to be contented with
paper prayers
robert d. wilson
©2010
"The darkness which clings to every personality is the door into the unconscious and the gateway of dreams, from which those two
twilight figures, the shadow and the anima, step into our nightly
visions or, remaining invisible, take possession of our
ego-consciousness."
Carl Jung
"If we value independence, if we are disturbed by the growing conformity of knowledge, of values, of attitudes, which our present system induces, then we may wish to set up conditions of learning which make for uniqueness, for self-direction, and for self-initiated learning."
Carl Rogers
when autumn
strips me of leaves,
and silence
loses patience . . .
a still life egret
robert d. wilson
©2010
Many people today in the Western World still play "follow the leader.) It's called the herd instinct. Afraid to rock the boat, become a social outcast (Remember George Orwell's Animal Farm?) People in the herd are intimidated by those individuals who don't play by the herd's rules. "It's my football and if you don't let me be the team captain, I'll take my football home and you won't be able to play!" Insecure people find comfort in mirrors, not wanting to look bad or stand out.
If you think, dress, and like the same things they do, you become to them, anathema, someone to gossip about behind their backs and to avoid or ridicule in the company of others. Recently a man who called me a close friend, put me involuntarily on a right wing political opinion e-mail list that ridiculed our current president, calling him an imbecile and acting as if they had they were messengers of the light who knew more than those who elected him, and the list members were mean spirited, and raped with their words the unity Obama is tried to bring to the world. When I offered a diverse opinion, I was trashed verbally, and my friend said he was breaking off our friendship.
Wrote Edwin Markham in the last two lines of his poem, The Man With The Hoe:
"How will it be with kingdoms and with kings.
With those who shaped him to the thing he is?
When this dumb terror shall reply to God
After the silence of the centuries? "
I will never be a jack in the box and I will never understand why so many deride me behind my back when they have never met or spent more than a few minutes with me, or took the time to put down their goddamned mirrors and engage in an intelligent conversation where disagreement wasn't a threat or an indication that I an possessed with a giant ego, and what is egotism, but another world for an inferiority complex?
why the call,
when angels have wings
and buddha
eats popcorn outside
a videoke bar?
robert d. wilson
©2010
Why do people want to change everyone into a carbon copy of themselves and why do these same people look to the media owned by the rich and powerful without conscience as their role models? What is an individual? Why are they so threatening to secure people?
Wrote Buddha: "All that we are, arises with our thoughts."
What's the source of our thoughts? Monks wading through the synaptic relay system flashing on and off like lightening inside our heads, in a mass that's one fifth used? Manipulative media posing as reality, meting out information paid for by sociopathic leaders who care only about their needs and wants and to hell with anyone else? Who pays for the books in our school, the campaigns politicians run, the production of movies, owns the media, and thinks the world's a giant billboard to promote themselves in the guise of making our lives easier? Who gave the world Thalidomide? Who finances the music on teenage radio stations that call women bitches and instruct our children to act like gang members? Why is the quality of education in America and many other countries dropping? Why do countries REALLY go to war? Who orchestrated the stock market crash of 1929? Who had Kennedy and Martin Luther King Junior killed? Why can't American win a war anymore? Why does American oil companies export more oil than they import, and why then, the high prices?
buddha says
to want nothing . . .
christmas lights
robert d. wilson
©2010
I think of the poor in the Philippines (the majority are), and I see single mothers forced into prostitution in order to support their children. They hang out at night on their backs in smokey bats surrounded by christmas lights, looking up at disgusting drunks, pretending they love Pee Wee's playhouse, in order to buy diapers and formula. Or look for Americans online promising them the world, letting those online treat and talk to them like whores, flashing their penises and asking them for anal sex the first few seconds they chat? Fat old men who couldn't find a date if they wanted to in their own country who's 18-25 and beautiful!
They live in a country where 5% control the wealth, where the average pay is $75 to $150 monthly, the food's as expensive as in the West, where flush toilets with lids are rarities . . . what's a gas stove? a refrigerator? Healthy food, medical care, or an abode that isn't infested with cockroaches and rats, with ceilings three to four foot high, made of scrap metal and plastic, below billboards with famous movie stars posing in the latest fashions, driving the latest cars?
In America, poverty is hid better: inside of mortgages, high interest rates, soaring health insurance rates (50% or more in the U.S.A.) don't have adequate medical insurance, the minimum pay scale is impossible to live on, homeless families (not just drunks and drug addicts) live under bridges; squalid shacks abet the rims of every major city, and the White House is located two blocks away from some of the worst and most dangerous slums in the country. In America, everything's about image, just as it is in many other countries including China, India, the Philippines, and France. An image projected for what?
"There can be no tyrants where there are no slaves."
Jose Rizal
The man whose writings caused Filipinos
to stand up against the Spaniards and the
Roman Catholic Church and seek independence.
He was shot to death by a firing squad for the crime of
speaking up for what others were afraid to do, having
been slaves to fear.
I could not
be the sun
if I told
the moon to suckle
stars in darkness
robert d. wilson
©2010
"Change will not come if we wait
for some other person or some other
time. We are the ones we've been
waiting for. We are the change
that we seek."
Barrack Obama
the clouds
the clouds, the coolness
of base dreams . . .
robert d. wilson
©2010
I cannot tell you what to do, just as you cannot tell me what to do. We don't know each other nor wear each other's sandals. I am inconsistent, suffer from depression, and spent to long in the hole Alice fell onto; a dream within a dream painted by Salvadore Dali in the times between painting madness with hidden vaginas and canvases showing reverence to God.
Compare yourself with no one. Have the integrity and guts to be YOU or you'll one day forget who you are, and become a wind-up monkey clanging cheap metal symbols. No man is God and those who think they are, don't give a damn about you. All they care about is how they look and how much money they possess, because it is money and image that allow them to control politicians, the media, the contents of school textbooks, and you as people. They don't write their own speeches, and most don't send their children to war. Follow that still small voice inside your heart, and have the integrity to to be you and not another's clone. It's something we all can work on.
her hair . . .
thoughts forgetting
some day
where did the
sun and moon go?
in my world.
i walk through words
painted with emotions
the sun and
the doors it hides . . .
stolen seed
targeting who?
the man on the moon,
or, the man
you married and left
to sip alone with clouds?
the abyss
below me, smiles . . .
sleepless night
how did it
feel raping my mind,
magic man?
was it better
than raking leaves?
this morning
our dog beat the rooster . . .
high notes!
sordid, the
changes in your
persona . . .
ants on parade
carrying locusts
be my friend,
tree, teach me when
to shed
two more
days without slumber . . .
my love, a
spoiled child, playing
with barbie dolls
arid noon . . .
50 tadpoles racing
to the moon
there's hope . . .
her shoulders slump,
walking to
the car; a tea leaf
skimming emotions
addicted
to flirting with weeds . . .
summer drought
have i gone
too far, living in
a world,
without bubbles;
every wall a bargirl?
on the moon,
elbowing rosehips . . .
melon seeds
when autumn
strips me of leaves,
and silence
loses patience . . .
a still life egret
she asks the
poor monk for a loan . . .
twilight dusk
why the call,
when angels have wings,
and buddha
eats popcorn outside
a videoke bar?
render me,
an echo that yells . . .
canyon walls
gud a.m., po.
how can i answer
an angel . . .
swimming in the
pasig river?
a young boy
rides a two wheeled trike . . .
into dusk
today, the
same games, back and forth
through a net
like a goldfish
blowing bubbles
the warm sound
of words falling from
granite stone
a dream
free falling into
the mouth of
a python, wearing
a latex mask
chopping yams . . .
the sushi lady
thinks of home
if i'm
the jerk you say
i am,
stuff me inside
a circus canon
lunch time . . .
his angel stares at
spring onions
she's back
in the main arena . . .
my heart's eye
on the high wire
balancing to bows
buddha says
to want nothing . . .
christmas lights
buddha, i
like you as a man,
not a statue . . .
staring past the poor
without expression
summer warmth . . .
another day in
Manila
all, it seems,
want this and that . . .
friendship,
a toddler who
never learned to share
do i wait
alone for death?
dry leaves
it's good to
wake up to a cock's
aria . . .
the coolness of wind
chasing clumps of cloud
robert d. wilson
©2010
