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.
Frances Kakugawa's Blog 