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

Sunday, February 13, 2011

# 11

Robert D. Wilson's


A SHOWCASE
for over 3 decades of poetry and haiga art
robert d. wilson

*NOTE: This poetry doesn't necessarily reflect the style I'm writing
now


the bed
curtain's shadow
dances
petitely on the 
face of a new born



you smell
like a tannery,
blossom!



the scent of
rain culturing
my nose
with memories of 
you singing psalms



late summer . . . 
the sadness of moss
erasing rivers



ah winter!
clouds speak to me
with water
in words dancing 
on my forehead



dance with me
stream, in a ballroom
of pebbles



the whiteness
of song, water,
stretched 
over glaciers sculpted
by beluga whales








warm morning . . . 
flies push ahead 
of the line



starless night . . . 
gang  members in a
dark alley
hunger for the fruit
they can't afford buy



   swollen bellies . . . 
bearing bridges for 
rice fields



summer
wakes up over 
summer 
over summer
. . . a field of mirrors



candlelight . . . 
a line of spirits
sowing words



an arched bridge
in the memorial
garden . . .
how many more 
in the rice fields



elephant 
grass, a night with-
out whisper



not my
own, rain tells me
when i can
and can't walk across 
the tips of mountains


   
poor boa,
in a cage sifting
boredom



unlike spring
the time will come
when i won't
return, my words . . . 
passing through pages








warm morning . . . 
flies push ahead 
of the line



starless night . . . 
gang  members in a
dark alley
hunger for the fruit
they can't afford buy



   swollen bellies . . . 
bearing bridges for 
rice fields



summer
wakes up over 
summer 
over summer
. . . a field of mirrors



candlelight . . . 
a line of spirits
sowing words



an arched bridge
in the memorial
garden . . .
how many more 
in the rice fields



elephant 
grass, a night with-
out whisper



moss too
will cover my bones; 
her dampness 
weaving darkness
into dreamscapes



     pre-dawn . . . 
staring past a
thousand eyes




my home waits
for me in the
shadow of
maria makeling,
smiling with dawn


  
   mud springs . . . 
even faeries hide
their feelings






what do 
ancestors think when
the lights are 
out and paper takes
the place of prayer



how sensual
the moon, her fingers
tracing dreams



she forgot
that clouds are pockets
of moisture
without bottoms . . .
a long way down



is that you,
mole, digging in darkness
for spring?



i read
shotetsu in
the evening . . . 
an egret swooning
moonlit shadows



those shadows,
egret, the stillness
of breath



a candle
singing, heartened
to be
remembered after
all of these months



children's tears
moisten shadows . . . 
all saints day



candlelight
and tears irrigate
fields sowing
next year's memories
with this year's words



children speak 
to them once a year . . . 
candle light


as of late
winter chides me like
an echo . . . 
the fading of stars
a loss of words






Vietnam Ruminations

Boating upriver
into a dream saved
for nights like this,
when alice sets
fire to wonderland

All of us stationed in Dong Tam at some time or another were
assigned to river patrol. This entailed navigating narrow, brown
water river-ways in Vietnamʼs Mekong Delta through dense vegetation,
partially obscured villages, and blind turns. We knew we
were being watched. It was impossible to ascertain if the villagers
we passed were for or against us. The enemy didnʼt wear
uniforms. Most of the time, these forays were uneventful. Sometimes,
when we least expected it to, all hell would break loose, descending
us into the bowels of a dragon mirroring Danteʼs Inferno.
Flame throwers belching fi re; fl ashes of light; tracers; automatic
gunfi re, mortars; shrapnel; blood; out-of-control heartbeats, interwoven
with the scent of death. While some of my friends in
America were living the good life: cruising the boulevard, surfi ng,
attending concerts, dancing, dating, and working towards goals, I
was in a jungle on the other side of the planet dancing with Alice
in the Wonderland Amusement Park.



elephant grass . . .
a gnat whispering,
“youʼre next”

I remember the wisps of air shooting past me
like gnats as if it were yesterday. Only it was
38 years ago and I was an 18 year old sailor
serving my country on a small base in the
Mekong Delta region of the former Republic of
South Vietnam in a war that would change my
life forever.



endless summer . . .
a shadow pretending
to be a god

We fought a war in a country we knew little to nothing about. South Vietnam
was not in our high school textbooks. And there was no Discovery Channel introducing
my peers and I to exotic cultures. We were, in essense, the personifi cation
of Robert Hemleinʼs A Stranger in A Strange Land.
A poor country ravaged by a thousand years of war, corruption, and military dictatorships,
the people of this Southeast Asian country wanted to be saved and delivered
to the promise land theyʼd heard abouts in the news and entertainment media.
American soldiers were looked upon as saviors by many Vietnamese people. We
were the embodiment of the life theyʼd dreamed of. Many naively thought weʼd
win the war and turn their country into a miniature United States. We were not
saviors, however, and we did not transform their countryʼs economy into a likeness
of ours. And we did not win the war. Bowing to political pressure in the
U.S., our Armed Forces deserted the South Vietnamese people. leaving in their
wake a bloodbath for those who supported our country and the dictatorship weʼd
helped place into power and supported.


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

Iʼll never forget the fi rst time I saw my mother cry. Iʼd received
orders to fl y to Saigon, the capitol city of the Republic of South
Vietnam. My tour of duty was for one year. I would be in the
heart of a war that was sending soldiers home in pine boxes on
a daily basis. Some of them we knew.
In January of 1968, I boarded a commuter plane in Long Beach,
California, near where Iʼd lived most of my life, on the first leg
of my journey. I turned around to wave to my mother. She was
standing on the runway, weeping, waving halfheartedly, hoping
and praying that I would come back to her alive in one piece. I
never doubted my motherʼs love from that day on. When she
passed away in 1997, at the age of 70, I was holding her hand,
returning the tears




/_/_/_/_/_/_/


i'm
lying beside
a hot tub
basking in
opulence
soothing
hurts
acquired
in
yesterday's
comic strip
about
me
your
black and white screen
inoperable
     and silent . . .
t
h
i
n
k
i
n
g
only of poets
reading naked
baring all
                 their drawers
without elastic
and
holy




In Memory Of


Leonid Breshnev
laid silent without god
before 
an anxious world
in Red Square
his medals on a pillow
no flagged draped coffin
pulled by a
horse-drawn carriage
mourned by the masses
weeping children
metropolitans and priests
Animal Farm's king
a gilded peacock
in frozen hate
joined his mentor in
dreamless sleep
without god
as
the important passed 
single file
in polite repose
kings, sheiks,
prime ministers and presidents
dry-eyed and sober
paid their respects . . . 
Yuri Andropov
KGB chief and theoretician,
why was Moscow
sealed off
when the world
said goodbye?


robert d. wilson
excerpted from And Sanity Scurried






Thank you for reading and enjoying my poetry and artwork
This page is added to and archived every weekend.

If you would like a free e-copy of my chapbook, Tanka Fields,
request one via foamfish@gmail.com

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.