The Children of Tsutomu

I'm trying to wrap my head around the current natural and atomic crises going on in Japan. I previously wrote a waka about Tsutomu Yamaguchi, a man who survived both atomic bombings. Given what this generation of Japanese are dealing with, I wrote this and the next poem. Tell me what you think.

The Children of Tsutomu

My heart extends to

the Children of Tsutomu.

You inherited

Atomic inclinations.

Now, when fierce waters

rise over borders, also

your Father's nightmares return.

Music Project: "Ruby, My Dear" by Thelonious Monk

Cigarettes

“Who’s coming back from the grave tonight, Max?”

“Let me see,” Max said, and began searching through a crate of old 33’s. “How ‘bout Lady Day?”

“Oh, that’ll do me just fine,” Cole replied.

Max, the bartender, knew him and quickly placed his favorite beer before him. Cole nursed it, as Max gently placed the needle down. “I’m a fool to want you, I’m a fool to want you, To want a love” came through scratchy, but pure. Cole smiled at the thought. He had come to this bar for years and had left countless partners swinging to Monk, Parker and Coltrane. He steadied the cigarette between his lips and lit the match. He inhaled deeply and felt the first exhilaration fill his lung, his body. One of life’s miracles he thought as the smoke mixed with the music waiting in the bar’s atmosphere. They swirled around each other, then greeted, and then danced towards the ceiling. Watching over them were framed portraits of jazz greats: Basie, Ellington and Henderson seemed to count time to the dancing elements. Countless partners he thought again and laughed. “Time and time again, I said I’d leave you” began playing when the bar’s door opened, and in walked a woman Cole didn’t recognize. She sat down two stools from him.

“Double tonic and gin, please,” she asked.

“Preference in what gin, ma’am,” Max asked.

“Don’t matter none. It all gets you drunk, one way or another,” she said.

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Max said.

He gave Cole a look, but he just shrugged back. The woman searched in her purse, and Cole took his chance to give her the go over: soft hair set up on her head, low cut showing, shapely legs, scuffed pumps, a little weight on her hips, eyes set apart by mascara. Man, does she have some eyes. He took another swig of beer, and slid over a stool.

“That’s a tall order for a pretty thing like you,” Cole said.

She glared back at him, and didn’t say a word. Her drink arrived. She took it, and standing up, made her way to the opposite side of the bar. Cole smiled to himself, and decided on a different approach. He stood up, gave a wink to Max, and started his way to the mystery woman. He took a drag of his cigarette for effect, and sat down beside her. He extended his silver case and calmly asked,

“Cigarette?”

Her smile seemed irritated, but she grabbed one.

“I must say you’re persistent,” she said, as he lighted her cigarette.

“The truth is most call me Cole,” he said.

Well then, Cole” she paused, letting the tip flare bright, and as the smoke leaves, said “you can call me Sarah.”

“Sarah –isn’t that a beautiful name. Way you walked in here reminded me of how Sarah Vaughn sings.”

“Oh, and how’s that,” Sarah purred, leaning over.

“When you walked in, all that sass comes right on out.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but let a laugh out.

“Mr. Cole, you are something else.”

Cole smiled and took a drag. He looked at her eyes, and slowly let the smoke leave his mouth. Max brought Sarah’s drink over, and sent Cole a wink. This might be the start of something good he thought to himself. He leaned over to Sarah, and whispered into her ear. His smoke slowly circle, then joined Sarah's, and began dancing on the ceiling dancefloor, all to Holiday singing "For all we know, We may never meet again. Before we go..."

Previews to Two New Stories

"Sadness and Cigarette Smoke" (Working Title)

He had come to this bar for years and had left countless partners swinging to Monk, Parker and Coltrane. He steadied the cigarette between his lips and lit the match. He inhaled deeply and felt the first exhilaration fill his lung, his body. One of life’s miracles he thought as he let the smoke mix with the music waiting in the bar’s atmosphere. They swirled around each other, then greeted, and then danced towards the ceiling. Watching over them were framed portraits of jazz greats: Basie, Ellington and Henderson seemed to count time to the dancing elements. Countless partners he thought again and laughed. “Time and time again, I said I’d leave you” began playing when the bar’s door opened, and in walked a woman Cole didn’t recognize.

"Bumps"

On the way back, a dog ran out onto the highway and met my front bumper. I laughed.

“Are you sick? You probably killed that dog. Why did you laugh?”

To this day, I don’t know why. Maybe I saw in that dog my own attempts to pursue a better life across the highway, and like him, I was blindsided. Or, maybe I laughed because of the absurdity of it all. Fate had a contract out for that dog, and I, the pacifist, was its agent in destruction.

Four Seasons

Imbibed with freedom,

I sway back and forth, to the

delight of children.

Wintertime one finds

me dormant underneath mounds

of pristine, white snow.

Falling rain awakes

my potential, but I alone

must reach the surface.

In early sunlight

I find nourishment and strength

for the noontime sun.

Another Haiku

Here's another haiku to add to Incandescent (A Series of Haikus)

Inspiration comes

to man through the advent of

40 watts above.

For Tsutomu Yamaguchi: The Man who Survived Two A-Bombs

Can you hear me now?

I was at Hiroshima.

When sounds turned silent.

I was burned badly, but still

I survived to find

my way to Nagasaki.

I was there both days

when azure skies flashed brightly.

Are you listening?

For I arose from falling

Snowy ash, as the witness.

Human Folklore

Your stories are

Incomprehensible, layered in

Multiplicity, a mixture

Of Strange, Strong Sounds.

Yet, you persist,

These are you stories. Remember, Re

Member us, the fathers, through these...

Your words sprout as

Pomegranates

Fruit that entices and complicates. Have

(you, they, I, we?)

ever cut into a pomegranate?

It is hard to open, the contents

Impossible

to Hold. The seeds

are sour and they stain lips crimson,

Then leave me ashamed, a spectacle

To the timid.

But you never

Cared. You sat in shame, mouths colored

Red. You laugh, then begin telling stories

For the timid.

Sit down, our sons,

our daughters, while we, the fathers,

reveal our common roots and

mold your futures.

Liberty came

Because we took up your cause, long

before you were you. We ask you

to go and Do...

But do what? You

branched out and divided until

stories became the term that holds

all the options.

I want to Un

Ravel you, open through your tall tales

Understanding. I taste the first seeds.

They are sour.