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
