the world is shrinking,
and the mountains just repeat themselves…… for the few that
can still keep a straight face.

Yes, the world is smaller
but across those darkened skies
– a prelude to the awkward moments….
Words of magic and an acorn at the foot of an oak tree…. the future colds of winter.

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.

This spring

with age and growing old.

A cloud, a bird

and beauty of youth.

Hide the moon, a gaping hole

and a loss too soon.

In loitered form

a glimpse of death’s grinning face,

filled with anxious, mounting fear.

For a soul filled and let fly,

here’s to spring memories.

I saw the pictures. Shoes without children, blood stained streets. A world falling apart, all in the name of God.

From some place, far away they bury their dead, again, again and again. I’m in deep sorrow, a bleak house to see blood…..so random washed away. Unknowing to the end.

Forget one, and then another. We live with toy disasters and lands that know lots of no news. The earth soiled, once again a touching without being touched.

Well versed in news this morning. Parades are plentiful in Belfast, a murdered journalist and omens from above. What makes you think they will love you?

Elections in the Ukraine, jokers among the pack. The crowd shouts ‘Why did the chicken cross the road” But the joke isn’t funny anymore, when ladder days are every day.

The BBC tells me that we have 12 years to save the planet, but like you mother….. you can’t always trust the BBC. So, all eyes to the heavens and silence on command. As the desert moon probe crashes again, again and again.

Outside, in small towns a stream of voices shouts “We’re innocent ….think of our children…..” But nobody thinks of the children anymore, it’s all on you.

In the end, I decided to sleep tight and be thankful. Maybe I will write to complain about all the fake news on TV, just like before.

Or listen to the midnight fear, and the bells ringing in Washington, Belfast and Caracas. The nearest thing to being alive, this morning.

Rain clouds conducting rhythm. April fools, all around. The daffodils wilting in sight of spring, an early morning warmed. And down this dusty road words will make you a lemonade sun, on this Easter day.

“What is nature …..what is society?” I asked my friend as I looked at the pen, a gift across the divide. He was unsure what I was talking about….. a pen based on social boundaries and sense. A name….. Georg Simmel from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away, another ladder day. The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence, blew across the room and opened a familiar door …..a semi -permanent thing.

In the margins of sleep, I think of apoptosis and narcosis. Patches of every drop of life, undulating in silence and gathering here every day.

Welcome to happy hour, secreted fillers of flesh. Those terminal moments, on lungs and breasts a cure for the urban blues.

The letter was beautiful, written in English. A freeway of thoughts and heartfelt emotions. Like a closet being opened to another world…… an earth therapy tugging at the future.

It is easy to think the world is shrinking, and the mountains just repeat themselves…… for the few that can still keep a straight face.

Yes, the world is smaller but across those darkened skies – a prelude to the awkward moments…. Words of magic and an acorn at the foot of an oak tree…. the future colds of winter.