robert d. wilson's
LOUSY MIRROR
over decades of poetry and haiga
humid, the
waiting room in a
marmot's dream
a tempest,
this unstable cloud . . .
carefully tapping the air
with a bamboo cane
summer clothes . . .
the dull sheen of
green water
wiping feet
in a jeepney,
this young boy
people swat away
like a mosquito
sipping quiet
from a c-ration can . . .
winter night
i listen
momentarily
to words
whispered from a
girl friend's urn
twilight . . .
fighting madness in a
pool of vomit
madness
courts me with walls
dancing
to the echo of a
make-believe god
all saints eve . . .
a nation praying
to candles
no emperor
the naked boy
talking
matter of factly
to throw-away kids
the monsoon . . .
babies on the backs
of laborers
i tiptoe
inside your larynx
like a wren
singing songs at your
father's funeral
they live with
rain every day
walking on
driftwood causeways
over sewage
too late
this leathery woman
without leaves
the smell of
roasted corn lures
me into
thoughts far from the
calliope's laughter
on the sidewalk,
a beggar scrapping
winter
the dance
between us sorts
darkness like
cards in a rigged
game of poker
late night . . .
outlining memories
in red
if i could
fly like a moth
i'd soar
above the moon
into undressed dreams
who will eat
these molded rolls?
autumn cold
God cut the
strings to the
marionette
i convinced myself
was a mirror
fish, wind, bugs
drawing calligraphy
in pond phlegm?
childless
women passing
one dream to
another in a
race between moons
thunder . . .
a leaf touching
soft loam
if i were
your ancestor, would
you stay after
the rain to watch
a cloud turn tricks? sea urchins
wait for high tide . . .
autumn monks
what will i
do if your roots
shrivel, and
branches become
chunks of charcoal
incoming tide . . .
villagers run from
the dog catcher
how can i
forget you lying
on your side
with an outstretched cup
sleeping through winter
humid morning . . .
my wife's lolo
eating dilis
dismantle your
tent and move into
the dream
you dreamt for us
polishing lilies
# for bill higginson
i flush the
mouse i killed . . .
day moon
after noon
when heat reminds me
of the path
i chose for you . . .
a lily bearing dew
does it bother
you, the repetition?
october squash
sadness crawls
like a maimed man
clutching a
buddy's dog tags . . .
the river that was
filling empty
vessels with air . . .
October dawn
eyes watch me
from a field turned
inside out . . .
black pajamas
ancestral ashes
Dali painted me
into someone elseʼs dream
that Spring and walked away
The Spanish Surrealist, Salvadore Dali, is noted for his wild dreamlike
paintings that fl irt with madness. Nothing in his paintings are like they
seem. On closer look, the viewer sees pictures within pictures, some of
them shocking. I was not prepared for what I experienced in Vietnam
as a teenager just out of high school. I had no idea what the Vietnamese
people believed or how they thought. My only realm of experience
was my own from back home. As servicemen, we were taught nothing
about the Vietnamese. In high school, we learned nothing about
their history. Most of us originally didnʼt come to Vietnam to help the
Vietnamese people. We knew nothing about them. We came because
we were told that communism was knocking at our door and had to
be stopped to avoid a domino effect. I went, I saw, and got my mind
blown.
crossing the Mytho River,
a sampan with
two kinds of eggs
A sampan chugging across a brown water river
fueled by a diesel engine was a common sight.
Taxis, they ferried people and cargo from one
village to another. Passengers sat beside stacked
wooden crates laden with produce and poultry.
The Viet Cong used the space below the cargo to
smuggle in hand grenades, ammunition, mortars,
and guns.
Autumn dusk -
clinging to the sailorʼs shadow,
an orphan
We looked forward to the weekends. This was our time to go into
Mytho for a little rest and relaxation. Mytho is the nearest port city.
Just a few miles from our base. It was a half hourʼs cruise by
patrol boat up the polluted Mytho River, a tributary of the
Mekong River. Ashore, we behaved as typical
sailors, visiting the bars, brothels, restaurants, dance halls,
and curio shops. In our wake was a cloud of children, hoping
for handouts of gum and candy. In a way, we were their
entertainment for the weekend. I remember one child well.
She was a nine year old orphan with a bowl shaped hairdo. And
what a mouth! She cussed like a sailor and possessed a cocky
personality. She also spoke good English. Whenever a certain
noncommissioned officer came ashore, sheʼd cling to him
like glue to paper. The NCO was the consummate drunk;
weaving in and out of the red light district with a bottle of
Crown Royal whiskey in his hand. She served dutifully as
his protector, negotiator, and interpreter. Where he was, she
was. In return, he gave her special attention, made her feel important,
and provided her with food and money. It was as if she had a father.
Then the man was shipped Stateside.
Excerpted from Vietnam Ruminations
If you would like a free pdf copy of
this 172 page book. e-mail me at
foamfish@gmail.com
The following free verse performance poem was written
in 1984 while I was sitting in a dentist's chair waiting for
the dentist to see me.
ASHES
where o where
are those thatched roof shacks
I visited a few years back
seems like a dream/distant far-off
waterfronts
covered with mist/smelling of
diesel fuel/churning engines
patrol boats/fluttering of hearts
joss sticks burning/ancestors burning
ashes in ceramic urns
worshipped, remembered, venerated
talked to, questioned
separated from sons/soldiers
listening and hoping
longing
for no war/no ash
reign of buddha
mama san on matted floor
children calling papa, papa
in ashes somewhere
to be gathered, collected
remembered
no more
robert d. wilson
©2011
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