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.

No S’ss Here

Prompt--Write a poem without any S'ss

Come child

do not dawdle

family fault line crack

produced a tidal wave of truth.

Revisiting Lex Luthor

The springs creak as I lower the stairs and climb up

into the attic, into my past.
I inspect the cobwebs frozen in time
marking a sticky corridor, lined with daddy long legs
scurrying to stay inside the shadows.
A shaft of light from a small window
pierces the gloom
exposing the intricate web.
Far away in the corner
packed on top of the
pink insulation, is a stack
of old cardboard boxes
carefully penned in black sharpie logic.
A remnant of youth balefully stares
like an abandoned child.
At first glance with no trace of recognition
but then comes with open arms
to grasp my shoulders and close me in.
I try to suppress a shudder
as I descend into the contents
revisiting a haunted domain.
A musty kiss
brushes and lingers on my cheek
raising hairs, as I open the flimsy cardboard
flip the contents and watch
as it slides out and lands into a heap between the beams.
Haunted flashbacks
of Clark Kent and Supergirl
mingle with betrayal of innocence
and blankly stare from glossy pages.
Dead super heroes
overcome by red kryptonite buried
along with their evil counterparts.
Self obsessed monsters
like Lex Luthor shape shift
and ROAR,
tricked into this Bizzarro world
and left behind
to brood over their misfortune
now reconciled with shrewd eyes.
Lex Luthor, still plotting Superman’s downfall
planning his destiny
as the ultimate ruler
of Planet Earth
and his escape from obscurity.

Fortuneteller

Glass shards gouge bloodless vein

tarot cards show disdain.

The writing prompt on another forum yesterday was to write an essence poem.
A short, structured form of two-lines, six syllables each with an end rhyme and internal rhyme.

Therapy

Come early for
your appointment.
Fill out this form in triplicate.
Use blue or black ink.
Don’t leave anything out.
Please write firmly and legibly.
Which do you prefer your proper name
or your nickname, she asks
as I approach her couch
and lie down.
My vision blurs and then adjusts.
A kerchief is wrapped around her head
it is worn; her dress is tattered but clean.
So tell me, why are you here?
An engraved request appears
like writing on a black eight ball.
I proceed to vomit last night’s dinner
onto the faded white shag next to a recent
stain. It ponds and congeals
into a purplish brown glob
and she addresses it rapt
poking and prodding into yesterday’s veal
and mashed potatoes.
Years spin past and unravel like dark blue thread
and a large deck is pulled out of a drawer
and dealt as
strange points of light appear on the horizon
like distant flickering
stars exposing black holes and
revealing
the mysteries of the universe.

When Beauty Fades

Beauty faces age

leaves old notions at time’s gate

opts wisdom instead.

Lethal Fungus-Tanka

Umbrella opens

providing tempting shelter.

Seductive white cap

emits toxic slumber, slams

naive visitor at dawn.

April Snag-limerick

There was a young girl from County Cork
was rumored six times, with Sean O’Rourke.
She was a strong Philly
seduced his poor willy
then delivered twin pickles, the stork.

Windy Day

He who doesn't see

is as blind as pidgeon poop

behind frond's curtain.

Pineapple Express

Last year this time
nine members
of my family came to visit
from upstate New York.
They all stayed
at the Queen Kapiolani,
which is on the zoo side of Waikiki.
This included my parents, both of my sisters, one brother-in-law, his parents
and my niece 11 and nephew 13 that I hadn’t seen in
ten years.
They rented two cars
plus my Hyundai made a caravan.
My brilliant husband, volunteered to stay home and cook for the tribe.

Two unforgettable weeks of hurry up and wait, from hiking up Diamond Head to strolling Waimea Falls. Patiently looking for this one and that one in the forty ninth ABC store in the International Marketplace. My camera snapping hundreds of pictures, capturing precious moments.
One of the highlights was a kids fishing contest for golden tilapia on Easter in my small fishpond.

Still the days flew by, on the last day here I took them to Dole Plantation.
Having acquired some wisdom by this time, we decided to skip the Maze
instead we boarded the Pineapple Express
to ride the train and hear the history of the plantation.
Taking us back over one hundred years
to when the settlers traveled by wagon train
across the southern plains with the Navaho, Apache and the Hopi.
Everyone on the wagon train had their job, knew what was expected.
Most got along, because they had to, to survive.
When the leader said Wagons Ho--the smart ones all got
into their wagons and followed. When the Indians
attacked they circled, got out their guns and shot
anything that moved. There was a certain order to things.
Only this was 1900’s Hawaii, so it would’ve been the Chinese, Filipino, Portuguese,
Hawaiian, Japanese, Puerto Rican, Korean, Okinawan and let’s not
forget the haole (white man). And this was a pineapple plantation reminding me of the song
about owing your soul to the company store, another chapter of the story.

Yes we’ve come a long way since the 1900’s.
Today we tell each other our plans, agree
and then do something else entirely, makes you wonder
when we lost our ability to communicate, I mean how many families
do you know that resort to yodeling
next to the outdoor
kiosk at the local tourist attraction
torn between the handmade coconut purses and
the parking lot,
looking one more time
for your missing loved one.
Yodellleeeoh!!

Classy Lines

Antique Mercedes

decked out babe in polished chrome

infatuation.

Easter-acrostic

Eat a chocolate bunny and stuff yourself silly.
Ask your scale to lie for one more day.

Satisfy your longings, and then call your loved ones
Tear yourself away from outdated traditions, invent new ones.

Eat one hundred jellybeans and then eat three more.

Rejoice in sweet memory and resurrect your dead dreams.

Spring Fever

Peacocks race through field

practicing for Spring Fever

tall and small compete.

Mongeese watch from pond

take note of noisy neighbors

mad commentary.

Cardinals picnic

doves, myna’s and sharma’s feast

on Milton’s crackers.

Trees hum with bird song

fish flip for raucous new tune

syncopated beat.

Not Guilty#@$%

Two large crows CAW---CAW

in a cold dark brown koa cage
their shiny
black feathers flexed in anticipation.

The honorable raven presides speaking
in their native tongue. He is flanked
by two rooks, the first randomly calls
the lucky hens and roosters
their names plucked from a hexagonal cube, the other
leads us to the box where we are to be judged
as a good fit
or later dismissed.
I am the first,
my seat is pointed out,
my feathers only slightly ruffled
I try not to squawk or show any signs
of distress as my foot catches on the carpet
as I push through the swinging doors
proceeding carefully and cautiously
up into the box
an omen.

We are to judge the blond sheep
next to the plumper crow
he has been accused of
ferocious bleating, kicking and spitting,
however we are reminded that he is innocent
until proven guilty.
We are instructed by the raven
as to the laws of the wilderness
and will have to listen
to testimony from the witnesses
and watch for
certain markers of doubt as there
were no visible signs to be discerned
on the goat--she is called to the stand
and hunches like an old woman.
Her language is guarded, she preens for us
and disappears back from where she came.
The blond sheep is next- he bleats on about his
innocent baby, who was forced to witness
the alleged bleating and remarks of his tender love
citing just cause for any misconceived wrong doing.

We wonder why are we here- our taxpayer dollars
contributing to keep the wheels of justice grinding
are as blind as a thousand bats in a dark cave.
It takes ten minutes to decide the outcome
we are thanked and asked to come downstairs
where they will answer any questions we might have
we respectfully decline and leave
released back into the warmth far away
from that koa cage back into our busy lives.
Back into the fog from which we came.

And Justice for All

Justice is not blind.
It is late.

It needs to
individually approach the bench
in private
to address all
the significant reasons
why nine tenths
of the jury pool need to be
excused as well as observe the rights of
the conscientious
objectors in the gallery,
the people who do not agree with the laws or the process
as it is written, and interpreted.

It needs to swear an oath to educate
its citizens on how to spot a liar
probable cause, evidence
and beyond a reasonable doubt
Yes, justice needs to dot all of its i’s and cross its t’s and make copies.
It needs to make sure that you aren’t so smart
that you recognize the hypnotic effect of being confined
and cloistered and it needs to
validate your parking. Take role call.
Find and arrest those no shows and have extra forms
for those who left their summons at home. And it
needs to do all of that by four and if
it cannot, then you the jury,
will have to report tomorrow at eight thirty
fight rush hour traffic, park on the other side of town.
And run/walk your ass to the courthouse because OMG

You cannot be late.