Pardon Me

Tom Turkey is slated
for execution at midnight.
They are heating up the oven as we speak.
His dream team was up all night.
They are trying to reach
the President, but so far
not a wishbone of luck.
The priest, Father Killjoy
was summoned
and
asked poor Tom if he
had any last words.
Apparently the people from Butterball
are evil vultures.
He is so stressed out, he couldn’t even muster a gobble.
Now his Hen is beside herself.
It seems that
his suit
is full of holes,
and she has no bread left
to stuff it with.
Trussed up like he is
I’m afraid he is
on his last leg.
At the eleventh hour
he is sweating pullets.

Thanksgiving Aphorisms

Thanksgiving roller coaster
sustains safe limits.

Tom turkey auditions
break a leg.

Holiday meals raise
cholesterol, expand waistlines.

Pumpkin pie spice
trafficking is legal.

Thankful for blessings
mindful of woe.

Pets receive calming
classical music medication.

Family happily reunites
sing karaoke songs.

Parents, children, grandparents
unite, feed village.

Holiday feast bonds
reflects tolerant trend.

Mashed potatoes ditch
surround turkey gravy.

Stuffing packed in
chubby bird satisfied.

Tom turkey debuts
on center stage.

Thanksgiving prayer,
oven hot, refrigerator cold.

A Special Ride

I was about 35 when I experienced my first Mule Ride.
Rather naive I thought that it would be uneventful,
but that is my nature.
The day began rather pleasantly
with a leisurely breakfast
of fresh island papaya,
macadamia nut pancakes
and piping hot Kona coffee at the Midnite Inn.
located in the sleepy one horse town of Kaunakakai.
Molokai, the Friendly Isle,
was a place we had reroofed a lot of the local Church’s.
We decided on this day to play tourist
along with my father in law and
mother in law; visiting from the mainland.
Today we would venture down
to Kalaupapa on a mule.
We were intent
on visiting the leper colony
on the isolated northern peninsula.
Riding down on a mule
appealed to us as an exciting way
to accomplish this goal,
spend a day learning more
about Father Damien,
now St. Damien
and all about his life
dedicated to helping the lepers.
Since I had limited experience on horses,
I informed our guide
that I was indeed a beginner.
They immediately led me
to what looked like
a docile animal named “Special”.
Special was to be my mule for the day.
At the beginning of my ordeal,
I noticed that Special was more interested in eating
than he was in my safe passage.
We Mule Skinners were instructed
at the outset
to let them have their heads
as they knew the route better than us;
so I did, much to my chagrin.
I was as green as the vegetation
and Special knew this.
Special, who I later renamed
with a colorful expletive
starting with the letter A___hole
would take me for one hell of a ride
hugging sharp ledges on one side
and sliding sideways
on the other
through mud soaked ruts,
giving me a bird’s eye view
of my treacherous surroundings.
Paralyzed by my fear of looming peril
I was a hostage
in Special’s uninhibited domain.
Forced from the start
to endure his surefooted folly
my experience was richly
enhanced by the scent of fresh droppings,
frequently stepped on by this caravan.
I was breathless
as we neared the end of the trail and thankful
that this half of the ride was almost over.
Released on a temporary reprieve
to stretch
and regain the use of my legs
I knew that I would again
have to face an uphill climb
a wary hostage
on this ornery herbivore.

Guarding the Perimeter

Another night of rockets’ red glare
and bombs exploding in the neighborhood.
Drug addicted welfare recipients live across the valley.
They are gearing up for New Year’s Eve in November.
Bruno and Zeus
need an appointment with a Psychiatrist.
They can’t understand
why they have to sit still
and have their ears be assaulted
by exploding aerials, bottle rockets
and high pitched screeching thunder.
Bruno stands up on the screen door
speaking in his
native tongue.
Bellowing
to let him in, the world has gone mad.
His sharp nails poke
into the screen mesh
inviting local insects
to buzz in and have a bite.
Broken shards of blue fish pottery
are scattered beneath a window.
Gone are the peaceful nights of yesterday,
our complacency lights up the blackest night
but the fight has reached home,
we are running out of caves.
Pretty soon we will have to stock up
on ammo and draw straws
for who gets night watch.

Give Thanks

for the lemony papaya
tangy and sweet,
fresh from the tree.
For the freshly squeezed
orange, frothy and tart.
For the Shama’s flutelike song,
rich and strong.
For the fountain pouring
into the spring fed pond,
cold and clear.
For the way that the Japanese Koi
leap out of the water,
glistening orange and white
dancing to a distant rhythm
in a foreign tongue.
For the way that the three large
South American Pacu
generate waves,
their fins
expertly carving the surface,
exposing tender chins
succulent and white.
For the rain that
cascades down
the mountain
forming streams and
quenching the thirst
of the stately palms,
satisfying their need,
and especially for the one
who cradles you
in this nest,
built with a tender love
warm and secure.

A Day to Reason

I
prepare
today to
go and sort through
shelves of poetry
and philosophy. To
find enlightenment in a
dusty tome. Within precious pages
rests the ancient sage ready to reason
engaging me with his lecture on
thinking. Enlightening me with
the motives behind the aim
and the logic that drives
civilization
today in a
race, against
dismal
times.

Coco Chanel

born 1883 in a brothel
in France
she was raised in an orphanage
from twelve years old,
where she was trained as a seamstress,
after the death of her mother.

Fiercely determined,
she overcame the stigma of poverty,
orphanhood and illegitimacy.
Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel
never married,
but had affairs
with influential men of the time.
While living with one of these men, Etienne Balsan
who lavished her with the rich life,
she began designing hats as a hobby
for celebrated French actresses.
This soon became a deeper interest.
Her style of
simple elegance
was associated with the 1920’s Flapper,
a new breed of self confident
young woman that
challenged
the accepted status quo.
She gave women back their bodies;
bodies drenched in sweat
and freed them from their corsets
and padding.
Simple, comfortable and revealing,
the trademark of an icon.

A Love Poem

You are the
Silversword
high
on the cliff
of my longing.
I suffer when we are apart.
Aloof in your lunar terrain
your maroon cluster fascinates me.
The biting winds
challenge my desire
shield you from my furry touch.
The Hawaiians call you ‘ahinahina. (very gray)
You are succulent with your silver hair.
I pollinate you and
dream of us
swimming with the tide
in a welcoming sea.
Our progeny,
a panoramic
plethora dotting
the landscape
of Haleakala.

Day Lily

 

Hydrangea

 

Ohia Lehua Blossom

 

Cosmos

 

Shama

 

Plumbing the Shadows

The unnatural world lurks
beneath the plumb
of sensitivity
waiting
for us
to take notice.
It is an eerie place
of ghosts
trapped
between then and now.
In this alternate world
lie the answers
to life and death.
At times the door opens
to invite
us in, but we are wary
of the consequences
that lead us into
the other realm,
calling up things better left alone.
The undead are restless
for fresh hope,
wandering
in their sleep
with
no end.
Caught up in a web
of lies and misdeeds,
tortured by the uncertainty of right now.
Their womb offers
little comfort
and no nourishment.
It is filled with the suffering
and screams of millions,
lost
in the shadows.

Pulling Weeds

Dormant daylilies flaunt dead brown stalks.
Assorted wild plants compete for attention
baking in the noon day sun.
A super highway
of vines tunnel
beneath bromeliads
skirting salmon bougainvillea
teasing papyrus with probing tongues.
In the adjacent plot, lavender, white and yellow dendrobium
mildewed from excess moisture,
exhibit bottle green weeds
in various stages of growth.
Sheltered under the Norfolk pine
white peace lilies choke
beneath hills of pine needles
while two cherry tomato plants
thrive, their seeds planted by the Apapane.
Stooped behind the stone wall, I observe a young
couple drive up in a red camaro
to steal some dragon fruit from the neighbor’s yard.
Meanwhile a flock of doves eat
the remnants of leftover dog chow
out back, their feathers fluttering in rapid time,
perched on the rim of fortune.

Father Damien

I once rode a mule
down a path carved into steep cliffs
sliding through mud soaked ruts
thick with slime and loose stones
on top of an ornery mule,
named Hoku.
Hugging sharp ledges using my
leg as his ruler, parallel to
the treacherous ledge and rocks below.
Stopping at the beginning of every switchback
to snatch a mouthful of
grass, constantly chewing, his head
steadily pulling at the reins.
Early morning the air was heavy with mist, sheltered
by the dense foliage, not a drop of wind to cool and
fend off the stench of droppings stepped through by this caravan.
Below lay Kalaupapa, the leper colony
where endangered monk seals give birth
on the isolated northern peninsula
of Molokai. A place where the diseased
cast off’s were thrown off passing ships,
left to swim to shore or die
in the crushing surf.
A place of pristine beauty, where nature fiercely reigned.
On a pilgrimage of sorts,
I ventured into a place that only some decades
ago had been a death sentence, a prison without the possibility of parole.
Contagious and deadly
this biblical disease, would’ve meant a one way ticket
for those who dared to venture beyond its borders.
Father Damien knew this.
Committed to his
faith, risking this contagion that would eventually
eat at his flesh;
in a time of
ignorance and shame.
Now a U.S. National Historical Park
feeding the
faithful and curious onlookers
crumbs of forgotten
history in this breathtaking remote
settlement. Where a stubborn, hard working,
devoted man of the cloth
took on the armor of sainthood.

What Color Do You Breathe

I exhale a blue language
of nouns and verbs.
My syntax
frozen in the atmosphere
hidden on a cloud high above
Mauna Kea.
In search of exclusive metaphors
while observing the nene
as it forages for food between
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
crimson orange tongues ablaze.

Wanted

Difficult
people pleaser
seeks
agreeable
inexpensive
graphic artist
to
collaborate
on
photography
book
deserving of
recognition.

** Written in response to what kind of a problem type are you, at a recent writing workshop I attended with my writing group---at the Volcano Art Center in Hawaii
Check out the Writing Workshops up at Volcano Hawaii by logging on to: www.tompeek.net

September Nights in Kahaluu

**Also published Friday September 18th 2009 on http://www.7beats.com/herenow.html


Fountain water splashes
echoes
across the koi pond.
Clever
Great Danes
bark their hello,
jump into the air
to chase
after chew bones
anxious for a moment
of attention.
Sultry trades
shift
Alexander palm branches
nod their approval.
Plovers march across manicured lawns
searching for tiny morsels,
recently
back
from
Alaska.
It is late afternoon-
Pau Hana time.
Pretty soon,
the air
will be redolent with
beef stew,
fresh baked bread
grilled Mahimahi
and rice.
Voices will fill the
peaceful valley and become paler
as night falls.
Chickens will roost in invasive
octopus trees.
Bullfrogs will sing love songs
attracting mates
and life will go on.
Wrapping up
another steamy day
meditating
by the Mango tree
while gazing at
pink clouds and
orange
parrots beak
heliconia.

Hormone Flux-Get Me Some Estrogen

***Also published on Friday August 28th 2009
http://www.7beats.com/herenow.html

A pin ball machine of
metal balls
zigzagging
crashing
colliding
trying to break records
achieve recognition
win contests
plan a murder.
So much to do
meals to plan
guests to invite
classes to attend
volunteer for this
volunteer for that
There are ways
to clean a blood stain
using simple things like
peroxide.
I have to schedule
my day
but I can’t remember
where I left my notepad and pen
on the way to preparing breakfast
Did I take my medicine?
Where are the vitamins?
Don’t forget to drink lots of water
It’s time for the workout
Cut the grass
Write that poem
Coffee, where’s my coffee?
I look into the mirror.
My reflection
is altered, I don’t recognize
the old woman that stares back.
Quick—apply some makeup
before you scare the dogs.
The course re-plotted
over and over again.

My victim
reminds me of
a note that needs writing.
Tumbling forward
avoiding those flippers
up and down
back and forth
through
these days of
detours
and
uncharted
territory.