Saying Goodbye

I could

hear

his

voice  almost

 

it was clear,   articulate

sharp to the ear,

serious

with a bit

of an

accent i couldn’ever place

 

he

told me

to    remember.

 

we are the children …

 

i have a photograph,

his image

comes

back like a corona

spill  on the horizon

 

his long hair,  his drooping moustache

his thin smiling eyes

behind aviator

glasses

 

in sandals, worn blue jeans

and a black

kimono   jacket

 

his one fist raised above

like

an American

Black     nation athlete

 

in defiance of a cruel

and

racist state.

he was young

and

strong then;

held up by Malcolm,

Stokely    and Angela Davis

 

Yuri, and “Charlie” and

Chris &

Joanne

 

and the matsuri swirled

behind

him  with

the toshiyori resting on

chairs  observing and

smiling.

 

the smells of tempura

salmon gohan so-mein, chow

mein  (Cumberland and

otherwise)

soaked

like  smoke

into his kimono

 

and shone

like a badge of honour

and

even

rising to envelop him

as a companion aura

well, don’t you know, we got to go for broke …

 

 

his voice

was distinct yet

as unclear    as the past

shrouded in   mist.

 

he told   me

to remember and

keep fighting.

 

free the land, free the land … 

goodbye   ken

 

may you rest

in

a peaceful

 

Pure Land,   your

 

karma

affects us

still

 

for Ken Shikaze  1951 – 2014 

 

Photo credit: Tamio Wakayama, photo of Ken Shikaze at the 1988 Powell Street Festival — at Oppenheimer Park (Vancouver).