Pulling Weeds

 Pulling Weeds

Takes dedication—

effort, time management,

and self-discipline (the unglamorous kind).

The payoff usually shows up as blisters,

a few bruises, and the occasional puncture wound.

Plus deep-knee bends, squats,

ducking under the prickly bushes.

The result is rewarding—

but limited to the growth hours left in this season.

 

Leadership

 

It seems

doesn’t ask for any of that.

Unless you count sleeplessness,

ranting in the wee hours,

collecting enemies (including faith leaders),

choosing a gift for the dictator’s

birthday party,

starting wars, grabbing oil,

suing the government, and cutting deals

which, for some, is apparently easy.

Go team.

No kneepads required. 

Calm After The Storm

 Calm After The Storm

Today we awaken—
soft light trembling on our faces—
First, to absorb the hush of shock,
emotions streaming from tired eyes,
hands worn by the trials behind us,
unable to summon applause,
even as triumph calls.
Yet still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

In the hush,
we find the seeds of hope,
rest in the gentle shade of renewal,
witness what we have become—
then softly, surely, declare:
we have won.

We rise,
trampled and battered,
with storms at our side—
to the left, to the right—
still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

We pray to the sun for light to guide us,
then to the son for hope to rise within.
We lay down the weight of oppression,
conquer the beast of despair,
gather in the circle of survival,
and greet the new dawn we have won.

 

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

…

Rewarding Bad Behavior

Reeks

Like a game of thrones.

It throws the innocent from the turret

A witness to incest and lies.

And then cries like a crocodile.

Tears washed in blood and bile.

…

We crown the cruel with laurel—smile,

And dress their damage up as style;

We pay in praise for practiced guile,

And call the bruising all ‘worthwhile.’

We stack up perks in a shining pile,

While quiet decency lives in exile;

Then scold the ones who name it vile—

As if the truth should stand on trial.

...

So let it stink this tilted scale,

Till justice learns its tone.

GOD is an Ancient Alien

 

 

The rivalry fades—
science and faith,
their contest a shadow
beneath cosmic signs.

 

Ancient wisdom speaks:
Darwin’s distant god,
the zeal of holy wars,
words shimmering, shifting,
visions conscripting the mind.

 

Scriptures etched by divine hand
challenge chaos, command order;
yet we gaze across the span
of humankind’s unfolding,
seeking the wisdom sown
in primordial seeds.

 

Darkness whispers probabilities—
a reconciling reality
where bibles and theories meet,
where old truths and new questions
find common ground.

 

Can reason unmask
the mysteries time has veiled?
Perhaps the answer waits
where logic and wonder entwine,
in the mathematics of ancient belief.

 

Vog Sunrise

Scarlet sun slices,
ebony frame—
Iwa birds dazzling,
violet lilies in the rain.

Orange heat breathes,
banyan’s crown aglow,
dew on emerald leaves,
morning’s gentle flow.

Beautiful, beautiful—
but unlike fog,
this haze is born of fire,
its breath is sharp and strong.

Vog glows in the morning,
brilliance in the sky,
but beneath its silent shimmer
a beauty that can burn—
where fog only softens the dawn.

 

 

Rowing

 Rowing

 

Come, row with me—

my small boat cutting through the restless sea;

Two blades, one rhythm—chase

that far-off beach beyond the break.

We’re strong; we lean into the swell—

it won’t be long if we don’t let it win.

We’ll take that shore like treasure—paired.

…

 

Climb in—

our canoe waits, bow pointed true.

Let’s shove off—water slaps the hull—

into Kāneʻohe Bay—water clear as glass over coral heads,

to the sandbar—where rays stitch shadows in the shallows—then farther.

And swear this vow:

hold fast to each other,

through wind that tries to spin us broadside,

through squalls that drum the deck,

through reef-pass surge, where the tide grabs hard and lets go.

Our oars bite, surge, and flash—silver schools scattering below—

stroke for stroke—threading the reef, watching turtles rise and dip—

on the blue edge past the reef, where deep water begins,

until the coastline lifts out of salt and storm—ours.

 

THE ORPHANS

 

The orphans gather in a huddle and gasp 

at the dreaded discard aisle. 

while we sort through the endless 

stacks of brown and yellow dusty pages.  

 

Several cradle dead roaches and insect poop. 

 

Some are dedicated to family and friends with 

photos inserted or a charming bookmark.

We hunt to find a signed first edition, 

or a historic volume of Hawaiiana. 

 

Now and then to discover a lonely dollar

hiding between the often-sticky pages.

We wipe away the grime, mend the tears, and unfold corners,

as we absorb bits and pieces of data,

 

too fast, too soon. 

 

The orphans are then reasonably priced with a Venus red pencil,

positioned into a cardboard box and sealed with packing tape.

Their characters are further revealed at opposite corners 

with bits of orange, yellow, green, brown, blue, or gray 

 

duct tape, 

invented by a woman.

 

The waifs are then packed into boxes, counted, and carted away, 

stacked and stored.

Polished and poised, to be embraced, sold, and rediscovered. 

When will they speak to us again?