IF is such a terrible word

IF is such a terrible word.

IF possess demons of potential

Who most people are afraid to face.

IF my descendants, my great grandchildren,

And great-great grandchildren,

Read my books and my poems

Will they wonder

What it would be like

For me to talk to them in the flesh,

IF they could time travel to now, here, with me?

IF they read my books, read my poems

Will they consider and ask,

IF I was really that funny?

IF I was really that magical that I could heal

The un-helpable, the uncurable?

IF I was really that tender and sweet

That I was cherished by young and old?

IF they read my books, read my poems

Would they ask

What was it like for me to go to war

To watch young men die?

Would they say to themselves:

I could never do that,

Or could I?

Would they wonder why governments forced people

To kill people, they didn’t know?

And justify it with a three-letter word?

WAR?

IF they read my books, read my poems

Would my descendants ask their friends to

Read my books and my poems, too?

Would they, along with my descendants

Ask what would possess him

To lead an anti-war demonstration

In a war zone, on a Navy warship?

Didn’t he know he could be executed, or imprisoned?

He knew,

And did it anyway.

IF they read my books, read my poems

Would they say,

I hope I can be that brave

IF I were in that situation.

Would they sit and cry with a grieving dad?

Or give up their bus seat for a grey-haired lady?

Would they dance for joy, for the delight of it?

IF they read my books, read my poems,

Will my descendants ask of themselves,

IF I have the opportunity to speak my truth

Will I have his courage, his love, his determination

To do what is right?

IF I am put in his situation, will I be like him?

Will I earn wisdom and grow in love

even IF I know it could be painful?

IF they read my books, read my poems,

Will they follow my lead to do what’s right,

To be courageous, to act, to write,

To love, and to share the laughter of life?

What IF they don’t

Read my books, read my poems?

IF is such a terrible word.

Asian Doll

Asian Doll

By Mushroom Montoya

I stared in horror as she ripped the black hair

Off the top of Yurri’s head.

I ran to stop her

As she scrawled and scratched Yurri’s face

With a Black permanent marker.

My heart hurt watching her do

What I recognized all too well.

Our daughter’s tears ran

Across her cheeks, down her face, onto the floor.

She looked up at me,

Wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

She grabbed her Asian doll by the arm

And tossed her against the wall.

“Why can’t I be blond and have blue eyes

Like Aunt Holly?

Blue eyes like my friends at school?

White skin like mom?

I picked Yurri off the floor,

And carried her tenderly back to our daughter.

“Look, I think Yurri’s crying.

She is beautiful like you.”

“No! She’s not!” Our daughter whimpered

“She’s ugly.

She has slanty brown eyes,

And straight black hair.

Just like me.”

I place our daughter on my lap

I held Yurri up for her to see.

“Her eyes are beautiful,

Like yours and mine.”

“No!” she cried “They’re not!

They're ugly like me.”

I lifted her chin

I have eyes like you,

Mine are brown and beautiful, too.”

“But you’re a dad,

You’re a man.

I’m a girl.

I’m ugly.”

I cried inside

Knowing all too well

What she was going through:

Being the only one,

Being the other one,

Being the different one,

Being the dark skinned one.

I picked Yurri up,

And give her a kiss.

“Yurri doesn’t know why

You don’t like her.

Maybe she just needs someone to love her

So, she won’t be alone,

Like the way I love you,

So, you and I won’t be alone.”

Our daughter cried.

She buried her tears

Deep in my chest.

Many years later our daughter said,

“Look! Isn’t he beautiful.”

As she handed me her baby.

“Yes,” I cried, tears flowing down

As I held our grandson

With his slanted brown eyes,

His straight black hair.

Who knew she would want to go?

Go back to Korea,

Back to her birth,

To reclaim her beauty.

Back to find a handsome young man

Who looked like her,

With straight black hair

And beautiful dark brown eyes.

Dead Heading a Rose

I count on Denise always 

Being here,

With me, always.

She is my anchor, my playmate, my inspiration.

She is my personal stand-up comedian,

Who laughs so deliciously

That I must take a bite,

And burst into laughter with her.

We feast on silliness

I keep beating down the truth

Of our mortality.

I don't want her to die first.

Yes, I do want her to die first,

So she won't cry,

And bleed a thousand sadnesses,

Drowning in her grief.

I'm being honestly arrogant.

Being true to who I am.

I know how she would feel

Because we are one together.

If she died first,

I would die over, and over, and over.

But for now, I am blessed,

And so is she.

We are a blessing to each other,

With our playful love.

With our loving presence.

She brings me breakfast each morning

While my fingers pull words from my imagination,

and tap the letters on the keyboard.

All the while, the aroma of eggs

Blends with the scent of laptop plastic.

I grind coffee beans in my noisy machine.
I pour the steamy espresso into a cup

Of cream colored sweetened condensed milk,

And ooze my love into her Vietnamese coffee.

I offer it to her with both hands

As I watch her snap off the dead heads

From the climbing pink rose bush

And smile as she tosses them aside

Knowing that they will grow again.

I can't help but to wonder,

If I die first,

Will she still be happy when

She dead heads her roses
Knowing that they will grow again?