Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

 Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

On a sunny Hawaiian morning,

with palm trees swaying bright,

pounced Katya, a fluffy little cat

who loved adventure day and night.

She chased butterflies, climbed tall trees,

and explored places marked “No cats allowed!”

One day beside the shore,

she found something strange and proud.

 

Eight feet tall beneath a tree,

a wooden giant stood.

Katya looked up and gasped,

“What a very big cat—how good!”

 

“I’m NOT a cat!” he boomed.

 

Katya jumped. “You TALK?!”

 

“I’m Tiki,” the giant said.

“I’ve watched this beach for years.

And I’ve learned something important:

kindness comes back when shared.”

 

“Well, let’s test it!” said Katya.

 

So Katya and Tiki began their kindness quest.

 

They found a boy whose kite

was stuck high in a palm.

Tiki was tall but stiff as stone,

so Katya climbed the tree

and brought the kite back down.

 

“Thanks!” cried the boy.

 

Katya purred. Tiki grinned.

 

“That felt good!”

 

So they kept going.

 

They helped a turtle reach the sea,

shared lunch with a hungry man,

and rescued a baby bird

that had fallen from its nest.

 

Of course, helping wasn’t always easy.

 

Once, Katya climbed onto Tiki’s head.

 

“Come down!” he cried.

 

“Nope. I like the view!”

 

“You’re sitting on my eyebrows!”

 

“They’re comfy.”

 

Another time, Tiki got stuck in a garden gate.

He wiggled left and right.

 

“This may take eight years,” Katya teased.

 

Tiki groaned as Katya laughed

and tumbled into a bush.

 

But everywhere they went,

they kept looking for someone to help.

 

Then something wonderful happened.

 

The boy they helped shared kindness with another child.

A fisherman shared his catch.

A gardener planted flowers for everyone.

 

One small kindness became many.

 

Katya blinked.

 

“Do you see it too?”

 

Tiki smiled.

“Kindness spreads from one heart to another.”

 

That evening, beneath a pink-and-golden sky,

Katya curled beside Tiki’s feet.

 

“Do you think we’re making a difference?”

 

“Yes,” said Tiki. “I’m sure.”

 

Katya stretched her paws.

 

“Then tomorrow, we’ll find someone new!”

 

Tiki laughed. “Tomorrow?”

 

“Of course! Adventures don’t take days off—

and neither does kindness!”

 

So beneath the moon and stars,

the tiny cat and giant friend wandered on,

leaving little ripples of kindness wherever they went.

 

For Katya and Tiki had learned something true:

 

The biggest adventures can start very small—

with a paw, a helping hand, a smile,

or simply with you.

Golf, Seriously

 Improvement

I’d been improving

for six consecutive years

at a measured pace.

Sadly, that improvement veered

tracking south towards Oahu. 

…

The Search

I lost my golf ball

somewhere near the tenth fairway

deep in a leafy crevice.

Three women helped me to search,

we found three balls and a cap.

…

Serenity

Golf teaches patience

and restrained humility.

It teaches us much

mostly while standing clueless

beside a ball in a bush.

…

The Good Shot

A perfect ball rolls

straight, clean, and beautifully struck.

Then I watch it disappear 

beyond the small white marker

where apparently joy ends.

…

Golf Pondered

 Technique

I studied the swing

Its angles, its direction

Its refined physics.

Then I discovered the trees

had already studied me.

…

The Mental Game

Golf is mostly mental

The professionals say this

which is reassuring.

Because my physical game

has requested no comment.

…

The Lie

The ball lands on the green

According to the rules, it seems

This is called a lie.

A bizarre choice of language

given the circumstances.

…

The Nineteenth

After eighteen holes

you proceed to the clubhouse

to discuss the round

with those who saw none of it

and understand completely.

I Like Golf

 I Like Golf

It is challenging

mentally and physically.

I think when cited

that it was a good walk, spoiled

Well, if you wanted to walk—

…

A Good Walk

Golf is a fine walk

though one carries several clubs

for reasons unknown.

And occasionally strikes

balls into a new county.

…

The Game

I address the ball

With dignity and intent

The ball remains still

This is considered progress

Until my evil twin swings.

…

Nature

I enjoy golf most

When surrounded by green fields

Birdsong, calm breezes.

And the disturbing knowledge

my ball is out there, hiding.

Ready for Love

Ready for Love

 

Is it human nature

to lean toward the cliff’s bright edge

just before the hero arrives—

to stand where stone gives way to sky,

where the hawk circles its patient question,

where the wind lifts the hair from our faces

and whispers, not yet?

To mistake the storm cloud for an ending,

the falling leaf for a farewell,

when perhaps the world is only turning its weather,

asking us to wait for the rain to pass?

 

Every cliffhanger is a trail marker,

a small wooden arrow weathered by seasons,

half-hidden among the pines,

pointing through the green hush of the forest,

suggesting there may be a way through

if we give the path time to appear.

 

Sometimes the trail disappears beneath snow.

Sometimes the river rises

and makes us question the crossing.

Sometimes roots reach across the earth

like old hands reminding us

that even trees must learn

where to place their weight.

 

Yes, it is darkest before dawn,

but dawn is already loosening

its gold ribbon behind the hills.

The eastern sky is paling

like a flower beginning to open.

Good decisions ask for clear eyes,

a little logic, a little math,

and the humility to read the weather—

to know when the clouds are gathering

and when they are only passing.

 

A winter hike needs warm layers,

steady boots, and cleats that bite the ice;

the mountain welcomes wonder,

but asks us to come prepared.

The pines do not hurry toward spring.

The river does not apologize for changing course.

The glacier moves almost invisibly,

and still it shapes the valley.

 

Even a green fairway has its lessons:

practice, patience, the hush before a swing,

the small white ball lifted briefly into sunlight

before gravity calls it home.

The meadow does not demand perfection

from every blade of grass.

It simply keeps growing.

 

Willy-nilly will not carry us home—

yet joy is no less necessary.

Let laughter lift like birds from the grass;

let wonder move through us like warm rain.

Let presence be our compass,

hope our north star,

and love the fire we carry

when the trail grows cold.

 

One careful step, then another:

this is how the trail becomes a life.

This is how roots find their way through stone,

how rivers carve their names into canyons,

how seeds split themselves open

in the dark because something in them

trusts the light.

 

Outside, the earth opens its green book:

fresh-cut grass is a bright new page,

sunlight lays a warm hand on the face,

and soil beneath our palms reminds us

we belong to something patient and alive.

 

The garden teaches its quiet mathematics:

what is buried is not necessarily lost.

A bulb sleeps underground

while winter passes overhead.

Rain gathers in the hollow places.

Roots drink what the surface cannot see.

 

This is not cliché; it is elemental—

the honest arithmetic of breath and sky,

the science of roots reaching for rain,

the tide returning to the shore,

the moon pulling silver from the water,

the heart remembering it was made to grow.

 

So I will not leap from the story too soon.

I will not confuse the precipice with destiny

or mistake one dark season for the whole climate.

 

I will walk on—toward the clearing,

past the last stand of trees,

where the path widens beneath my feet,

where the meadow opens like a held breath,

where birds rise from the tall grass

and sunlight spills over everything.

 

There, beyond the bend,

the whole wide world is waiting—

green, sunlit, breathing,

open as sky after rain,

 

ready for love. 

Read the Weather

 Read the Weather

 

When every wind begins to smell of spring,

remember: thawing rivers still run deep.

A path may flower brightly at its mouth,

then lose its name beneath the tangled vines.

Now is no time to leave the compass home

or drift wherever easy currents lean.

Keep patience like a map within your coat;

read every bend before you choose the road.

Let questions be the stakes around young trees,

so roots grow straight when restless weather turns.

Test offered fruit by seed and season both;

not every orchard keeps the sign it wears.

And when the rain has spoiled the planned-out day,

set jars beneath the eaves and save the storm.

Plant what can flourish in the softened ground;

let loss become the water roots can use.

Hope is the seed that waits beneath the frost,

unseen, but holding April in its heart.

It drinks the dark and gathers quiet strength,

then lifts a green reply toward the light.

For morning comes to those who tend the dark,

who keep one window open to the east,

and greet the sun with hands already sown.

 

Back on the Rails

Enough of chasing sparks through a field of straw,
calling every flame a sunrise.
Enough of crowning noise as wisdom
and feeding every stray excuse.

The road is still there—
a black river under the dust,
its white lines like knuckles
pointing straight through the dark.
Put both hands on the wheel.
Let purpose be the engine,
let truth burn clean in the tank,
and drive.

Drop the foolishness like a rusted chain.
Leave it clattering at the crossroads.
You were not built to circle the drain;
you were built like a compass—
to tremble, to steady,
to find north again.

So rise.
Hammer your days into shape.
Lay each choice like iron track.
The past can howl behind you,
but it does not hold the reins.

Get back on track.
Not softly. Not someday.
Now—
with a spine like a bridge,
a heart like a drum,
and no more room
for the circus of excuses.