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."
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
