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