Ground

There are painted words on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER.
Yellow on black.

There are injured people on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
Red on black.

There are desperate people marching,
screaming along the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
They read the names of those killed
even as they are shoved
sprayed
pelted
knocked off bicycles and off their feet
by officers of the law.

My kindergarten, first grade teacher's voices
ring in my memory "Police officers are the helpers".
I whitely believed.
Naive.

Now I see video clip memes
of officers  shaking hands, patting shoulders,
being the neighbors and friends
but never clearly denouncing
what their battle-armored enforcement brethren are doing.

Brethren.

Red on black
old people with canes knocked to the ground,
passersby on bikes swarmed and beaten,
peaceful protesters with billy clubbed cracked jaws, missing teeth,
rubber bullets ricocheting off the bodies of reporters,
collateral damage of
pepper sprayed children--
all and more the victims of  battle frenzied police officers
that school children are still
supposed to believe
are the helpers.

Lies.

Lies.

And the proof is in the blood on the ground
all around.

Outsider

In Japan 

my gaijin face branded me an outsider

every second of every minute of every hour of  every day

and yet it was there

I felt the embrace of home

and wanted to stay.

Instead  I flew away

back to this place of my birth.

I am unremarkable here, forgettable here,

another face in the crowd here,

but I do not feel at home here.

Here the willful hatred  of so many erodes me more each day

And I wonder how hollow my soul will be

by the time I can 

return  to Japan

with  my gaijin face. 

In Loving Memory

 

March 15th, 2025

In loving memory of

American democracy.

A 248 year imperfect experiment

demolished in two months

by a supremely damaged man.

This democracy fueled by dreams,

now murdered by greed,

had undeniable flaws

that needed repair to be sure.

However this democracy also

had hope.

Hope now dimmed

at our own hand.

The supremely damaged man

was given the power of destruction

by us--all of us.

Those who despised him stayed silent

with each stab of the knife.

Those who adored him screamed their joy

to the heavens

with each vile illegal, immoral action he took.

Now we are remorseful individuals

for we are no longer a nation.

All of us accomplices

to the murder

of American democracy. 

Broken Toys

 

Young boy, you have

all the toys,

ALL THE TOYS

you could ever need or want.

And all day, every day

you break them,

BREAK THEM

just because you can.

With each broken toy

you howl

until you receive

a new toy to replace the broken.

And you break that new toy

and so it goes. 

AND SO IT GOES.

You grow into a man.

A man who has ALL THE THINGS

you could want,

and yet you want more.

More power,

More money.

More things.

More shiny friends to show off.

But like the child you were,

like the child you are,

you break these too,

believing you need--

no, worse, that you DESERVE more.

But people are not toys,

and power and money are as fickle as as 

life,

and in one fleeting moment

you may find yourself

broken.

3.1.25 

CHM