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).
