Friday, December 18, 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

7 comments:

  1. Man,
    I'm halfway drunk, as usual. You may not want to publish this, but fuck those who won't stand by you. You've got a great friend in Serbia, but don't forget me. If it's too much and Simply Haiku must go, then it goes out with honor. If you and some competent, honorable friends can continue, then better off is the Japanese short form community. Remember, Robert, though we are half a world apart, I have your back, my brother.....old pajamas

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks, brother, and I have your back as well. It seems to me like an orchestrated thing, but shit, gotta go on. GIve to the world. Take care,
    brother.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Robert,
    So sorry, not done yet. You must be, in the words of Otis Redding: 'Cause mama I'm too much to handle.' I challenge your 'followers' (friends?) to comment, not privately, but here on your blogsite. I curry favor with no one, and I must say if you remain silent, I have nothing but disrespect for you. Shame on your passivity.....pajamas

    ReplyDelete
  4. I am angry, yes. Hurt, of course? Why these people did what they did, I'll never know, but it was a concentrated effort to ruin a wonderful journal that has helped educate the english speaking Japanese short form poetry community. This has happened before. But we refuse to sink and we refuse to give up and we become stronger than ever. I don't want to engage in a pissing match with the former staff members who did what they did and said what they did behind my back. But I'll tell you one thing, if they think they are God's gift to Simply Haiku, they are sadly mistaken. They didn't sink us. We made it through the typhoon.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Before I am gone unto eneven sleep, free of nightmares, I pray, heed the words of Nietzshe:

    "Art is the proper task of life."

    "I love those who do not know how to live for today."

    ReplyDelete
  6. Robert you have my support, for what its worth, and I'm afraid it isn't worth much. If there is anything I can do just ask. My thoughts and good wishes are with you. Is there anything that can be done?

    Sue Shand

    ReplyDelete
  7. .
    simply haiku ...
    only you are my
    Simply Haiku

    Gabi from Japan

    http://haikuandhappiness.blogspot.com/

    .

    ReplyDelete

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