Deposit # 28

The poetry you see here reflects
over three decades of work. I have
changed over the years as you have.
If you want to see what I write
currently, visit:

I love and appreciate you all.

Robert D. Wilson

Friday, December 10, 2010

Lousy Mirror

a kinsman
to the reeds,
the egret . . .
planted in a
soldier’s ashes

these gnats . . .
how many have wisped by
human bridges?

she whispers to me,
this winter night,
from sallow pools
left on the runway of that
could have been

morning darkness . . .
listening to stuffed
animals sing

i bow to
no one, typhoon, except
to God; a 
a jeepney fording across
ash clogged streams 

walang typhoon . . . 
an old man sucking

is he
senile, the old
man talking
to stuffed  animals
or . . . married?

late autumn . . . 
chancing wetness
with a kiss

she stood 
in front of the
kitchen sink 
shuffling leaves like 
an old west card shark 

she lured dawn
down a highway lined
with colored lights

daddy said
it was "cool" to 
eat dried fish
in the theater watching
samurai movies

before dawn . .. 
the melody 
of pork fat

dogs lay
beside their own shit
in cages
washed two days ago in
a lazy man's dream

spit me out, 
old foe, into
winter's maw

she went to
sleep with empty 
above her head and no
one to fill in the blanks

jeepneys . . . 
the stop start of
autumn rain

stir with me
the field grass like
a junk
setting sail in
alphabet soup

lite breeze . . .
an ancestor's 
gentle urging

late at night
her shadow scalds
the wine her
husband sipped with
a young mistress

the pasig river .. . 
times when monkeys

staring out
the window of
a cheap
hotel at the
pasig river

twilight dawn . . . 
i woke up to a
river coughing

dancing leaves . . .
there was a time 
when your eyes
told me to wait in 
the other room 

the moon and 
its crinkled face . . . 
tired vendors

i saw you
again this morning,
clinging to
rules you have
trouble following

is it morning?
my reflection
growing moss  

for my son, EJ

one of these
days the horizon 
will be 
cloudless like the
day i first held you

     cockroaches . . . 
wait for their share of 
the autumn noon

the dance of 
maggots beneath 
the dragon's 
belly, singing yesterday
i felt your breath

     sunrise . . .
a carabao
spraying flies

in her bowl  
a thousand eyes
to be a brother
to the carabao

     clear water . . .
a leech attached
to my ankle

is that you,
sun, tossing dreams 
from the back
door of a jeepney on
its way through the clouds?

the water, lovers
catching stars

lazy man!
the vendor's dreams
tied to 
a dead weight and . . . 
you steal from him

     before dawn . . .
shredding fish with a
dry whisper

early autumn . . .
not the storm but
pushing clouds into
cherry blossoms 

the coarse dreams 
of an old soldier . . .  
polishing headstones 

just a few
tonight, walk up
and down
C. Molina Street . . .

broken rice . . .
a weathered woman 
milling autumn

the rain in my 
replenish the mirrors 
that gave them birth

morning quiet . . . 
a dream going through
the loops

what dream?
the sad cry of 
the suka 
vendor treading 
knee deep through water

deep morning . . . 
trikes circle the mouth 
of a catfish 

i tread through 
nightmares into
a morning
served to me in
a broken tea cup

follow some-
one else, dragon . . . 
autumn leaves

out of the 
evening, a star lighting
paths i dared 
not dream til now . . . 
the caterpiller's cry!

late night . . .
the pasig river
turning tricks

talk to me,
moon, while others
through dreams painted
on brown paper bags

twilight dawn
a carabao
plowing mirrors

walk with me
into  the dragon's bowels;
feel what i 
smell, taste what i
hear . . . and BE!

follow some-
one else, dragon . . . 
autumn leaves


how I feel?
another damned

Basho came and went, writing this and that, careful not to blemish his status
as haiku master, extraordinaire . . . talking about lonely seas and crickets living under helmets with young soldier's dreams . . . kept women, peeing horses, weeping fish . . . and me, centuries later, nothing like the master, the un-xeroxed poet he asked us to be, sitting cross-legged on a 500 foot banana leaf covered with fish scales and gossip scrapped from the heels of wannabe Basho's;  bearing a soul only Allen Ginsberg would understand, with his angel headed hipsters and a mother who lived in a world Dali would run from or paint . . .

walls tremble . . .
blushing from the lyrics
sung by god and frog

robert d. wilson

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