Issue 8

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