Happy New Year From The Wilson Family

Make a Smilebox greeting

December 28, 2009

A man who works for me here in the Philippines is the proud father of his fourth child; the first from the only woman he'd married. They had their baby at home, a four foot high hovel without electricity, with the help of a mid-wife they couldn't afford. . . The baby, an 8 pound boy, his mother, less than five feet tall with the dark skin of a girl who's no stranger to the sun. . .  I've never been to their house; our worker too embarrassed for me to see it.  Others in the past have refused to show me where they live as well. They feel inferior, unequal to to those who have more. 


Was Christ a rich man wearing a white porcelain mask, clothed in satin robes, chauffeured in a a shiny black stretch limo, with a crowd of worshippers in tow carrying lit candles?  Was Buddha always a stone statue who never ate the food laid at his feet in cold, dark temples, during a war we had no business being in,  when those dressed in ochre, having shaved heads, walked between good and evil, at the dragon's beckoning,  showering the rice paddies with omens that are and are not?  Did Allah come out of a cave to bring the world to its knees, having bridged the chasm between the "and" of are and  are not followed by minions of demons carrying unlit candles, or . . . did he, instead, create a bridge between good and evil,  tossing the "and" of are and are not into the chasm below, the sky raining jasmine petals?




I am, you are . . . always changing . . . am and are, skipping stones across the stillness of a lake made of dreams, ancestors dreamt when the world was a dream passed on to the are and are not dancing between stars.


i am, you 
are the chasm we
jump into
when the trees no
longer whisper




robert d. wilson
©2009

the glint in

your eyes looking

for the man

to give you our baby

in a hayless manger

there baby, a

boy born in a puddle

candle light

you think

i don't know your 

thoughts . . . 

herons sinking

into thick silt

inside the

afterbirth, a

money tree

your words . . .

a poorly made 

paper crane

unable to see 

its way through lies

money tree . . .

rotting roots can't stop 

dawn's breasts

the sun's risen!

bathe us too, in the same

magic that bore

you a basket of 

fruit after christmas!

even an

afterbirth can be

used again

the blood

from your new born,

fodder for

another woman's dreams . . .

racing against stars!

dawn coolness . . . 

your breath circles 

stone breasts

the secrets

of your womb sleep too

in stone beds . . . 

longing for clouds 

pushed by warm air

farm girl . . .

the warm sun softens

your heart

madness lurks

in the questions you

can't answer . . .

bubbles popping up

in stagnant water

only walls 

won't milk me of my

last winter

eye shadow

and a permanent

will paint you

into the canvas

you thought you weren't

why does spring

beckon when i don't

text you?

birth brother,

we too fight closets . . .

wrestle with

lies in the guise of

paper dragons

be you, be

the breathe that takes away

our winter

i am, you 

are the chasm we

jump into

when the trees no

longer whisper

here, winter

is a candle, your

spirit's flame

robert d. wilson

©2009

December 26, 2009

"I find myself

sickened by the above 

blather and 

dissociate myself with 

immediate effect from it"

Art is subjective.  What one dislikes, another likes. The tanka poem above is not a tanka but a comment made by a reader that I made to look like a tanka.  When I was in high school, I painted paintings that garnered attention and won awards.  My parents, however, didn't share the same enthusiasm, and told me what I was painting was ugly and not real art.  It wasn't long after that I quit painting.  I'll never forget the day when I received a letter from my parents while stationed in South Vietnam's Mekong Delta that read:  "Your mother and I visited an art museum today and saw many works on display that resemble what you did a few years ago.  I wish we'd encouraged you. . ."  My father's words made me angry and I felt like writing him back and saying: "Thanks for nothing!"  I'm glad I didn't.

I am an individual in an insecure world that values the herd instinct and one-up-man-ship.
As a child I tried hard to fit in, but never could; I believed in fighting for the under dog, wasn't afraid to march to a different drummer.  When you have a high IQ, aren't one of the crowd, do and wear things others don't, and know how to organize and get things done, there is a prize to pay.

You are misunderstood, misjudged, attacked behind your back, rarely to your face, and it's usually by the same kind of people.  Recently a person I considered a friend called me a tyrant and a bully, and said I brought about the downfall of something valued through the world.  I realized at that moment, that he didn't know me at all, and therefore, could never have been the friend I thought him to be. I'm a damned good organizer but I am not the best leader.  It's hard for me to be mean or to fire someone, or to criticize another's work.  I usually let people do their own thing and empower them to do so. Many times people took advantage of me and I let them do it.  I didn't want to rock the boat. Vietnam and the life I brought home to the U.S. and back to Southeast Asia to the Philippines affected me greatly.  I am no longer the Robert I was in high school who was an athlete, weight lifter, award winning dancer, and eccentric individualist. Going through a marriage with a monster that tortured me and my children for eight long years, in addition to my advancing age, 60, has weakened me.  The guy who posed as my friend, never saw me in action, the person who wrote the criticism above never heard an adverse word from me, my life dedicated to a journal I co-founded and steared to success the past 7 years.

The Wonderland Amusement Park, where things are never what they're supposed to be, where all is changing, the truth hurts, and from this hurt, we grow or torment ourselves. The poems you'll read, the haiga you see, are my diary for the past few days. All are my compositions.  I hope they inspire you to open up more in your writings, to be faithful to your muse, and to encourage you to take chances, regardless of what the herd says.  A strange place, this park, hiding under the dragon's shadow.  Enter at your own risk.  It'll repulse or inspire you . . . the infamous, "either or."

robert d. wilson
©2009

Dedicated to Moira Richards and Ray Rasmussen

taal, do

you too feel mayon's

fury

beneath the earth

a catfish swallowed?

this mist,

like orion, waiting . . .

waiting

little girl,

today a nymph

selling fruit . . .

tomorrow, a canvas

painted violet

comes the light

of tomorrow . . .

breathing darts

your eyes

fill with blossoms

that wither

when the moon has

no place to hide

does she breathe,

this cone nesting

in the lake?

rundown streets,

buildings, the make-do

of people

embarrassed to invite

you into their homes

you'll never

again talk to walls . . .

the stars!

should i make

my home behind a

waterfall

that dries up

when summer sighs?

continue

to sit beside the

alley's dance

jeepney's weave

the traffic on pasay

into tight

knots a sailor'd

have trouble untying

ask me,

when i'm hungry, if

the moon

fool!

continuing her jump

into chasms . . .

filled with rainbows

made of cotton

restless clouds . . .

an angler hurries to

untie his line

hammers

fast, as the sky

prepares to

water the earth for

another spring

mute still, the

egret balanced on

two sticks

a cadence,

the morning song

of laborers . . .

the chorus of

nearby rivers

light breeze

soften the tree's limbs . . .

ovulation

what to do

when i'm caught between

the dragon's legs,

and pretence has no

power to cover lies?

walk with me

in a moment layered

with now

fly me above

the tears of those feigning

sorrow . . .

through moonlit dreams

layered with coffee beans

not the star

but the light, posing

as a gem

sly rat!

at night, invisible,

sneaking

mutely behind

the flight of words

slippery,

the eels burrowing

inside words

i've learned to

trust no one, their

temperament,

a bangus eating

another fish's eggs

it is true,

santa,you love

salted eggs?

the greedy

man volunteers

to help . . .

a snake stealing

a hen's eggs

a priest mocks

celibacy  in his office . . .

glossalia

quiet, she

slips into her

rocky hole

at dawn, digesting

yesterdy's kill

what do i do

when jackels leave me

disemboweled?

why, dog, did

you stop on front

of our car?

did you know it

was christmas day?

wearing new

smiles on christmas day . . .

the new year?

you can laugh

at me now, but the

day will come

when i'll dance with

elephants like a king

and you,

hiding behind words . . .

winter waits

did you hear,

wonderland, idiots

mock you . . .

pounding plastic gavels

in empty courtrooms!

between your

words and pen , a

snowless yawn

between your

words and the pen

you write with . . .

a jealous moon looking

for cloud cover

what is

surrealism to

a mindless sheep?

fading tears?

koi jumping over

paper moons?

how can i explain

this to a lizard?

arthritic hands . . .

plant her garden in

melting snow

pablo listened

to no one, followed

his heart, if

he had one, to the

tips of bull's horns

the dog she

hit this morning . . .

gasping air

some day you'll

fall, and when you reach

up for help . . .

an asp will bite

you on the hand

who beats who,

the sower or

the cabbage?

they take the

moon i painted on a

paper lantern,

and call it theirs . . .

thinking windmills can't fight

am i not

supposed to dream?

trout shaped leaves

poor snake, he's

blamed for what you

do, as if . . .

he forced you to eat

the apple and run

bent over,

she chews betal nuts

with what was

you call me

the tyrant you see

in your mirror . . .

can a mouse be

a caribao?

christmas night . .

the color it

represents

a dunce hat?

you with mean words . . .

bouncing off

walls papered with

insecurity?

o, to be

a farmer sowing

fertile ground!

the tide came

in tonight, washing

away dreams

of a christmas . . .

lasting forever

come back, dream . . .

let the blossoms come

in spring!

i feel the

tears running down

your cheeks . . .

and wish i could give

you want we want

just hold me

tonight, nothing else . . .

winter rain

another try;

the tug-o-war of

clouds and guilt . . .

a wonderland

without rabbits

the dream my

ex-wife stole from me . . .

with lies!

depression,

like rust, can slowly

eat away

what you tried to hide

when the tide came in

and now . . .

the weight of a

thousand leaves

what causes a

woman i've never

met, to treat

me like a husband

who battered her?

calm the

angry woman feeding

her shadow!

robert d. wilson

©2009

December 22, 2009

CHANGES

an altar 

boy, the moon, lighting

our dreams

robert d. wilson

©2009

Nothing is constant. Everything changes. Nothing's predictable. For many it's hard to accept. Many in the west are comfortable with sameness, tangibility, and what they can easily understand. Some people resist change. Too many compare themselves with others, forgetting that we can only be who we are. Decisions and changes mean a lot of things: Where to go?

What to do? Should or shouldn't I? Or, should I metaphysically just let things be as they are,

accepting what is and isn't, let cosmic energy be, or is that a cop out for empathy? I have been in constant change since birth. Things happen, don't happen, causing other changes . . . and like outer space, eternal.

Yesterday, a series of events occurred, requiring action on my part? Meditation? A clear mind un-muddied by preconception, hormonic imbalance, and changes I have no control over? Not all of the events were a part of each other, or were they? The world a live television show without a script. I was hurt by what appeared to an orchestrated resignation of four staff members at Simply Haiku. And felt forced to close the journal. What to do? I felt anxiety, sadness, anger, victimized, like a mother watching her only child die from a quick, all of a sudden cancer with the or two of life remaining. Prompted by others, especially my dear friend from Serbia, I decided not to knee jerk, but to, instead, which the emphasis on the "in", to explore, and see if Simplu Haiku, the finest literary journal of its kind in the world, is still an entity meant to be. E-mails came, offering help, expressing sadness, and emotional support. And with them, clarity, the stirred up water, slowly clearing. I've learned from this experience that not everything is at it is: a motorcycle zips past me, the rider on meth, weaving, skidding, screaming, Mr. Easy rider on the ground, disoriented, higher than a kite that broke loose from the string holding it, his eyes popping out like a cartoon character, the arriving officer trying to take off his boots, the biker, saying, "No one takes of my boots!" And then the calm, when the smokes clears, the biker goes to where high wired nuts on boots go when they skid into the mouth of hell, and me, without a scratch on the outside, the dragon above me snorting a belly laugh that echos like a heaving volcano. I'm still hurt, shocked, blown away, anxiety pulsing in my veins, neon lights blinking on and off in my mind . . .then poof, out of nowhere, an old friend arrives in a yellow submarine and agrees to be webmaster and help me steer the ship through story waters. Another change. A good change. The Wonderland Amusement Park, where anything's possible, Simply Haiku bouncing past me on a pogo stick, waiving at passing pelicans, on her way to the "what" of whatever ,the moon, a blob of jello. At least for now. The past has come and gone, the future may not come, all of us stuck in the now, oops, now it's in the past. On the menu, the next NOW.

Decisions, changes, and what they mean. Anyone care to share their concept of CHANGE?

I'm not talking about the money you jingle in your pockets or purses, for those of you that have change. THEEEEE un-predictable anything goes when you don't expect change. "Honey, did you remember to lock the back door before we left to see my mom in Florida?"

Enter now, admission's free, your head will spin like an Osterizer blender, and don't bring the kids, they might like it and stay! Oh, and what the hell, become a member, not an arm or leg, a real member, and who knows, you might one day even get a newsletter. Heaven help us. Or as my late first wife, Ileta, used to say, "Pizza Pie!" and "Mother Bear!"

Robert D. Wilson

tonight i

dance with the stars

on a vast

stage without a floor. . .

swathed in clouds

take my hand . . .

tiptoe through a forest

snoring blossoms

slide with me,

when the moon is full,

down blossoms

wet from dewdrops and . . .

leftover dreams

death, you're

where is your armor?

full moon!

how do you

do it, ambassador,

using words

people elsewhere

won't misinterpret?

an altar

boy, the moon, lighting

our dreams

do i ignore

her when the tide's red;

the weight of

her limbs, thick with

ripened apples?

jeepney's . . .

stagecoaches wearing

armor

a plastic

doll, my friend's 25

year old girl;

not to play with . . .

a thousand doves set free

stillness, her

only company, moored

between stars

wakened, my

eyes scan the room for

feelings i

can clasp onto

with a mute smile

clear sky . . .

will you too will be

shorted lived

crickets with

hammers, a cold box's

song of wind . . .

morning dares me to

join her for coffee

and now the

saws, the chipping, the

haiku sky

bundled up

beside me in a

yellow sheet . . .

a warmth i can't

describe with words

last night, death

looked at me through

a doll's eyes

*for my friend, Kaat

*Angel, gray

clouds swim elsewhere

when you rise

up from the dormant

loam of a cold winter

again the

breath of a wind

without direction

will she learn

when a snake speaks

to her of

waves singing songs

out of empty captions?

the wife's up,

i haven't slept a wink . . .

the season?

tonight i

dance with the stars

on a vast

stage without a floor. . .

swathed in clouds

take my hand . . .

tiptoe through a forest

snoring blossoms

slide with me,

when the moon is full,

down blossoms

wet from dewdrops and . . .

leftover dreams

death, you're

where's your armor?

full moon!

how do you

do it, ambassador,

using words

people elsewhere

won't misinterpret?

an altar

boy, the moon, lighting

our dreams

do i ignore

her when the tide's red;

the weight of

her limbs, thick with

ripened apples?

jeepney's . . .

stagecoaches wearing

armor

a plastic

doll, my friend's 25

year old girl;

not to play with . . .

a thousand doves set free

stillness, her

only company, moored

between stars

wakened, my

eyes scan the room for

feelings i

can clasp onto

with a mute smile

clear sky . . .

will you too will be

shorted lived

crickets with

hammers, a cold box's

song of wind . . .

morning dares me to

join her for coffee

and now the

saws, the chipping, the

haiku sky

bundled up

beside me in a

yellow sheet . . .

a warmth i can't

describe with words

last night, death

looked at me through

a doll's eyes

*for my friend, Kaat

*Angel, gray

clouds swim elsewhere

when you rise

up from the dormant

loam of a cold winter

again the

breath of a wind

without direction

will she learn

when a snake speaks

to her of

waves singing songs

out of empty captions?

robert d. wilson

©2009