robert d. wilson's
a depository for over 30 years
of my poetry and haiga art,
unlike anything you've read before.
a chalice,
this narrow moon . . .
steeping stars
staring
at me in the
rice field,
a dragon knee
deep in mirrors
my best friend
sleeps beside me . . .
thawing winter
will the mouse
i killed today
think of me
as a windmill
in another life?
autumn clouds . . .
it's hard to be
a raindrop
smothered,
growing old in
in the old
movies i used
to watch as a child
incoming tide . . .
city streets flood
with water
if i die
do i kid myself
thinking
people will take the
time to light a candle
i sleep with
worms in a field
of candles
together
we'll eat rice, God . . .
in a field
without snails . . .
and punji sticks
late autumn . . .
i stir fear into a tea
cup and steep
will i sink
deeper into
the hell
i call the wonderland
amusement park?
late autumn . . .
i watch nightfall
undress trees
he squats on
the sidewalk with cigarettes
he sells to
jeepney drivers . . .
one at a time
autumn dusk . . .
a flying cockroach
picking thoughts
starless night . . .
the sound of no one
breathing dreams
some day, son,
the echo in the
canyon will
cease, leaving you
to ride the wind
morning quiet . . .
we pray the grass
won't whisper
what does the
jackyl do when the
lions have left,
their world a dung
heap sprouting flowers
durian fruit . . .
no stars in the
dragon's belly
i refuse
to be a lizard
who changes
colors, wears a derby
hat between flies
my flower,
this cement post . . .
shedding fall
my father's
memory, a haiku
strolling past
clouds into a
dandelion's wake
autumn rain . . .
the face of a
dead woman
i wait in
my room for the
rain to stop
refusing the
refuge of worms
the dried fish
my father and i
ate watching
samurai movies,
left an aftertaste
early winter . . .
tutoy clings to
lolo's pant leg
a maze, this
place magellan
thought he'd
discovered, a
palengke of the mind
a mirror,
the dragon's brain . . .
with me in it?
where is
autumn, the stillness
of rice fields;
the sun painting
bridges dark brown
eyes in every
shadow, the stillness
of winter
somewhere else
hoping something
will change
in the winter,
night became day
night rain . . .
caught between
petals
a shadow . . .
a mirror caught between
echoes
reminding me of
what i used to be
music, the
song of autumn in a
carabao's tail
my bones
ready themselves
for the day
when moist earth will
muffle my words
october noon . . .
500 lice picked from
a student's hair
a young girl
squats on the roadside
in front of
a buko vendor
watering thoughts
the sun
sits on her back . . .
new rice
waiting for
the rainbow to
change colors
the same old vendors
the same old dreams
clear water . . .
the calligraphy
of shadows
maria
looks at me from
her lair
above our home
with quiet eyes
mourners leave
their garbage for the
dead to clean
children swim
in the pasig river
where
tilapia swam when
women washed laundry
i miss my
children, blossoms
in waiting
dancing dust . . .
the tickle of bullets
racing past
dragon,
remember when time
passed me up . . .
the day before
the world caved in?
why were you
there that night, dancing
in my palms?
you knew
i was going home and
felt lost . . .
an owl flew through me
to lips without mice
the cock crows . . .
a slimy toad asks me
which girl
how could i
sleep when a thousand
hammers
pounded the riverbank
singing my name?
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, surfing,
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.
summer grass—
soldiers fly home
in pine boxes
A young man, newly in-country, steps off of the airliner
that fl ew him across the Ocean to the tiny boot shaped
country called South Vietnam. A dream? The air thick
with humidity and something intangible. Soldiers clutching
rifl es, dressed alike, the air scented with sweat and cooking
oil. “Shit, what have I gotten...” A soldier carrying a clipboard
points to an old truck, “Your chariot, ladies. And donʼt let
those gooks over there carry your gear. Theyʼll want your
money.”
He says nothing during the trip. Everything around him a
documentary that wonʼt turn off. Leather skinned women
crouched on street corners stir frying food, hawking odd shaped
fruit, dressed in black pajama bottoms with white blouses; the
highway to Saigon teaming with bicycles and motorbikes,
unbound by traffi c laws, honking like mad geese, driving deeper
into the dream .... A nightmare, actually. A reality series filmed in
Super 8, without commercial interruptions. The grand prize, a
trip home.
behind the darkness
more darkness
this lanternless night
The perimeters of our base in Dong Tam had to be guarded at all times to
prevent enemy intrusion. This was especially important at night. Everyone
on Base had their turn at guard duty, whether it was standing watch over the
bay or at one of the three land perimeters. The land perimeters were the most
dangerous. Teams of two stood watch. They had to be silent and refrain from
using any kind of light. Otherwise, they would set themselves up for enemy
fire. The area in front of the guardpost was planted with claymore mines and
trip flares. Beyond this was the darkest darkness imaginable. The place was
spooky. You would look out there and see nothing but you knew you were
being watched. You couldnʼt relax. You didnʼt dare. Your weakness was the
enemyʼs strength. Off and on during my stay in Dong Tam, the enemy fired
at the guardpost. Sometimes a single pop! Other times, the rat- a-tat-tat of
automatic rifle fire. Where were the politicianʼs son's/
time
for the elephant
to be
sent back
to the jungle
It was
stolen
from
by
the same
big bad rich
cats who
USE
them
for
their logo
and
belt buckles
not
giving a damn
that
they'll be extinct
As in
NADA
in the next decade
As if
the
elephant miesters
cared,
their wallets busting
their hired hands busting
their sweat shops busting
the poor
everywhere
busting butts
for the rich
who forget
that
one day
the
USED
will fight back
with
a stampede
of
NOW!
A Taxi Into Oblivion
I drive a taxi
into
oblivion
my head swirling
my heart ringing
my eyes
droopy and dark
like
eye shadow
from
not enough sleep
my thoughts a collage
called
MADNESS
aided
by
marijuana
and
sadness
a
steering wheel
I clasp upon
with
a
nervous grip
Driving a taxi
into
oblivion
I pass
closet liberals
driving to work
on
crowded freeways
in
conservative clothes
speeding
towards
the apocalypse
short-haired
wanting security
their conscience
on
a t-shirt
in the wash
Driving a taxi
into
oblivion
I see
a
lowrider
cruise
in
a circus car
past the dreams
he dreamt
with painted ladies
and
a can
of
spray paint
la bomba baby
tomorrow's maybe
a barrio soldier
fading fast
and
waving
i pass churches
filled
with people
looking
for
the promise land
and
no Moses
their laundry hidden
from
insecure eyes
wanting
VENGEANCE
for
a misshaped past
Driving a taxi
into
oblivion
i hear
the voices
of poets
in
a
small town saloon
their muse
a wino
staggering
down the street
no
"Leaves of Grass"
no
Carl Sandburg
children
of
irrelevance
overshadowed
by
EGO
and
a love
for
boredom
creativity
shelved in dust
and dying
Driving a taxi
into
oblivion
I see
mindless millions
with no eyes
no comic strip
no blank-eyed dog
with
tail wagging
walking
placidly
down sidewalks
with
numbers
on
their foreheads
content and happy
toward
the computer
they call
THE BEAST
a return
to
the "summer of love"
more permanent
than last
summer
without synthetics
AND
legal
Excerpted from And Sanity Scurried
By Robert D. Wilson
©1986
If you would like a free
pdf copy of my chapbook,
Tanka Fields,
send me an e-mail.
See you next week for the next installment.
Thank you for liking my art and poetry.
Pass the word!
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