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
foamfish@gmail.com

Friday, January 28, 2011

Issue #9

Robert D. Wilson's
replace


the aha with
oh yes . . .
the aha, a
cup of that was
                                       



the echo
of a thousand locusts . . .
sweeping song



the wind
between volcanos
scatters sound . . .
and in my ears,
a cattle egret
pecking notes



her maid's hands . . .
before dawn, the egg
seller's bark



when dawn
erases our
memories . . .
and dark clouds
stand over bridges




 without you . . .
an unclothed moon
weeping stars

descending

from the grayness of


a crane's wings . . .
a memory
moored in thick mud






morning dew . . .
remembering long
ago rivers



this backstreet 
where lizards and men 
swap tales
over cheap brandy
and nowhere stars



kigo words? 
it's summer here 
all year long!



will the sun
have a place for me
under the log
i share with slugs and
newts, trying not to feel?



twilight dawn . . . 
a sigh between
winters


late autumn
he follows the moon 
through clouds
into the darkness
children hide in closets 



an old egret,
that shanty on stilts
glued to mud



even the rain
cannot wash away
the hunger
of children hanging
on to another's dreams



without light, he
longs for the dawn
that swallows him



it's hard to
eat when crocodiles
chase you
away from the cart
your life depends on



dry wheat grass . . . 
the whiteness of
a child dying



the rats,
the cockroaches
the absence
of hope living under
a tin cathedral



a riot in front
of the barangay hall . . . 
blood moon!



with glazed eyes
a stroke victim
inches through
the memorial park
with an unlit torch



comrades,
the moon and i . . . 
scattered clouds



in the
morning, rats take
their place
with children, scrounging
what dali left out



is this the gift
God gave man, a tin roof
in winter?



he picks up
coins left in front
of crypts
fearing his children's
hunger instead of God



rice pickers . . .
bridges above the
floating world





this could be
heaven, if the leaves
wrote poems
and the grass spoke
without whitman






stone, teach me
the calm of cold soil . . . 
on damp nights




look at me,
moth, i too will fly
into lights
      and
                           fall to earth in
a poloroid snapshot






just days . . . 
turning the pages i
would've written






the road's cold,
kerouac, steamless
diesels  . . .
with a list of credits
nobody'll read






a thousand
toads, and no one
to eat them!




the dog's nose . . . 
a hundred dragons
coughing





smileless people
riding on bicycles
made somewhere else


The streets of old Saigon, now Ho Chi Minh City, were filled with
thousands of people riding to and from their existence on bicycles,
tricycles, and motorbikes. Almost everyone, male and female, wore a
white shirt or blouse. Cars were rare; saved for use by local military
personnel and high ranking offi cials. Vietnam is one of the poorest
nations on earth. The people were used and exploited by those in
power when I was there. They are today, as well. They hold on to
their memories, their faith, and their sense of family. It is what keeps
them going.








wearing a dragonʼs
skin, this overcast night .  .  .
the tiger!


Tet is the Vietnamese New Year. Normally, it is a time for celebration. In
1968, it was the eve of a mass offensive staged by the Viet Cong. I was
newly in country, walking with some buddies through the red light district
in downtown Saigon. It was a surreal evening. Almost dreamlike.
The weather was humid. Clouds kept the moonlight at bay. The street
was overfl owing with Vietnamese civilians and American servicemen.
Newbies, our sense of adventure was on overdrive. We wanted to see and
experience everything. No parents to tell us what we could or couldnʼt do.
There was also an intangible something in the air, like an electrical current.
Itʼs hard to describe. Something was about to come down. The calm before
the storm?

There were an unusual number of funeral processions that evening. Small
groups of Vietnamese citizens walking through the middle of the street
with a decorated casket, the deceasedʼs picture on top, carrying joss sticks
and playing indigenous instruments. Only later, after I was transferred to
my duty station in Dong Tam, did I learn the truth about the funeral processions.
They were used to transport arms and enemy soldiers into the
nationʼs capitol in preparation for the Tet Offensive.

sunrise
petals replaced
with skin


What a difference a morning can make. The night
before, a couple friends and I partied in Mytho City, 
an urban center 13 miles west of our duty station in 
Dong Tam. We drank, smoked dope, and caroused with
prostitutes, our way of coping with a war we were
ill equipped to handle.


The morning after, all hell broke loose. Rockets
bombarded the base. The sky rained shrapnel. Mortars 
came from all directions. The enemy attacked when we 
least expected them to. Soldiers and base workers ran
in all directions, unsure of where to go, a path of
adrenaline in their wakes. To their battle stations 
or the nearest bunker. Our lives, for a moment, a crap 
shoot without dice.





does she dream,
this girl picking rice
before the sun wakes up?


Water buffalos were the tractors of South Vietnam. Only the well
off could afford to buy one. Those who couldnʼt, plowed the fields
with their backs... Women carrying loads on their backs no American
woman would ever agree to carry. They had no choice. It was work
in the fi elds or starve to death. People starving to death in the villages
and cities of Vietnam were an everyday occurrence.


The above haibun are excerpted from my 172 e-book, Vietnam Ruminations.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE A FREE COPY
contact me: foamfish@gmail.com


the chair
i am
sitting in
could have been
a granite rock
pushed up
from the
earth
millions of years ago
and
lucky for me
ended up next to
a babbling brook
that doesn't babble
too much
except on
weekdays
when i am at work
and
bluejays
land on it
but then again
"could have"
isn't a reality show
or chinese take home
my chair isn't
a granite rock
i'm not sitting beside
a babbling brook
the computer in front of me
oddly enough
sounding like
an
asthmatic
refrigerator
on loan
from
the
school cafeteria

09-20-2003



tonight 
especially
one rerun
after another
hour 
goes by
calling me to
a bed
i've slept in
one 
too many
times




a star
born to squander
its
effervescent light
upon
sedimentary waste
and
fossil fuels
churns
within the bowels of
a mechanized monster
ruthlessly
belching out
death
in
faithful obedience
to
cosmic puppeteers  D
                                   A
                                   N
                                  G
                                  L
                                 I
                                  N
                                 G 
american leaders on strings
of greed, and self
inflated ego . . .
a nagasaki howdy doody show
with
too many commercials  

Excerpted from my 1984 chapbook,

AND SANITY SCURRIED      

"Thanks for dropping. See you next with with a brand new upload
of poetry and haiga I've created in the past 3 plus decades."