Trump – Icarus – Black Ash

( I posted this when Trump was elected. Here it is again with one edit.)

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,
Deaf to our Fathers whose wisdom, ignored,
He hurtles down and buries
The country in black ash.

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December 7

Under the rising sun

The enemy came

Wearing my face…

And changed my face forever.

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Poets for Peace for April: Poetry Month

 

When I was in high school, Russia and Communism were taboo subjects; they were feared into silence. One day I read where poets were the most feared in Russia and my passion for poetry empowered me and I became less and less fearful as I kept on writing. I felt the more poetry I read and wrote, the weaker the enemy became. Nothing has changed so we keep on writing.

Poets for Peace

Each time a poet
Puts pen to paper,
There is a sliver of hope
For Peace.

from my Dangerous Woman: Poetry for the Ageless

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Taking a day off:

Once I decide I’m having a bad hair day, there is no turning back. Once I decide I need a haircut, or my roots need color or a perm is needed, there is no turning back. Once this happens, I know I am ugly and it can only be resolved immediately within an hour at the hairdresser’s.

Once I feel and know I’m ugly, dark clouds follow me. I don’t see the homeless so they don’t get a penny out of me. I become blind to polite cashiers and my “thank you” turns mechanical. I by –pass the new faces on the morning glory vine in the morning. Once I’m ugly, the world no longer looks possible and I stop being human.

How egotistical,  you say?  How pathetic that a bad hair day can affect my relationship with humanity and nature and in turn, with you?

Knowing this, I have a solution for world peace, a non-nuclear world, and a nation based on a living Constitution and a non-partisan country.  So I offered my hairdresser Tom, two airline tickets. “Tom,” I said,” Go to the White House and to North Korea and do something about two hair-dos. We need to do this to preserve our planet.”

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Poets for Peace

When I was in high school, Russia and Communism were taboo subjects; they were feared into silence.  One day I read where poets were the most feared in Russia and my passion for poetry empowered me and I became less and less fearful as I kept on writing. I felt the more poetry I read and wrote, I weaker the enemy became.

Poets for Peace

Each time a poet

Puts pen to paper,

There is a sliver of hope

For Peace.

from my forth coming poetry book: Dangerous Woman….

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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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Trump and Haiku

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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Hope

The song is dead.

The swordsman takes

The Victor’s stance.

But somewhere, still

A newborn child

Hears the promised song.

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Two Peace Poems

james lee jobe blog

Thank you James Lee Jobe for posting these two poems on your blog.

When Will I Know Peace?

When will I know Peace?
“She is at Peace,” you said
When my mother died.
Is that the only way I will know Peace?
When I am dead?

You gave me, briefly,
A hummingbird’s sip
On D Day in 1941.
1953 after the Korean War.
The Vietnam War: 1975

I want to taste it, lick it, swallow it
Like chocolate ice-cream in August.
Dripping down my chin, soaking my skin.
I want to hear it, I want to hear it.
What is the sound of Peace?

I want to bathe in it, feel  it wrap around me
Wet silk against skin
In three digit heat.
I don’t want  it after I’m stiff and dead.
I want Peace now.

NO! I want Peace now.
I want to see it on children’s faces
All over the world.

— Frances H Kakugawa

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

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