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