Ft. Shafter Ladies

 Pacific golden plovers

Do a hopscotch dance,

Parade on dense fairways 

through sprinklers advance.

Stalked by a female tribe 

swinging metal shafts,

chasing after dimpled spheres 

of a bone-crushing blast.

 

Then, frightened by a thirsty sow 

midst eggshells littered mean,

as a pig dog lounges, on a nearby

 red-flagged green

 

Now three metal cranes stiffly survey 

from an urban rain forest in concrete dismay.

 

As this senior, giggling, practiced group 

stuff another four-inch hole,

with multi-hued and coded balls 

In measured, arthritic control.

 

They pause at the ninth to add their separate scores 

Then resumed their play to win this local Army course. 

Finishing eighteen with time to spare, the weekly game, 

And collect their winning shares. 

 Wild Catch

 

It was hot again that night,

on an isle of sea and sand.

A small wild girl sat fishing, 

scraped knees upon the land.

The tide was rushing out,

as twilight had begun,

exposing crabs and clams, 

by dinner’s midnight sun. 

She’d crouched into the water still,

while seagulls flew on by,

and waited for a tempting bite,

beneath the star-filled sky.

The prize she waited for, 

while gliding on its way,

did not surpass this small lass,

who waited in the bay,

and as it swam, she reached out her hand,

and scooped it clean away.

She took it home to show the clan

this trophy fish she caught with her bare hands

to confirm that daughters can also do

whatever in hell they set their minds to.

What Colors Do You Breathe

 What Colors Do You Breathe

 

I inhale a rainbow.

And I exhale a blue language
of nouns and verbs.
My syntax
frozen in the stratosphere
high above the observatory, inside a cloud straddling
Mauna Kea. 
I am in search of dynamic metaphors
while observing the stars shooting across the heavens.

 

My clauses are swirling sunlight down behind the waterfalls
over and through the cracks and crevices of black and gold
lava flows, hardened by decades of cooling
now joined by violet joy bushes
and a profusion of bright green tree ferns 
still erupting into red phrases
congealing into the deep blue Pacific
with fiery tongues ablaze.

Big Island

 

Chain of Craters Road

closed due to the eruption

posted at entrance.

 

Volcanic river

erupts spewing smoke and ash

glowing red-orange.

 

Visitors observe

geysers spurt from volcano

generating steam.

 

Artist's impression

inspires a flowing poem

colors refract light.

Traces

 

Plant 

an ohia seed

crack a lava ribbon.

 

Sail

the Pacific, 

greet the kohola.

 

Pedal

with the wind,

listen for the elepa’io.

 

Hike

to a hei’au,

touch the sacred.

 

Dig

in the black sand,

expose the crusty scab.

 

Pause

to sign the autograph tree,

comprehend the invasive. 

  

Super Moon

 

My fur also rises.

I shake resolutely.

Insatiable, as shifting tides

yield to a Super Moon

bathing unabashedly

in a hammerhead bay in the Pacific.

Sister Moon is placid

as she slices through blackout curtains.

Until I witness her spirit here in the Northeast.

I am a wild thing,

And she is a flirt.

As she straddles

cool peaks and crags

 I find myself drawn

to her again.

As I howl at her figure, gulp down the afterglow above.

2/3/26

The Dark Path Brightens

It occurs to me

That I require an ideal

To summit these peaks. Something more than a patch.

My tenacity shouts above my perception

Shooting over the trees

Soliciting the breeze

Questioning my knees

As the goal sticks out its tongue and then darts

Off like a chipmunk to peek back at me from 

The enduring rocks and ledges that loom ahead.

 

My companions and I 

Pray to a silent God

Mindful of our mission

And that our bodies not 

Fail us, at least, not today.

The round red footpath signs 

Point diagonally ahead, 

Tree to tree towards

The relentless uphill, and my breathless 

Scramble over the ledges to come. 

 

The reward still sketchy 

After three hours in; 

When I am eager to drink in the summit. 

Finally, the dark path brightens. 

And I bow to the chipmunk in an

Attempt to feed it an organic potato chip. 

It darts instead behind a bush, 

Then shows me its tail, and informs me to eat 

But not to get too comfortable.

We have another mountain to bag.

 

Notified later 

By our fearless leader 

That I will have to CLIMB DOWN 

And then up again, for another mile   

Progressing first to the infamous 

Cornell Crack, where 

Mistakes in either direction 

Will not be tolerated. 

The Purple ribbon and I 

Contemplating our virgin review. 

 

My knees hiss a warning, which I promptly ignore.  

They vow to render their discourse later 

During our descent as they rant about where 

I place my feet, how to steady my stride, 

Harping that the path less taken 

Comes at a precipitous price.

The brilliant sun pierces the canopy, 

As before us, emerges another ledge.

Another feat to capture 

Is the epic as it continues to unfold.

 

We descend past yet another group of

Masked climbers at three p.m. 

Still on their ascent with their two children, 

An infant strapped to its mother

And the three-year-old

Proclaiming, then bawling 

Over the never-ending mountain ahead, 

His father, a tongueless statue, 

Their progress halted to let us pass.

Miles to go, both ways.

 

The smug star 

Reclines in the west

Pointing at loose rocks, 

Protruding roots 

Our heel-toe-heel cautious descent, 

My hiking poles that clock-like catch 

Between soft earth and a hard place

Slowing my forward motion

Tipping my resolve. 

My reserve approaching empty. 

 

The chipmunk scampering ahead 

Turns to salute me as our last steps 

Steer us back to our chariots in

The near-empty lot

To untie shoelaces

Remove mud-caked boots

Release tired toes

From their dark prisons

Slip-on our winged victory to

Toast at the evening feast.