# 26

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

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

somewhere
     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 . . .