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Akira Chinen Feb 24
She was there last night
the girl you write about
the one you read of
I saw her again
I heard her voice

she was on stage
pulling her ribs open
exposing her heart

it was a blazing star
full of warm soft fire
burning with passion
and vulnerability

her eyes glistening jewels
carved out of moonlight
full of both mystery and wonder

her smile...

her smile
I wish I could describe it
without sounding like a teenage boy
falling in love for the first time
because my teenage years
were a long time ago
and I was never that kind of brave...
not then...
not now either...

I don’t know if when we die
if heaven will be there
if we will meet a god or gods
but to see her smile
is to catch a  glimpse of eternity
to feel the safety
of what heaven is dreamt to be

and that is only a small piece
of her beauty
the larger part
the fullness of her beauty
isn’t all the pretty
that can be seen with our eyes

no... the fullness of her beauty

is how she crafts
the time and space of the room
how she walks through
the infinite mysteries of life
leaving questions hanging in the air
like ripe fruit ready to be harvested
to nourish the mind
encourage the spirit

the fullness of her beauty
is felt in the tremble of her voice
the quake of sound
she lets loose into the air
the rumbling war drum beat
thundering from her open chest

it is the song of her heart
reaching out to the lost
to let them know
they are not alone

it is the soft warmth
you feel when she takes the stage
it is the seed of hope
she weaves into her words
it is the fire  
that dances in her poetry

the fullness of her beauty
is the beauty
of all the things
we can only feel with our hearts
only hold in our breath
the things that can touch us
that we can not touch
back with our fingertips
it is the beauty
of all the things vulnerable
Akira Chinen Feb 18
While the mother crow cries
over the dead bodies
of her children
the doves fly away
as if the murdering of crows
is not any kind of crime

as the doves
see evil
hear evil
protect evil

The crows heart
a constant target
of the doves violence

Who's next?
Whose name is destined for hashtags and ******
how many lives
will it take
before the hate
and fear
in the doves heart
bleeds out

The deadline of
the life of a crow
is drawn by the jeweled crown
of loathing the dove wears
on its head
and the fear inside
the loaded gun
of the doves eye
and the hate beating
wildly beneath its wings
and blindly in its heart

Hope is a heavy burden
under the pounding
blood red sky

Where the doves
practice ******
more often than
they protect the peace

As the oath has changed
to protect and serve
their own kind

and lady justice
has been blinded
by a white wash
of white lies

And the murdering of crows
goes on...
and on...
and on...

While the living
can wait their turn
to be murdered
and crucified
and martyred
on the next hashtag

while serving their time
from inside the freedom
they have behind the bars
of the cage of poverty
and there is always
more room for another
and another
and another
inside the skin
of the prison cell life
they were born in

The crow is suspected guilty
until pronounced dead

and its innocence
is nothing the doves
cannot beat out of it
even after it is already dead

as the color
of the doves guilt
is judged to be
more pure than
a corpse with
a crows dead heart
no matter the weight
of its innocence

and the murdering of crows
goes on...

and on...

and on...

While the feathers
of the doves wing
spread out sharp like knives
with a seemingly
bottomless hunger
for the heart of the crows

and we lower the body
of another martyr
into the earth
how much longer
will we allow
the murders of crows
to walk free
as if the murdering of crows
is not a crime

the doves can bury
the body of a crow
after crow
(one after another and another)
but never their songs
never their names
never their hearts
and the dead will speak
for the living
as long as the living
never forget the dead

one day the crows
  are going to rise up
over the black asphalt
  city skyline

singing into the
  blood red sky
   hearts crowned
    with fire and hope

flying high and free
   flying over
     the mountain tops

singing of the
   promised land

singing for the dead
   but not forgotten

singing words
  of flame
    and poetry

singing for
   freedom
     and unity

carrying the weight of hope
and hope is a heavy burden
we all must carry into tomorrow
and tomorrow
or tomorrow will never
be better than today
we must always lift our dreams
with love and hope
and one day may we find
our way over the mountain top
and into the land of promise
where birds of every feather
are free to fly in a sky
without violence
and fear
and hate
where tomorrow is a river
flowing into a better today
Akira Chinen Jan 26
The art of war is a canvas painted
with the blood of our children’s lives
it is paint dyed with the colors
stolen from their dreams and futures
that will never blossom or bloom

it is the chiseled marble
forced from the flesh
stripped from their bones

it is the shaped clay
from the hole in the earth
where their bodies will decay

it is the blind writing eulogies in Braille
for all the mothers who will never again
set their eyes on the sunshine
of their sons smile

it is the deaf writing songs
for fathers who will never again
hear the sweet sound
of their daughters laughter

it is the end of the road
for all those who are lost
waiting for the loved ones
who will never make it back home

there is no beauty here
death does not sing of glory
death does not smile
for the fresh and never ending harvest
from the art of war

death...
my heart breaks for you
what a terrible burden
we place in your hands

and for what?

pride?

faith?

country?

who is killing who
is killing who is killing

who made the enemy the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy

in what **** was the cord cut
that once connected us all
in what field did hate start the fire
that turned the world
into “us” and “them”

from what heart did the cold blood
first flow into the finger
that squeezed the trigger
that drew first blood

whose life was lost
to the first brush ******
of the art of war
Akira Chinen Dec 2018
I saw her
the girl you talked about
I heard her voice
with the slight tremble
and a rumbling hope

she still had spitfire in her words
and starlight in her eyes
she wasn’t lost
not really

she may have had more questions
than answers in her head
but give her time

sometimes the questions
don’t need to find answers right away
or maybe even ever

sometimes they just need to be asked
they need to bloom and find wings
and wander and float off into the sky
sometimes its more about the wondering
the exploring of both
the inside and outside world

questions of the mind
mending doubts of the heart
a burning in the soul
to be cooled by a passing wind
a kind smile
a gentle hand
to hold in the darkness
so it knows it is not alone

it is often the silent conversations
that offer the most light
when the words that need
to be heard
do not need to be spoken
as they are already
being sung by the stars above
and we already know
the song by heart

love is an art that can be shared
between two strangers
that never touch each other
but still hold each other’s hearts

maybe for only a slight moment
maybe an entire life

two voices shouting
into the void of despair
declaring I will not go quietly
I will not live silently
I will live and fight
for something worth living for
something that will make death weep
when it whispers my name

I may lose my way
I may feel hopeless
and defeated
from time to time

but I will not give in
I will not give up
I will make my fist into a grenade
I will make my heart
into something larger than a fist
and I will live my life
by finding
and practicing the art of love

and that girl
the one you talked about
her voice with the slight tremble
and a rumbling hope
she is closer than you think
when you find her again
when you see her again
tell her thanks

sometimes
sometimes I forget
that I’m not alone
and even the slightest of moments
can last a lifetime
Akira Chinen Dec 2018
Do not try to outwit your grief
do not try to hide your love
what is desire but to burn
what if the only true path to heaven
is to walk through the fire

what if the only real sin
is regret
regret for the things you never did
the things you never said

tell me would that change
what you do tonight
before you sleep
what you do tomorrow
when you first wake up

what if there is no light
at the end of the tunnel
what if there is no dark
at the bottom of the well
what if the closest
you can get to god
is how close
you can get to your heart
what if the only devil
is the fear
that lives in your doubts
what if god
is nothing more
than your reflection

tell me what would that change
what would you pray for
if the answer to your prayers
was the miracle waiting
in your own hands

what if your dreams
are no farther away
than your imagination
what if your imagination
is the key
and the door
and the path
to the home of your dreams

show me all of your secrets
and I will bury all of my lies
what good is a metaphor
that cannot hide the truth
in the plain sight
of the sleeping sun
and the first breath of the moon

when the weather calls for tears
water the fields
that sing the song
of your heart beating
and when the fire falls and spreads
hold my hand
and walk through the flames with me
Akira Chinen Nov 2018
Our interpretation of time
is only backed
by the ego of our arrogance
as if we alone could master
the infinite mysteries of the stars
and chain them to the definition
of the dot to dot constellations
of our limited imaginations

then trap the sands of time
to gears and springs
and strap it to our brittle wrists
as we crown ourselves
the children of a grand designer
who sculpted our flesh alone
in “HIS” most holly image

we know nothing of the things
we pretend to know
as the flaw of our intelligence
is that it is self designed

we are non the better
than the creatures
we share this planet with

other than we deny ourselves
the simple pleasures
of howling at the moon
or singing with the sunrise
or laying on the surface
and in the silence
of the moonlight shimmering
over the still waters of a pond

we make noise
when it is unnecessary
and keep silent
when we should speak out
as the devil in our deeds
is in every detail
of the cruelty
we have spread out through history

sometimes in the name of god
and sometimes in the name of country
and in the times
of our most overindulgent hypocrisy
in the name of both

as we have dived ourselves
by imaginary lines
drawn in the sand
we believe we have trapped
and strapped to our brittle wrists

as if time is only on our side
moving in one direction
playing by our rules
shaped by the god
we created to bless us
for our self inflected
and self indulgent sins

because it is easier
to blame the devil
for the all fruit we steal and horde

but the devil is only real
in the crimes committed
by the blood we have
running in our veins
and the blood we spill
to feed the fear and hatred
of fables and myths too old
for anyone to remember
written in languages
no one has ever spoken or heard

all the while we ignore
the simplest of facts
that when we have gone too far
dropped one too many bombs
let one too many bullets soar
that when fear and hate swallows
the last of us whole

that time will march on without us
and that all in all
all we have strapped to our brittle wrists
is nothing more
than our meaningless egos
Akira Chinen Nov 2018
He steps into his fathers boots
and his feet are soaked in blood
and he straps on a helmet
already riddled with bullet holes
to his head
and marches off to an endless war
with the same hate in his blood
fueled by the same pride in his heart
as his fathers father before him
“For god and glory!” he shouts
without questioning what it is
he’s fighting for

A **** from the other side
steps onto the board
and repeats the same thing
walking the same steps as his father
in the same shoes as his father
in blind obedience
with the same hate
and the same pride

two sides on the same board
and somewhere in the middle
all the pieces are painted
with the same color of death
and the squares disappear
into puddles of blood
that turn into the rivers of ink
that write the obituaries
of all the young lives sold off
to the illusion of freedom
that whispers that this is the price
we must pay over and over again
for god and glory

but somewhere behind the curtain
hands are being shook
and money is exchanged and piled up
and the pigs are keeping themselves fat
from the feast provided
by the endless storm of bullets and bombs
raining down from the smoke pouring out
of the diseased heart
of the never dying war machine

the corpses are stripped down
and sent home  
and the boots are recycled
and isn’t it a beautiful parade
with all those dead bodies
wrapped in a flag full of pride
with a lesson of how to hate

to keep the peace
we keep a gun loaded
with nuclear bombs
pointed at each other’s forehead

and somewhere in the distance
in a hospital room
in a bedroom
in the arms of a new mother
a new father

a baby cries

with a fresh pair of feet
that will one day
******* an old pair of boots
and step onto a square
and march off
to the endless war
of god and glory
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