Robert D. Wilson's
this monsoon . . .
gone the feint of heart
and toad song
robert d. wilson
father's day
is more than an e-mail
unsent
by fair weather children
on an overcast night
a dragon,
this rain, forcing palm
trees to bow?
remove from
me, rain, the residue
of ashes . . .
the body bag of
too late, too late
dry petals . . .
a young boy's dream,
too late
brother wren . . .
is there room for me too
on this limb?
where ghosts
blow bubbles beneath a
stagnant pond . . .
the dark stillness
of catfish waiting
faeries gasping
for air, these bubbles . . .
feigning madness
a mother
sits in three feet
of water . . .
staring at the
baby Jesus
a small ant . . .
to leave its safety
and wander
Dawn's early light . . .
On the way home from the Vietnam war, I closed my eyes, and kept them closed for the next 4 decades, traveling in and out of mirrors, sleeping in an old car with a half brained dog with a thing for muddy water; talking to walls that danced, every woman an e-ticket ride in uncle Walt's enchanted kingdom, my shadow stuffing his face with marijuana and cheap cans of sardines. . . California dreaming, star spangled and no banner, cruising with dragons up and down the coast into a black hole I swear was Joe E. Brown's mouth, staring at zebras, sea otters, walking snails, my brain on overload, thinking a thousand thoughts, blinking on and off, a neon sign in a diner with black and white checkered floor tiles, drinking cheap coffee, fondling runaway big breasted girls with pigtails in overall shorts with little room to breathe . . . at the dawn' early light: policemen, detectives, herding us into the sanctuary of an ancient Unitarian Church in Nixon's hometown, minus the Quakers, dragging butt naked AWOL soldiers into waiting cars, to be hung later, upside down, from the ceiling of the Red Queen's brig . . . vomit, bad trips, dancing bears the March Hare hired to impersonate life size cats blowing smoke rings into an empty tea cup . . . Jim Morrison singing, The End, in Paris, France.
the shrill scream
of incoming waves . . .
waiting
robert d. wilson
©2011
how can she
dance in a shanty
made of
egg shells and a
little boy's sandals?
a kigo
flies out of an
egret's chest . . .
sewing shadows
into an old man's pen
will you
remember me, son,
after locusts
eat our village, my
ashes a still-borne dream?
a knight
slaying windmills
after dusk . . .
ignoring the mirrors
of vindictive priests?
a lamb
at the altar . . .
bleeding light
heavy rain . . .
clouds towing the moon
through darkness
sanguine,
the woman dancing
outside
a mission with a
stained glass grin
jack fruit moon . . .
old men sucking
shrimp heads
somewhere
a rice paddy asking . . .
whispers
dry petals . . .
a young boy's dream,
too late
brother wren . . .
is there room for me too
on this limb?
where ghosts
blow bubbles beneath a
stagnant pond . . .
the dark stillness
of catfish waiting
faeries gasping
for air, these bubbles . . .
feigning madness
a mother
sits in three feet
of water . . .
staring at the
baby Jesus
a small ant . . .
to leave its safety
and wander
she lies
beside me, sleeping . . .
painting
a canvas teachers
say don't exist
the scent of
vine ripened mangoes . . .
courting stars
gone, the
small bridges in
rice fields . . .
ghosts clad in
seaweed kimonos
wrens sing
on a fence post . . .
windmills
what happens
when men play god in
rice paddies
burrowed in the bosom
of hyacinth clusters?
hot night . . .
a slug swathed in
bubbles
watching
a monitor lizard
tread water . . .
and old women
scolding mosquitos
an echo
we both inhabit . . .
dancing leaves
maybe a
dream world sculpting
yesterday . . .
with broken teacups
and charred baby's bones
a shadow,
this void, reading
my own words
maybe some
day you'll fix the
toy you
tried to ride in
my rear view mirror
spring blossoms . . .
spreading bagoong on
green mango
late night . . .
a toddler sweeping
dirt with a
straw broom where
his father works
a fish ball, the
moon, stretching
limits
a thousand legs
on mccarthur
highway
fishing for soldiers
to feed their families
deep morning . . .
a drunken moon between
her breasts
i want to
relax, a selfish
stone fixed on
temporality and
cherry blossoms
inhale
when i exhale . . .
new rice
i sense you
across the ocean,
sending words
in paper airplanes
over the dragon's spine
dancing water . . .
the wind playing
with leaves
Dawn's early light . . .
On the way home from the Vietnam war, I closed my eyes, and kept them closed for the next 4 decades, traveling in and out of mirrors, sleeping in an old car with a half brained dog with a thing for muddy water; talking to walls that danced, every woman an e-ticket ride in uncle Walt's enchanted kingdom, my shadow stuffing his face with marijuana and cheap cans of sardines. . . California dreaming, star spangled and no banner, cruising with dragons up and down the coast into a black hole I swear was Joe E. Brown's mouth, staring at zebras, sea otters, walking snails, my brain on overload, thinking a thousand thoughts, blinking on and off, a neon sign in a diner with black and white checkered floor tiles, drinking cheap coffee, fondling runaway big breasted girls with pigtails in overall shorts with little room to breathe . . . at the dawn' early light: policemen, detectives, herding us into the sanctuary of an ancient Unitarian Church in Nixon's hometown, minus the Quakers, dragging butt naked AWOL soldiers into waiting cars, to be hung later, upside down, from the ceiling of the Red Queen's brig . . . vomit, bad trips, dancing bears the March Hare hired to impersonate life size cats blowing smoke rings into an empty tea cup . . . Jim Morrison singing, The End, in Paris, France.
the shrill scream
of incoming waves . . .
waiting
robert d. wilson
©2011
how can she
dance in a shanty
made of
egg shells and a
little boy's sandals?
a kigo
flies out of an
egret's chest . . .
sewing shadows
into an old man's pen
will you
remember me, son,
after locusts
eat our village, my
ashes a still-borne dream?
a knight
slaying windmills
after dusk . . .
ignoring the mirrors
of vindictive priests?
a lamb
at the altar . . .
bleeding light
tonight,
when stars shutter
and the moon
dines behind clouds . . .
your words in petals
you sleep with
the moon on a highway . . .
painted with lights
what does she
think of me through her
mother's words . . .
when time tightens
its belt and scoffs?
under whose
table tonight, maid?
winter deepens
can we see
each other in
the abyss
people make to
hide their feelings?
heavy rain . . .
clouds towing the moon
through darkness
sanguine,
the woman dancing
outside
a mission with a
stained glass grin
jack fruit moon . . .
old men sucking
shrimp heads
i look for
the old flower
seller
inside the breath
of a still-borne moon
molina street . . .
the parade of women
saved for dreams
i taste
the words i splayed
yesterday
on a pier covered
with pink scales
at last, a
trail to your house . . .
winter moon
birdsong . . .
where were you last
last year
when the tethers
of heat held fast?
thank you, moon . . .
for the breath to
stir blossoms
dragon,
only you and i
know the
madness i've harbored
inside your crawl
a monsoon?
so quickly you answer
me, dragon
we eat
from the same plate . . .
calloused hands
plucking snails from
circus mirrors
twilight . . .
a blind man wrestling
with leaves
in the
charity ward, i too
talk to
cockroaches
in two feet of water
beneath the
sink, a mouse praying
in tongues
a rice paddy asking . . .
whispers
autumn evening . . .
the space between each shell,
a deafening quiet
For three weeks straight, during the TET Offensive in 1968, the
Viet Cong lobbed one mortar after another onto our Base in Dong
Tam. The attacks occurred late at night and early in the morning.
Needless to say, sleep wasnʼt something we got a lot of. The
enemy attacked five to seven times an evening. Erratically timed,
we never knew when to expect an attack. We just knew that they
would come.
When the mortars came, they came with a vengeance. We were
sitting ducks. There was no way of anticipating where they would
land. It was a dice game with no winners.
It was the deafening quiet between each mortar that I remember
the most. I couldnʼt relax. I couldnʼt do anything but hope and
pray that my name wasnʼt on one of the incoming shells. Wide-eyed like a deer staring at a carʼs headlights, Iʼd stare out at the
bay and wait. Every night. Every morning. Death taunted us. Our
imaginations, larger than life. We were the hunted, unable to see the hunter.
Base morale sunk to an all time low. We grew tired, antsy, unsure
of our futures. Bridges to all roads leading to our Base were wiped
out. Mail could not be delivered. We were cut off from our families, our linkline to sanity. Supplies didnʼt get to us. Our dreams put on hold.
the memories I
brought home that winter,
didnʼt turn off
I envy those who have never fought in a war. They arenʼt haunted
by the memories those of us who have served in a war have. War is
glorified in the movie theaters and on television. Gore and violence
sells. It also desensitizes people. As a child, I watched my fair share
of violence on screen. Then I went to the Republic of South Vietnam.
Suddenly, what I saw on the screen was more than acting. I
was center stage. Doing live theater. Real bullets. Real rockets. Real mortars. Real people dropping dead. Real blood. Real fear. And just 18 years of age.
When I returned, I did what many did when they returned from the
war. I tried to forget what I saw and experienced. And to no avail.
Drugs and alcohol couldnʼt erase the memories. Certain things a person can never forget. The horrors of war is one of them. I exchanged a cap and gown for jungle fatigues. So did thousands of others. We saw, we experienced, we felt, and were changed forever. There were no ticker tape parades to welcome us home. Some thanked us. Others cursed us. In Washington D.C. there is a monument to honor the memory of Vietnam War veterans. The same Washington D.C. that later said our participation in the War was a mistake.
War continues to haunt and ravage the world, leaving a trail of blood and ruined lives in its wake. War is not glorious. It is real. Too real.
autumn evening . . .
the space between each shell,
a deafening quiet
For three weeks straight, during the TET Offensive in 1968, the
Viet Cong lobbed one mortar after another onto our Base in Dong
Tam. The attacks occurred late at night and early in the morning.
Needless to say, sleep wasnʼt something we got a lot of. The
enemy attacked five to seven times an evening. Erratically timed,
we never knew when to expect an attack. We just knew that they
would come.
When the mortars came, they came with a vengeance. We were
sitting ducks. There was no way of anticipating where they would
land. It was a dice game with no winners. It was the deafening quiet between each mortar that I remember the most. I couldnʼt relax. I couldnʼt do anything but hope and pray that my name wasnʼt on one of the incoming shells. Wide-eyed like a deer staring at a carʼs headlights, Iʼd stare out at the bay and wait. Every night. Every morning. Death taunted us. Our imaginations, larger than life.
We were the hunted, unable to see the hunter.
Base morale sunk to an all time low. We grew tired, antsy, unsure
of our futures. Bridges to all roads leading to our Base were wiped
out. Mail could not be delivered. We were cut off from our families, our linkline to sanity. Supplies didnʼt get to us. Our dreams put on hold.
tunnels everywhere ...
not a seasonal worker,
the dragon
For a thousand years, Vietnam was at war. The Vietnam War was one of many wars. For centuries, outsiders have trampled on her soil, raping her of her natural resources. Originally, Vietnam was a single nation. Later, it was partitioned by the French into two nations. At the end of the Vietnam War, the two nations became one again.
Exploited and poor economically, the Vietnamese people didnʼt have the wherewithal to fight conventionally, nor did they have the resources their conquerors had. The one thing they did have, however, was patience, and vision. They knew they couldnʼt rid themselves of their conquerorʼs yokes overnight. It would take time and sacrifice. Decades turned into centuries. Thousands of lives were lost. Throughout the years, Vietnamese guerilla army units dug an elaborate system of tunnels under the earth, many of them interconnected. They used the tunnels to house hospitals, armories, soldiers, supplies, and other necessities. Some of the tunnels were multilayered, burrowing deep into the ground. The Chinese, Japanese, French, and American armed forces knew of their existence but had no idea how many there were nor the vastness of its reach.
During the Vietnam War, we were unable to pluck the enemy from its lair, no matter how many bombs were dropped and villages raided. After every attack, the Viet Cong would reemerge, seemingly invincible. The enemy refused to be conquered. Because they were born there, the Viet Cong knew the land better than their attackers. They dug, they hibernated, and they waited. Their patience paid off. The little dragon defeated its enemies in 1975.
Unfortunately, the little dragon today has become the domesticated pet of a political system heavily influenced by a former conqueror, The Peopleʼs Republic of China. I remember the old South Vietnamese farmer who told me that he didnʼt want the U.S. in Vietnam, nor the Chinese influenced Communists. He wanted to be left alone to farm and govern his own destiny. The cycle continues.
louder than the parrot
the soldier in the field
drinking beer
Americans by nature are a loud lot. In comparison, the Vietnamese
people are softspoken and rarely raise their voice. It is considered rude to yell or speak loudly. This is due in part to the Buddhist influence. Many times I walked through villages in the Mekong Delta. Always it was a peaceful experience. No loud music, no screaming kids, blaring television sets, boisterous drunks; the
air permeated with the soft whisper of woman doing chores,
children playing, animals grazing, and the fluttering of banana
leaves.
A lot of U.S. soldiers drank heavily. This is not uncommon in a war
zone. Unfortunately, the use of alcohol erases all inhibitions. This made for loud voices, aggressive behavior, and a lack of moral restraint. Several of my buddies drank themselves drunk on weekend leave. Their voices pierced the quiet countryside; their frustration, fear, and prejudices magnified tenfold.
They became obnoxious, disrespectful, and grabbed at passing
women with sexual abandon, oblivious to their complaints.
They were armed, the women were not. The only police in the
village were South Vietnamese Army guards who didnʼt want to
make waves. Unrestrained, the drunken soldiers did what they
pleased.
. . . until next week . . .
