Reverence

The delicate bracts of bougainvillea,

bright red, purple, pink: That is you.

And the little whirlwind of its swirling

leaves on the ground, the dry warm air

rising, short-lived. It's July now.

Never do you see clouds so defined

and tangible you could hold and

shape them if you wished very hard

you were that tall.

Do you see the faint moon climbing,

fading into sight? I see her at six now.

She is waiting, patiently, for the sun

to go down a sky of azurite. I kept

telling you, the whole time, we are lucky.

Old Pennsylvania Railroad

a bird-arrow of fifteen passes over an empty train track.

quivering below, aspens cast off leaves unwillingly. such

is a stolid tribute to algid winds from the north. further

along, a patch of buttonwood; arms bowed and skewed

with nothing to give. the skein does not stop to rest.

the arms beckon, but tundra swans are notably resilient,

and Erie is far-away.

a young woman departs from her row house at dawn. the

city is quiet as the cold snap approaches. "it's silly

to be out before 7 here," her father says. she is not

used to wintery air in spring. the city does not love

her back as he said it would.

the steel of the track is numbing to the touch. she

presses her hands to rail anyway, and walks along,

a tightrope walker, one foot in front of the other.

she smiles, she falls. lying prostrate, she turns

to face the grey sky. the overarching sycamore arms

and frigid winds are alien still. but this is home now.

she rolls onto the track, knowing no freight has passed

in years, and pretends the gusts are train-spawn.

she is young still.

miles north, the formation continues, beaten ceaselessly

by the high cold. Erie is in sight. swans follow the railroad,

for it will lead them home.

untitled 4

"life is a canvas, so paint it."

a painter i knew once was markedly restless.

an uneasiness lay within her brush strokes, one

hastily lapped over another. the colors could not

move freely; her painting was stiff and dull.

but critics are a pair of outside eyes; one must

stand away to watch. judgement served

by the remotest man is distorted by strain,

scornful and longing. i am one viewing from afar,

and i am no painter.

untitled 3

now is springtime,

pear tree in bloom.

summer comes;

flowers wither.

fall, in time.

leaves adrift.

then will be winter,

a dour old man approaching.

untitled 2

Koi Haiku

between two lilies

floating on water, a koi,

alone, swims between.

a silence rises,

fractured by tail-fin-splashing.

an era passes.

nana ka maka

"Nana ka maka,"

the kupuna say.

The winds of the āliapa`akai are ceaseless.

Lono sends missives to Hi`iaka, ones

she never receives. Kaua`i men gather

the salt of his aqueous messages in

ha`apa`akai o ka lehu `ula- as the

sun climbs in the sky, words effloresce

in their pools, from the sea onto

compacted red dirt. Furious,

Hi`iaka spits gusts - incessant, forceful,

unsalted and dry. Men hold the gods' will

in cupped hands, gathering with avid eyes.

You see, child, this is our past. Watch

with your eyes, the kupuna say.

In everything there is mo`olelo, deep

and grand. When all is in memory,

your ho`omana`o`ana,

everything is clear. but

for now, child, aloha`ia,

hiki mai e ka lā ma ma`ane`i -

the sun sets here.

chinese ghetto

my father grew up in the chinese ghetto.

the roofs are made of tin

and walls do not always

have paint on them.

the roads are full of potholes, and are

never walked down.

he says he played there

when he was young.

his parents have lived in their

tired house forever. he says

no one he remembers

still lives on the street.

next door near a rat

filled couch, a sign reads

"heavy garbage -

Please pick up." in chinese.

he says it has never left.

áskēsis

they say if

you do not want,

you can be free.

oh, for the sophos

i will not dream,

i will not wait.