Friday, October 30, 2009

October 28, 2009

                                          October 30, 2009

This afternoon a close friend of mine. Sanford Goldstein, asked me the following question:

Dear Robert--


Sanford made good sense, being that what I am doing online is different, personal, revealing, and different from any English Language Japanese short form poetry blog or journal.  So Sanford, here it goes, as you suggested:

Says reknown Japanese poet and translator, Eiko Yachimoto about her visit to the Wonderland Amusement Park:

"I felt as if you were fishing with the line going down into your mind and heart. thank you for sharing." 

I just feel like doing it.  More people will read this than my book, I won't live forever, and I want my poetic voice validated and appreciated.  I have a style that is completely different than others and who knows, maybe more will be inspired to write and reveal real life, (from the inside out) just as you, I, and a few others do.  I'm not the average bear, don't fit into a mold, people think I'm eccentric, and I am. but then again, true artists (which includes poets) are thought of as strange ducks anyways because we more often than not march to different drummers, couldn't be macho if our lives depended on it, and hell, what can I say, I've yet to hang out or be part of a group of poets who are not sensitive, emotional, could never be a model Fuller Brush Salesperson, have egos.  Most people, at least in America, like to hang out with like types, people who mirror what they want to see and here, and when one deviates from the accepted norm, there is a price to pay.  AND if you deviate from the poets you associate with, you run the risk of considered an enigma, anathema, avoided and talked about behind your back.  I've tried a good part of my life to fit in and I never could.  Whatever I've done, wherever I've gone, I manage to stand out.  And NO, I don't intentionally cultivate this image. " I am."  "Who are you?" "I am." "You are what?" "I AM."

This blog is my daily diary.  Common to what some have asserted, none of what I write is made up.  Each day or so, I publish poetry that shares with readers my feelings, memories, emotions, the highs and lows, questions and emanating from the conscious and subconscious "Am."  Want to know me; the AM?  Read and try to understand my poetry from the state of mind you sense in each blog and not from your own state of mind.  Visit the Wonderland Amusement Park: a place where anything is possible.  I have been to hell and back more than once, seeing and experiencing what I hope few have.  Not all of the rides are fun.  Some are complicated, Some are wild toad rides speeding through a universe made of paper and tin. Others will scare the hell out of you.  I wouldn't let my child enter the Wonderland Amusement Park.  Enter and listen . . .

i allow
myself to be fooled
by pretty
young girls selling phones
to confused kanos

you acted
differently today,
wore make-up,
acted as if i were
the only rooster

i thought of
you today as i
always do . . .
an enigma
without a past

i can't pretend
you don't exist, a
bubble I'm
supposed to pop
when you enter the room

hurry, close
the closet door, explore
with me the
songs darkness sings
between the lines

nightfall . . .
the blossom i took
for granted

some day
you'll wake up from
the cartoon
you drew when reality
dealt you a bad hand

my mentor
the stars; the breath
of ma

let us
swallow the AM of
who we are . ..
side show barkers
with too many pockets

cooler nights . . .
the dance of a
thousand thoughts

it's when you
close your eyes like
after dusk, that i feel
your words in my bowels

to be a
haiku painting's thoughts . . .
new rice

you said you
couldn't draw, made
you laugh at now . . .
a thicket of briars

keep painting
your brush has much
to tell you!

as if i were on
a name tag saying:
yes, i did it


the drone of
fans on a crowded

it turns me
on to watch you at
the mall dressed
like a bar girl with
a christmas light smile

the moon's arms
dangled on the edge
of the pier

your make-up
calls to mind chagall
the stretched girl
reaching for something
she has to have

the nervous
dance of trees waiting . . .
the typhoon!

if only i
could give you the
baby you want . . .
no long winter nights
waiting up for you

nearby stream . . .
the ova of my dreams
sleep in sand

at the chinese herb
store, a girl
said:  i like your cologne . . .
my naivete

a young girl
spreads rice by the road . . .
christmas lights?

at night you
send messages only
a scholar
could decipher, with
more than one meaning

robert d. wilson


Wednesday, October 28, 2009

October 27, 2009

lake taal,
ready to blow,
like her mom . . .
without a mirror,
trembling water

hollow log . . .
knowing it's his
last winter

the nets holding
manila de
bay's fish farms?

costly drinks
under a canopy . . .
colored lights

a whore, the
teenage madonna
feeding her
baby without an inn,
under christmas lights?

toad sits down
to a christmas dinner
of horse flies

she thinks she
can make it go
away with
a kiss and a smile
that hides her feelings

how rare,
the morning sky
set free!

i fall
asleep with her hand
on my shaft . . .
dreams of rainbows
cresting on waves

still winter?
will madness continue
her journey?

she asks me
to stop, to sleep
inside a briar
moistened with hope

remove me
i beg you, from
winter's grasp

inside your mind . . .
see hell and
heaven, the dragon
sleeping between mirrors

ptsd . . .
you ask me to wear
your sandals?

stuck between
seasons, my reflection
plastered with
help wanted signs
spitting neon

dark winter . . .
a paper clip clasping

humid air
i need a breather
from the
madness the mad
define as normal

burning coals . . .
the poor smear ashes
on their cheeks

when a stone
thinks it's a boulder,
toss it
into the river
and watch it roil

robert d. wilson


*Taal is a caldera volcano that is the most active
volcano in he world located in Tagaytay, Philippines.

Friday, October 23, 2009

October 26, 2009

may i
slowly undress more
than your clothes?
thoughts of you in
an opera, dancing

your body,
like a jasmine petal . . .

this night with
out stars or moon, invites
us to walk
through each other's brain
without a bathrobe

late noon . . .
talking hammer
to hammer

i only
think you're waving
at me, those
limbs, the synapsis of
my mind shorting out

what was
winter thawing . . .
those legs

how can i
interpret you are
there for me,
when anyone else
would cut my balls off

sun, why
do flee from the
sum at dusk,

on my bed
at dawn, blossoms
a yesterday
with chocolate eyes

the mayhem
of twilight dawn . . .
shaking limbs

chases stars between
legs, moistened
with tomorrow . . .
winter deepens

chasing neon
the checker board floor of
cold winters

i don't
even know the who,
let alone
the 'you are' pulling
me out of madness

the cement
angel on top of
the strip mall
watches a tricycle
driver pick his nose

did he find
gold or was he
picking his
nose, the tricycle
driver deep in thought

she bowed
giving me her headband . . .
ichi ban;
her tears, petals
falling from heaven

restless sea
i too can draw light
from the moon

shy, the
waitress giving me
her headband . . .
'it's dirty,' she
whispered to my wife

sleep pulls me                                                                                                                                                                                                       into a world of cut-up
paper moons

under a tree singing
energy becomes oner
composing tonight

she asked me
if i'd kissed her . . .
winter haze

how sad,
the monkey with
staring at the black
and white checkered floor

i danced with
a fast food hero,
sharing spring

stay with me
now, even if we
both fall
into an abyss
with sharpened teeth

robert d.  wilson


Thursday, October 22, 2009

October 21, 2009

winter dawn . . .
the coldness of an
empty bed

a jail
to haunt me, the
belly of
the dragon bathing me
in dark nightmares?

another storm?
the quiet we shared
for seconds

i'm tired
of magic sailing ships
through time in pirated
seas made in china

i wept
feeling the collapse
of your wings

i'm sorry
for loving you
at a time
when carelessness
could have killed you

to fragile
the dancer wearing

what is and
isn't it grand you called
us to say
we shouldn't be
on the road tonight?

an arched back . . .
and not from sowing
rice in mirrors

guilt? checkmate?
anger seething
inside of
a labyrinth i built
and lost the map to

where else
can we meet when dreams
are not enough?

i hope you
don't blame me for
the hope we
shared when castles
erased our minds

dance inside
your tears tonight,
plucking stars

i wish i
could pull you out of
a top hat
and make the rest
of the world disappear

those words fired
at you this morning . . .
blue thistles

spider, set
me free from the web . . .
or am i
you, wearing a bathrobe
weaving me own surmise?

robert d. wilson


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

October 20, 2009

strange brew . . .
the froth of winter
the monk's resolve
to keep each candle it

a few stars
tonight,  beneath caterpillar's

i lost the
foot race when i
woke up . . .
my wife beating
me with her fists

the sun's heart
beat in winter . .

i can't
deny the emptiness
i feel tonight
knowing your words
are no longer

under my
blanket a few stars
to wrestle

between my
my teeth, pieces
of seaweed
waiting for their
hearts to explode

is it winter,
a dream, the moon
sipping coffee?

if only i
could seize the anger
i have for
you and hurl it
back into the sea

like every
night, star's without
a blanket

by robert d. wilson

© 2009

Monday, October 19, 2009

October 19, 2009

one, now
another, a three-fold
of miscreant moths
drawn from light to light

the boom boom
boom of workers racing
the rain

search the sun,
the moon, the ripples
of streams . . .
a thousand monks
vending mantras

cock fighting . . .
spilling blood
after church

the fire
coming from the
dragon's mouth
is oddly wet . . .
a tulip in winter

she gives her
two young boys the love
spring denied her

a friend of
mine died this morning . . .
tired, with too
much to do and a
heart that couldn't keep pace

half mast . . .
even the moon tonight
weeps for you

the sun sets in the
east, instead
of the west, the
moon eating butterflies

deep morning . . .
a laborer chats
with the stars . .

fate, the four
letter word hanging from
no one wears anymore,
at flea markets

think of the
ox tonight when winter
wakens you

robert d. wilson

October 18, 2009

that old
rooster really did
crow three times
while peter slept in a
stained glass window

quick note . . .
the flower's blossom

where was i
when you needed me . . .
my picture
staring out of a
post office window?

day lilies . . .
muffling the song's
of koi

words dance
across your forehead
carrying the
same lilies diego
rivera planted

your songs
gecko, guide me
through winter

playing chess
with four persons,
in a mind
that thinks too much . . .
a kin to brother moth?

you forget
to follow through . . .
then winter

words are more
than barkers calling
people to
watch the circus . . .
or a banana split

dusty wind . . .
brown placards with
out words

i'm tired of
jigsaw puzzles and
carousels . . .
twirling me in circles
on empty lots

winter . . .
waiting for last year's

as usual,
you play me for
the fool
i am, and think of
me as a wind-up toy


* The following seven poems are
   dedicated to my friend, Hui Na.

i saw a
star fly past me
into spring

a chinese
dancer asked me if
i wanted
to dance with her in
a basket of lilies

how can i
refuse the spring
i prayed for

hearing you
giggle reminds
me to
let my inner
child out to play

still winter . . .
the quiet of a
nursing whale

nesting on
on a crescent moon . . .
a thunderbird
eating sushi
topped with stars

swim into
the whale's womb . . .
lover's lane

lay there . . .
send me away
i won't know how
good it's feeling

one, two, three . . .
a tree line with
big smiles

robert d. wilson