I was simply passing through
A small group under
A crescent moon
Faces contorted
Bodies abused
Diving into their garbage
Living in waste
Dancing to self inflicted
Wounds
I wanted to throw them
A line
Something to hang onto
A painless tomorrow
A hot cup of coffee
Perfectly brewed
A belly full of potential
They were hungry
For something else
The art of drowning
Dr. King makes me
smell mint, yes he does.
You may call that sick
but it’s true. He makes me smell mint.
You may even say I’m oblivious,
insensitive, politically incorrect.
But mint had its way with me on April 4, 1968,
that day of days, that sorrow of sorrows.
I walked that day on campus past a mint garden
where I basked in the fragrance.
Soon I heard a radio on the street, words from Clio,
news flash burning away afternoon fragrance.
I could not believe what I heard.
A crazed bullet had martyred Dr. King.
Over the years, at Dr. King Birthday events,
I have smelled mint, stronger and stronger
as each year passes.
—–
On April 8, 1968, I was walking onto the University of California at Berkeley campus from where I lived at International House. Over the years, I had come to look forward to the spring fragrance of mint in a University garden. Just as I sauntered into the most intense mint fragrance, the shot heard round the world forever linked mint with the assassination of Dr. King for me.
They say I am a lost
soul, but I know where
I am,
have not been lost
for a long time.
I am located on this spot
where I will wait
for the dawn.
Monday kicks
Tuesday
budges Wednesday
climbs up
Thursday
kisses Friday
absorbs Saturday
ropes in
Sunday
leads again to
another
Monday.
Where will children play?
All this technology
we have placed in their hands,
No more rainbows or
smiley face drawings,
their little fingers
upon marshmallow
clouds. They used to play
in dirt with marbles but
that’s history. The
parents both work to give
them food for their stomachs
and a roof to keep their heads
dry but who helps their minds
grow? They are now watched
over by nice shiny flat screens.
A parent’s love and kisses become
hugs from the TV or computer
Teddy bears, dolls and
little racing cars forgotten
in a dusty corner of their closets.
Don’t know
why
I used to find
this funny
now some
sights
only make
me
cringe
gritting my
teeth.
Hollow eyes
death in the centre
ribald talk
how we snipe at each other
and chant our worldly prayers.
Flowers in her hair.
Coca Cola in her veins.
Love in her soul.
And a storm in her heart.
The cobblestones crunch in the market
Leather hands shaking leather hands
I advance on a shrimp vendor’s table
Thousands of tiny gray crustaceans
Swimming in murky water
They cannot see
The blind Thai slave who farms them
Who sleeps in a cage
Whose skin is bubbling from the sun
I move on
I count the seeds in a strawberry
This one was picked by a man with a family
Waiting for him
Across the border
Unknowing
If the last letter reached its intended
I leave
I would rather starve
Than consume these bitter shattered hopes
