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

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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)

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First poem of 2020

It seems appropriate that my first poem that came to be written is for caregivers who, without recognition, are saving our future generations with their humanity.

 

Imperfections

 

We dance the imperfect dance.

We trip over our toes,

Waltzing to the Samba.

 

Four step trot or Cha Cha Cha

It’s still the 1 2 3 step

To whatever plays the music.

 

Perfect in our imperfections.

We miss doctor’s appointments,

Wash yesterday’s dishes today.

 

We leave towels in the washer

Stiff and dry, unlike ads from Downy,

In the morning after.

 

We are so perfect in our imperfections,

There is green fluffy mold atop yogurt,

Wilted lettuce, dehydrated onions –

 

That no longer bring  tears.

Spam and  Campbell soup cans

Expired dates like former Exes.

 

We take our screams

To the tangerine trees

Who spread their branches knowingly

 

Offering us fruits beyond expectations.

We are caregivers,

Perfect in our imperfections.

 

FHK January 4, 2020

 

 

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from one Wordsworth to another

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 21^st 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.

 

 

 

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Hawaii events…drop by…

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Two coming events

Please pass the following info to caregivers, health professionals or family members living with elders.

Phone reservations necessary for these two free events.

I will also be at Native Books in Honolulu to discuss my children’s books at their Tea and

Talk Story on May 19 from 11 to noon.

 

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Poem #2 for Poetry Month

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

 

 

 

 

 

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A Rotary Club Event

Thank you, President Diane Woodruff and members of the Sacramento Rotary Club. It was a privilege to be your speaker at your meeting on Tuesday. No, I didn’t wear a feather boa as part of my attire. It was a prop for the following poem found beneath these photos. My message was: In the midst of cleaning my mother’s bathroom floor, once I said, “Maybe there’s a poem here,” I was no longer a  caregiver cleaning  BM off a bathroom floor. I was a poet/caregiver, and that made all the difference in the world.

photos by John Swentowsky of Swentoswsky Photography.com

A Feather Boa and a Toothbrush

 

It is 3 a.m.

I am on my hands and knees

With toothbrush in one hand,

A glass of hot tap water in my other,

Scrubbing BM off my mother’s

Bathroom floor.

 

Before a flicker of self pity can set in,

A vivid image enters my mind.

An image of a scarlet feather boa

Impulsively bought from Neiman Marcus,

Delicately wrapped in white tissue

Awaiting in my cedar chest

For some enchanted evening.

The contrast between my illusional lifestyle

Of feather boas, Opium perfume and black velvet

And my own reality of toothbrushes,

Bathroom tiles and BM at 3 a.m.

Overwhelms me with silent laughter.

 

Kakugawa

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

 

 

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Never laugh at the Elders

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

 

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Save a date

Drop by to say hello if you’re near the library.

 

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