China Winds Blow
Poem by Rod Wood
Like the dream drop gem that glistens and glows,
When the warm sun bends and china winds blow.
Small pieces of time and life are spent and love with its
charms, open wide to be meant,
Gentle murmers, the vibration of cosmos,
no dimensions to perceive,
wharf green and banks of mud,
swastica memorie of hideous bombs,
tearing, ripping guts of people in cascading terror.
Soap boxes propagating the human emotion of dogma.
Tear stained profits crying with the thread of kindred
spirit to the welling listeners.
Cynics anonymous. Good intentions. Bliss and love.
And in the old days but now the new days.
The creation of the chemistry to fall in love.
There is chemistry but leave it to eternity.
Her gracious countenance, lips that tease.
No magnitude to perceive,
what is here, is not.
The words can dazzle, make sensation,
cause alteration, but how strange it all is,
as we hold dust in both our hands.
Dust and its fragments.
Dust and its reasons.
And the blackman at the door.
Did he suggest he was a crook, or was it pretence,
at being one. The old alkies mirage, guess who I know, stuff.
The winter banks full of stublled fern, sticks,
hard and spikey, frost in lurid pale blue and gem white.
Bricks, old and blackened by time, crumbling aged and tarred.
Trains shunting, shuddering, speeding with rattles,
oil spreading, gold and cold, on winters silver rails.
Ancient stations, dilapidated, unused, bleak.
And if in this presence of guiding light,
as if in the glow of curving moonlight upon a glimpsing,
flicker of frost snow.
Dark entwining night, reverberating in the wind of time.
How close is the physical answer.
when heaven is glorified in the abstract.
And as like puppets are we to inevitable courses.
Changing from puppet to uncontrolled man.
But how long for.
How long for. Not long, for we would die.
How long for do we decide to command our lives.
Not long for we would die.
But the justice from the heavens,
pink and sepia lanterns held by holy people,
moons that gyrate, twinkling madly, myriads of colour,
sages mount their thrones, jewels are brought from the earth.
And still we exist.
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