Tuesday, September 29, 2015

American Lady Butterfly on Coreopsis



Spirit Mana



I hear them whisper
in the gentle trade winds
in the grunt of the wild
boar, the high-pitched mating call of the coqui.


I see them
in the blood moon
the double rainbow
in the mist against the folding
emerald cliffs of the Ko'olau.

I taste them
in the freshly caught pan fried mahi-mahi
a tropical papaya
tangy mango.

I smell them in
the white gardenia
the orange blossoms
the plumeria I place behind my ear.

I feel them buzzing
my ankles
scurrying sideways in the white sand
between the sharp coral
in the gentle rain.

They watch as I wait for you to return safely.

They watch the dogs chase
after wild chickens
the koi feed on fat
mosquitos.
The bullfrogs sing.

They watch
They accept.
They smile.

They are here with me
the ‘Aumakua, guardian ancestors

rooted in the past, the first of their generations.



Friday, September 18, 2015



Three Monkeys


At a recent Word Cafe
pictures passed around the room are
designed to rouse our inner writer
briefly displaced
during the heady pursuit
of summer activities.

The picture I received
depicted three monkeys cutting hair.
I imagined myself in the barber’s chair
the lucky recipient of said haircut
and may I add fully conscious, trusting and completely insane.

Wary to See
Hear and
Speak No EVIL
about these darling monkeys, because I  like monkeys.

Also, being very superstitious

I have learned
from my past
not to let the unlicensed
whether human or monkey
anywhere near my delicate scalp.

Yeah, I let them cut my fucking hair.

However, suffering as I do from chronic stupidity
a condition passed down to me
from that anonymous side of the family
I tend to forget
life’s little lessons.


Consequently, my existence is a series of 50 first dates
and crooked bangs

each day beginning with
familiar strangers and events.
Each day rife with frustrations
such as
What was the Name of that Movie
that Author, and more to the point
Who the Fuck Am I
and Why Should You Care.

Ah, the writer’s life
hunting and pecking for the perfect juxtaposition
of meaning and metaphor.  In search of the highly distracted,
I want, I want, I want, audience,
the vulgar pay for a million hours of sweat, blood and bodily excrement.

I’m no movie star
nor am I a scientist
or even Georgio from Ancient Aliens
who sometimes looks, like a monkey
or an alien, with outrageous hair.

As Georgio says
it could be possible
that these monkeys
are the missing links
and really exceptional hairdressers.
I have to admit
it is plausible
but I am willing to risk being wrong.
After all
I have only one
token head of hair to give.


In the meantime 
I will try to maintain a positive outlook
so as to appear normal
to my loyal Friends and Facebook followers.


Since both of them
would be swayed
were it not for  my personal sacrifice,
the dedicated followers that they are,
they two might be tempted
to let monkeys cut their hair.








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