# 15

Robert D. Wilson's

A depository of over 3 decades

of poetry and haiga art.

None of us will forget March 11, 2011.  An earthquake

struck Japan that registered 9.0 on the Richter Scale.

A giant tsunami followed.  The combination of the two

forces of natures caused an aftermath that resembled

the destruction caused by America's genocidal dropping

of two atomic bombs during W.W. II. 

To make matters worse, the two forces weakened the structures

of Japan's poorly designed nuclear power plants, causing plumes

of radioactive smoke to to enter an airstream that blankets the

earth.  Those who designed these nuclear reactors should be

tried for involuntary manslaughter.  Instead they sit in comfortable

office chairs in plush high-rise offices, far removed from any

danger.  Japan is on the verge of economic collapse, which will

have a great affect on the world's economy. The American government 

declared that it is unsafe for anyone to be within 80 kilometers of

the power plants.  Nuclear power plants should be outlawed.  Humans

are fallible and thus, make mistakes. There is no room for mistakes

when it comes to nuclear power. It is this Gojira (Godzilla) that will eventually

destroy life as we know it on Planet Earth . . . a power set loose that human-

kind cannot control or harness (at least so far * 3 Mile Island & Chernobyl).

More more information: http://wearealljapan.blogspot.com

long night . . .

we listen to the

dragon's breath

rising from my

chest, a hummingbird's

heart beat . . . 

i ponder the infinite

with a child's mind

were you 

a cup of tea, i'd

welcome winter

sleep with me

in the morning

when stars like

crickets slip into

another's darkness

autumn cool . . . 

past the stars, a

bed of nails

with chafed knees,

the boy on the corner 

spoon feeds 

summer with the

back of his hand

      baby's breath . . . 

a pair of orchids 

between folds

you'd call it

hell, the alley 

beside our 

home, darkened with

a lemur's eyes

hunger eyes

me curiously . . . 

feral night

you walk in 

muddy water,

little boy . . . 

without sandals  

and your father

with sadness

in his face, wind

sings to me . . . 

a dark night without

moonlight and stars

in my brain . . .

an old carp ponders

the shoreline

forever,

a lapse of time?

walking in

circles around a lake

swallowed by dusk?

deep morning . . . 

caged dogs barking

at rats

my ex-wife

told a friend she wanted

me killed . . . 

a spectre standing 

on broken mirrors

soup made from

pork and bananas?

jack fruit moon!

what can i

say or do to stay 

the tide

of a winter

pretending to be summer?

lonely?

a shadow follows

me home

in a fit 

of anger, she destroyed

the incense 

i brought with me to 

the isle of no buddha 

mosquito . . . 

you drink way too 

much coffee!

when i tell

people i've driven through

a rainbow

their world becomes

a dog chasing cars

sadness?

wisps of clouds falling

short of winter

sad, the child 

staring at classmates

eating lunch . . .  

in the space he's 

reserved for dreams

does bamboo

hear her cries at night?

gentle rain

between the

clouds a low flying

dream eludes

me like an egret

staring through me

far from man,

the cloud i set

harbor in

i miss you

egret, standing in

the pond

i took my daughter to

when clouds could dream

clumps of stars . . .

orion's arrow seeks

a stray word

she listens

to us talking . . . 

a vendor

selling what no

one wants to buy

rat too,

prays inside the

dark spaces

After my tour of duty in the Vietnam War, I was flown

to an America I didn't recognize. Norman Rockwell

had been laid to rest.  In his place, a million Davy

Crockets and braless Cinderellas wondered the 

landscape aimlessly, dreaming dreams without

sleeping; their minds, neon lights, flashing on 

and off, on and off, on and off to the key of 

E minor in a coffee shop with checkered

floors and duct taped naugahyde booths

serving Farmer Brothers coffee around

the corner from City Lights Bookstore

on Columbus Street in North Beach

with Kerouac's ghost who wasn't

holy, had a thing for bebop jazz,

avocados, and larger than 

life Carol Doda signs, the

world as I knew it, turned

inside out with a

Dali-esque smile

Timothy Leary

could see

through

in 3-D

    late summer . . .

mr. natural on

methadone 

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


Excerpts from
Vietnam Ruminations

Boating upriver

into a dream saved

for nights like this,

when alice sets

fi re 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 fire; flashes 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.

     cherry blossoms . . .

their babies!

their babies!

When I was in Vietnam in 1968, widows of fallen soldiers

came into Saigon to work as bargirls. It is one of the poorest

countries on earth, both then and now. Earning a living

is very difficult, especially for a single mother. One bargirl

I met went to the University of Saigon during the day majoring

in Economics. It was her dream to one day be selfsupportive

and to give her children and extended family a 

good life.

steeped in shadows,

a dragon laying

eggs

As the war progressed, more and more South Vietnamese saw the

Americans in a dimmer light. At fi rst, we were welcomed as liberators,

idolized as symbols of freedom and prosperity, a prosperity

many hoped they could obtain if the communist insurgents were

defeated. Unfortunately, most American soldiers knew little about

the Vietnamese culture, harboring little if no respect for the people.

It was not uncommon to hear a soldier call Vietnamese people,

“Gooks,” a derogatory term similar to “nigger” or “chink.” Women

working on our Base in Dong Tam were, more often than not, looked

upon as sex objects , sometimes grabbed inappropriately against

their will. When military patrols searched through villages in search

of the enemy (the enemy was literally everywhere), the treatment of

civilians was at times, atrocious. No respect was given to the elderly,

to village officials, especially to women. Oftentimes, our example

in the former Republic of South Vietnam aided the enemy in their

recruitment of soldiers and informants.

in the jungle,

a christmas tree

made of skin

Imagine for a moment, celebrating Christmas in the

jungles of the former Republic of South Vietnam. The

year is 1968. You graduated from high school the

previous year. This is your fi rst Christmas away from

home. And the first time you have been out of

the country.

You are eating canned rations with some of your buddies.

Reminiscing about past Christmases. Making the most of

a difficult situation. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the unmistakable sound of

an incoming mortar. And another. The sky is raining shrapnel. Bullets

whiz past you. There is nowhere to hide. You and your buddies dive to

the jungle floor, your weapons aimed in the direction of enemy fire. Your

hearts beating a hundred miles an hour.

As soon as the firefight starts, it stops. It is time to clean up and assess the

damages. Your first Christmas away from home. Hanging on the tree in

front of you, bits and pieces of someone youʼd reminisced with an hour

earlier.

new rice ---

a woman in the shadows

giving birth

There were people in the villages I visited in the Mekong

Delta who barely eked out a living. They lived from one

bowl of rice to another. A concept I wasnʼt familiar with

coming from a middle class family in affluent America.

Long before sunup, villagers readied themselves and their

families to work in he rice fields. They labored in the fields

well past the 8 hour work day we are used to. The weather

was sometimes 127 degrees with 100% humidity. A

day off was a luxury they could not afford, even on the

weekends.

A pregnant woman did not take time off to prepare for birth,

nor could she after the baby was born. Her family had to eat.

She labored under a relentless sun, her back bent over, her

newborn in a sling hanging from her chest...the nearest

hospital, several miles away.

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.

March 11, 2011

tonight

i sleep in

a past

without

an alpha

or

a beta

in

the stomach

of

a catfish

who

doesn't

give a shit

about

haiku and tanka

flying ban'yas

and

flying popes,

pushing

nibbling

bumping

gulping

my bed

your bed

Japan's bed

yellow journalism

circus clowns

new laptops

children

dead and dying

mother's crying

father's washed to sea

in toilet tissue arks

built by

those who

designed the reactors

in

America

who dream

of 

bigger cars

bigger houses

bigger 

      everything . . .

the homeless

school-less

     pennyless . . .

memories

fear

anxiety

memories

no phone

memories

falling

down 

a

dark chasm 

into an ever

without

the what

memories

haiku

tanka

memories

flying people

gliding

through

the fish's belly 

who isn't

a fish 

but

a collective

of rich cats

with 

a hard-on

for money

robert d. wilson

©2011

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