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Archive for the ‘My Rants About Something’ Category

My letter to the airline President reached customer service who emailed me by addressing me as Mr. Kakugawa. ( I didn’t correct them, thinking maybe males have more power) They sent me the form to fill out with my physician…it states “Hospitalized patient” so since I was not hospitalized, it doesn’t apply to me.

I asked for their rationale in charging us so much for changing reservations and twice that was ignored. I wrote a letter to Honolulu’s paper: Letters to the Editor and to one of their US senators, Mrs. Hirono,  to do some research in such a monopoly. The senator’s office said since my address is CA, they can’t respond. What???? Mrs. Hirono, you are a U.S. senator.

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As soon as I took a seat in the waiting room, a man looked at me and this is our conversation:

Man: Where were you born?

Me: Born and raised in Hawaii.

Man: Hawaii. Those people are the most negative.

Me: Negative?

Man: In Hawaii, what do you say to people when you leave?

Me: Aloha?

Man: What do you say when you meet someone?

Me: Aloha?

Man began to explain his views on how these two words were soooo native-like and I wasn’t even in a grass skirt with a bone through my nose.

I was called in for my appointment so I looked at him and said, “Aloha.”

I wish I had said the following:

  1. There’s another meaning of Aloha. We say Aloha when we want to say Butt Off, Idiot.
  2. I was born on one of those newly found planets.
  3. On a bed, on clean sheets.

 

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http://sacb.ee/8EMK

Do check out my story in the Sacramento Bee that came out today in the Forum Section.

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There will be no haiku poems on Trump for the next four years in respect for Basho, Issa, and all the Japanese haiku poets who found beauty, elegance, inspiration, meaning and simple joy in nature, people and our universe and who sought and found the most select language ever available to share this with us. But…I will still write non-haiku, loosely written verses:

Trump

The gigantic kite soars

Toward the hot orange sun

Deaf to voices from Icarus’ flight,

He hurtles down and buries

The country in black ash.

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Somewhere  a child is looking in as I did, at Christmas as it ought to be:Lighted Christmas trees, presents, carolers at the door, snowflakes andSanta Claus with bundles of toys. Somewhere a 16 year old is looking in, as I did, at romantic firesides, two lovers with crystals filled with wine with sounds of carolers at their door. Somewhere a parent is looking in, knowing the ink has run  dry for another loan as flashes of bank ads promise cash to make Christmas right.

Somewhere still, a child is drawn to the sound of bells and puts his last dime into the kettle red. Somewhere a child is visiting the forgotten in nursing homes with cookies of lopsided trees and four pointed stars sprinkled with red and green.Somewhere a child hands a loaf of warm bread and a cup of cocoa to a homeless who blesses the child, then returns home, looking in.

On Sale

I walk the city under neon lights

Watching shoppers dodge and fight

The endless maze of traffic rush.

They toss in pennies

In corner pails

As chimes ring out

All joy to the world.

They hang out wreaths

On window panes

They wrap and curl

Green plastic bows.

They’ve listened good

To the Adman’s soul.

He’s promised them Joy.

Peace. Love.

Happiness. Goodwill.

Hallelujah to all.

I wonder how many people here tonight

Fear the coming of the promised morn.

( From my Golden Spike, 1973)

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Bob Dylan, I could have gone for you.

When I was in my 20’s, I earned 7 university credits on this six week tour of Europe.

There were over 50 of us standing before the building in Oslo where the Nobel Prize for Literature is presented.

The host looked us over and lo and behold, he pointed at me and said, “Miss, today you will receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. Come everyone, we will go through the exact rituals.” And he gave me his arm.

He explained the very low steps with, “The steps are not high so the women won’t trip over their long dresses.”

My dreams of becoming a writer were still in incubation but I was so sure this was an omen. He took us through the ceremony as it would have happened. . .I alone, was lost in ecstasy. Make that fantasy.

Mr. Dylan, I could have gone for you. I had already gone through the practice run, I would have known what to do. And I wouldn’t have brought you shame by  tripping  over my gown.

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It was a state dinner for the Dept of Education. At a table for ten, I sat between  a superintendent and a colleague. My ego was soaring when the superintendent recognized me as  “that poet. ” Laughter and good dialogue poured around the table. Then gradually, all conversations  reduced to silence. The superintendent was keeping the bar busy and soon his hands began to get just as active. I felt his arm go from my shoulders down to my waist.

“Robert, “, I whispered to my colleague, “His hands are all over me.”

Robert sneaked a look at the exploring hand and looked concerned. When the hand began to caress my neck, Robert, without turning his head,   took hold of the superintendent’s hand and slowly removed it off my shoulder and neck. Within seconds, fireworks!

He shouted at Robert, “You damn Haole ( Caucasian) , who do you think you are. You think you Haoles can come here and take over our women? You guys need to go back where you came from!”

Robert didn’t say anything. The others around the table looked uncomfortable, staring down at their plates.   I was still  inexperienced in dealing with such a public and personal situation; I was a new transfer  from the Big Island to Honolulu. It was my first year at the University of Hawaii  as a curriculum writer for the Dept of Education. This creep whose hands were exploring me was my boss and my bank as he was for the others around our table. Today I would have stood and left.

He continued his rampage. “Let’s settle this outside. “He stood, daring Robert to fight it out in the parking lot. Robert  is a gentleman from Boston and he still has not yet gotten a Hawai’ian tan.

Suddenly I’m in a romantic novel in another century.  OMG, I’m thinking. Here are two men ready to fight a duel over me. How about that? Chivalry is still alive. Wait till I tell my friends back home. Hey, maybe there’s a poem here.

Then Switch. I’m back at the table.

Robert sat without saying a word, ignoring this loud, incoherent voice demanding him to meet him in the parking lot. “Come on. What’s the matter? Can’t stand up for your women?”

“Robert,” I whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

We both stood  and left with the voice still yelling dares to Robert.  Without a word to each other, we walked to our own cars and drove home. My inner dialogue  of an apologetic call on Monday morning followed me home. Come Monday, it remained a fantasy.

Oh, Mr. Hamilton, why did you have to die?

 

(this is an excerpt from a short story of other Burrs.)

 

 

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