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."