Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized, tagged Sacramento Poetry Center on May 22, 2022| Leave a Comment »
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.)
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized on October 22, 2020| 3 Comments »
Sometimes, even a poem cannot capture a significant image . So this is a poem of that poem that cannot be written:
Half a butterfly
On concrete walk,
So significant a sight,
Yet not a metaphor
Comes to mind.
Forgive me, wing,
For my inadequacy.
Frances 10-22-20
Posted in Asian American Curriculum, Caregiving, Elder Care, Poetry, poetry and caregiving, Uncategorized, tagged Asian American Curriculum, Poetry writing on May 19, 2020| Leave a Comment »
This is an interview with Asian American Curriculum. Hope there is something here for you. Thank you ….
file:///C:/Users/Frances/Desktop/Asian%20American%20newsletter%202020.htm
Posted in Nature, Nature vs. Man, Poetry, poetry month, Trees, Uncategorized, tagged Poetry on April 5, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Thank you black crow
For your company this morn.
Are you Poe’s raven
Calling Nevermore?
Thank you majestic oak
For the symphony above
Hi C’s, low C’s
A chorus of chirps, baton free.
Oh, sparrows, sparrows
Wait, wait, you can’t go
Seven on a telephone line,
Complete your haiku ere you go.
Such was my walk this Friday morn,
Around the silent mall
With nature’s best
For companionship.
Posted in Children's literature, our children, Poetry, Sacramento Poetry Center, Uncategorized, William Wordsworth, Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer, tagged Poetry, Wordsworth's trees on December 28, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Dear William Wordsworth,
A friend visited your home recently and brought back photos of where you wrote your poetry. I, too, am named Wordsworth and I, too, write poetry. Not in an English home such as yours, but in my little mouse hole in Hawaii. Yes, I am a mouse poet.
The 21st century must seem unimaginable compared to your life in the 1700-1800’s.
And yet, Mr. Wordsworth, our poems cross all centuries. Your poem below still speaks of the need to preserve our natural environment, otherwise what images will poets see on a lonely walk? Concrete?
”I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.”
Contrary to your poem, my poems speak of preserving what was so natural in your century. Mr. Wordsworth, there will be no daffodils in our world soon.
The Bulldozer
there was a place I sat and wrote
to music played in my concert grove.
branches rubbed against branches,
coconuts dropped to the ground.
vines snaked and squeaked their way
seeking the hot noon sun.
frilly fronds danced the wind,
lacy limbs brushed their leaves.
sparrows, mynahs spattered notes
low c’s, high c’s and in-between.
it was a place for violins, cellos,
trombones, flutes, and piccolos, too.
Oh, what music to my ears.
Then the monster came.
gachump!
gachump!
gachump!
he gobbled up notes
oh, what a beast.
he chomped and crushed,
grunted and groaned,
belched and gobbled
everything in sight.
oh, what a monster,
oh what a beast
to eat my trees.
to eat my trees.
Wordsworth fell asleep thinking, “Gachump, Gachump.”
from Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer!
It is an honor bearing your name, Mr. Wordsworth.
Aloha,
Wordsworth the mouse poet.
Posted in aging, Dignity in Aging, My Rants About Something, Poetry, Uncategorized, tagged aging on September 17, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Morning Shock Waves
Who is this woman
In my morning mirror?
Who let this old
Japanese woman in?
I have fallen in aftershocks
From devastating earthquakes –
Aftershocked from broken romances –
Rear-ended crashes .
Avalanched by human cruelty –
But never, never, such
Aftershocks of this mirrored truth.
Get her out of here!!!
Frances Kakugawa 9-17-19
Posted in Poetry, poetry month, Sacramento Poetry Center, Uncategorized, tagged Poetry, Sacramento Poetry Center, Women poets on April 4, 2019| 1 Comment »
Men in Disguise at Book Signings
“Did your husband write all these books?”
He was in the audience a few minutes ago.
Yet, here he stands in his three piece designer suit
Scanning book titles with furrowed brows.
“Idiot,” I didn’t say, “Would I be sitting here,
Two hours on my hemorrhoids
Signing someone else’s books
With carpal tunneled fingers?”
At Barnes & Noble in Hawaii,
The FBI disguised in a loud Aloha shirt,
A wilted orchid lei, a camera strapped like a gun
Interrogates me.
“You wrote these books?”
Not satisfied, he grills me over hot coals again.
“You? You wrote all these books?”
Ready to turn the lamp on me,
He turns to his partner.
“Martha? Martha? Come on over.
She said she wrote all these books!”
Expecting the click of handcuffs,
Water boarding or worse,
I remain silent.
A man in his black robe
Sits on the Court bench.
The Advertiser news story of my poetry book
Spread across his lap.
“A Japanese woman publishing poetry…
No Japanese man” he prophesized,
Is ever going to date her.
She crossed over into the Haole ( white) world
With this poetry book.”
Yes, Your Honor.
Japanese. Woman. Poet.
Guilty as charged.
Frances Kakugawa
Posted in Poetry, poetry month, Uncategorized, tagged Poetry Month on April 1, 2019| 2 Comments »
April
The poets, in droves
Lick their pens, salivating
Over metaphors, turning
Death into life. It must be
National Poetry Month.
fhk
During one of my poetry writing sessions with 3rd graders, this was my contribution. Not quite up to par with my students’ poetry.
A Poet’s Declaration
I am a star
In the Milky Way.
I am the crest
On emerald waves.
I am a dewdrop, crystal clear,
Capturing sunbeams in the morning mist.
I am that dust
On butterfly wings.
I am that song
Of a thousand strings.
I am that teardrop
You have kissed.
I am a poet!
I am! I am!
I am that rage
In the thunderstorm,
I am that image
Of a thousand form.
I am magic on each page.
I am a poet!
I am! I am!
Posted in Agelessness, Climate change, Coffee and Poets, Dignity in Aging, Poetry, Sacramento Poetry Center, Uncategorized, tagged Elders, Poetry on January 22, 2019| 2 Comments »
Becoming
Never laugh at the elders
Who meet at MacDonald’s in Hawaii
Never laugh at their animated conversations
On trips to Vegas and the best ramen at Hotel California.
Never laugh
Because eventually you will become them
As I have these cold winter months
After working out at the gym in early morn.
I walk across the street to La Bou
Stop by three or four tables
To exchange greetings with the regulars.
Monday through Friday, one conversation
Is a recording…
She speaks Spanish, I speak English…
We say Buenas Dias, Gracias and more Buenas Dias.
And smile without translation.
Are you that youngster at a table
Laughing at my limited vocabulary
Swearing you will never succumb
To life of the elders
Who drink the same bitter coffee,
Morning after morning
Staring at the world that never changes
Through last month’s spider webs
Except for a tree that reminds me
The seasons of my life are alive and well.
frances kakugawa 1/22.19
I
Posted in Kapoho, Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii, Poetry, Sacramento Poetry Center, Uncategorized, tagged Kapoho, Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii on June 6, 2018| 6 Comments »
Our old house lot in Kapoho was covered with lava a few days ago. The poem below describes the original Kapoho of my childhood, not the current Kapoho:
Once There Was a Kapoho
Once there was a Kapoho
Where children played barefooted
Until the evening sun disappeared
And kerosene lamps and gas lamps
Beckoned each child home.
Once there was a Kapoho
Where outhouses and water tanks
Prominently stood as sentinels
And ohi’a firewood sent signals
Above rooftops, announcing
A hot furo* for the tired and the toiled.
Once there was a Kapoho
Where mothers pumping sewing machines
Marked the end of summer.
Homemade clothes and one-strapped schoolbags
For the first of September.
Once there was a Kapoho
Without television,
But battery-run radios,
Crackling “The Romance of Helen Trent,”
Dr. Malone and Arthur Godfrey.
Once there was a Kapoho
Without washing machines
But wooden washboards
Against concrete tubs
Slippery, muddy denims
Boiled in Saloon Pilot cans.
Once there was a place
Without shopping malls and Macy’s,
But catalogs from Sears and Montgomery Ward,
Dream-makers, before Charmin or MD.
Once there was Christmas without lights.
Yes, once there was a place
So simple and free
Where children swam in Warm Springs
And fished in Green Lake,
Played marbles and Ojame
And Steal Steal Stone.
Once there was a place
Where life went on without question.
Sons went off to war,
Teachers taught the 3 Rs
Parents were the PTA
And children pledged allegiance.
Yes, once there was such a place
Until Madam Pele** said, “No more!”
And scattered all the children
Like stars in the universe,
Echoing Thomas Wolfe,
“You can’t go home again.”
From Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii
* furo: bath
**Kapoho was destroyed by lava flows. Madame Pele, fire goddess in Hawai’ian lore, is believed to be the creator of eruptions.
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