If I had a hammer ...

She was a fierce little girl
determined to tie her own shoes
and make her own way

"I can do it by myself,"
she'd declare, as if Mom and
Dad had nothing to offer

Stomping into the street in her
pink overalls, plastic hammer in hand,
ready to fix the world

--

Poetic Bloomings Memoir Project Part 2: Look what I did!

Building a stable life

My grandpa died still broken-hearted from the betrayal he felt by his country. He was born in California, fought in WWII, and sent to the Midwest with the rest of the dirty Japs American had come to despise and fear. He met Grandma there, and they came back to California to make a pretty great future for themselves and their five kids. But he never forgot his time in those camps.


Grandma stroked my hair
as I lay in her lap,
running her fingers through
the thick black
courseness passed down
from our ancient samurai ancestors.

She smiled and gazed
off into the sky,
staring at some long-forgotten
landscape of her
youth, murmuring more
to herself than to me,
"It will all be OK, child."

She had seen the stables
of the camps, finely
dressed women corralled like
common livestock, chins
held high, stubborn
as mules clinging to their dignity.

"It will all be OK, child,"
her mama whispered
into her ear under the gaze of guards
who saw them as mere
animals cluttering the barren landscape,
forgetting their hearts still
beat with samurai blood.

--

April PAD Day 10 - future

Summer Solstice

The sprinklers were cool in
the summer heat,
spraying slivers of rainbows like
holograms hovering above
the thirsty summer grass.

We frolicked through the fountains
bathing suits sticking
to our slick skin, tanned
by our afternoon
forays in the yard.

We peeled the wet fabric
over plump bellies
filled with laughter and lunch,
shimmying and tugging
our bare-threaded bikinis

tossing them into the bathtub,
relishing our nakedness
ready for the next adventure. 




Poetic Bloomings #104 - time flies

Who do you think you are, child?

Kids have a way of
Immersing themselves in the
Magic of everyday
Imagination, not
Knowing that this
Openness we think ordinary

Lives wild in our
Youth, so
Near that we
Never believe it can disappear.

Years later we will see that
Optimism challenged as the
Unknown morphs from
Newness to negativity. We 
Grow wiser, we think,

Master our own lives
And wonder why
Reality is far less
Tantilizing than
It was when 
No one was looking.
Evermore we seek the 
Zen of childhood.
 
--

Poetic Bloomings Memoir Project
PART 1 – Who do you think you are?