The Value of a Democracy

In America, demonstrators protest against
democracy for Hong Kong
while waving Old Glory and the flag
of the PRC.

In China, demonstrators protest against
a communist regime
and are tear-gassed and brutalized
by their police.

Those who should know the value of democracy
and oppress it in the safety of a democracy…
I wonder if they sleep at night.
I wonder if they ever stop and think.

*Note: This poem was written in response to a demonstration I witnessed with Pro-China vs. Pro-Hong Kong demonstrators across the same street. If you are unfamiliar with what is happening in Hong Kong, here is a recent summary from CNN. Be aware that there is no free press in mainland China and news is state approved. Hong Kong officials must also be China-approved before they run for office and are largely pro-PRC.

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Settled Down

the sunsets of my imagination
have faded to bruised plum
and the thought of Red stirs
no longer a wanting
but piques a wistful curiosity

Thin Dirt

like dust I settle and sink
mired wetly into mud

as one storm passes
another ones threatens

my sanity stretches thin

Bouldering

they say life is a mountain
but I find it more akin to a descending
escalator strewn with boulders

if you stand still
you might find yourself back
in the basement

and crushed under a rock

Artistic Distemperment

a writer pours water
into his story;
he keeps his head above it
but drowns the reader
in his stead

A sensitive joy

exhausting to live
nursing a soap bubble
when a stray wind or word
can pop a fleeting happiness

As Turtles Do

often have I sat
besides the river
with the sun upon
my face

shifting further down
the pier to catch
the errant rays

a strange
photosynthetic
animal

only marginally faster
than the reposing
tortoise

Mendings

one loss recalls another
and softens the heart
from the scabs of old hurts

but when silence greets
reconciliation

the only peace to be made
is within yourself

The “Invisible” Minority

If I enter a shop
I won’t be helped.
But the salesperson
won’t follow me around
in the store.

I can drive a car
and be yelled at
for being a bad driver
(as expected of my race)
but I won’t get pulled over
for the color of my skin.

For respect,
I have to make money
and dress well (professionally)
and even then,
I am thought of as “Other.”

But if I wear a hoodie,
no police officer will pull
a gun on me
and call me a “Thug.”

I am the silent “model minority.”
Some of us are racist for we have “overcome”
and don’t want to hear “excuses.”
Others see the shades of difference.

Some of us are ashamed of each other.
First and second generations look at each other
like aliens from Venus and Mars.

I might not speak my mother’s tongue
or if I do, I might not speak it
to my son and daughter.

We seek to fade away and become erased.

I put my head in my hands and wonder
at the wisdom of such an impossible feat.

When Sympathy Fails

kindness not judgement
succors pains unknown
to one who is well