Poi Boy

 

November 18, 2015  (I was 71)

 

                  Poi Boy

Morgan Toledo farms kalo in Waipio Valley

he and his family crew (it’s taro to you)

In watery fields they plant the shoots

nurture the leaves that broaden in the sun

as the roots swell in the sodden soil

They harvest bulbs bigger than grapefruits

From each they trim five new buds

then scrub and chop the dense tubers

They’ve mechanized to a mechanical crusher

eliminating the tedious pounding

Brother Henry tends to the mashing straining

mushing bagging and labeling by hand

manhandles maintenance of the new machine

Lavender paste with almost no waste

The demand is far greater than

five thousand pounds produced each week

Morgan Toledo has plans to expand

five times the plants next season

from newly cleared fields to nourish the industry

Locals complain fresh poi is five dollars a pound

When they think about it they pay it

all those vowels in drumbeat rhythms

 

August 6, 2000 (I was 55)

 

all those vowels in drumbeat rhythms

iki keiki alii mauka and makai

little regal children of the mountain and the sea

lolo pahoehoe and aa lomi lomi down Mauna Loa

both crazy rope lava and chunky stuff

massage the long mountain

it’s a menehuene luau with laulau

opelehu kalua pig and poi in Pahoa

Halemaumau smokes blue sky

 

August 5, 2009  (I was 64)

 

Halemaumau smokes blue sky

Vog rides kamakane to Kona

Due to erupting renovations

the trail across the big crust is closed

so we trek the black skin of Kilauea Iki

which close up casts luminous hues

from dark crystal pores

We straddle fuming fissures of glass              

walk on petrified bubbles within the cauldron

over explosive trapped gas we know could blow

us up five-hundred feet into the rain forest

from which we so scenically descended

Though this day Pele does not pummel us

she leaves a distinct impression

any day anywhere primal power

is just below a fragile surface

In drizzling wind

 

from this week in August, 2008 (I was 63)

 

In drizzling wind

we stood to warm over steam vents

overlooking the deep drop of Kilauea crater

then hiked the rim trail in low clouds

weaving mist through gradual descent

to find no one else at Thurston lava tube

We explored the old hole in new wonder

birthed by the perfect solitude

shared a silent toke in sacramental homage

A fumarole of cylindrical symmetry

coiled round hairy roots threaded through the ceiling

Water drops anointed us down the dim path

and deeper for moments beyond any light

subdued in the dark recognition

before we backtracked

to emerge among bright ferns

flowers and the canopy of ohia trees

which kept the percussive rain from us

Such are impromptu gifts of circumstance

and reminders of our un-divinable situation

Dinner at Jackie Reys

 

July 25, 2006  (I was 61)

 

         Dinner at Jackie Reys

Another great dinner in a restaurant of price

If you can afford it retirement is nice

I can remember being happy to have rice

 

And a few vegetables to stir fry

was too a great dinner no lie

Keep a perspective don’t cry

 

I hope you have time to make it work

a chance to rise above the mire and murk

or else the option to go berserk

What Can I Say, Read Bottle Imp First

 

from this week in July, 2006 (I was 61)

 

What Can I Say, Read Bottle Imp First

 

So now I have a Bright House

upon a hillside somewhat north of Hononau

Where Stevenson’s Keawe had his

 

Though Hibiscus Halè is less lavish

with a veranda but three quarters round

and fewer toys within

 

still it brings me joy to share with my Kokua

and it was not purchased from the bottle

with wishes expressed to the imp

 

It is nevertheless luxurious enough

by most standards of the world

to challenge the righteousness of ownership

 

It seems to want to share itself

in a hot land often coveted by personal greed

the contagious cause of the Chinese Evil

 

that spreads to devour all it touches

an isolation of complete abandon

unless one gives back in the spirit of Kokua

On the forested trail of a moonless night

 

July 18, 2017   (I was 72) 

 

On the forested trail of a moonless night

cautiously ushered by dim flashlight

to emerge under the overwhelming dome of stars

on the open precipice of Halemaumau crater

where fuming pillars of volcanic smoke

rise a thousand feet in fiery spectral colors

and shapes to illustrate any imagined epic 

Down deep in the firepit caldera

demon monkeys leap over bubbling lava

and a distant hiss is part of the silence 

The spirits of many writers here in the past

still sizzle and their accounts spiral again

Though he may not have thought it

it may be Ferlinghetti’s rebirth of wonder

A Few Notes on Tropical Birds

 

July 15, 2012  (I was 67)

 

   A Few Notes on Tropical Birds

In the prattle of the palms

above the general cheep and chatter

one bird says Achoo Achoo

or It’s you It’s you

You know what the rooster says

Another bird rants can’t can’t can’t

so dove does do do do

Two converse  Did you weld it up

I welded it up  Did you weld it up

I welded it up  Third says Well did

Did you see what Cerise eats

She eats cheese she eats

More specific listening delineates the general

into subtle individuality

Branches make me itch itch itch

A whole week’s worth of work if we stay

Eat eighty-three seeds eighty-three

Geeeeeze  Geeeeeze

Walk the talk walk the talk

delicious but all so repetitious

Oh for the love-a Oh for the love-a lava

Dumping on Kailua

 

July 11, 2010  (I was 65)

 

                           Dumping on Kailua

         A sign on the path I’ve walked daily says, LITTERING, but the red

circle and the slash mark have weathered away, so now people take it

literally.  The next stretch of ground along the mountain is a garbage

heap, one hundred yards of indigenous Big Island crap:  lawn chairs,

broken toys, clothes and shoes, furniture, a Chinese decorated box, two shattered toilets, and a dead goat disintegrating under a split bag of lye,

lots of dirty blue junk with hibiscus flower designs, a mattress, tires -you

name the size.

         So, in the last two days since I decided I had to note this aspect

of Hawaiian life, across the gulch from the goat, someone has deposited

the carcass, or at least the rib cage of another bloody beast without the

courtesy of the bag of lye.  Anyway, this one’s covered with a half dozen gnawing mongoose.  Brings to mind Melville’s Redburn.  And added just

today, a 6’ satellite dish, the base and mooring, replete with dangling

cables.  Apparently, there’s just not enough good TV out here in paradise. 

Action at Hapuna: just like a commercial

 

August 18, 1992  (I was 47)

 

Action at Hapuna:  just like a commercial

 

She was just another young blonde on the beach

trying to keep certain local boys just out of reach

but most certainly standing within their sight

They panted long enough to hope she also might

 

She thought she was cool as a rule

knew how long she could tease and fool

sifting hair in the breeze putting lotion to her legs

She doesn’t notice any Kane who sits up and begs

 

She wants the hunk hunched over plate lunch

knows his indifference is the coolest of stunts

She ambles nearer keeps the pack at bay

and thinks she knows exactly what he will say

 

Then a long brown nymphette in a g-string

hands a Coca-Cola to the Real Thing

“She’s so So-Cal, mama Hawaiian, she only 16”

whispers muttered by the dogs on the scene

 

The couple dash with boards to the surf

the blonde takes a towel to old people turf

You’d think some gentle kanaka might

hula on over with a lei and a Sprite

The menehune are serious folk

 

from this week in 2014 and2015  (I was 69 &70)

 

The menehune are serious folk

you can tell by how they play

In the dark it’s go for broke

on lava slide they made that day

 

Serious are the menehuene folk

You hear it in their songs

sung in throaty lower notes

against the throbbing gongs

                  *

The menehune are serious folk

they plant and pull and pound the poi

they be tough and gruff as any moke

to pry and punch and poke be joy

 

Serious are the menehune folks

they peel your fruit and steal your tools

practical are their kind of jokes

they no suffer gladly any fools

coqui frog

 

August 10, 2009  (I was 64)

 

coqui frog

small vague

new plague

I hear soon as I here

so near here I hear

coqui it’s me

coqui it’s me

 

coqui frog creak

on a bed that squeak

she play piccolo

contrapuntal

zing to cricket ring

almost pipes

melancholy baby

 

from mountain vog

he coqui frog

seeks dialog

choose me

whistles he coqui

he coqui availability

 

coqui be still

folk out at night

with net and light

if found we will

end your sound

and our ennui

coqui ennui

And this night at the crater was like that

 

August 6, 2014  (I was 69)

 

And this night at the crater was like that

The smoke and clouds obscured the sky

above the bursting embers of Earth

To prove brilliant sparks are not exclusive

another in the dark near me said

“If we could only see the stars above as well”

I recall my progression of thought last night

and note how instinctively we look for a way

to put perception into a proper perspective

Life is good but if I don’t bitch it might get worse

 

from this week in August, 2014  (I was 69)

 

Life is good but if I don’t bitch it might get worse

Tomorrow I’ll go to Halemaumau

wait til it gets dark as it gets

then go watch the changing glow

billowing from the pit

hear the oohs from the awed

Retreat to a cabin at Kilauea Military Camp

The darkness at the edge of the rain forest

where churning above in full dimension

the billions of stars forgotten in the suburbs

Emanations from goddesses and gods

to whom Pele bows

August 4, 2000 (I was 55)

 

August 4, 2000  (I was 55)

 

The scent of floral vegetation

that had hung in warm morning air

is dissipated by the ocean breeze

that also chases remnant cloud tissue

up the slope toward Mauna Loa

 

The laps of relaxing repetition lull

the senses into timelessness

Billfish Tournament boats pace the sea alleys

First the pair of magpie then the doves

make their rounds on the lawn

 

Cheryl does her languid morning crawl

flick plash forth and back across the pool

Hands of articulate palms practice

delicate gesture and reflective hula

both on the air and over the water

 

The charter dive boat bobs off the point

Swimmers join the flight circles of mantas

to feel the proximate terror of their mass

and the jolt of awareness

to perceive the self within the greater realm

 

The quiet pulse of surf plays the lava shore

while summer leaves to become summer

So goes the tropical pattern in days

of here and there over and under

until from the mountain the thunder     

Red crested white-breasted black winged petite

 

August 3, 2005  (I was 60)

 

Red crested white-breasted black winged petite

I should but do not know your Hawaiian name

Names of many smaller species echo their calls

so petite would seem to fit the beak

You visit my breakfast each morning

You have come to expect bread

I have made you trust me more each day

tossing bits closer to my chair

so now you venture nearly underfoot

Your sidling dance and angling glance

indicate irritation with gifts offered at risk

You tweeze the crust and prance back

to nibble the edge off a heavy load

then aloft but low above the pool

over oleander into palms along the black bay

where jagged lava breaks the morning surf

I’m told it’s cruel to deceive wild creatures

into reliance upon the hand of man

And in a few weeks I will be gone from here

but I remember you from last year

Expectation takes  the risk of self-deception

Every day adaptability expands

and each remembrance of a small trust

draws us a cautious hop closer

on a black jagged island

 

August 1, 2011  (I was 66)

 

on a black jagged island

we drive between verdant oases

one road goes round

other road goes up and down

past pleasures tell us where to go

different kind water different kind fish

stream drops through orchids and trees

scenic road with one-lane bridge over pool

where local boys always leap to act

in our home movies laughing and signing shaka

we stop this year no boys just quiet water falling

one orange painted rock say R.I.P. Ernesto 7/11/11

we go back to car with slow attitude

everywhere you walk here some flower falls before you

I’ve lost some of the prolific solitude

 

July 31, 2007  (I was 62)

 

I’ve lost some of the prolific solitude

the Island has formerly imbued

the slow breath of summer surf

cautious steps on wet stones to Akaka Falls

to cast intent on flower and fern

and darkening damp deeper view

where from insect rhythms and volcanic drums

inspired lava flows onto the page

 

I’ve made the invitations

cleared the runway and opened the door

become a bus driver and tour guide

a distributor of discount coupons

purveyor of geography and revisionist history

turned love of place into a place others love

left tart tropical fruit in the sun

to taint and over-ripen until

only hovering bugs can enjoy it

 

I have not found a way

to dissipate the rush or stall of traffic

to point out the off-ramps that lead

to the back roads of the right side of the brain

to the calm of the hinayana harbor

where each small boat drifts on its own quiet current

toward the mahayana cruise ship of common purpose

The fingers of the student masseuse seek pain

 

July 27, 2006  (I was 61)

 

The fingers of the student masseuse seek pain

knotted muscle and impinged nerve

damages that offer opportunity

to practice crafts of applied pressure

Ripples radiate relaxation

from troubled spots in time

to my deep breaths that drown

shallow thoughts

Not only obvious issues of recent stress

more subtle mysteries of the tissue

send a message from her hands to her breath

She utters huh… before her brain can think it

then ratchet sounds in my hip and thigh

respond before I can remember

that slip on wet grass years ago

striding into a Frisbee throw

to impress upon young students

that I was now too old

She is good she brings back memories

back that made the wrong move moving books

shoulders blocked out of balance

during a high school football game

ankle cracked while running a trail

pain in mouth and neck from oral excavations

to remove wisdom and worse troubles

brought on by too much jawing

With studied precision she worked

my physical history to remind me

no pain is entirely forgotten

but our endurance is considerable.