Da Old Scar                                      8/3/17

Old and ugly,

Da old scar sits alone

in da hot summer sun.

 

Tired of enduring rats, hurricanes, and chickens,

soggy, scorching days and dumping rains at night,

 

Da old scar dries

in da barren, relentless heat,

hoping to fall down

under da collapsing roof

and rotting floor.

 

Da old scar

IZ da empty junk box.

Made clean of da messy wounds

of shame and despair.

 

Da aged, aching walls

stay deaf, dumb, and blind

to screams of rage, beating canes,

trembling horror, suffocating tears,

soiled diapers, scraping walkers

and squeaking wheelchairs.

 

Da boarded windows, broken porches,

hollow rooms, and “No Trespassing” signs,

guard invisible ashes

raked from ancient sorrows.

 

Cries for help unheard,

unnecessary now,

stay unseen, unknown.

Remain just a pile of ashes,

in da empty junk box.

 

Da lonely, forgotten urn,

awaits da offering

of white blossoms and incense,

green tea and oranges,

candles and prayer.

 

To burn away da stink,

Feed da hungry souls,

Wash da old scar,

And watch da sweet smoke

rise above da ashes

vanishing in

Da Blue Wind.

 

Mahalo Ke Akua