Selling Coconuts on East Kuiaha Road
Up the road someone’s selling coconuts.
Coconut trees, really. Beige, prickly cups, of sorts,
sprouting waxy green leaves that reach out and up.
Five dollars each, black marker on white paper requests.
Farther up someone else is selling flowers,
tropical spikes of red. Birds of paradise, I wonder?
No price suggested here. Leave what you wish
in the plastic white bucket by the road.
Along the way there is a house where barbed wire curls
along the fence. Horned animal skeletons sit a top
each wooden fence post like rusted trophies.
What are they selling here?
I never see anyone on this country lane. No one stoops to pick fresh
dropped fruits. Instead, the small, yellow rounds are left to steep
their fruit wine in tomorrow’s morning mud. No one washes their trucks
or stands by their wares or trophies in the flapping breeze of evening.
Who lives there, and there, and there? The pretty blonde in the loose skirt
who said, in passing conversation at the post office, that for so long she had no money?
Or the grey, matted man who holds his faded army helmet in his lap
as he drinks coffee at Pauwela’s Café, and asks me if the letter he wrote
to the editor has been printed yet? And can he take a look?
This I know. Up the road someone’s selling coconuts.
Once I saw a light on in the house of horns, but dark had fallen faster
than I realized. So I kept running down the hill and let the new night rains
rinse me clean of questions.
The Trade Winds
The trade winds didn’t come today.
They’ve blown some place else,
for a while.
Behind them,
the winds left a trail
of little silver dragons,
each with its tail
spiraling inward,
toward infinity.
And with the dragons, too,
fell the people’s dreams
with a thud.
The trees are still,
painted at a tilt
against north shore skies.
Their branches
no longer reach
to touch green hills.
Instead, they are frozen,
awkward, in poses
reminiscent of movement.
This morning
I stood
among silent trees
and a free bird flew to me,
a rainbow landing
on my shoulder.
Free bird listened
to my tears.
His colors whispered,
and I heard him say
that the trade winds would blow back
again, some day
soon. On that day,
or perhaps another,
the winds will call to me,
and I will know
that time is ready for me,
and the silver dragons, and the people’s dreams,
to hold onto the trade winds’ tails,
and let the restless spirit
carry us home.
But today, we rest.
Bug
Have you ever sat beside a bamboo wood,
on a smooth, bleached rock,
in the middle
of a valley stream,
and watched a yellow bug,
caught in the currents
of swirling waters,
swim in circles,
gasping, grasping for the stone
just within its reach?
Have you ever watched
a bug feel for refuge
with tiny tentacles, then climb
shakily to the summit,
dripping dry with each shiver and shake?
Have you ever wondered
how the world would be changed
if the bug didn’t reach for the rock in time,
and swept right by, down the river bed,
only to disappear around the bend
Were it not being watched
by a woman who sat
contemplating
her past and her present,
beneath a canopy of leaves.
And seeing the bug struggle,
from the corner of her eye,
thought to scoop it to safety
if it didn’t make it
on its own.
Have you ever longed to know
that someone would do the same for you
should the inevitable tides
ever threaten
to wash you away.
Mud People
me and these boys
I hardly know
we stand
in a circle
talking story
of scared and sad and courage
boy kahuna
slow paints mud
on my cheeks and chin
a ritual
blending myth
with moment
and we become the mud people
hand on shoulder
we feel our way
through the mountain’s hole
until a new world opens green and wet
and the young heros
are boys laughing
swimming in soggy shorts
on this thursday eve
rainfull falls
wash away our dirt designs
and the stillness
whispers
Maybe Eden
somewhere in an enchanted forest
that floats just up the hill
a devil boy
holds his cards
behind an easy smile
and plays all day
and sings all night
and an angel girl
dances barefoot
across moon slivers
believing that spells of magic and love
have the power to heal
these two, they spiral fly
at the crazy and beautiful and afraid
is it all pretend
the wood nymphs wonder?
won’t the charms fade with wear ?
maybe
untie the knots
the night spirits call
let it all fall loose for a while
and the boy, his world spins
so she lies beside, watching him
Angels in Honolulu
Angels and fairies do walk this earth.
They don’t necessarily fly or float
as you might think. No.
They sit in black vinyl diner booths
Drinking soy lattes and chamomile tea.
Talking heartbreak and questions and dreams.
A shaman told me
and shamans know these things.
So how is it that angels and fairies
walk the same city streets
as a beautiful young woman
with nails too long and clean
for her beer fries burger work
at a tropical holiday tourist port
and spends her eves
at her master’s feet
in a daze of disbelief
because the fantasy
that seemed exciting at first
fades with each week.
Reality closes the fantasy door
until she can’t remember anymore
what she feared in being alone
or how she came to sit
head hung low
on this hotel carpeted floor
quietly watching her self let go.
For the angels and fairies
there’s not much they can do
but they sit beside her
casting their shadow
in part to comfort
in part to remind her of another truth.
A Thought or Two
I cannot help but wonder about the lives
of the people I drive by
their faces framed
in my window
like a private viewing of a movie short.
And these characters
I title and describe
once I’ve driven past.
Red plaid boy
mows the sloping lawn
at an angle.
Karate man
punch chops my passing car
but we never meet eye to eye.
White dress ghost woman
hitchhikes
on the salt air highway of dark.
Portuguese lady
born under a red tin roof
lost her Alec Boy late one night.
These strangers insert themselves into the script,
now characters in the story of my life.
And this one says
he’s not a player.
And that one says
he’s a mess.
And someone once said
I left for no one.
But I say I left
for myself.
It doesn’t matter.
Perky breasts or
belly toned.
Smoking joints
and talking stoned.
Sexy or not. Either way,
morning shadows fade to naked bodies
wrung dry, and I say it’s time
to let go of the too many hellos and goodbyes.
So it hurts sometimes
but which one of us hasn’t cried
in an old, used car
parked in an empty drive.
The other day I went to feed the blind dog,
only to find that Mr. Magoo had died.
So I went to talk to the monkeys
but Cordelia was preoccupied with her newborn twins.
The porter in the airport said it best
as I waited for my sister to land
safely in the Kona storm.
No rain, no rainbows.
No rain, no waterfalls.
I say it’s time we dance
in the full moon crazy
to the beat of setting sun drums
and if we all get tired
we can always go home
to the question mark
that’s been hanging out lately
above my house.
Procrastination
Maybe if I sashay
around these hardwood floors
in my new feel a – little –bit - French
movie – star – Indigo - shoes
Maybe if I have one more piece of licorice
from the bag I just closed
or make another cup of tea,
this time, ginger
Maybe if I procrastinate
a little while longer and ignore
that I’m trying to write
a poem
Maybe I will accidentally slip
through some secret slit
into the world of poets
Maybe I will see something new
in today
or my life
or the view.
Write what you know, they say.
I know death
comes in blues and grays.
I know that if you lie too close to a body
in the moments after death
the soul might not make it to wherever it’s going next
because you’re holding on too strong
and the spirit holds right back.
I know I saw a dragon in the road.
It moved ancient slow
in no apparent hurry.
I would have thought that a dragon
with horns and all
would be in a rush to hide
or breathe fire at the bad guys.
I know it’s possible to be pissed in paradise
or lonely
or sad.
Even with plumeria dropping at my feet.
Even when I wake to volcanoes and pick pink fruits.
I know that I am the wise one
and I am the fool.
And even pretend love
can be captivating
and cruel.
I wanted to let go.
Like with that piece of sea glass,
a tinted tear.
At first it looked just right.
Isn’t that what we all wish for?
A treasure finding us by surprise.
I tried it on.
Rubbed its smoothness
with my fingers and thumb.
Decided it wasn’t quite right for me
after all
and tossed it back to the sand.
Just like that.
Sometimes rescue is listening to Tracy Chapman
on a Wednesday night,
the fan stirring up the room
and the many of me
and what doesn’t matter
blows out through the window screens.
Then alone isn’t alone
and there are many reasons
and there are no reasons.
Two dragonflies raced me home this evening
me on my bike
the world purple blue
and I remembered that I can ride
with arms spread wide
if I just let go.
