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
