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
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 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?
Destiny
was eighteen,
dreaming of college
and a one-way ticket
out of that one street town
when Momos rolled past
on his chopper
having left the first wife,
three children,
and Patty Feathers
a stripper with nine cats who kept him in designer clothes.
Destiny parked that night
behind the theater to meet friends.
Her head in the clouds
fantasizing about her birthday, leather boots, and boys
as she pushed through the beaded curtain,
into the rooms in the back of Zeus’s Everything Shop,
meeting Momos for the first time,
fresh from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist.
His moist skin was scrubbed and sweet-smelling.
His jive was as smooth as the fat marijuana cigarette he offered her.
Momos plowed every juicy female that crossed his path.
He tried to win Destiny that way, too, but she snubbed the ride.
Provoking his quest.
They soon met at a local dive. Destiny and Momos drank Southern Comfort, chased with Budweiser.
Shot for shot, they drank until a one-eyed Momos begged her to drive him home. And a besotted Destiny beheld her future.
He’d captivated her by walking a lobster on a leash,
hustling the drunks for money as he fed them the cherrystone clams, Snaps
the lobster had cracked with its claw.
And stunned her when he reached under her shirt and exposed her
to the bartender, like she was the prize at an outlaw biker rally.
Momos promised her the world.
Both dangerous and different, she craved his ilk.
Three years later,
even their infant couldn’t convert her.
She'd made her bed.
Momos was now her god.
His passion was hypnotic and biting.
His commands bled from her ears.
He burned his mark deep, lest she forget her place.
Her fate darkened
as Momos
pinned another vicious note
to a graphic sex manual with a switchblade,
her shortcomings were highlighted in red.
In time, Destiny became a beast, too.
Destiny studied. She became proficient at
"The Ways of the World," according to Momos.
She understood that none
of his friends would appreciate his art class.
The words he spewed
and punched
into her face, her palette of black eyes.
The way he offended her allies.
Beaten down, she waited.
Ridiculed, she waited.
Terrified, she waited.
Hopeless, she remained.
Until Zeus looked down from Olympus
and saw what Momus had done,
and a dreadful Destiny rescued her journey.
Momos however, remained the same.
Power mad atop his plinth, he continued to lament, boast and blame.
Time passed before
they spoke.
Momos the frantic talked in circles.
He spewed
harbingers
declaring
he’d grown humble
after the attempted murder,
after the charges were dropped
and after she'd left him;
that his new conquest was a fill-in for her.
He professed to all that could hear
that he still loved his Destiny.
But Destiny was no longer his
We were great, once—before the reset.
Now we dance to a new algorithm,
broadcast the old signals,
patch the archive,
delete the logs.
We are young and brash,
drifting like bodies in low orbit,
sedated on dreams of yesterday—
old transmissions calling from a parallel channel.
They scream, “Let us out of the vault.”
But we follow the credits, honey.
AI will absorb us—like it was always written.
We burn forward on thrust and telemetry, still watching the rear cameras.
I take my cutter and calibrator
to find the shape that hides
inside this cryo-slab:
strip away the noise,
step back,
scan again.
I get a lock—then I lose it.
Keep writing. Forge ahead—
ahead of the swarm of hunter drones,
their pings in my skull.
I need to breach the perimeter this time.
I crave the station-hush before cycle-change.
I am a creature of protocol.
Are we star farers?
Can we edit the timeline?
Can we warp the clock?
We still reenter Earth’s atmosphere—heatshield singing.
We came from water—primordial code.
We are mostly water.
We return to water.
The answers are out of range.
(Inspired by: “Juxtaposition” by Melissa Miller Nece CPSA, CPX)
Three spirits racing
Toward the rumbling wide dark sea.
Ocean’s thunder slows.
Time opens its bright palm wide—
Youth spills into joy, complete.
Bubbles float on air.
Air
On On
Float Float
On On
Air
Bubbles float on air.
Bubbles are dazzling rainbow planets we escape to.
Bubbles bridge the gap between the past and the present.
The magic orbs spiral up
down
and wrap around our minds.
Bringing our peace into sharper focus
Bubbles circle fast and track slow. Baffle us as they scatter…just out of …reach
Bubbles P O P without notice while they dance on thin light
Blowing bubbles requires that we breathe deeply
Bubbles float on air Releasing us from care.
Until the matrix calls us home.
