November 10, 2009

Another day, another part of the Wonderland Amusement Park:
a park unlike any other park, without an end, always expanding . . .
my thoughts and dreams dancing with yours on a stage made
of fireflies, shooting stars. We have fears, taboos, guilt, and ghosts
we don't like to share, wanting always to look good in front of others . . .
wearing masks that some mistake as real. Am I in the throes
of madness, an inventor of myths, a poet who thinks he's good but
isn't . . . Is this the song others sitting on dusty thrones too long
want you to think? It's time again to enter the Park's turnstiles, perusing
your mind and spirit through a different perspective. I only write the
poems and design the haiga, it's your job to interpret them. Happy
landing!



still windy,
inside and out . . .
whirlybirds


before dusk,
the rotors of a
dragon grow
louder and louder . . .
shivering trees


the fireflies
on your pupils . . .
towing clouds


this morning's
song flies between
a heron's
bamboo-like legs . . .
brushing water


un-calloused,
your hands haven't
felt summer


a nipa hut
without a hair
dryer ?
this dance under
bridges made of skin


light rain . . .
the muffled feet
of children


our child
will glue together
our souls . . .
crossing the river of
stars with without waders



forget time,
your love swims through me . . .
heaven's river


like a
carabao, the
man carrying
wares over his shoulders
with a bamboo pole


how can i
understand the rain,
breathing you?


a lightless
house, staring into
your heart . . .
a childhood pond
too long ago


how quickly
the bamboo grows . . .
gecko song


yesterday
we argued about
something
stupid like children
jumping in craters


sleepy wife!
up all night until
the sun crowed


want to
run in circles
with the wind?
on the street, a toad
covered with ants


how can the
bra seller sleep?
heavy rain


waiting for
the wind to change
its course . . .
we eat sushi made of
seaweed wrapped no's


waving grass . . .
she prefers foul air to
a night of stars?


tonight, inside
the cafe, we fed our
tiredness . . .
at home, reality
on a pogo stick


full moon . . .
she embraces darkness
like a mistress


i get an
e-mail from a woman
who forgot
she has a mirror . . .
scattered showers


winter moon . . .
a bar girl stares at
christmas lights


a good friend
paints stars on my
my stomach . . .
cereal boxes and
rooms by the hour


she listens
to a lewd ringtone . . .
chance of rain


the same girl
with the sad look
extends her
hand like an organ
grinder's monkey


morning glare . . .
we discuss her plans to
get pregnant


a tree full
of eyes waits for me
to drift like
a cloud into the
mouth of a catfish


the bamboo
planted weeks ago . . .
winter's child


i avoided
you last night, knowing our
photos would
be folded into
paper airplanes


no lettuce
in the palengke . . .
sing to me


a day here
is meaningless . . .
small black birds
circle a dead man
pretend he's alive


the coffee
was too weak today . . .
orchid buds


robert d. wilson

©2009