# 25

Robert D. Wilson's

what are

     seasons to a city . . . 

without stars?

"Remember our brothers and sisters in Japan."

To CELEBRATE the NOW

I will send anyone who asks,

a FREE  pdf COPY of my book,

JACK FRUIT MOON.

I believe that poetry belongs to

the people and not just to those 

who can afford the high price of

ordering books overseas and the

hefty S&H costs.

does she hear 

the music she dances

to at dawn . . .

the cries of her baby

sandwiched between tin?

polling through

dense fog; oarsman

or foe?

the rustle of 

egrets dreaming

    her eyes . . . 

watching a crow

deconstruct!

slithering

through her tonight, 

a rainbow

colored dragon 

caught between mirrors

     autumn night . . . 

my imagination

stirring stars

i dive

again into the

dragon's dreams

looking for the 

you i never left

swimming through

      heaven's river . . . 

the quiet!

i almost

forgot you the day

i laid in

vomit thinking i was 

on to something new

      late winter . . . 

the echos that

aren't there

 the wind sings 

through me in a high 

     soprano . . . 

if only i could be

made to laugh again

comets streak

    below the dock . . . 

incoming tide

i walk into

this poem sated

with sadness

knowing children

sleep on sidewalks

     almost spring . . .

sharing my bed with

cockroaches

looking at

the world through a straw

      used before . . . 

a vendor's child

sipping day dreams

    swirling winds . . . 

my mind floating in a

lid-less toilet

where will you

take me next when

the winds 

change and what i 

know turns to ash?

crash landing

on stone buddha's palm 

. . . stillness

      scattered clouds . . . 

a two year old

sleeps on a 

dirty sheet of cardboard

beside the highway

      hang-town sun . . . 

the blank look in 

the beggar's eyes

i never did

see her face, her

voice weaving

in and out of 

my cerebellum

rain today?

the long ride on a bus

to nowhere

a sad dream,

      this shopping mall . . . 

no one

you know will pass

the test of mirrors

what's a new

toy to a child

glued to summer?

go, enter

the mirror this mall

is to you . . . 

a ticket to

the depths of hell

will you go

to school unbathed?

stale wind

want to be

the kid no one

wants to sit 

next to in school?

durian fruit

a dreamer,

she watches clouds 

through tin walls

what happens

when the name you

once wrote

stumbles down the

street with glazed eyes

the heat 

        framing your lips . .. .

dancing moon

                                                               nearing spring . . . 

a half dressed moon

sipping brandy

    

from the

jeepney's window

bored bargirls

talking to their children

on cell phone phalluses

      summer moon . . .

you held me like it

was winter

i want to

kiss you again

under the 

table when avocados

aren't in season

draw me in

your dreams, when

summer coughs

he sips mango

juice with an under

aged girl

he'll only see

again in dreams

the eggplant 

tonight, and the kiss 

we both wanted

sipping

mango juice under a

microscope . . . 

i think of the med student

with worn out shoes

in a world 

of talking tables . . .

our words

driving through

you into a painting

of winter . . .

gessoed with

carbine monoxide

frida kahlo

turned up

the 

other day

on 

a

POSTAGE STAMP

made in

AMERICA

her brush

smiling

remembering

when 

Henry Ford

painted over

her husband,

diego rivera's

mural

he'd

commissioned

to 

CELEBRATE

labor

because 

it

included

a picture

of

a

COMMUNIST

and

heaven help 

THE WORLD

if

a commie

stared at them

later

from 

a

POSTAGE STAMP

robert d. wilson

no one told
me my brain would
explode
when i returned home
from the dragon's nest

the sky rained rockets

that lanternless night --

umbrellas useless

The whistle of an incoming rocket. It came when we

least expected it to. A shrill, airy whistle not unlike the

sound emitted by skyrockets at a fireworks show. As the

sound grew louder, the muscles in our bodies tightened;

our nerves tensed. We dove for cover and prayed that it

didnʼt have our names on it. When it exploded, deadly

shrapnel (chards of sharp metal) shot out like tiny bullets,

cutting a murderous path. This was in addition to the

crater the explosion created. When the sky rained rockets,

no one was safe.

swallowed by 

       the earth this autumn day . . . 

dreams undreamt

Thousands of people died in the Vietnam War. Not all of the dead were soldiers. Many were innocent civilians. People with no axe to grind. No political goal to fulfill. Men, women, and children who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their lives snuffed out by napalm, bombs, hand grenades, mortars, rockets, automatic rifle-fire, knives, and human hands. There are no shiny black memorials to commemorate their existence and the sacrifice they made. Their dreams, their hopes, their aspirations relegated to what could have been. And for what? A war, Americaʼs leaders now say, should not have been. The memory of these people should not be forgotten.

forced to shoot 

others, this manchild, one year

a thousand summers

Nothing changes a young teenager quicker than when he is forced to kill another human being. Young boys were drafted into the Vietnam War right after graduation from high school. At eighteen, their lives had centered around going to school, playing sports, courting girls, helping out at home, and other youthful pursuits. Overnight, they were transported across the ocean to a foreign land where they were armed with automatic rifles (machine guns) and told to shoot the enemy if attacked. 

I had a friend who was forced to shoot a nine year old girl who charged at him with a hand grenade. He told me it was

the most horrible thing he ever had to do, killing a little child. But as he told me, “What else could I do? It was kill or be killed.” 

The taking of a human life changes a person forever. Gone is the innocence of youth, the naivete of adolescence. Some soldiers had to kill others on a daily basis, witnessing some of the most gruesome sights imaginable. Psychologically, of course, it took its toll. Some of my friends had glazed over eyes. Others drank or drugged themselves to oblivion on a nightly basis. Others I know are plagued even today by horrendous dreams of what they experienced and saw during their stay in South Vietnam.

The sad thing is, when we returned stateside, after completing our tour of duty, few of us received counseling. After discharge, we were sent back into the civilian world, emotionally dysfunctional. Drug addiction, alcoholism, and post traumatic stress syndrome laid waste to many of my fellow servicemen. I too, went through hell and back. It was only through years of counseling and spiritual journeying that I

was able to rise up from the chasm of self destruction and reoccurring spectres to a headspace where I openly face the dragon that followed me home. And yet . . . I feel like Don Quixote, battling windmills, surrounded by a thousand mirrors,

the nightmare refusing to let go; peace of mind a bad joke

my brothers at the VA medical clinic have heard over and over and over again.

      summer's end . . .

 those children screaming in

the dragonʼs belly

More than once, I was invited to have supper with a South Vietnamese family. The families I dined with were not rich. Most barely eked out a living. The meals they served my friends and I, however, were second to none, usually consisting of rice, shrimp, a kale-like vegetable, and dessert. 

The meals were delicious and abundant. Better than the food, however, was the hospitality. Our hosts treated us like visiting royalty, insisting we eat more, giving us the best seats, continually asking us if we wanted refi lls for our sodas. The South Vietnamese people are some of the nicest, most considerate people on this planet.

The Viet Cong were everywhere, especially in the Mekong Delta region where I was stationed. Those who offered hospitality to American servicemen, paid a high price for their generosity. Sooner or later, they would be tortured, killed, or forced to serve as spies by the VC. 

The Communists were merciless with those who sympathized with the American war effort. I have seen their handiwork first hand. Backs with burn marks and horrible bruises. Backs that had been brutally beat. And that wasnʼt the worst. Our guests gave to us and asked for nothing in return. Never once did they pump us for information. They gave because that was who they were ... generous, giving people. We, supposedly, were in South Vietnam to help and protect the people from the evils of Communism. 

Our presence in the war gave many a false hope. A hope for a day when they too could be free from war and poverty.

The United States left Vietnam in 1975, withdrawing from a war that claimed an excessive amount of human lives. The Republic of South Vietnamʼs government was toppled instantaneously by the North Vietnamese armed forces. What happened next to those who helped the American war

effort was not a pretty scene. 

Thousands were killed. Thousands were tortured. Others were forced to attend reeducation camps. A Vietnamese friend

of mine who later managed to escape from Vietnam as a boat person with his extended family, told me of former South Vietnamese policemen who were tied spread eagle in his villageʼs square and hideously tortured as an example

for all to see. Do we, who served in the Vietnam War, ever think about our hosts today?  Are we concerned about the welfare of the Vietnamese people we were formerly charged to protect?

odd,

a jasmine flower

in hellʼs bosom

The former Republic of South Vietnam was an enigma for those of us who fought there during the war. It was a mixture of heaven and hell. Hell, because of the war. A war that forever changed our lives, took away our innocence, and left us with emotional scars that will haunt us until we die. 

The sights and sounds of that war are not the kind that go away. We saw and experienced things at a young age

no young person should have to see or experience: unfathomable horror. Bleak loneliness. And a fear that leaves you numb for days afterwards. We were sent to the battlefields without psychological preparation. 

And when we returned Stateside, most of us were

denied counseling. The Republic of South Vietnam was also heaven. Heaven, because it is one of the most beautiful places on earth, bar none. I was stationed in the Mekong Delta region, a rich rainforest laced with intersecting rivers and waterways. It was like living inside a National Geographic Magazine centerspread. There were tall palm trees, lush

green foliage, beautiful fl owers, exotic animals, and much more. A nature photographerʼs dream come true.

A touch of Hell. A touch of Heaven.

     

     papa . . .

you didnʼt show me how to

plow the field

Children lost their fathers during the Vietn am War. Some lost their mothers. On both sides. Lessons untaught. Examples unlearned. Lives scarred by anger, loneliness, and the absence of a primary role model. One day, a parent is there. The next day, he or she is not. War shows no mercy, no preference. People die. Families are torn apart. We must not forget this. 

I long for a day, idealistic me, when war is no longer a reality. I saw firsthand, the ravages of war. Soldiers and civilians were shot, maimed, and psychologically scarred for life. Over a million lives needlessly erased from this earth. And for what? Oil? Tungsten? Rubber? Power? Where were the politicianʼs sons and daughters during the war?

"THAT'S ALL UNTIL MY NEXT 

POSTING IN A WEEK OR SO."

twilight dawn . . .

an old man talking to

his father's ashes