Getting past the censor

I'm starting this blog in the hope that I'll be able to keep it up. It's not that I’m the type of person who starts something and then quickly gives up. On the contrary, I’m a persistent character who, once he starts something, will go all out to keep it up. And I do, in fact, have a Japan-based blog that, despite coming up against many hurdles, I have kept up for more than five years. The problem is that I live in China, and the Chinese...

Salt Fields

Yellow-burning haymakers Stretch to the sea with lazy fingers, Combine harvesters chugging, The first day of autumn Burning the paint on their engines,

What An Island Knows

Low tide murmurs as a bass voice receding, Revealing the survivors in its wake, A broken box of fish from the harbour mouth, Seaweed limp and passive on the rocks,

Where Stern Follows Prow

By the church, fragments of psalms Catch the air, too late to save Remains of the humble fishing boat. Upturned as the boats of Boanerges, Sons of thunder to calm the water,

Sneaking past the censo

I'm starting this blog in the hope that I'll be able to keep it up. It's not that I’m the type of person who starts something and then quickly gives up. On the contrary, I’m a persistent character who, once he starts something, will go all out to keep it up. And I do, in fact, have a Japan-based blog that, despite coming up against many hurdles, I have kept up for more than five years. The problem is that I live in China, and the Chinese...
Cherry

The Molloch Ballet

Near the sheer shore where Poseidon’s symphony floats over dusky night water, factory gears twirl and push concrete and lights up, up, up into the smog-orange sky where frozen they stay

As my mind slowly ponders on visions of you.

As my mind slowly ponders on visions of you: Oh… how I long to see you gently smile, As you twist a curl, and then so deftly fly, You seem to fall; yet are forever strong,

The Season of Love

First he unfolds his golden peacock feathers, then sun and earth, in love, are joined together; the butterflies make love beds on the thistle and little lovebirds woo with songs and whistles;
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Persecution

9 315 562, 232 55 315 [ I can not; but we can] I heard the echoing of my own maniacal laughter, and the frantics of screaming that came soon after; It was mine.

Children of Three

She loved her cards, sent from the children of three; Held in her withered hands of tissue in scarring. Adults as they had grown to be, but the memory of her, left them as her children, still.

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