Today is Haiku Poetry Day.

Pink cherry blossoms

Break ripples on still waters

Red koi surfaces

//////////////////////////////////

Footprints in warm sand

Lead slowly into the sea

Soon, smooth untouched sand.

//////////////////////////////////

The haiku poet

Sits in the dense bamboo grove

Becoming bamboo.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Two black and white swans

Send ripples across the lake.

Their dance becomes one.

Dead Poets Alive

Here’s another poem for April is National Poetry Month. I still can’t separate the stanzas.

Dead Poets Alive

It was the dead who kept me alive

Those years growing up

Confined in a village so isolated,

The only communication by way of

An unpaved road without family cars,

A battery-run radio,

Three party line telephones.

It was the dead who took me beyond

Catalogs of Sears and Montgomery Ward,

Dream-makers of that remote village

On the day I discovered an oracle

Within the pages of poets long gone,

Promising a wondrous world

For the me, alive,but not yet formed.

Memorizing lines from “Thanatopsis,”

Reciting Poe’s “Annabel Lee,”

Aching with “How Do I Love Thee?”

Dreaming in isolation

In the attic with Emily Dickinson.

Yes, Yes, I said.

Believing in Sara Teasdale’s

“Life has loveliness to sell,”

I was impatient to meet those roads

Knowing I could not travel both.

I fantasized sinking a thousand ships

To becoming a phantom in delight,

And rage, rage against the dying of the night.

Damning those whose pain I wore.

Yes.

The dead gave me dreams

Of the woman I would become

Long before I became.

But oh, how “I wandered

Lonely as a cloud.”

From: Can I Have Your Pearl Bracelet by Frances Kakugawa:Watermark Publishing

April is Poetry Month

            April

The poets, in droves

Lick their pens, salivating

Over metaphors, turning

Death into life. It must be

National Poetry Month.

            Poets for Peace

Each time a poet

Puts pen to paper,

There is a sliver of hope

For Peace.

            Voice from the Unborn

You promised me, eons ago,

 A world, free of battlefields, soldiers, children

Abandoned  in fear and hunger.

You offered me Hope, again and again.

A world, you said, where we will stand

Hand in hand, beyond  color, religion, gender, age,

 One race. One humanity.

You promised me a world

Free of poison in oceans, earth and air.

“You  are the future”, you told me,

“Come and be born in this world I will

Create  for  you.”

My brothers and sisters who believed you

Are now old men and women, and they wait.

They wait.

Listen to my voice, your unborn child.

Eons ago, you sliced the chrysanthemum

Off  its stalk and left it

Naked in the sun.

Over the ashes of Hiroshima,

Our victory was hailed.

Beneath that, my ancestors lay buried.

Stop using me, your unborn child

For promises and meaningless  rhetoric.

The future is now.  I can’t wait any longer.

The future is now.  I want to be  born.

Today.

   Frances  Kakugawa from What Kind of Ancestors Do You Want to Be by

U of Chicago Press. and from Dangerous Woman: Poetry for the Ageless, Watermark Publishing.

Oslo, Sweden, at Arden

12-19-23

Most poets fantasize  being the Pulitzer or Nobel Prize Poet but when you’re from Kapoho, being crowned the Mall Poet is more than one can ask.

This morning at the end of my walk at the mall, Bob the Reader ( I have named all the walkers) presented me with the Arden Fair Mall Poet Laureate medal. Receiving this from Bob the Reader who doesn’t like poetry, was overwhelming. Walking out with the medal hanging over my sweatshirt, I thought of Oslo, Sweden where the Nobel Prize for Literature is presented.

Over 60 years ago, I  visited Oslo with a group of travelers from the University of Hawaii. A large group of us stood before the building where the Nobel Prize for Literature is annually presented. A representative from the building stood before us, pointed at me and said, “You will receive the Nobel Prize for Literature today. I will take all of you through the process of how this award is presented.” He gave me his arm and we walked up the steps to the entrance followed by the entourage of tourists. “Note the low steps,” he explained. “They are low so the ladies won’t step on their gowns.”

We entered the austere room and I was presented the imaginary award. Young and hopeful of becoming a writer someday, and being the chosen one for this role play, I couldn’t stop from thinking perhaps this was an omen of things to come. Today at the mall, as Bob draped the medal over my head, I was back in Sweden, receiving a medal that represents a friendship  more priceless than the $135,000 plus Nobel Prize award, even if my name is spelled incorrectly with an i.

12-20-23

I was stopped by other walkers today, asking me if I had the medal. So it looks like my fellow mall walkers were on it and Bob the Reader just couldn’t wait to present it to me with the group present. Tomorrow we are to meet at Bob’s table before the shops open.

12-21-23

I was officially crowned without fanfare or speeches, the Arden Fair Mall Poet Laureate. Bob ‘s home-baked Christmas cookies served on a paper plate were on the table. Each person took the medal to admire it and I knew I was among the dearest of friends who know nothing of me except that I write poetry.

I walk the mall daily and have made friends with walkers like Bob who somehow has “passed the word” that I’m a poet and the respect walkers show to poetry is heart-warming.

A Childhood Christmas

A Kapoho Christmas

It was Christmas without lights.

It was Christmas without indoor plumbing.

It was Christmas without carolers at the window

Muffed and warm under falling snow.

But there was Christmas.

A Christmas program at school

The Holy Night reenacted:

White tissue paper glued on spines of coconut  fronds

Shaped as angel wings and halos.

Long white robes, over bare feet.

The plantation manager with bagfuls of assorted hard candies

His annual role in the village where he reigned.

Fathers in Sunday best

After a hard day’s work in sugar cane fields.

Mothers in dresses fashioned after Sears catalogs.

Children, restless, on wooden benches,

Waiting for Santa’s jolly Ho Ho Ho.

A fir tree from the hills,

Needles not lasting 24 hours.

Chains from construction paper,

Origami balls and strands of tin-foiled tinsel.

Kerosene and gas lamps

Moving shadows on the walls.

It was not the Christmas of my dreams.

No carolers at the window,

Singing Silent Night, Holy Night.

No large presents under a real Christmas tree

No fireplaces and rooftop chimneys.

No blue-eyed boy handing me hot chocolate.

For 18 years, the true Christmas

Lived in my head until Madame Pele

Came to my rescue from Kilauea crater

And buried our kerosene lamps.

Finally! I said, without a backward glance,

Running out fast in bare feet

On unpaved roads

To the Christmas of my dreams.

From Echoes of Kapoho  by Frances H. Kakugawa

 Watermark Publishing 2019

A Haiku in the Making

“Patience,” said the sparrows, “we’re not done yet.”

dozens of sparrows

working to sort themselves out

To 5-7-5

Pearl Harbor, 82 years ago in a little village in Hawaii, and it keeps happening again and again. Hatred instead of Peace. Hatred instead of human kindness.

   Under the rising sun
   The enemy came
   Wearing my face.

Immediately after they came, a new word was added to my childhood
vocabulary:

Eh Jap

   It claws my spine
   Tearing skin.
   It enters my body,
   To devour who I am.

   what do you do
   With Eh Jap
   On your face?
   Spit it out! Bull’s eye!

A New Book

I’m happy to announce the release of my new book titled: Can I Have Your Pearl Bracelet? by Watermark Publishing. Friends in Hilo, I’ll be at Basically Books on February 24 at 1 p.m. Do drop by to say hello.My Oahu events are still in pencil. I’ll post the dates here once they’re in ink.

Solitude

When I was young, in my early 30’s, a writer wrote me, after reading my poetry, “Be careful of these two words: loneliness and alone-ness.” I thought of him writing this poem recently on Whidbey Island, a perfect place for my camera and pen.

               Solitude

My eyes seek and pause

Scene after scene of solitude:

A heron in low tide, still

As a painting.

A robin on a rock, silent

As the early morn.

A caterpillar, munching

So deliciously, a milkweed.

An old man, reading a book

On a park bench.

Such scenes of solitude

Bring joy and internal peace.

On KITV with Diane Ako

Thank you, Diane Ako for filtering out the gobbledegook out of our one hour interview to dignify this story. Do scroll down to the video.

https://www.kitv.com/kakou/aging-well/aging-well-writing-keeps-hawaii-born-author-poet-feeling-young/article_bfa4d89a-3bcf-11ee-8218-3f5a0655ba9d.html

KITV : Diane Ako on frances

To my Hawaii friends –

On August 15, Diane Ako of KITV will be doing a story on my work.

Time: 4-6-9 pm.

Why me?

It’s not because I’m young and beautiful. Gulp, it’s because I’m old. Her focus will be on how can someone as old as I am be still productive. Gulp. We had an hour’s interview during my trip to Hawaii. Credit to Diane Ako, it was a stress free interview with laughter and fun.

See you in Hilo

See You In Hawaii

My Hawaii Visit:  Registrations are required for sessions at HIAC and Catholic Charities Hawaii.

Saturday: June 24, 2023: Book Signing for Wordsworth the Haiku Teacher

Frances will discuss briefly how the five Wordsworth books came to be written.

Site: Basically Books

334 Kilauea Ave.

Hilo, HI

Ph: 808-961-0144

Time: 2:00

Saturday: July 1, 2023: Session/workshop  by Frances

Caregiving: A World of Dignity and Compassion Through Poetry, Story Telling and Imagination.

Site: HIAC: Hawai’i Island Adult Care

561 Kupuna Pl

Hilo, HI

808-961-3747

Time: 10:00 – 12:00

Saturday: July 8, 2023: Session/workshop by Frances

Giving Voice and Dignity to Caregivers and Their Loved Ones: The Power of Language and Poetry

Site: Catholic Charities Hawaii

1822 Keeaumoku St

Honolulu, HI 96822

808-527-4702

Time: 10:00-12:00

Saturday: July 8, 2023: Book Signing: Wordsworth the Haiku Teacher

Barnes & Noble

Ala Moana Center, Honolulu

Before book signing, Frances will briefly explain how all five Wordsworth books came to be written.

Time: 2:00

Wordsworth the Haiku Teacher

Please drop by to say hello.

Memorial Day Poem

The soldiers stood cemented to the grassy ground

Like statues while Buddhist sutras filled the air.

Movement would dishonor the man who once stood

In his uniform, like his comrades today.

The three-gun salute, the wailing taps,

The precision of the folding of the flag,

A salute purified by white gloves

For the presentation of the flag.

Each step of ultimate precision, a tribute to dignity,

Honor and respect for the fallen soldier,

From the country whom he had served

With love, dignity and honor.

Whatever Alzheimer’s had stolen,

All was returned to him today.

Whatever memories forgotten,

The country that he loved, remembered.

Rest in Peace.

from I Am Somebody:Bringing Dignity and Compassion to Alzheimer’s Caregiving by frances kakugawa

Another OOPS at the mall

Another big oops at the mall:

A young father reminded me to never assume all parents want their children to attend college.

Met a young father with a child, about 6 months old, in a baby carriage. Young child gave me eye contact, smiled and babbled happily. Father agreed he has a very smart baby. When I told him he has to start saving for a college fund, he said as he rocked in rhythm, “Naah, he’s going to be a musician.”

How could I have forgotten what I told the Third Circuit Judge in Hawaii? After reading how he lectured to  the juveniles who appeared before him, to raise their grades so they can attend college, I wrote him accusing him of being an elitist. What if some of the young people wanted to be the best waitor,  or bus driver?  Think of all the people who serve him daily from cashiers to limo drivers. He listened, agreed and thereafter he sent them out to do community service.

There are extremes, of course, like the father of a third grade student who wasn’t concerned about his daughter’s lack of interest in learning “because she’s going to be Miss Hawaii someday. All she needs to do is be a good hula dance.” The mall is a perfect place to be reeducated.

Wordsworth the Haiku Teacher

My fifth Wordsworth book in my Wordsworth the Poet series is here. I’ll be in Hawaii for book signings, talks on Wordsworth and other workshops. Stay tuned for dates. Hilo friends, I’ll be at Basically Books on June 24th at 2:00 p.m. I’ll be discussing how I wrote all five Wordsworth books and Wordsworth promised to make an appearance. Please drop by to say hello.

My Oahu events are still in pencil. I will post them when they’re in ink. I’ll be speaking on caregiving and will do a poetry writing workshop along with book signings.

I Should Not Be Allowed Out of the House

Part I: I should not be allowed out of the house

My shopping cart began to squeak with the most irritating metal against metal sound, so high up the scale that mice in ceilings would have fallen dead. This was at Emigh’s. Shoppers began to frown at me. Then one man  said aloud, “I like that sound!” I looked at his smiling face and said so all could hear, “And I love irritating people!” The only person who laughed was that male shopper. I squeaked my way to the cashier.

Part II: I should not be allowed out of the house

 When the optometrist said, “Since you write children’s books, what do you think of what’s going on with our children?” I used paragraphs to give my views on political adults who are interfering with our children by banning books and controlling learning. I went on how our children won’t be able to think, make the right choices, blah blah blah. I even suggested that all teachers change their last names to Gay. After I got through, she merely said, “Well, there are some bad things out there for our children.” I realized driving home that my vision and hers were charts apart!

Part II: I should not be allowed out of the house

I walk inside the mall for an hour before the shops open . Often, it’s the security guards and myself  in the mall. The mall is filled with beautiful plants. One of those plants is selling for $27 or more at Emigh’s or in supermarkets. So, why can’t I just snip off a cutting and start my own pot of greens. Who would miss a five inch cutting? There are two such pots in one corner of the mall. I could easily hide one in my pocket. Then one day a security guard told me how safe the mall is because there are more than 150 cameras in the ceilings. Omg, I thought, I could have been arrested for stealing had I taken just a few inches of a plant. But the thought never left. Two days ago I saw the gardener working with the plants. I asked to see his trash bag for any shoots. When I told him how pricey those potted plants were, he asked which plants did I like? Without a word he took out two potted plants, put them in a plastic bag and said, “Walk with me and show me what other plants you want.”  I told him those two pots were enough. “These are heavy. Let me carry these to your car.” I told him I could handle them, he refused the cash I offered him for his lunch and I  took them to my car and returned to finish my walk. I saw him today and he said, “ Do you want more plants?” “I’m good, “ I said and thanked him. He saved me from prison, that kind gardener.

Handkerchief

Handkerchief

There is one remaining drawer.

A Pandora’s box. A flood of anxiety

increases my heartbeats. I don’t want any secrets, no remnants of

any grief or pain of her life.  She had enough with Alzheimer’s.

Let this be a simple walk

through old paid bills and

receipts.

I slowly pull out the drawer. It is packed with cards and envelopes.

Oh no! Outdated checks? A birth certificate of my illegitimate birth? 

No, they are Mother’s Day cards, many browned with age,

collected throughout the years.

 Many didn’t even hold a hand-written message of love.

They were all Hallmarks’ and she had kept them all.

Beneath the cards, a handkerchief. A square piece of now

yellowed handkerchief edged with bright green lace.

Memory sinks in; I had made that fifty-six years ago,

for  Mother’s Day.

Once a week, we spent an hour called Practical Arts

with the cafeteria manager at Kapoho School.

It was probably a way to give teachers, all three of them

in grades 1-6, an hour off. Girls learned to crochet doilies,

while the boys grabbed hoes and weeders.

I was in the 5^th grade: I had  painstakingly crocheted a delicate row of

bright green lace around the edge of a square piece of

white muslin cloth.

I don’t think my mother ever used it. 

My mother liked to save things for a better day. In her closets

robes, sweaters  and nightgowns, with their tags hanging like

upside down bats.

“I’ll save this when I go to the hospital.”  She never did

go to the hospital until she had a minor stroke  before her diagnosis.

This handkerchief  was probably “too good to be used,”

saved for a tea date with the queen someday. Or maybe

an evening out with Lawrence Welk.  Oh, how she loved

Lawerence Welk. She worried when he danced his jig a bit too fast.

 “You’ll get heart attack!” she warned him at the screen.  He was

her weekly Saturday night date. I wished then, I could have

tossed some magical stars  to alacadabra  her on the floor

with Mr. Welk, dancing to his one-ah- two- ah- three.

I toss out the old Mother’s Day cards,  but save the handkerchief.

I use it as a doily  now and each time I see it, I smile, remembering,

 adding my own fantasy: Each time she pulled out the drawer,

 she was on the dance floor with Lawrence Welk, waltzing away

with the handkerchief held gently against his back.

And for a moment,  she was given a life of glamour

in her quiet life in Kapoho.

                        From I Am Somebody by frances kakugawa

Address Books & Book Covers

Have you ever gone through the belongings of your loved ones after they’re gone?

In 2002, I found in my mother’s bureau, every Mother’s Day card she had received from her children. Included were hand-written letters of thanks sent by her physician. These letters told me my mother had regularly dropped off orchids and papayas from the farm where she worked. I sent these letters back to the doctor and he was totally moved that my mother had saved each one. She lost to Alzheimer’s but I found her stories in her belongings.

Allow me to share a poem I wrote after observing two people exchange phone numbers. They deftly added numbers to their smart phones. What will we have after electronic devices are deleted? I apologize for Blog not printing my poems with stanzas.

Address Books and Match Book Covers

When I am dead, my dearest,

Will you draw a  Sharpie marker

Through my name, write Dead in bold caps

Or simply press Delete

To eradicate me forever?

Or will you preserve my name under K

And years from now…

On a cold wintry afternoon when friends

Have deserted you and boredom sets in,

You flip through your address book and pause at K .

Under the slow – changing day into night, my name appears.

You say my name and soon stories appear and you  smile and even chuckle

When there was a me and a you.

Perhaps memories will take you to a shoe box labeled FHK

In a spider-webbed corner of the garage.

You find old faded match covers. Match covers?

Yes, match covers. You flip one open and see faded numbers.

Is it a hurriedly written phone number of a handsome stranger I once met

In a coffee shop or in a bar?   Did I call that number and did a story begin?

 Should you play sleuth and call that number? He must be long gone by now.

Are there match covers in other garages? 

A shoe box of mysteries keep you awake until dawn.

Ah ha…and you thought I was gone forever.

©frances h kakugawa

Raised by Wolves with Apologies to Wolves

Are we letting wolves raise our children?

I walk inside the mall before the shops open and exchange “Good Morning” with a few regular walkers.Twice last week, when I said “Good Morning” to two young adults, they looked stunned and said, “Oh, okay.” They reminded me of a young man who sat next to me on a flight to Hawai’i.

Raised by Wolves

A young man buckles himself next to me,

Connected to wires and earbuds.

He grunts to my Hello without meeting my eyes.

Soon we are flying over the Pacific

Nary a word between our proximity.

An hour into flight, breakfast trays appear.

He leans over his mushroom cheese crepes,

Stabs his fork into one, lifts the crepe to his mouth,

Takes a bite and drops the rest of the crepe to his plate.

 He was raised by wolves, this much I know.

He picks up a piece of cantaloupe with his fingers

Takes a bite, moves his face over his tray and drops

The size too large for a bite back to his plate.

His utensils, ignored like the napkin on his tray.

My teacher mode kicks in.

Learn by observing, child raised by wolves.

Learn by observing.

Miss Manners and Emily Post at his service

I use each silverware and my napkin, too.

Attempt again for conversation over breakfast.

“Let me guess,” I begin.

No, No, I didn’t ask,” Were you raised by wolves?”

Miss Manners was still around.

“You’re a college student returning home for summer break.”

He flashes his first smile. He finished his junior year in college,

Flying home with hopes of finding a summer job.

I drink my cup of decaf coffee, wish him well.

I was wrong, not raised by wolves, perhaps

By Fast Foods finger foods and his SmartPhone.

    ©Frances H Kakugawa

Hey Putin

The poets in droves

Lick their pens

Succumbing to poems

Demanding to be heard.

This must be April,

National Poetry Month.

*******

Hey  Putin,

Sit back a week or two

With your Russian predecessors  

Etched in the world with admiration and honor

Unlike tyrants, murderers, war criminals

Covered with ashes and human blood,

On dusty back shelves of Russian history.

Listen to Tchaikovsky’s symphonies –

Spend an evening with Swan Lake –

Get on your yacht with Leo Tolstoy

With War and Peace.

You  wish to be the most admired?

The most honored statue in all of Russia?

Be amongst the true greats in your history books?

Pick up your pen, Putin.

Poets were feared more than the KGB

During days of famine and war.

Pick up your pen, Putin,

Write a poem or two or more.

On the shelves of  891.71,

Between Tsvetaeva and Pushkin

There is space for you.

A statue of  Putin?

In St. Petersburg ?

Putin: Poet of Peace

Covered white

From Birds of Peace

Soaring above.

  ©frances kakugawa

(Written after seeing images in Ukraine)

Dem not weeds, dem is flowers

To make a prairie/

It takes a clover and a bee/

A clover and a bee/

And reverie/

The reverie alone will do/

If bees are few.

            Emily Dickinson

A Matter of Perception

The weeds have been crying for a weeder for weeks.

Still frozen in my winter lazy bones, I thought surely I can find a way to get out of this…a little boy came to mind.

When I was a student in College of Educ, the professor demonstrated “how to read a story to 4 year olds.” Before she could begin, a little boy asked, “Teacher, why is your hair all white?”

Before she could respond, another boy turned toward the little boy and said, “Her hair not grey, her hair silver.”

So I took off my garden gloves and walked away, “Dem weeds not weeds, dem weeds flowers.”

Who’s Next, Oh America

I wrote this poem after reading Homeland Elegies by Ayad Akhtar and On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong.

Oh America

Our living Democracy.

First it was the black

Whose color was wrong.

Then the Japanese whose faces

Wore  the enemy’s.

After 9/11, it was the Moslems.

All Asians after Covid-19

Since we all look alike.

Oh America,

Hear this, before you etch

Another on your list:

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Oh America,

Who’s next on your list?

frances h kakugawa

2023

May the year of the Rabbit

Bring Joy, Gratitude, Peace –

And continue our paying Human Kindness forward

In the Spirit of Aloha.

Thank you, my Blog friends.

frances

A living Haiku

Mr. Basho, you saw a frog leap into a pond but did you ever see a live haiku like this:

A natural haiku

Five, seven, five birds on line

On a wintry day.

My photos are weak but I waited until I saw five, then seven, then five birds rest on the line over a neighbor’s roof from where I stood.

Wordsworth Musical:

Wordsworth’s Long Road to the Stage

https://www.thehawaiiherald.com/2022/10/21/lead-story-wordsworth-the-poet-goes-on-stage/

Wayne Harada on Wordsworth Musical

WORDSWORTH: FROM POEMS TO PLAY

Wordsworth the Musical

This scene is created for one of the poems called Hawaiian Rainbow.

Come support the University of Hawaii Performing Arts Center, Hilo.

On Banned Books

At Arden Fair Mall in Sacramento I saw this sign in the showcase of a clothes shop that sold other items: Banned books sold here. There was a small display of banned books. I stood and had to fight my tears. I plan to donate other banned books to the shop to support their efforts.

Wordsworth Musical Sold Out

All six performances for Dept of Education students for Nov 1-3 have been sold out.

Thank you, teachers and administrators. Public performances still available:

Nov 4 & 5 @ : 7 p.m.

Nov 6 @ 2.pm.

Wordsworth Musical Tickets on Sale

Hawaii friends, tickets are now being sold on the musical based on my two Wordsworth books. See you at the UH Hilo theater.

The public performances are on:

Nov: 4 and 5: 7 p.m.

Nov. 6: 2 p.m.

The following is for students with two performances a day.

Hawaii’s First Lady Interviews Frances.

First Lady Mrs. Ige of Hawaii Reads Wordsworth the Poet

Thank you, Mrs. Ige, for reading the first book in my series of Wordsworth the Poet who resolves human problems through his poetry. What an honor to Wordsworth and myself.

Join me at Wordsworth Musical

Big Islanders, come join me at UH Hilo theater for Wordsworth musical.

Wordsworth Musical Dates:

University of Hawaii, Hilo Theater presents Wordsworth Musical on:

November 1-2-3: Day performances for students K-5^th.

November 4-5: 7 p.m. performances for the public.

November 6: 2 p.m. performance for the public.

This musical is based on Wordsworth the Poet and Wordsworth Dances the Waltz.

Wordsworth the Musical

https://www.ahahanakeaka.org/

Wordsworth the Musical, based on my first two Children’s books is presented here in film and in Hawaiian with subtitles. The English version will be presented live on stage in the fall for the public and all school students, K-5th.

Am having problems with this blog…you will need to navigate on the site till you get to Wordsworth to see the musical play.

End of Summer

I was privileged to write the Foreword to this novel by Dan Shanahan. Please check this out on Amazon.

Foreword

End of Summer captures the essence of what happened after Pearl Harbor:

                              Under the rising sun,

                              the enemy came,

                              wearing my face.

End of Summer returned me, not to the fact that we were treated like the enemy, but to three basic Japanese teachings I  grew up with :  Shikata ga nai ( it can’t be helped, it is what it is), Gaman ( to endure the unbearable with patience and dignity) and Bachi  ( Divine punishment or Karma)

Two cultures meet on American soil, immigrants from Germany and Japan, to live  the American dream.As the story unfolds, a piece of farmland, taken from the Japanese when they are sent to an internment camp, becomes more than property – and the consequence of a decision made by both the German and Japanese extend into their future generations.

The story is told behind a silk fan, the quiet and dignified undercurrents and loud silences, half concealed, become a pair of threads from both cultures that weave together throughout the story. As with others of Dan Shanahan’s works, there is that large twisting gasp at the end . . . so the reader is advised not to skip to the ending. You need to experience this gasp exactly where it appears.  The beautiful use of language and the well-developed characters from two cultures will endure long after you read the last word.

Frances H Kakugawa

Author of Echoes of Kapoho and Dangerous Woman: Poetry for the Ageless

In the midst of chaos

Be still, be still.

Shhhh.

What will poets do

Without the first bloom of Spring

Waltzing in the wind?

What will children do

Without slimy green frogs

Slipping through fingers?

What will Basho have seen

Without the leap of the frog

Splash! Then stillness again?

What will you do

Without the sound of stillness

In the morning dew?

What will I do

Without hummingbird wings

Whirring in sync?

Hush hush,

Be still, be still

Listen.

(Written after turning off the radio.)

Cow 1 is not Cow 2*

Still unable to post poetry in poetic stanza….grrrrrr…..

          Under the rising sun

          The enemy came

          Wearing my face.

After Pearl Harbor, I became the enemy

After 9/11, another enemy.

After Covid-19, another Asian enemy.

Again, another enemy who wears Putin’s face.

 Cow 1 is not Cow 2.*

Putin brutalizes Ukraine

Your Russian neighbor is not Putin.

Careful, careful, Cow 1 is not Cow 2.

My ancestors bombed Pearl Harbor,

I became Cow 1. Yet, Cow 1 is not cow 2.

Such a simple, uncomplicated rule.

* Semanticist S.I. Hayakawa wrote this on the blackboard when I was a young student at his feet. He explained: You are driving along and see a cow. Driving along the road, you see another cow. That cow is not the first cow you saw.

Hey Putin

My new blog is posted below this. Can’t figure out why. grrrrrr.

Hey  Putin

Sit back a week or two

With your Russian predecessors  

Etched in the world with admiration and honor

Unlike tyrants, murderers, war criminals

Covered with ashes and human blood,

On dusty back shelves of Russian history.

***

Listen to Tchaikovsky’s symphonies –

Spend an evening with Swan Lake –

Get on your yacht with Leo Tolstoy

And War and Peace.

***

You  wish to be the most feared?

The most statued figure in all of Russia?

Be among the true greats of your history books?

Pick up your pen, Putin.

***

Poets were feared more than the KGB

During days of famine and war.

Pick up your pen, Putin,

Write a poem or two or more.

****

On the shelves of  891.71, between
Tsvetaeva and Pushkin
There is space for you.

***

A statue of Putin

In St. Petersburg and Leningard

Poet of Peace.