april 21, 2010

 Robert D. Wilson's

The Wonderland Amusement Park

"In the sky, there's no distinction of

east and west; people create

distinctions out of their own minds

and then believe them to be true."

Buddha

the egg

inside her, has

no shadow

robert d. wilson

©2010

"One can not reflect in 

streaming water.  Only

those who know

internal piece can

give it to others."

Lao Tze

to absorb,

listen,without

       illusion . . .

the graceful waltz

of a lily's blossom

robert d. wilson

©2010

When one is not satisfied and uses deception to obtain satisfaction, his illusion becomes delusion.  The world is full of actors and actresses, users, who play a role to get what they want.  When they see that you're hurt,depressed, or unsatisfied, they come to you posing as a someone who genuinely cares. With open ears, they radiate compassion. They use your weakness to their advantage . . . but like any good actor, they prepare for the role, do their homework, memorize lines, and have the ability to read an audience, sensing response or lack of response, they adjust their acting to gain the desired result.

And who's fault is it that we allow this to happen?  When we want something badly, impatience becomes our worse enemy, the con artist's best friend.  We need to seek our own answers as to who we are, because to others we are simply illusion they only think they know.

"You are your own teacher.

Looking for teachers can't 

solve your debts.

Investigate yourself to find

the truth --- inside, not

outside.  Knowing yourself

is most important."

Buddha

the wind

on the trees . . . a white

butterfly

robert d. wilson

©2010

I am. You are.  The products of what we think, we are artists . . . what some people like, others do not. What others think of us are lessons to be studied but not to emulate. We are in a constant state of metamorphosis . . . the less we talk and the more we listen, the wiser we become and the wiser we become, the less we know.  Like Issa, the Japanese haiku poet, we are on a journey.  There is more to life than what is  or has been spoken.  We've all experienced pain, depression, and other harsh teachers . . . now is the time to ride above the ashes on the wings of no one's whispers . . . empty your mind, toss the preconceptions, and be . . . be what?  Be.  I can, you can only be who we are . . . they can clone a man but not his soul. Imagine a world of soulless creations.  

        summer wind . . .

old egret and other

pressed petals

robert d. wilson

©2010

What is time? What is ambition? A million "whats" and the only answers to these questions and more come from our thoughts . . . our thoughts are paintings painted in

our cerebral cortexes via brushes dipped in imagination.  I can choose to be mad at a person who I considered to be my enemy and seek revenge or make myself sick thinking about what she did or didn't do, but for what? Am I making my life better?  Am I making another's life better or worse, as if the enemy gives a damn, or feels remorse.

My anger, sadness, however I choose to express and paint my thoughts, are just that, thoughts; illusionary to anyone else as they cannot fathom or enter my mind or know why I think this way or that, kind of like a freeway jam, people going in a thousand directions, all in a hurry to go nowhere, heavy traffic, weaving through a poorly engineered maze, or one designed by an engineer on LSD, missing turn-offs, going in circles, and thinking, thinking, thinking, Pablo Picasso on Meth.  What to do? Honk your horn? Blow your top, mumble to yourself, your heart beating faster, head throbbing, fingers stuttering?

      "The mind is everything. What you think, you are."

        Buddha

what others

think wading through

       rice fields . . .

the ruffled feathers

of a white heron

robert d. wilson

©2010

to absorb,

listen, without

illusion . . . 

the graceful waltz

of a lily's blossom

the egg

inside her has

no shadow

flashback . . . 

i won't follow the

white heron

until tomorrow when

the ground stops trembling

tired woman . . . 

searching for the

right mirror

incoming 

rocket, the shrill screech

of a peacock,

plucked of his feathers

for an old woman's hat

crawling on

my tongue, the words I

couldn't say

i didn't

sleep last night, your

dreams bathing

me in words i

just now understand

no longer 

homeless, a brother

to the moon

my slate?

to rake today into

a corner

and cough, spilling words

into teacups

dried fish . . . 

nanay sings arched

back ballads

will i 

get to breathe deeply . . . 

inhale the

universe without 

turning pages?

summer breeze . . . 

a song bird preening

her feathers

will she

remember the dress

i bought her . . . 

when her skin formed

adam between seasons

look, workers 

are laying down

their hoes!

zilch when it

comes to common

interests . . . 

a black push up bra;

ma haiku; stoic herons

I write long free verse poems too:

the better the meter the more memorable

it 

will

take

a 

lifetime

to fathom 

the 

why 

or 

how 

we met

and

fell

      in 

 love

each of us

song birds

from

different 

paddies

the air thick 

with the scent

of 

ulam 

and 

       angst . . .

the sky 

thick

with portends

from east and west

buddha and gods

our field 

of vision

blinded

at first 

by

a

flash 

from another's

rifle

and 

when the

smoke clears

we 

are 

wearing

each 

other's 

wings

heron, to

dive deep and stand still . . . 

morning prayer

the river

behind our home, reads

til dawn . . . 

when bamboo fronds

tickle the clouds

  

summer breeze . . . 

a song bird preening 

her feathers

in a

tomorrow turned

upside down . . . 

no second hands

or black spiders

the cockroach

scurries through changes . . . 

steadfast

we merge, our

minds making love with

thoughts we breathe . . . 

the daily news folded

into paper cranes

i'd love to

paint inside your mind . . . 

curled ferns

only the

moon knows how we

feel at night

when dreams come alive

and wait, wait for me

robert d. wilson

©2010