A Mother’s Strength

A preview from my new book Letters To A Prisoner

Crawls on bloody knees to protect her young

would rather die than betray her child’s blind innocence

chokes on the creaking silence of an unanswered call

lies awake in empty rooms fighting back a flood of tears

summons courage from deserts of dry wells

shows up with a pail of forgiveness every morning

stares down dismay for years on end.

Her love is fierce.

Her love is granite.

She is god.

Shama Thrush

White-Rumped caller flaunts

black feathers, chestnut belly

trills rich shy solo.

GOLF, RAIN, OCEAN

New Poetry Syllabic Form: five lines 7, 4,6,4,3,

designed at Celebrate Reading at University of Hawaii --Manoa
with Brandy McDougall and Mahealani Perez-Wendt

Golf
Trying again to follow
a set of rules
designed by ancient trolls
intent on hard
ball tactics.

Rain
I can hear the pitter pat
of Pele’s tears
sliding down the valleys
in between the
Koolau.

Ocean
Waves crest and fall thrash shore, small
sandy grains dance
signing with native drums
in ancient tongue
to the gods.

Revisions Revisions Revisions

**Write about the loss of that child—three different versions.

He would spend hours playing with his Lego’s barking in his make believe world

All of his Tonka Trucks had dents because he would use them to dive bomb the

Lego land village pretending they were bombs dropped from an airplane, buzzing and careening; buildings continually blasted to smithereens that wrought destruction in his volatile game. Debris would collide with half drunken Pepsi cans their contents spilling into the faded lime green carpet leaving indelible traces. I can still hear the vroom vroom noises, voices he would’ve later mastered, his control limited to the special world he left behind the last vestiges outlined in the droopy eye of a stuffed green dog.


I noticed the droopy eyes of a lime green dog perched on his bed. It was a sad dog his stuffing peeking out of a torn seam. The room was now clean an uncommon state since this rambunctious child had infused that space. Every square inch resonated his being from the smashed Lego village to the dented yellow Tonka Dump Truck it oozed him even the curtains screamed his name.


The green dog had one eye that followed me inside to look one last time at his Lego’s and Tonka trucks which had been overcome by a 7yr. old. Never again would I hear the vroom vroom bang screech of metal and plastic colliding and exploding into the four corners narrowly missing the Pepsi can. No more crunch of Fritos beneath my feet. The silence followed me out the door and hung from the high beams flashing its baleful smile.

The Digger Files

(Write from the point of view of your character-see First Draft- Revision)


The Digger Files

MMM- I love Pepsi and Fritos
Now- where was I? Oh yeah
I need some new Lego people
a cop and a fireman to go wif
my new Fire Engine vroom, vroom
whirr squeal, bush—shifting gears, and here comes the siren
eeoh eeoh eeoh, eeoh eeoh eeoh, eeoh eeoh eeoh
 honk, honk honk-- beep the horn Mr. Fireman
beep the horn.

Now I’ll smash that Lego land town wif my
tuf Tonka Dump truck and then I’ll build it
all over again, only better.

Now I want you people to LISTEN TO ME
It’s time to get outta here. That’s an order people.
Katoosh—booom—smash
(Blue, white, red and green pieces fly in all directions
The green dog with one eye, now has one yellow
and one blue eye.)

Whew this is hard work
My mom needs to buy me some more
chips cos this is the last bag.

Ma-let’s go shopping okay?

First Draft- Revision

List five words--use some or all of them to describe a child and write a poem
Trucks, stuffed animals, bag of chips, can of pepsi, lego's

At seven he was a messy child
traces of sweat smeared with mud
bare foot and shirtless
even his hair stuck out at weird angles.
He directed each day like
a drill sergeant
barking at his Lego people
making deliveries with his tough
Tonka trucks mimicking the hum and the whir
and the vroom of life with childish enthusiasm.

We named him Digger, because he liked
to dig holes in the back yard, usually at odds
with our instructions, but we asked you to rake leaves.
Totally oblivious he would happily recite his accomplishments
at dinner, and note that he had done it all by himself.
Lips smacking
teeth crunching doggedly toting a can of Pepsi and snacking
on a bag of Frito’s corn chips, too busy
to sit still, his mind would race
contemplating his next project.
Proud and perturbed we would shake our heads
as the stuffed menagerie
on his bed complacently watched entertained.

I Want To Be A Poet

I want to be a poet because
I need to know
Who I Am,
HOW- --I am.
WHY I AM
like breathing or SEX.

Like Starbucks coffee
to choose from an endless list
of black and strong
with cream and
sugar.

I want to be a poet because
it doesn’t mean a thing
if you ain’t got that zing
to people in the bayou
with alligators for neighbors
and mosquitoes as big as flying
saucers that want to drink your blood
and leave welts the size of basketballs.

BIG—ORANGE—HARD-- BALLS

The BALLS that it takes
to stand up and SHOUT
about
SENIORITY and AUTHORITY
and about
the Assonance and Consequence of
our ACTIONS.

I want to be a poet
because of the reason and the rhyme
marking time
dripping off my tongue-- aged like fine wine.

Lyrical and magical—ALICE
chasing a rabbit into a hole
filled with soul, out of control
hanging on a cliff
with a NOTE
high on hope
instead of dope.

Set adrift
on a boogie ship
with a Fever
unrehearsed
and cursed ----to just be.

I want to be a poet
because of sibilant s’s
and because I want to weigh the wind
on an impossible scale
next to a fish tail that never pales
or smells stale---or fishy.

I want to be
shackled
to a form and not mourn.
To show the flaming red dawn
like a phoenix riSING from the ashes
to give birth to the
MUsic of my faith
over, and over again.

Forever drunk on strong words
ringing in my ears --high above the herd
until my last
MEASURED   DAY--- On Earth.