Contents
 

 

 

Sketchbook 

Robert D. Wilson, US / PH

 

 

 
like a
prisoner, my thoughts,
swept away
by children in a
hurry to grow up

 

 

a full moon . . .
father's shadow peeing
into the new year

 

 

an old
poet carries dawn
into the
forest with a
rucksack of words

 

 

oh my, tree,
your shadow stretches
across the street!

 

 

staring as i
do every morning at
the bay, the
fish my mother in-law
is cutting, gasps

 

 

washing rice
at dawn when stuffed
animals sleep
and dreams are blackbirds
perched in trees

 

 

the drunken
laughter of mah jong
players below
my window, save me
from the gecko's smile

 

 

reading haiku
under a bent shadow . . .
winter wind

 

 

come back, egret,
shadow dance with
reeds in a
lake breathing
clumps of cloud

 

 

in darkness,
a sea anenome
grasping stars

 

 

like carabou
swatting stars with
not enough moon,
i unbuttoned my
girlfriend's blouse

 

 

palm trees plodding
through autumn . . .
the monsoon

 

 

a tailor,
memory, patching
together
the quilt my grandmother
gave me at birth

 

 

if i was a stone,
would you skip me
across the pond?

 

 

digest me,
darkness, into a
thousand paper
moons, spiraling through
my urethral canal

 

 

a withered plant
lectures me on my
way to nowhere

 

 

i remain
in this world waiting
for you to
step out of the shadow
i wear into winter

 

 

lost souls
paint graffiti
on clouds
coughed up while
the earth stutters

 

 

your temper,
wind, reminds me
of my wife!

 

 

deep into
winter, this dream plucked
from a dream . . .
and you, sitting
placidly with buddha

 

 

a home boy
the moon, spray
painting snow

 

 

here in my
office, perched like a
crow, i slip
into a forest
sprouting words

 

 

the cry of slugs
beneath my house,
panning winter

 

 

i watched ducks
from my car, this
afternoon,
float across the lake
into my daughter's mind

 

 

the mango
from my neighbor's
tree, blushes

 

 

your lips play
possum in a desert
that will eat
you, pasting stars
on saltine crackers

 

 

picking rice
into the new year . . .
brown water

 

 

an old salt
on the wharf spewing
dreams
with gray whales
in mother's womb

 

 

driftwood . . .
not knowing
it would speak

 

 

this flower,
unafraid to open up
at dawn . . .
breathing the
remnants of stars

 

 

darkness,
and no moon to dip
my brush into
 

 

 


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