Friday, March 30, 2012

Weekly Worded




















Rue Haiku
    (for Aeden)
So many bright stars
extinguished along the way
to our mourning

Friday, March 23, 2012

Weekly Worded

video 
Polynesian Polyglot 

On the trail to Ho’opi’i Falls
following the Kapa’a Stream
you hike on a crosshatch of roots
through a tunnel of trees.

You have only twelve letters,
five vowels and seven consonants.
If you stumble trying to explain
where you’ve been, where else

you want to go, remember
it’s the missionaries who crafted
a written language out of nothing
but beads and crosses.

Where the water rushes
over the pali and falls into the puka,
trust the heart -- not the head --
to shape a perfect nani.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Weekly Worded

















A Green Rain

The rain itself is not green
but it falls for hours,
soft and penetrating
like a massage for stiff earth muscles.

I am not out in the yard
but standing beside a window,
hands deep in my pockets
watching gray winter

turn green, weeps in pools
as pungent dirt cleaves,
birds like notes
on musical branches.

I’m tempted to step outside,
let the rain wash over me
but it’s still a cold green,
shivers rising from a place

darker than my pockets,
fingers counting 
how many sweet peas possible,
how many hollyhocks.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Weekly Worded

















Waimea Historical Society Membership Drive

The sugar mill has fallen to pieces,
its roof open to the rain,
anything sweet has been washed away.

Pictures in the museum
archive how cane was cut and crushed,
how history gets refined from what’s lost.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Weekly Worded


















The Ancestry of Found Things

How unlikely that on four
thousand acres of coffee beans
cultivated beside the Pacific,
between perfectly arranged rows,
a clear glass bead
winks at her from the dust.
She picks it up,
hands it to me.

Before the Kauai Coffee plantation,
pineapples covered the same ground.
Before pineapples, sugar cane.
How long the glass bead
had to wait, who can say.
I raise it to the sun -- a prism
no bigger than a ripe coffee bean
but so golden against the afternoon.