January 25, 2010

I thin

Between the Waves

deep into

autumn, your body

shudders

Where are you now, what drew you to read my poetic diary, The Wonderland Amusement Park?  Is

it for the first time? Have you been reading each new addition as they appear on line?  Are we part

of a gestalt experiment coupled with Jungian fantasies, letting our spirits loose to wander down paths

we've been told not to travel on?  Is this a place to entertain hatred, harbor a grudge, dig some dirt to sling at me or perhaps yourself?  Are we practicing "the art of emptying others and filling . . . " ourselves, as Sun Tau mentions in his book, The Art of War?  A strange thing, the mind. It's ours alone to use but we are influenced by others each pulling you, if you allow them to, into a world of mirrors

they too have carved with their mind.  The psychiatrist, Carl Jung (Swiss psychologist (1875 - 1961) in his book, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, said: "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being." He also posited, "Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to a better understanding of ourselves."  In this diary I do something few have done, if any, and that's to express and bare my soul via tanka, haiku, and haiga. I am not a degenerate and more than you are.  Admit it, you have fantasies, vile thoughts, anger expressed in a multitude of ways. We laugh, we cry, we dream dreams, awake and asleep . . . Dreams compose who we are, as much as genetic predisposition and environment. 

"We are what we think. All that we are arises With our thoughts. With our thoughts, We make our world."   

      Buddha

 You think, I think, or we react to something without thinking. One's environment affects our thinking, and when combined with genetic predisposition; your results form a unique you.  After coming back from Nam, the war had changed me.  I went deeper into my self; did everything I could to bury my thoughts: drugs, sex, alcohol, and much more.  I went this way and that way like a half back running in a zig sag pattern towards the goal line, only for me, there was no goal. I was stuck in the belly of the dragon, in a war zone. A tug-of-war? I was losing sight of who I am, stuck in  the equivalent of an 

LSD trip that refused to end. I'd built the Wonderland Amusement Park, a place where nothing is as it is, the Park's themes always changing, without a white rabbit worrying about being late to a tea party nobody gives a damn about.  Enter at your own risk.  

even the wind

between canyon walls,

has trouble

finding its bearing

when you're crying

glued to the

earth he resembles,

this toad

you play games

day and night wanting

attention . . .

a cave man nursing

deep depression

deep onto

autumn, your body

shudders

even at night

when my mind pretends

to sleep

the thought of you

whispers summer

you, words . . .

flail me with blossoms

between lines

can the night

sustain me when stars

talk to me

of mornings blanketed

with spring kisses?

are you stone?

a dream waiting its

turn to swim?

will your legs

resist the moon's pull,

when the tide

echoes to you, songs

you've longed to hear?

summer . . .

each blade of grass with

its own voice

more than

a reflection sharing

space with

others, our thoughts

rolling over stones

why do you

hate crowds, eagle?

twilight dawn

render the

winds useless, see through

them, their

spirits, crows, bold when

nothing makes sense

tsismosas . . .

taste the wind with

long brown tongues

deny it

but the painting

in your mind

has a way of

telling others

her daughter

passes through her to

touch the moon

umbrellas

gather outside a

woman's home

becoming the wind

inside their wombs

full moon . . .

and old farmer

sowing seed

first the calm

of a thousand clams . . .

waiting

between each wave

to draw in dreams

a cup of

spring, heavy on

the money!

windchimes

dance like teenage girls

to songs we

listened to on

beach towels below the mist

will the clam

succumb to spring

smiles?

picasso's

rooster flew out of his

pen at dawn

boasting of the girls

he deflowered

commitment . . .

with a woman made

of autumn

only now

she listens to

the mirror . . .

at dusk, the crickets

sing their goodbyes

cicada . . .

it's a long way

to heaven

deep down, she

wants a man her age,

to fly no

where, watching soaps

on television

a flattened

toad guarding orchids . . .

sudden wind

will you be

the exception . . .

or a

prostitute giving your

body for the good life?

take me through

another winter . . .

twilight dawn

umbrella, we

leave you, like some do,

in a

convalescent home

costing too much

inch by inch . . .

the snail writing haiku

with bubbles

cloud-like,

inhabiting the wind,

migrating

into places

you can't control

robert d. wilson

©2010