Justice Manifesto

By Mushroom Montoya

 

We walked my city streets

While wishing to hold hands,

While wearing our masks,

While We screamed for justice

Wishing to be loud enough and

Wishing to be courageous enough,

Begging, pleading, demanding, to be heard

 

Enough

To make Wall Street, the lawmakers, our Trumpster neighbors see

Corrections, additions, deletions, and major adjustments

Must be made,

For their benefit

As well as ours.

 

We won't tolerate

Any more lip service,

They should know

An ounce of Prevention

Is worth a pound of Cure

 

Our current cures

Of overcrowded jails,

Of Expensive Military weapons

for local police,

Of no accountability for the men in blue,

Have only made matters worse.

 

We demand

No more free passes

To those who wear the blue and the badge,

No more accepting they were resisting arrest,

No more accepting, I thought he had a gun,

No more accepting knees on the necks,

No more accepting the Police Brotherhood

with their white hoods

Hidden in their lockers.

The cure has never been

Building more new jails.

 

We demand

No more excuses for lack of funding for schools,

No more excuses for lack of funding for parks and

Recreation,

No more excuses for lack of funding for social programs,

No more excuses for poverty level minimum wage,

No more, no more, no more.

We demand action now, today.

We demand accountability at every level.

We demand transparency.

We demand a just place to live,

And play, and thrive in community

Without fear of our own men in blue.

 Included in the anthology, Los Angeles Poets for Justice

Desecrated Public Servant Blue Uniform

By Mushroom Montoya

We stare at the TV,

Watching four grown men,

Wearing police uniforms of

Public servant blue.

 

Officer Chauvin's knee is holding down,

Choking, suffocating George Floyd,

Pleading for air, begging for his life,

Calling for his mama.

 

Two of the men in blue

Hide behind a black and white police car,

While they too, pin the man to the ground,

Squeezing his life out,

One begging plea at a time.

 

Is this America?

The America that I risked my life for

in Viet Nam?

Alongside sailors and soldiers

Of every race and creed?

 

I thought we passed the Civil Rights Act

More than half a century ago

To end racism in our America.

 

Who are these four grown men,

Dressed in public servant blue,

Who desecrate the uniform,

Their oath

To serve and protect?

 

Who allows such men to

Kill Black men at will?

Violate common decency?

Violate human rights?

 

Who allows such men to

Ignore the Constitution,

Ignore the rule of law,

And express blatant racism

With NO accountability?

 

When local governments

Ignore the law

To shield one of their own

From lawful consequences,

They become accomplices.

 

We, too, become accomplices

When we watch TV

And do nothing,

Except run to the toilet

And vomit our helplessness,

Our acceptance.

 

What does it take for us to act?

Do the corrupt police have to hurt

Our next-door neighbor,

Our family,

Our body?

 

We know, when we accept injustice,

We are being unjust.

And we can't keep vomiting

Our integrity into the toilet.

 

We must NOT turn off the TV

And walk away,

Lamenting the violent “normal”

We have accepted.

 

We must hold accountable

Any man who desecrates

the Police uniform,

Who desecrates the public trust

with lethal racist actions.

 

When we climb out of our shelter

And charge forward,

Knowing it might be uncomfortable,

It might hurt,

We come back to humanity,

We come back to life.

 

Included in the anthology, Los Angeles Poets for Justice

Afloat From My Lips

By Mushroom Montoya

 

Anger brews under the sadness
That shadows my heart,

With news of the riots and curfews.

 

Dark Magic is being tossed around in a dust devil,

Filled with tear gas and incantations, laced with

Stinging nettles, and angry wasps

That curl our lips with hate.

 

I shall not unlock the corral

Where I keep my wild, furious jackals of hate.

Getting them back in without being bitten

Is impossible.

 

Where can I find enough light

To evaporate the shadows,

To corral the dark magic of pent up rage,

And bring peace back to the land?

 

It must start with my words

That have been cooked

In this cauldron of pain

And cooled in a chalice of kindness.

 

My words are imbued with magic

To heal or to curse.

I must choose my words

Carefully, wisely, and lovingly,

 

For they are no longer mine

To control

Once I set them afloat

From my lips. 

 

Included in the anthology, Los Angeles Poets for Justice

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!

Their 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.

Included in the anthology, Los Angeles Poets for Justice

Donde esta tu lengua?

 

Donde esta tu lengua?

By Mushroom Montoya

 

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where is your mother tongue,
Your birthright,

Your badge of honor?

Where is the song

Of your soul,

Those heartfelt words

Your mother sang to you,

Even before you were born?

 

Why do you call your abuelo,

Grandpa?

He barely speaks Engles.

You insult him, que no?

 

You toss his gift,

In his face,

That most precious gift

He has passed on

From generation to generation,

 

Polishing it to shine

So that you, tambien,

Could say with pride,

Este lenguaje es mio,

 

This language is mine.

Yo hablo Español.

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where did you lose it?

Did someone steal it?

 

Why did you believe

Your White teachers,

Who falsely told your parents

Speaking Spanish will hurt

Their children.

 

It will make them less.

It will identify them

As other.

 

Que? Other?

No hay otro.

There is no other.

Solo estamos nosotros

There is only us.

 

Why did you believe

Your neighbors who threw

The rock through your

Front room window

 

With a note attached,

Scrawled with the words,

Wetbacks go home.

Go back to Mexico,

 

With other words of hate

Your mother would not,

Dared not, translate

From hatred English

To understandable Español.

 

Donde esta tu lengua?

¿Que no te acuerdas?

Don’t you remember?

Donde esta tu lengua?

Included in the anthology, Los Angeles Poets for Justice

Dedicated to the bereaved parents whose children have died at the hands of the law and to all who have suffered racial discrimination.

Somehow, Some Magical Way

 

Mean People Suck

 

Rough Starts

 

Do Not Keep

 

I Had To Stop

 

Photo by Donna Snide

Consternation of Ordinary Things

The Patience of Ordinary Things 

by Pat Schneider . 

It is a kind of love, is it not? 

How the cup holds the tea, 

How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, 

How the floor receives the bottom of the shoes, 

Or toes, 

How soles of feet know 

Where they’re supposed to be. 

 I’ve been thinking about the patience 

Or ordinary things, how clothes 

Wait respectfully in closets 

And soap dries quietly in the dish 

And towels drink the wet 

From the skin of the back. 

And the lovely repetition of stairs. 

And what is more generous than a window? 

. . 

I Shall Argue With Pat Schneider's Poem with a poem of my own. 

The Consternation of Ordinary Things 

by Mushroom Montoya . 

When I place the white dotted red cap
Onto my mushroom coffee cup
As I sit on my wobbly chair
That pushes my weight against the floor
Who must use the same amount of upward force
To keep us from sinking
Into the middle of the Earth.
My ordinary clothes are impatient,
Jabbering in the closet,
Hoping I will wear them
Instead of the clothes in my drawers.
My soap stays liquidy wet
In its bottle.
As my towel complains about the water
It drinks is too plain and boring
And is pathetically predictable
As the repetition of stairs.
The glass in my windows whines
Whenever I pull the shade for privacy
Because the window is just a blatant exhibitionist.

Don't Tell

The very first time we met was in my Uncle Tony's little convenience store in Bernalillo when I was 7 and you were 5. I had walked into the store, hoping that Uncle Tony would give me some free penny candy. His brother, my Uncle Ray, winked at me and gave me about five pieces of hard candy from a small wooden barrel.You came in there with a lady who I assumed was your mom. You asked her to buy you some candy. She gave you a look that even scared me. Your lips quivered as were about to cry when you saw me. I fiddled with the candy in my hand. A tear slid down your cheek. When your mom was getting the money out of her purse to pay for what she bought, I walked and stood next to you. I followed Uncle Ray's example and I winked at you as I put one of my candies in your hand and whispered, "Don't tell."

God Has No Divine Plan

A friend in Uganda, wrote to me and told me that God has a vision for me and that I should keep praying and seeking God.

This is my response:

God talks to me every day. 

We laugh together often 

throughout each day. 

She blooms flowers for me. 

She sweetens our oranges 

and brings chirping birds to our birdfeeders. 

She dances across the sky at dawn, 

painting the sky orange, pink, and purple. 

She smiles at me at night 

in the sliver of the moon. 

She reminds me that I am a blessing 

and She works through me 

to end the suffering 

and heal the people who come to me. 

She teases me, 

reminding me not to take myself 

or life 

too seriously. 

She reminds me 

She talks to everyone's heart, 

Inspiring them to share love 

with all Her creatures. 

God also laughs 

when She hears people insist 

that She is 

a male. 

When I had my first heart attack, 

I asked God, 

“Why didn't I die? 

Do you have a plan for me? 

What is my purpose?” 

She laughed and said, 

"Mushroom, You delight me. 

I have no plan 

or purpose 

for you 

or anyone. 

Why would I need that? 

I created you out of love. 

I want you to be the best you 

you can be.

And you choose your way. 

I will help you 

because I love you. 

I have no divine plan 

for you 

or anyone. 

Does that make you nervous 

or do you see the freedom 

I have gifted you?

Continue to be 

the delight 

that you are. 

That is why 

I created you."

Santy Claws

 We all love Xmas trees, especially Santy Claws.

Click on "Go to this Sway" to hear me read my Xmas poem. Scroll down below the photo and click on the tiny diamond arrow to listen. 

Santy Claws

Go to this Sway

Origin of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

 Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer was created by a copy editor working for the Montgomery Ward department store in 1939. I recorded the story.

Click on the link to hear me read the story to you:

https://sway.office.com/j7cRBDfmhd7PKvHW?ref=Link