by Sharon Douglas
A symphony of bird song celebrates the clear, blue, what will become an 80-something-sunny day. Doves coo. The white and black shama thrush click, and sing their complex little songs. Red cardinals sound like melodious cars starting their singing engines. A rooster, or two, or three … punctuate the cacophony with a “How do you do?”
Green lushness, on closer inspection reveals a color splotched canvas: Papaya trees laden with sunrise papayas; yellow edged palm fronds form green splayed fans; hand shaped hau leaves on tangled trees with flowers that change from yellow to a red-orange when they drop; ti leaves splattered in intense yellow or pink blotches; and pink and white tipped snowbush. Splotches of color-on-green.
Drive down to the west side and see light green breadfruit footballs growing in trees, protected by waxy dark green leaves. Or see tall, tassleless sugarcane grass swaying gently as it still grows.
Even more vivid are the intense egg yolk scrambled flowers etched high against blue sky on the yellow shower trees. There’s the one near the Koloa fire-station, and then there are a few as you head out of Waimea Town. This yellow scramble of color, high up and, then, lower down, the yellow hibiscus smile brightly. Or there are the cup of gold vines that compete with the intense cerise and purple and hot pink bougainvillea.
There are also the African tulip trees with their vividly orange cup-like blooms. These are profuse and their abundant color can be seen almost everywhere on Kauai.
And, should you head up to Holy Cross Church from the west side into Kalaheo: the flaming Mexican vine, ablaze in orange as it drips off, garlanding green shrubs and trees in the valley to the south.
At sunset, a bikini clad walk, on Kekaha’s long wide soft champagne colored beaches can be enjoyed. Shawl of water fringed by waves lapping onto silky shores leads to foamy feast fondling naked feet.
The sound of the ocean: huhwash!sh..sh and silence… Gahwash! Sh…sh and silence is the background music, as the watermelon-gold sun-orb drops behind the Forbidden Island, Niihau, huge whale-like silhouette, and slowly withdraws its energy in long rays that trail across the now pearly gray-mauve ocean.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter
by Laurie Barton
We watched Candace and Roy
exchange their vows in Hawaiian
on a beach whose name was changed
by a letter getting blown off a sign.
Anini Beach had heavy wind that day.
Waves were knocking hard against the reef.
Candace and Roy promised to stay together
though their parents hadn't
(and neither had most of our parents--
inundating us with partners, step-sisters,
second ex-wives.)
Candace's dad showed up in a sailboat,
telling big stories of the Baja Ha Ha
rally. Passing beers all around on the beach.
Candace's brother had sailed in, too,
the kind of guy who wanted solitude.
Pacing the shore,
keeping his eye on the ocean
that would swallow him up again soon.
We watched Candace and Roy
exchange their vows in Hawaiian
on a beach whose name was changed
by a letter getting blown off a sign.
Anini Beach had heavy wind that day.
Waves were knocking hard against the reef.
Candace and Roy promised to stay together
though their parents hadn't
(and neither had most of our parents--
inundating us with partners, step-sisters,
second ex-wives.)
Candace's dad showed up in a sailboat,
telling big stories of the Baja Ha Ha
rally. Passing beers all around on the beach.
Candace's brother had sailed in, too,
the kind of guy who wanted solitude.
Pacing the shore,
keeping his eye on the ocean
that would swallow him up again soon.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Is Creativity the Answer?
by Hannah Rees
My heart is aching for all the senseless killings
that go on all over the world. Yesterday was
supposed to be a day celebrating love – the respect
and cherishing of one human being for another - yet
someone thought it would be impressive to re-create
the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and walked into a
lecture hall at Northern Illinois University – the
same university our daughter attended a few years
ago – and shot 6 students attending the lecture,
before shooting himself.
A few weeks ago 5 shoppers were shot down in front
of a Lane Bryant store in Chicago. We read of
suicide bombers and missile attacks all over the
world.
As we bask in the aloha – the celebration of the
breath of life here on Kauai – I am saddened by
these news reports and by the anguish that must
reside in the killer's heart for his/her life to be
filled with the wish to destroy.
I have read that “creativity is the antithesis of
destruction” and I''m wondering if our consuming
world has negated the basic joy of creativity. We
are encouraged to opt for any ready-made product
instead of making anything ourselves. Our children
are often taught to be entertained, to play games,
to win, to use and to waste. And when the budget
gets tight, what do our schools eliminate from the
curriculum first - the art and music program! Of
course there are exceptions, but overall the
classroom is thought to be a stepping stone to
earning money to buy things. Things do not provide
one with the joy of self discovery found through the
process of creating.
Creating takes time and intention. Relationships
need both time and intention to develop, just as the
building of a house, planting a garden, keeping a
pet, cooking a meal or writing of a poem. Creativity
requires a person to invest of himself, his ideas,
his dreams. I wonder if more energy were used in
creating, perhaps the dissatisfaction that leads to
suicide and the destructive killing that is
encompassing our world would lessen.
One can only hope.
My heart is aching for all the senseless killings
that go on all over the world. Yesterday was
supposed to be a day celebrating love – the respect
and cherishing of one human being for another - yet
someone thought it would be impressive to re-create
the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and walked into a
lecture hall at Northern Illinois University – the
same university our daughter attended a few years
ago – and shot 6 students attending the lecture,
before shooting himself.
A few weeks ago 5 shoppers were shot down in front
of a Lane Bryant store in Chicago. We read of
suicide bombers and missile attacks all over the
world.
As we bask in the aloha – the celebration of the
breath of life here on Kauai – I am saddened by
these news reports and by the anguish that must
reside in the killer's heart for his/her life to be
filled with the wish to destroy.
I have read that “creativity is the antithesis of
destruction” and I''m wondering if our consuming
world has negated the basic joy of creativity. We
are encouraged to opt for any ready-made product
instead of making anything ourselves. Our children
are often taught to be entertained, to play games,
to win, to use and to waste. And when the budget
gets tight, what do our schools eliminate from the
curriculum first - the art and music program! Of
course there are exceptions, but overall the
classroom is thought to be a stepping stone to
earning money to buy things. Things do not provide
one with the joy of self discovery found through the
process of creating.
Creating takes time and intention. Relationships
need both time and intention to develop, just as the
building of a house, planting a garden, keeping a
pet, cooking a meal or writing of a poem. Creativity
requires a person to invest of himself, his ideas,
his dreams. I wonder if more energy were used in
creating, perhaps the dissatisfaction that leads to
suicide and the destructive killing that is
encompassing our world would lessen.
One can only hope.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Jungle Jam
by SistaG
Remember me?
I live here in Haena
under a tree
where I like to spend a
day at the beach
so I'm gonna send a
fax or an e
to get you here with me!
I have a little place
in Hanalei
a river runs thru
we could spend the day
walking thru the jungle
careful not to tumble
in the hila hila
I just wanna steal ya!
Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay
Come spend the day, baby
into the night
Then in the morning
ahm onna take you chicken fight!
Take me down the coast
we'll sail to Wainiha
Park our little boat
out on the sand bar
build a little fire
pretend we're castaways
tell me what you require
to be led astray!
Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay
come spend the day, baby
into the night
I'll feed you mangoes
you'll love every bite!
And then I'll dance the hula
and you'll dream the kama sutra. . .
Remember me?
I live here in Haena
under a tree
where I like to spend a
day at the beach
so I'm gonna send a
fax or an e
to get you here with me!
I have a little place
in Hanalei
a river runs thru
we could spend the day
walking thru the jungle
careful not to tumble
in the hila hila
I just wanna steal ya!
Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay
Come spend the day, baby
into the night
Then in the morning
ahm onna take you chicken fight!
Take me down the coast
we'll sail to Wainiha
Park our little boat
out on the sand bar
build a little fire
pretend we're castaways
tell me what you require
to be led astray!
Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay
come spend the day, baby
into the night
I'll feed you mangoes
you'll love every bite!
And then I'll dance the hula
and you'll dream the kama sutra. . .
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
The Biggest Cockroach in the History of the Universe
by Brian Doyle
Lives in a house on the north shore of the island of Kauai,
The one island never conquered by the old Hawaiian kings,
And you can see why, if there were insects the size of cars,
Which there are, and there are stories of roaches who tried
To catch and eat Hawaiian monk seals, and of even larger
Roaches who banded together to try to conquer Honolulu,
And of one roach, this was a heroic and mountainous one,
Who flagged down a truck and ejected the terrified driver
And tried to digest the truck, which is a phrase you never
Hardly hear, and there are still stories, and I believe them,
Of roaches who occasionally get such a yen for cable TV
That they break into houses and overdose on NBA games
And are found days later staggering around in the forests
Muttering about assist-to-turnover ratio and similar stuff,
But a story like that you have to take with a grain of salt.
Anyway the biggest cockroach in the history of roaches,
Periplaneta Americana is his name, lives in Hanalei Bay,
Right near Michael Crichton, who is the famous novelist,
But the people of Hanalei, they misdirect you on purpose
If you ask for where either of their most famous residents
Live, and you can understand that, it’s a form of affection
And respect really, so the thing is, when I tell you that the
Biggest cockroach in the history of the universe, an insect
Big enough to have its own area code and zoning precinct,
Big enough to change the weather, bigger even than Oprah,
Lives on the north shore of Kauai, well – don’t tell anyone.
Lives in a house on the north shore of the island of Kauai,
The one island never conquered by the old Hawaiian kings,
And you can see why, if there were insects the size of cars,
Which there are, and there are stories of roaches who tried
To catch and eat Hawaiian monk seals, and of even larger
Roaches who banded together to try to conquer Honolulu,
And of one roach, this was a heroic and mountainous one,
Who flagged down a truck and ejected the terrified driver
And tried to digest the truck, which is a phrase you never
Hardly hear, and there are still stories, and I believe them,
Of roaches who occasionally get such a yen for cable TV
That they break into houses and overdose on NBA games
And are found days later staggering around in the forests
Muttering about assist-to-turnover ratio and similar stuff,
But a story like that you have to take with a grain of salt.
Anyway the biggest cockroach in the history of roaches,
Periplaneta Americana is his name, lives in Hanalei Bay,
Right near Michael Crichton, who is the famous novelist,
But the people of Hanalei, they misdirect you on purpose
If you ask for where either of their most famous residents
Live, and you can understand that, it’s a form of affection
And respect really, so the thing is, when I tell you that the
Biggest cockroach in the history of the universe, an insect
Big enough to have its own area code and zoning precinct,
Big enough to change the weather, bigger even than Oprah,
Lives on the north shore of Kauai, well – don’t tell anyone.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
A Note on the Birds of Hawaii
by Brian Doyle
There is of course the ‘a, the booby with the red feet,
Says a tiny man at the Foodland, to whom I had said
Merely wow, is that a frigatebird over the parking lot?
And then of course there is your ‘akikiki, the creeper,
And ‘i’iwi and ‘o’u’ and nukupu, also honeycreepers,
And pueo, the little owl, and ‘io, the Hawaiian hawk,
And ‘ulili, the little tattler who wanders, and our ‘o’o,
She is the honeyeater, the cousin of the honeycreeper,
And ‘elepaio, the flycatcher, and ‘alala, old man crow,
And huna kai, the sanderling, her name is ocean foam,
And hoio, the shearwater, he lives in caves by the sea,
And ao, she is another shearwater, what a lovely word,
Shearwater, don’t you think? And then uau, the petrel,
And aukuu, the night heron, and koloa, he is our duck,
And of course you know nene, the goose, and ewaewa,
The tern, and kolea, the plover, he comes every winter,
And ukeke, the turnstone, and amaui, that is the thrush,
And the curlew who balances on one leg, she is ‘kioea.
Did you get all that? Are you writing down every thing
I say? Are you a book writer? Do you speak Hawaiian?
Do you want more names of birds? There is the mejiro,
That is the Japanese word for the little bird in the bush,
And piha’ekelo, that is the mynah, he comes from India,
And manumele, the canary, he comes from oversea too,
And shama, the thrush, he comes from elsewhere, India
Also I think, although I am not sure about that, I am not
Very knowledgeable about the birds. My dad, however,
He would tell us stories about birds he loved as a child,
Birds who are no more on any of the islands of Hawaii,
One was the mamo, who drank from flowers like a bee,
And another was a very tiny green one who ate crickets
But who never got a name because no one ever saw her.
That is all I can remember and say about our birds here.
Do you have any other things that I can help you with?
Yes sir, I say. I am curious about a word for this place,
May I ask what is the name for where we are standing?
Why, this is Foodland, he says, and we lose it laughing
And both go in to get whatever it was we came to buy.
By pure chance we cross paths a little later as we leave,
And he says here is one last name for you to remember,
That is ‘iwa, the thief, the frigatebird, and yes, that was
Her over the parking lot a while ago, isn’t she glorious?
There is of course the ‘a, the booby with the red feet,
Says a tiny man at the Foodland, to whom I had said
Merely wow, is that a frigatebird over the parking lot?
And then of course there is your ‘akikiki, the creeper,
And ‘i’iwi and ‘o’u’ and nukupu, also honeycreepers,
And pueo, the little owl, and ‘io, the Hawaiian hawk,
And ‘ulili, the little tattler who wanders, and our ‘o’o,
She is the honeyeater, the cousin of the honeycreeper,
And ‘elepaio, the flycatcher, and ‘alala, old man crow,
And huna kai, the sanderling, her name is ocean foam,
And hoio, the shearwater, he lives in caves by the sea,
And ao, she is another shearwater, what a lovely word,
Shearwater, don’t you think? And then uau, the petrel,
And aukuu, the night heron, and koloa, he is our duck,
And of course you know nene, the goose, and ewaewa,
The tern, and kolea, the plover, he comes every winter,
And ukeke, the turnstone, and amaui, that is the thrush,
And the curlew who balances on one leg, she is ‘kioea.
Did you get all that? Are you writing down every thing
I say? Are you a book writer? Do you speak Hawaiian?
Do you want more names of birds? There is the mejiro,
That is the Japanese word for the little bird in the bush,
And piha’ekelo, that is the mynah, he comes from India,
And manumele, the canary, he comes from oversea too,
And shama, the thrush, he comes from elsewhere, India
Also I think, although I am not sure about that, I am not
Very knowledgeable about the birds. My dad, however,
He would tell us stories about birds he loved as a child,
Birds who are no more on any of the islands of Hawaii,
One was the mamo, who drank from flowers like a bee,
And another was a very tiny green one who ate crickets
But who never got a name because no one ever saw her.
That is all I can remember and say about our birds here.
Do you have any other things that I can help you with?
Yes sir, I say. I am curious about a word for this place,
May I ask what is the name for where we are standing?
Why, this is Foodland, he says, and we lose it laughing
And both go in to get whatever it was we came to buy.
By pure chance we cross paths a little later as we leave,
And he says here is one last name for you to remember,
That is ‘iwa, the thief, the frigatebird, and yes, that was
Her over the parking lot a while ago, isn’t she glorious?
Monday, February 04, 2008
Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter
It is way too quiet this winter at Kauai Backstory, so we are tossing out a writing prompt: Deep in the heart of a Kauai winter.
Use this as a place to start writing or photographing. Does it conjure up an image? Maybe write a poem, then. Does it conjure up a scene? Write a story, then. Does it make you want to preach about something? Write an essay, then. Or, get out in the blustery weather and take some pictures. Basically, take it and run. Have fun. Then, send it to us. We won't guarantee we'll post everything we receive, but if we like it, if it moves us, if we laugh, cry, scream or sigh, we just may publish it on Kauai Backstory.
We'll accept submissions on this theme through the end of winter--whenever we deem that to be or, more accurately, whenever Mother Nature deems that to be. Please send your submission to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.
As always, thanks for writing. Thanks for sharing. Be sure to visit www.kauaibackstory.com often.
Aloha,
Gae, Kim, Pam
Editors
Use this as a place to start writing or photographing. Does it conjure up an image? Maybe write a poem, then. Does it conjure up a scene? Write a story, then. Does it make you want to preach about something? Write an essay, then. Or, get out in the blustery weather and take some pictures. Basically, take it and run. Have fun. Then, send it to us. We won't guarantee we'll post everything we receive, but if we like it, if it moves us, if we laugh, cry, scream or sigh, we just may publish it on Kauai Backstory.
We'll accept submissions on this theme through the end of winter--whenever we deem that to be or, more accurately, whenever Mother Nature deems that to be. Please send your submission to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.
As always, thanks for writing. Thanks for sharing. Be sure to visit www.kauaibackstory.com often.
Aloha,
Gae, Kim, Pam
Editors
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Blue
by Kerith Edwards
When morning stands fresh
dilated cool with wind and sun
my heart—
having totaled rainy workadays—
remembers instead
long-sighted swell
watched to here!
wave mounted
ridden to low.
Lure me again, darling
yours today and forever,
my blue Kauai.
When morning stands fresh
dilated cool with wind and sun
my heart—
having totaled rainy workadays—
remembers instead
long-sighted swell
watched to here!
wave mounted
ridden to low.
Lure me again, darling
yours today and forever,
my blue Kauai.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Not Today
by Lea Marie Taddonio
The tsunami alarm sounds off the first Tuesday of
each month.
Cane fields are stirring like water just before
wind.
The cat on the step ignoring.
The gecko pipes once.
A truck backfires up the canyon.
A cloud becomes turtle
then a dragon that eats the turtle
and it seems like such a waste of time to die.
The tsunami alarm sounds off the first Tuesday of
each month.
Cane fields are stirring like water just before
wind.
The cat on the step ignoring.
The gecko pipes once.
A truck backfires up the canyon.
A cloud becomes turtle
then a dragon that eats the turtle
and it seems like such a waste of time to die.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Big Boat
by Lea Marie Taddonio
Where do boats come from?
Arriving as tiny miracles
We look up from the want ads
pause in the middle of polite conversations.
This boat is different.
It boasts about the horizon’s secret
loudly so you can’t miss hearing
the exact bulk of its bank account.
I had a lover who was bigger than this boat.
Every time I looked at my ocean
He was there, nodding on the waves.
Until finally
I created a hurricane.
Where do boats come from?
Arriving as tiny miracles
We look up from the want ads
pause in the middle of polite conversations.
This boat is different.
It boasts about the horizon’s secret
loudly so you can’t miss hearing
the exact bulk of its bank account.
I had a lover who was bigger than this boat.
Every time I looked at my ocean
He was there, nodding on the waves.
Until finally
I created a hurricane.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Skullwalking
by Lea Marie Taddonio
Tourists at Ke‘e Beach pound over the skulls
of ancient ones.
Quietly urinate in thickets, spin tires in fine sand
groan about the clot of cars
trying to circulate out the parking lot at sundown.
The rhythm here is not the ocean
but a collective heartbeat
I am I am I am
Tourists at Ke‘e Beach pound over the skulls
of ancient ones.
Quietly urinate in thickets, spin tires in fine sand
groan about the clot of cars
trying to circulate out the parking lot at sundown.
The rhythm here is not the ocean
but a collective heartbeat
I am I am I am
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The Paving of Paradise
by Jerry Von Schott
Dreams
covered in concrete.
Hardened reality
poured stony gray.
Hopes paved over
in flowing
unconciousness.
Paradise
gasps in darkness.
Crushed
under the weight
of cold slab.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Young Fruit
by Caleb Odam
Green is the smell of grass in my face
when I take a nap at the park
or the deep flavor of arugula.
Green is dancing dandelions, soft soccer fields
and sticky spirulina.
Green is young fruit
and the ferns that
crawled out of the ocean
at the beginning of the earth.
Green is the smell of grass in my face
when I take a nap at the park
or the deep flavor of arugula.
Green is dancing dandelions, soft soccer fields
and sticky spirulina.
Green is young fruit
and the ferns that
crawled out of the ocean
at the beginning of the earth.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Come Alive Dream
[This is the final post from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green."]
by Craig Davies
First open your ears; now hear my plea.
Peace is a Dream that will come to be.
It all starts right here in our little home.
From this tiny island, Peace will be born.
Many have come here knowing not why.
The answers elude us; perhaps we should pry.
"Why are we here?" I ask of our Gods.
Surely They know why we do trod.
"To be an example”, They say to me,
"Of Love, of Peace and true Harmony".
“Energy of Ages has been given to you,
So that you may be leaders...you know what to do”.
To be a World model , that is our deed.
The spark of ignition, we will be the seed.
To feed all our people, no more need we seek.
We have fertile lands and the best of technique.
Self-sufficiency, the spirit is there.
We have all we need with plenty to share.
Alternative energy, so many options.
Wind, solar, hydro...without any toxins.
All said and done, great heights we’ll have soared.
The time has come to cut the cord.
Hawaiian sovereignty, a strong energy.
On this we must ride for then we will be...
A sovereign nation unto itself,
No need of war, guns on the shelf.
Peace we can have; Peace isn’t for sale.
So let's get to work, we must tip the scale.
The One Hundredth Monkey, have you heard of this?
If my vision is true...Kaua`i is it!
Awaken old souls, the time has arrived.
We've been called to Kaua`i to Come Alive.
by Craig Davies
First open your ears; now hear my plea.
Peace is a Dream that will come to be.
It all starts right here in our little home.
From this tiny island, Peace will be born.
Many have come here knowing not why.
The answers elude us; perhaps we should pry.
"Why are we here?" I ask of our Gods.
Surely They know why we do trod.
"To be an example”, They say to me,
"Of Love, of Peace and true Harmony".
“Energy of Ages has been given to you,
So that you may be leaders...you know what to do”.
To be a World model , that is our deed.
The spark of ignition, we will be the seed.
To feed all our people, no more need we seek.
We have fertile lands and the best of technique.
Self-sufficiency, the spirit is there.
We have all we need with plenty to share.
Alternative energy, so many options.
Wind, solar, hydro...without any toxins.
All said and done, great heights we’ll have soared.
The time has come to cut the cord.
Hawaiian sovereignty, a strong energy.
On this we must ride for then we will be...
A sovereign nation unto itself,
No need of war, guns on the shelf.
Peace we can have; Peace isn’t for sale.
So let's get to work, we must tip the scale.
The One Hundredth Monkey, have you heard of this?
If my vision is true...Kaua`i is it!
Awaken old souls, the time has arrived.
We've been called to Kaua`i to Come Alive.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Kekaha Signal Light
[This is the sixth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Juan Lugo
While traveling to Kokee with my grandchildren, driving past the small town of Kekaha, we came upon a broken and neglected signal light. One of the children asked, “Grandpa, that light is old, broken and not working. Why doesn’t someone remove it and take it to the dump? It could fall on a car and hurt someone or cause an accident.”
Memories flooded through me and I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I pulled off to the side of the road to compose my thoughts. The children must have thought they had said something wrong and after a few moments of silence, I decided to share with them a couple of stories of what the light meant to me and to those that grew up on the Island of Kauai. We stepped out of the car and I began to share my memories of the Kekaha Signal Light.
“This signal light on the road leading to Waimea Canyon represents the Marquesans, the first group of people to settle these islands. They introduced the sugar cane. They did not realize that this plant would attract a group of businessmen and cause the eventual overthrow of the unformed Hawaiian Monarchy. It represents the legacy of the sugar cane industry. This industry brought together a diversified group of people from all over the world. Each group being very proud of their rich ethnic culture and equally proud of their neighbor’s culture providing our Island of Kauai with an exotic flavor. It represents the agricultural greening of Kauai and of Hawaii. The light also reminds me of my childhood. This light was magical to me while growing up on this beautiful island of Kauai and it opened my heart and eyes to that magic.”
I pulled drinks and snacks from the cooler and gave them to the children. I continued my story. “In those days the trains would bring in the harvested sugar cane from the fields to the mill for processing. The method of harvesting was to set the fields on fire and after the fire died down, a dozer with a rake in the front would push the burning cane into rows. A crane with a grappling hook would load the burnt cane onto the train. Sometimes the dying embers would be re-ignited and a blazing inferno would occur. The train had to make it back to the mill very quickly. The light was installed to stop the little traffic that made its way up or down the Waimea Canyon.”
“The Kekaha Signal Light is a reminder of simpler times. We listened to nature’s whispers and to stories of our past. Today, it is the home of a family of Myna birds with the glass broken by those individuals that do not know of that time.”
Clearing my throat and fully immersed in the story, I continued, “I grew up in the Wailua Homestead on a Pineapple farm. Working in the fields was hard work and I hated it. My parents had a twenty-five acre farm and we grew pineapples as our main crop. We also had milk cows, pigs, chickens and vegetables to care for. Since the pineapple was our main source of revenue, my siblings and I had to work in the fields after school and on week-ends. We could not afford hiring outsiders.”
“So, when my father would announce on a Friday Evening that we would be going to Kekaha to watch the signal light change colors, we could hardly control our excitement! Not only would we be treated to an absolutely wonderful display of magic in seeing the lights change colors in the middle of nowhere, we would not have to work in the fields that week-end!”
“That night we would ready our surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings and camping gear. These activities would be interspersed with talking about the magic of seeing the signal light change colors. I remember thinking that the changing colors were magic in the purest sense and it would send me spiraling off into the world of my imagination! We would talk late into the night and my mother would finally scold us and tell us to go to sleep.”
“Early, Saturday Morning we would finish our chores and then load up the back of our pick-up truck with the surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings, food, drinks, guitars, ukuleles and camping equipment. We would be balanced precariously amidst all of the paraphernalia as we made our way to Kekaha from Wailua.”
“Once we reached Kekaha, we would set-up camp on the beach and then we would start doing everything we had talked about the previous evening. Whether it was board surfing, body surfing, fishing, spear diving, or simply lazing about and eating, whatever activity we were engaged in, would come to a halt, when we heard the sound of the whistle from the train as it made its way to the mill from the fields. We would run, helter-skelter through the small town of Kekaha and reach the light as it changed colors! I remember, jumping up and down, cheering, clapping my hands and joining in with my adult ohana and siblings as the train approached and the light would change colors! It was so incredible and I never tired of seeing the magic!”
“Later that evening, with my opu full, I would drift off to sleep listening to the gentle strumming of the guitars and ukuleles. I would listen to the songs and watch the dancing by the campfire. I would be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pattern of the waves as they splashed upon the beach. I would look up at the sky and watch the moon and the stars play hide-n-seek behind the clouds. Many happy memories filled my memory banks. Happy memories, that I could make a withdrawal from, when my life was filled with strife and challenges. Those happy memories would see me through the troublesome times of my life.”
“And, that is why,” I whispered to my grandchildren, “I will always be grateful to the Kekaha Signal Light. It showed me how to believe in magic and to live my life open to daily miracles! A magical beauty that it is all around us! We only need to open our eyes and our hearts to see it.”
by Juan Lugo
While traveling to Kokee with my grandchildren, driving past the small town of Kekaha, we came upon a broken and neglected signal light. One of the children asked, “Grandpa, that light is old, broken and not working. Why doesn’t someone remove it and take it to the dump? It could fall on a car and hurt someone or cause an accident.”
Memories flooded through me and I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I pulled off to the side of the road to compose my thoughts. The children must have thought they had said something wrong and after a few moments of silence, I decided to share with them a couple of stories of what the light meant to me and to those that grew up on the Island of Kauai. We stepped out of the car and I began to share my memories of the Kekaha Signal Light.
“This signal light on the road leading to Waimea Canyon represents the Marquesans, the first group of people to settle these islands. They introduced the sugar cane. They did not realize that this plant would attract a group of businessmen and cause the eventual overthrow of the unformed Hawaiian Monarchy. It represents the legacy of the sugar cane industry. This industry brought together a diversified group of people from all over the world. Each group being very proud of their rich ethnic culture and equally proud of their neighbor’s culture providing our Island of Kauai with an exotic flavor. It represents the agricultural greening of Kauai and of Hawaii. The light also reminds me of my childhood. This light was magical to me while growing up on this beautiful island of Kauai and it opened my heart and eyes to that magic.”
I pulled drinks and snacks from the cooler and gave them to the children. I continued my story. “In those days the trains would bring in the harvested sugar cane from the fields to the mill for processing. The method of harvesting was to set the fields on fire and after the fire died down, a dozer with a rake in the front would push the burning cane into rows. A crane with a grappling hook would load the burnt cane onto the train. Sometimes the dying embers would be re-ignited and a blazing inferno would occur. The train had to make it back to the mill very quickly. The light was installed to stop the little traffic that made its way up or down the Waimea Canyon.”
“The Kekaha Signal Light is a reminder of simpler times. We listened to nature’s whispers and to stories of our past. Today, it is the home of a family of Myna birds with the glass broken by those individuals that do not know of that time.”
Clearing my throat and fully immersed in the story, I continued, “I grew up in the Wailua Homestead on a Pineapple farm. Working in the fields was hard work and I hated it. My parents had a twenty-five acre farm and we grew pineapples as our main crop. We also had milk cows, pigs, chickens and vegetables to care for. Since the pineapple was our main source of revenue, my siblings and I had to work in the fields after school and on week-ends. We could not afford hiring outsiders.”
“So, when my father would announce on a Friday Evening that we would be going to Kekaha to watch the signal light change colors, we could hardly control our excitement! Not only would we be treated to an absolutely wonderful display of magic in seeing the lights change colors in the middle of nowhere, we would not have to work in the fields that week-end!”
“That night we would ready our surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings and camping gear. These activities would be interspersed with talking about the magic of seeing the signal light change colors. I remember thinking that the changing colors were magic in the purest sense and it would send me spiraling off into the world of my imagination! We would talk late into the night and my mother would finally scold us and tell us to go to sleep.”
“Early, Saturday Morning we would finish our chores and then load up the back of our pick-up truck with the surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings, food, drinks, guitars, ukuleles and camping equipment. We would be balanced precariously amidst all of the paraphernalia as we made our way to Kekaha from Wailua.”
“Once we reached Kekaha, we would set-up camp on the beach and then we would start doing everything we had talked about the previous evening. Whether it was board surfing, body surfing, fishing, spear diving, or simply lazing about and eating, whatever activity we were engaged in, would come to a halt, when we heard the sound of the whistle from the train as it made its way to the mill from the fields. We would run, helter-skelter through the small town of Kekaha and reach the light as it changed colors! I remember, jumping up and down, cheering, clapping my hands and joining in with my adult ohana and siblings as the train approached and the light would change colors! It was so incredible and I never tired of seeing the magic!”
“Later that evening, with my opu full, I would drift off to sleep listening to the gentle strumming of the guitars and ukuleles. I would listen to the songs and watch the dancing by the campfire. I would be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pattern of the waves as they splashed upon the beach. I would look up at the sky and watch the moon and the stars play hide-n-seek behind the clouds. Many happy memories filled my memory banks. Happy memories, that I could make a withdrawal from, when my life was filled with strife and challenges. Those happy memories would see me through the troublesome times of my life.”
“And, that is why,” I whispered to my grandchildren, “I will always be grateful to the Kekaha Signal Light. It showed me how to believe in magic and to live my life open to daily miracles! A magical beauty that it is all around us! We only need to open our eyes and our hearts to see it.”
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
First Visit to Kaua'i
[This is the fifth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Laurie Barton
Red was our first impression:
Martian soil, as if we'd landed
in a dream of Mars, spinning
around a very hot sun.
One mountain, like a man
or giant creature dozing
in a bed of wild sugarcane
greener than anything, ground
still wet from all the raining
that spilled into a commotion
of roosters. Nothing sounded
like home, there was nothing
alive in our dry imaginations
like the green tunnel we found:
leafy arch to Koloa, swaying
interlocked trees, shiny green
passage to history, to a town
of sugar-ghosts, humming
by Laurie Barton
Red was our first impression:
Martian soil, as if we'd landed
in a dream of Mars, spinning
around a very hot sun.
One mountain, like a man
or giant creature dozing
in a bed of wild sugarcane
greener than anything, ground
still wet from all the raining
that spilled into a commotion
of roosters. Nothing sounded
like home, there was nothing
alive in our dry imaginations
like the green tunnel we found:
leafy arch to Koloa, swaying
interlocked trees, shiny green
passage to history, to a town
of sugar-ghosts, humming
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Power of Peace
[This is the fourth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Kimie Sadoyama
Let us give peace the power of a seed
With the potential of a tree
Let us have peace spread
And grow like a weed, grass or wildflowers
Let us give peace the power to be fruitful as grapes
Hearty in its vines clinging unto rocks
Even in times of drought
It can produce the finest of wines
Aged to perfection and medicinal in its cure
Of hatred, anger, fear, stress and aggression
Let us spread this seed of peace as if it will take
hold
And heal this planet and its atmosphere
And its ozone and its universe
And let all the beings and ants and soil
And planetary heavens straight up to God rejoice
In its pure seed of peace and love and healing
Green, green, greenness
So full of earth and joy and fruits
And leaves and seeds and stems and roots
And peace and peace and growth and love and joy
That we can plant in our hearts and soul
Forever for eternity for my Keiki*
Let us plant in our hearts this seed of peace
So that we can breathe
So we can love
So we can dance, so we can live
So we can be free to fly like a bee
Let us give peace the power of the seed
The power of the weed
The power of the wildflower, the power of the tree
Let us be free to be at peace like the tree
Like the wind in the leaves of the forest
Clapping its hands to the wonders of the wind
The wonders of the wild
The wonders of the stars
The wonders of the universal me
The universal we, the universal us
The universe of peace
Let us give peace the power of love
The power of We, the power of free
The power to be
Let us be
And live in peace
by Kimie Sadoyama
Let us give peace the power of a seed
With the potential of a tree
Let us have peace spread
And grow like a weed, grass or wildflowers
Let us give peace the power to be fruitful as grapes
Hearty in its vines clinging unto rocks
Even in times of drought
It can produce the finest of wines
Aged to perfection and medicinal in its cure
Of hatred, anger, fear, stress and aggression
Let us spread this seed of peace as if it will take
hold
And heal this planet and its atmosphere
And its ozone and its universe
And let all the beings and ants and soil
And planetary heavens straight up to God rejoice
In its pure seed of peace and love and healing
Green, green, greenness
So full of earth and joy and fruits
And leaves and seeds and stems and roots
And peace and peace and growth and love and joy
That we can plant in our hearts and soul
Forever for eternity for my Keiki*
Let us plant in our hearts this seed of peace
So that we can breathe
So we can love
So we can dance, so we can live
So we can be free to fly like a bee
Let us give peace the power of the seed
The power of the weed
The power of the wildflower, the power of the tree
Let us be free to be at peace like the tree
Like the wind in the leaves of the forest
Clapping its hands to the wonders of the wind
The wonders of the wild
The wonders of the stars
The wonders of the universal me
The universal we, the universal us
The universe of peace
Let us give peace the power of love
The power of We, the power of free
The power to be
Let us be
And live in peace
Monday, October 22, 2007
Mother Taro
[This is the third of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Carrie Rautmann
I met Mother Taro once,
In the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.
She was more plant than woman,
And yet more root than wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
As any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit
She shared her plight to me
Of time after time
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind.
She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where She
Would travel with the people
Over waters near and far
To share her spirit
With new families.
And now, She feels like a story
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.
As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and speed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time, take the time
To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air
So We the Living
Can live into eternity.
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
Power, speed and money
She said.
Seize this time
And take the time,
Take the time
To tend
We the living.
by Carrie Rautmann
I met Mother Taro once,
In the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.
She was more plant than woman,
And yet more root than wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
As any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit
She shared her plight to me
Of time after time
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind.
She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where She
Would travel with the people
Over waters near and far
To share her spirit
With new families.
And now, She feels like a story
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.
As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and speed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time, take the time
To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air
So We the Living
Can live into eternity.
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
Power, speed and money
She said.
Seize this time
And take the time,
Take the time
To tend
We the living.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Living on Island
[This is the second of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Risa Kaparo
Through the sea of soft tissue I call my body
liquid landscapes pulsing
I sense the heartbeat this blue planet
the vigorous yes green
longing itself toward light.
Here where rolling water
and upright water meet
where I call home.
Here things of the world crash
like my own relentless chatter
as waves upon the shore.
For a moment
I disenthrall from the turbulence.
I am
an ocean reconciled
depth to surface.
I am brought into remembering --
waves of time atop the formless.
Brought to freedom
by obedience,
listening choicelessly,
the way monks abide the monastery bell.
Brought here by devotion,
brought here as a parent.
The chimes—
blood insistence of children.
The discipline—
each purpose giving way.
(“Living on Island ” was originally published in the book “Embrace” by Scarlet Tanager Books in 2002.)
by Risa Kaparo
Through the sea of soft tissue I call my body
liquid landscapes pulsing
I sense the heartbeat this blue planet
the vigorous yes green
longing itself toward light.
Here where rolling water
and upright water meet
where I call home.
Here things of the world crash
like my own relentless chatter
as waves upon the shore.
For a moment
I disenthrall from the turbulence.
I am
an ocean reconciled
depth to surface.
I am brought into remembering --
waves of time atop the formless.
Brought to freedom
by obedience,
listening choicelessly,
the way monks abide the monastery bell.
Brought here by devotion,
brought here as a parent.
The chimes—
blood insistence of children.
The discipline—
each purpose giving way.
(“Living on Island ” was originally published in the book “Embrace” by Scarlet Tanager Books in 2002.)
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Heart Chakra Symphony
[This is the first of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]
by Sharon Douglas
Sunday morning KKCR classics
And I, in our timber home
Tucked on a Kalaheo hill
Gaze out on a symphony of green
Seeing sacred sound.
Members of the tree orchestra
From darkest emerald
To vivid, vibrant
Yellow infused chartreuse and lime,
Together creating harmonies of green
Ferns join the
Green sonata heart soaked song
furl and fray their leaves
Their many fingered hands of green
Playing the wind
Faster faster
Then drop away
Play a background tune
So now we see
Trees silently sing
their chlorophyll saturated songs
eucalyptus, mango, hau, albizia -
Iron wood too.
Breathing in
Their lungs and hearts expand
And from the background beat of green
Lillikoi lullaby,
Rainbow shower ruckus
Mass of pink-white butterfly petals
Softly settling raucous song of joy
Building crescendo
Pele’s Poinssiena posies
Passion exploding scarlet
All Harmonizing with
life giving, transformative
vitality of green
And off to the side
a tree trio
Sway, dip, bow
Rise, swoop, sweep
throw up green leafed arms
Celebrating the green grand finale
by Sharon Douglas
Sunday morning KKCR classics
And I, in our timber home
Tucked on a Kalaheo hill
Gaze out on a symphony of green
Seeing sacred sound.
Members of the tree orchestra
From darkest emerald
To vivid, vibrant
Yellow infused chartreuse and lime,
Together creating harmonies of green
Ferns join the
Green sonata heart soaked song
furl and fray their leaves
Their many fingered hands of green
Playing the wind
Faster faster
Then drop away
Play a background tune
So now we see
Trees silently sing
their chlorophyll saturated songs
eucalyptus, mango, hau, albizia -
Iron wood too.
Breathing in
Their lungs and hearts expand
And from the background beat of green
Lillikoi lullaby,
Rainbow shower ruckus
Mass of pink-white butterfly petals
Softly settling raucous song of joy
Building crescendo
Pele’s Poinssiena posies
Passion exploding scarlet
All Harmonizing with
life giving, transformative
vitality of green
And off to the side
a tree trio
Sway, dip, bow
Rise, swoop, sweep
throw up green leafed arms
Celebrating the green grand finale
Friday, October 19, 2007
I am from
[This is the fifth--our student winner--of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]
by Katie Ceria-Johnson
I am from the busy roads on Kauai.
I am from my mom’s lectures and my father’s unseen face,
From days of my brothers being too protective;
From surviving life’s problems, and getting stronger every day.
From hearing “think before you talk.”
I am from a place of a different kind where today is only borrowed ‘cause you’re not promised tomorrow.
I am from warm “Smores” over the campfire,
Loud fireworks, laughs and giggles at Grandma Ursula’s house on New Years Eve.
From sweet “Korean Chicken” and tasty “Chicken Papaya,” and
the satisfaction of a cold “Berry Delight” on a hot summer day.
I am from sun-kissed faces and red-faced pictures on a blue-skied, clear-water day.
From believing that friends and smiles are all you need to be happy.
I am from a difficult background, faced with stupid boys and tracks of tears rolling down my face.
From days of hoping for a better tomorrow.
I am from missing the warmth and touch of a dad and his daughter;
Where a memory is the only thing that lingers on.
I am from reminiscing the past and living for the future...
Where the story never ends and bumps on the road come from nowhere.
I am from understanding that everyone deserves a second chance and from believing that everyone is just trying to get by, and experiencing that God and me are the only ones that know the truth.
I am from...
by Katie Ceria-Johnson
I am from the busy roads on Kauai.
I am from my mom’s lectures and my father’s unseen face,
From days of my brothers being too protective;
From surviving life’s problems, and getting stronger every day.
From hearing “think before you talk.”
I am from a place of a different kind where today is only borrowed ‘cause you’re not promised tomorrow.
I am from warm “Smores” over the campfire,
Loud fireworks, laughs and giggles at Grandma Ursula’s house on New Years Eve.
From sweet “Korean Chicken” and tasty “Chicken Papaya,” and
the satisfaction of a cold “Berry Delight” on a hot summer day.
I am from sun-kissed faces and red-faced pictures on a blue-skied, clear-water day.
From believing that friends and smiles are all you need to be happy.
I am from a difficult background, faced with stupid boys and tracks of tears rolling down my face.
From days of hoping for a better tomorrow.
I am from missing the warmth and touch of a dad and his daughter;
Where a memory is the only thing that lingers on.
I am from reminiscing the past and living for the future...
Where the story never ends and bumps on the road come from nowhere.
I am from understanding that everyone deserves a second chance and from believing that everyone is just trying to get by, and experiencing that God and me are the only ones that know the truth.
I am from...
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Obake Bite You
[This is the fourth of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]
by Kimie Sadoyama
She used to say, "Obake bite you." She was one strong woman, who made everything from scratch, even the long string lines full of tin plates hanging in a row, to chase the birds when the wind blew. JoAnn was so small, she always looked up to this big strong obake woman, as if she could scare anybody off her small plot of land, so full of everything. Not only did she have pigs and ducks, but she had all kind fruit trees and vegetables, some Hawaiian fruits not everybody had. But the most precious thing to this big obake lady, although you wouldn't think to look at her, was the cascading blue jade flower that only blooms every once-in-a-while. So you can see she did have a gentle heart. And JoAnn, so small and skinny, would follow her around as if she too would grow up to be as big and strong as her obachan. But no way. And every night when JoAnn would say, in the dark before she go sleep, "Good night Obachan," her obachan would only say back, "Obake bite you..."
When JoAnn was old enough to drive, her mother, she tell JoAnn, "Your obachan, she dress in all kind rags, I shame take her go shopping," So JoAnn, she tell her obachan, "I take you go shopping." When JoAnn went to pick her obachan up she was shocked to see her in a nice blue muumuu. So JoAnn, she figure, this obake woman, she just trying to teach my high-class mother a lesson. In fact, JoAnn, she always smiles when she sees her obachan walking around in public looking like the raw earth of her back-yard or a scarecrow she once made for her garden. For the clamor of tin plates, the quacking of ducks, and a greenhouse full of flowers and red earth was a world her obachan always carried with her whether she was in public or not.
When JoAnn went to college, her obachan, she feel so lonesome in a real Japanese way, so sabushi, that when she found out that JoAnn was coming home she would get into her nicest dress and sit on the chair outside her porch. And when someone walking by asks her how come she dressed up, she would just say, "JoAnn's coming home." For two weeks straight, everyday till dinnertime and even after the sun would go down, she would sit and wait for JoAnn to come home.
This obake lady, she not so strong no more, and the days, they all stretch together like birthdays and summers until JoAnn comes home. For she always sees inside this little runt JoAnn, the big obake lady she once was.
by Kimie Sadoyama
She used to say, "Obake bite you." She was one strong woman, who made everything from scratch, even the long string lines full of tin plates hanging in a row, to chase the birds when the wind blew. JoAnn was so small, she always looked up to this big strong obake woman, as if she could scare anybody off her small plot of land, so full of everything. Not only did she have pigs and ducks, but she had all kind fruit trees and vegetables, some Hawaiian fruits not everybody had. But the most precious thing to this big obake lady, although you wouldn't think to look at her, was the cascading blue jade flower that only blooms every once-in-a-while. So you can see she did have a gentle heart. And JoAnn, so small and skinny, would follow her around as if she too would grow up to be as big and strong as her obachan. But no way. And every night when JoAnn would say, in the dark before she go sleep, "Good night Obachan," her obachan would only say back, "Obake bite you..."
When JoAnn was old enough to drive, her mother, she tell JoAnn, "Your obachan, she dress in all kind rags, I shame take her go shopping," So JoAnn, she tell her obachan, "I take you go shopping." When JoAnn went to pick her obachan up she was shocked to see her in a nice blue muumuu. So JoAnn, she figure, this obake woman, she just trying to teach my high-class mother a lesson. In fact, JoAnn, she always smiles when she sees her obachan walking around in public looking like the raw earth of her back-yard or a scarecrow she once made for her garden. For the clamor of tin plates, the quacking of ducks, and a greenhouse full of flowers and red earth was a world her obachan always carried with her whether she was in public or not.
When JoAnn went to college, her obachan, she feel so lonesome in a real Japanese way, so sabushi, that when she found out that JoAnn was coming home she would get into her nicest dress and sit on the chair outside her porch. And when someone walking by asks her how come she dressed up, she would just say, "JoAnn's coming home." For two weeks straight, everyday till dinnertime and even after the sun would go down, she would sit and wait for JoAnn to come home.
This obake lady, she not so strong no more, and the days, they all stretch together like birthdays and summers until JoAnn comes home. For she always sees inside this little runt JoAnn, the big obake lady she once was.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
SKEPTICS: The Green Flash
[This is the third of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]
by Dawn Kawahara
Sandals sliding along
the sloping mat of grass
toward the curve of sand,
warm, your hand in mine,
salt breeze rumples our hair, chills our skin
as the sun falls out of a winter solstice day--
last of the century.
We do not hurry toward sunset.
The spangled sea splashes foam,
dashes, lays bare
walls of buried sandstone.
High waves launch a steady assault
against the black and jagged cliff
that marks the end of the beach.
Cloud veils sift, the sun bounces once,
rays stabbing the line of cool blue at the western edge,
settles, slims to a narrow disk,
thin
and thinner still--a fiery slice
slipping,
slipped below horizon,
transformed, becomes an emerald prism.
We blink and stare
held by the spell of that slow jeweled wink,
stand vesper still,
then lift our arms, whoop, giddily spin,
splashing along the silver fringe
of the cove’s dusk roll and tumble of velvet purple.
When colors merge to gray on gray
your fingers lace through mine,
leading me home slowly.
As if at a signal
we both glance back toward the darkened portal
of that iridescent green flash
we’ve longed to see
but half-believed as myth
and only, now, perceive as lucid magic
presaging our new millennium gift.
by Dawn Kawahara
Sandals sliding along
the sloping mat of grass
toward the curve of sand,
warm, your hand in mine,
salt breeze rumples our hair, chills our skin
as the sun falls out of a winter solstice day--
last of the century.
We do not hurry toward sunset.
The spangled sea splashes foam,
dashes, lays bare
walls of buried sandstone.
High waves launch a steady assault
against the black and jagged cliff
that marks the end of the beach.
Cloud veils sift, the sun bounces once,
rays stabbing the line of cool blue at the western edge,
settles, slims to a narrow disk,
thin
and thinner still--a fiery slice
slipping,
slipped below horizon,
transformed, becomes an emerald prism.
We blink and stare
held by the spell of that slow jeweled wink,
stand vesper still,
then lift our arms, whoop, giddily spin,
splashing along the silver fringe
of the cove’s dusk roll and tumble of velvet purple.
When colors merge to gray on gray
your fingers lace through mine,
leading me home slowly.
As if at a signal
we both glance back toward the darkened portal
of that iridescent green flash
we’ve longed to see
but half-believed as myth
and only, now, perceive as lucid magic
presaging our new millennium gift.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Above Hanapepe Valley
[This is the second of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]
by Schar Freeman
by Schar Freeman
Monday, October 15, 2007
Spring Jog in Wailua
[This is the first of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]
by Brian Cronwall
Easter’s afternoon fields full of green
grown alone, no cattle in sight, no
white herons perched on cowbacks,
the grass rising up to a cloudy sky.
The brief breeze is refreshing,
a respite resurrecting the legs
and breathing into grasping lungs.
Two tire-flattened frogs stretch out
against the road. Three horses,
heads to flanks, stand nearly still
under tree shadows. I run by.
An ear-tagged goat lies near roots,
watching me from behind the fence
between us. Closer to home, purple
blossoms are wet on the pavement.
Slowing toward a walk, sweating,
Easing breath, a look at watch-time,
muscles strained: the run’s end
appears like a redemption, to feel
the O God good done on a spring afternoon,
green, as I too stretch out
under a cool, warming afternoon.
by Brian Cronwall
Easter’s afternoon fields full of green
grown alone, no cattle in sight, no
white herons perched on cowbacks,
the grass rising up to a cloudy sky.
The brief breeze is refreshing,
a respite resurrecting the legs
and breathing into grasping lungs.
Two tire-flattened frogs stretch out
against the road. Three horses,
heads to flanks, stand nearly still
under tree shadows. I run by.
An ear-tagged goat lies near roots,
watching me from behind the fence
between us. Closer to home, purple
blossoms are wet on the pavement.
Slowing toward a walk, sweating,
Easing breath, a look at watch-time,
muscles strained: the run’s end
appears like a redemption, to feel
the O God good done on a spring afternoon,
green, as I too stretch out
under a cool, warming afternoon.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Kauaibackstory.com Announces Winners of 2007 Creative Competition
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2007 “Green” creative competition winners Brian Cronwall for his poem, “Spring Jog in Wailua,” Schar Freeman for her image, “Above Hanapepe Valley,” Dawn Kawahara for her poem, “Skeptics: The Green Flash,” and Kimie Sadoyama for her story, “Obake Bite You.” And 13-year-old Katie Ceria-Johnson for her student entry, “I am from…”.
Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries during the lunch hour of the Kauai Sustainability Conference at Kauai Community College in Puhi on Saturday, October 13, 2007, starting at 1:00 p.m. (Winners and runners up are asked to RSVP to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.) Starting October 15, the submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com.
Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.
Runners Up:
Sharon Douglas for “Heart Chakra Symphony”
Risa Kaparo for “Living on Island”
Carrie Rautmann for “Mother Taro”
Kimie Sadoyama for “The Power of Peace”
Laurie Barton for “First Visit to Kauai”
Juan Lugo for “Kekaha Signal Light”
Craig Davies for “Come Alive Dream”
# # #
Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2007 “Green” creative competition winners Brian Cronwall for his poem, “Spring Jog in Wailua,” Schar Freeman for her image, “Above Hanapepe Valley,” Dawn Kawahara for her poem, “Skeptics: The Green Flash,” and Kimie Sadoyama for her story, “Obake Bite You.” And 13-year-old Katie Ceria-Johnson for her student entry, “I am from…”.
Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries during the lunch hour of the Kauai Sustainability Conference at Kauai Community College in Puhi on Saturday, October 13, 2007, starting at 1:00 p.m. (Winners and runners up are asked to RSVP to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.) Starting October 15, the submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com.
Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.
Runners Up:
Sharon Douglas for “Heart Chakra Symphony”
Risa Kaparo for “Living on Island”
Carrie Rautmann for “Mother Taro”
Kimie Sadoyama for “The Power of Peace”
Laurie Barton for “First Visit to Kauai”
Juan Lugo for “Kekaha Signal Light”
Craig Davies for “Come Alive Dream”
# # #
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Announcing Second Annual Writing Competition
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Kauaibackstory.com, an online literary journal and blog edited by three local writers, announces its second annual writing competition. This year’s theme is “Green.”
Entries will be accepted in the following categories: essay, story, poem and visual image. A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.
Entries must focus on Kauai. Participants are urged to express their thoughts, feelings and observations about the theme, “Green” through the lens of their own unique experience and viewpoint.
Prizes will be awarded. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night in October. (Date and place to be determined.) Writers may submit up to three entries. There is no word limit--brevity is encouraged but not required. Visit www.kauaibackstory.com to view the quality of works posted and the blog’s mission statement.
The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST September 1, 2007. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. Images must be sent as a jpg attachment.
Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing and imagery with a view about Kauai. The journal is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum, and readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments.
Kauaibackstory.com is the collaboration of Kauai writers Kim Steutermann Rogers, Gae Rusk and Pam Woolway. We look for writing that raises thought, not walls. We encourage writing that rouses respectful dialogue for we believe one way to build community is through conversation. We think of kauaibackstory.com as a conversation about Kauai.
###
Kauaibackstory.com, an online literary journal and blog edited by three local writers, announces its second annual writing competition. This year’s theme is “Green.”
Entries will be accepted in the following categories: essay, story, poem and visual image. A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.
Entries must focus on Kauai. Participants are urged to express their thoughts, feelings and observations about the theme, “Green” through the lens of their own unique experience and viewpoint.
Prizes will be awarded. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night in October. (Date and place to be determined.) Writers may submit up to three entries. There is no word limit--brevity is encouraged but not required. Visit www.kauaibackstory.com to view the quality of works posted and the blog’s mission statement.
The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST September 1, 2007. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. Images must be sent as a jpg attachment.
Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing and imagery with a view about Kauai. The journal is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum, and readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments.
Kauaibackstory.com is the collaboration of Kauai writers Kim Steutermann Rogers, Gae Rusk and Pam Woolway. We look for writing that raises thought, not walls. We encourage writing that rouses respectful dialogue for we believe one way to build community is through conversation. We think of kauaibackstory.com as a conversation about Kauai.
###
Thursday, May 17, 2007
PHILEMON MELEMAKA
by Laurie Barton
In the ad for your Surf School
your hair flows long
as your strong legs lunge, in hula
In person, you're wearing a grandma
bun, but still you appear
the most powerful being at Wailua Beach.
I'm only the mom
of a teen girl. She begged
for surfing lessons, so I pay
and chat with you:
Philemon's a name in the Bible!
Your dark eyes flash
as I think of New England pomade,
a rainstorm of language, dripped into hymns,
and you say, Philemon-- it don't mean a thing.
In the ad for your Surf School
your hair flows long
as your strong legs lunge, in hula
In person, you're wearing a grandma
bun, but still you appear
the most powerful being at Wailua Beach.
I'm only the mom
of a teen girl. She begged
for surfing lessons, so I pay
and chat with you:
Philemon's a name in the Bible!
Your dark eyes flash
as I think of New England pomade,
a rainstorm of language, dripped into hymns,
and you say, Philemon-- it don't mean a thing.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Time Share
by Laurie Barton
Paradise sold on the honeymoon-
a holiday pitch, a heartless game
played with a Venezuelan salesman.
He hates us while remembering our names.
$800 a month: a luxury room,
infinity pool. Princeville, Cancun,
Kona or Quintana Roo. French toast,
coconuts, yoga, jacuzzi for two.
By the time we refuse him, our chips are all gone.
Dry strips of turkey attract a big fly.
Skipping the edges of sandwich, so
dizzy, a pattern of plunder.
The two of us kindle the courage to leave
by rubbing our bare legs together.
Sly glances cast at the ocean:
no contract to sign, not a fee.
Paradise sold on the honeymoon-
a holiday pitch, a heartless game
played with a Venezuelan salesman.
He hates us while remembering our names.
$800 a month: a luxury room,
infinity pool. Princeville, Cancun,
Kona or Quintana Roo. French toast,
coconuts, yoga, jacuzzi for two.
By the time we refuse him, our chips are all gone.
Dry strips of turkey attract a big fly.
Skipping the edges of sandwich, so
dizzy, a pattern of plunder.
The two of us kindle the courage to leave
by rubbing our bare legs together.
Sly glances cast at the ocean:
no contract to sign, not a fee.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Pele's Lesson
by Laurie Barton
Bobbing for hours
in the daiquiri waters of Hanalei Bay
Afloat on a cheap plastic raft
from the ABC Store in Kapa'a
Recalling the world-famous movie star
I had seen jogging that day
A billionaire, muscled and fit
alone on his fine purchased acres
I thought of his face in my envy
offending the goddess of fire
and then Pele zapped me with sunburn.
She marked me with heat, her displeasure:
Be grateful for what I have given--
This bay on this morning is my perfect gift
as you float, as you undulate freely
Bobbing for hours
in the daiquiri waters of Hanalei Bay
Afloat on a cheap plastic raft
from the ABC Store in Kapa'a
Recalling the world-famous movie star
I had seen jogging that day
A billionaire, muscled and fit
alone on his fine purchased acres
I thought of his face in my envy
offending the goddess of fire
and then Pele zapped me with sunburn.
She marked me with heat, her displeasure:
Be grateful for what I have given--
This bay on this morning is my perfect gift
as you float, as you undulate freely
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Flow
by Lois Ann Ell
Driving up to the Princeville Hotel
The rows and rows and clusters of condos
Just keep flowing
White on white on white
Creating long large masses of architecture among the patches of green below and patches of blue beyond
And in the parking lot
The rows and rows of rental cars brand new white green red grey
Parked, everything in order among the hot cement.
And inside the hotel
Beautiful and lavish and foreign
We sit down to tea
Eating little tea sandwiches with salmon and capers and
Croissants with Devonshire cream and sipping English Breakfast and Earl Grey
While spanning the martini menu
In our dresses and heels.
The conversation flows from one direction to the next, one topic into another
All of us connected
But not really
And the group or boondoggle for some software company stumbles in,
Playing a scavenger hunt masked as a team-building exercise masked as a time killer before cocktail hour.
The scavengers flow clumsily into the room as we sip tea looking at them and out over the sea and at each other.
The living room it’s called, as if real everyday living consists of sipping tea in heels or searching for a fruit that goes in a Mai Tai for software team A to cross of the list.
And all of it is so frivolous
But one hour flows into the next and were heading back to the hot grey parking lot towards the car that beeps loudly to unlock the doors for us to heel into our seats and
Go back to work
And husbands
And babies.
As we pull away, we look over the cliffs, silent to the blue below, small white crests steadily pushing into shore.
Driving up to the Princeville Hotel
The rows and rows and clusters of condos
Just keep flowing
White on white on white
Creating long large masses of architecture among the patches of green below and patches of blue beyond
And in the parking lot
The rows and rows of rental cars brand new white green red grey
Parked, everything in order among the hot cement.
And inside the hotel
Beautiful and lavish and foreign
We sit down to tea
Eating little tea sandwiches with salmon and capers and
Croissants with Devonshire cream and sipping English Breakfast and Earl Grey
While spanning the martini menu
In our dresses and heels.
The conversation flows from one direction to the next, one topic into another
All of us connected
But not really
And the group or boondoggle for some software company stumbles in,
Playing a scavenger hunt masked as a team-building exercise masked as a time killer before cocktail hour.
The scavengers flow clumsily into the room as we sip tea looking at them and out over the sea and at each other.
The living room it’s called, as if real everyday living consists of sipping tea in heels or searching for a fruit that goes in a Mai Tai for software team A to cross of the list.
And all of it is so frivolous
But one hour flows into the next and were heading back to the hot grey parking lot towards the car that beeps loudly to unlock the doors for us to heel into our seats and
Go back to work
And husbands
And babies.
As we pull away, we look over the cliffs, silent to the blue below, small white crests steadily pushing into shore.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Day of the Dread
by Pam Woolway
Hippy babies are taking over all the funky cafes. Hippy
babies in their patchouli soaked diapers with their natty
dread dolls. Hippy babies with their Buddha bellies
spilling over their hemp diapers; running between your legs
as you walk across the hard wood floor with caramel rivers
of coffee rolling from palm to elbow; scalding your
fingers. Hippy babies bouncing off table legs in striped pants
and polka-dot shirts with tassels snapping in their wake. One hippy
baby shows up and a commune of organic scone-flinging babies is sure
to follow. As the floor blooms with all-natural crumbs, the hippy
babies divine spirits from soymilk stains on the tables. Hippy
babies swing from the philodendra vines, laughing too loud and smiling at all the seated babies with napkins tucked in their shirts. Hippy babies drooling 100% organic cookie drool down Bob Marley T-shirts that cost a dime at the Hippy Baby Boutique. Hippy babies chanting with bodhi beads and bangles around emaciated wrists, playing ukuleles and drowning out Greg Brown and Natalie Merchant in their ganga-stained hippy-baby voices. We ask them politely, please sit, please clean up after yourself. The hippy babies won’t have any of it. Who are we to infringe upon their freedom?
Hippy babies are taking over all the funky cafes. Hippy
babies in their patchouli soaked diapers with their natty
dread dolls. Hippy babies with their Buddha bellies
spilling over their hemp diapers; running between your legs
as you walk across the hard wood floor with caramel rivers
of coffee rolling from palm to elbow; scalding your
fingers. Hippy babies bouncing off table legs in striped pants
and polka-dot shirts with tassels snapping in their wake. One hippy
baby shows up and a commune of organic scone-flinging babies is sure
to follow. As the floor blooms with all-natural crumbs, the hippy
babies divine spirits from soymilk stains on the tables. Hippy
babies swing from the philodendra vines, laughing too loud and smiling at all the seated babies with napkins tucked in their shirts. Hippy babies drooling 100% organic cookie drool down Bob Marley T-shirts that cost a dime at the Hippy Baby Boutique. Hippy babies chanting with bodhi beads and bangles around emaciated wrists, playing ukuleles and drowning out Greg Brown and Natalie Merchant in their ganga-stained hippy-baby voices. We ask them politely, please sit, please clean up after yourself. The hippy babies won’t have any of it. Who are we to infringe upon their freedom?
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Aunty Logy’s Church of Disney
by Gae Rusk
Aunty Logy worships at the Church of Disney.
Yes, says Aunty’s tutu, little keiki Logy was among the first toddlers to enter the Land of Disney. This crucial event in Aunty Logy’s life included an encounter with the Matterhorn, which became the most important structure in Aunty’s world, looming far taller than Wai’aleale or the Na Pali seacliffs. Aunty has studied that spire many times since 1955 and has entered its hollowed ground as often as allowed.
On that very first visit, keiki Logy took Disney’s credo to heart and still sincerely practices what Disney preaches. Such as, sugar makes life more better. Such as, stay looking at the shiny side of life. These maxims work well for Aunty.
As an adult, Aunty has unashamedly wept in the presence of Mickey. Aunty has chased the Dwarfs across the Park to get photos with them, later on to get photos of them with Aunty’s own keikis. And though Aunty Logy has knocked over others in pursuit of photos of big hair - especially at Kapa’a High School graduation – Aunty has never flattened a child of Disney.
This reverence glows within Aunty’s impatient nature like lit crystals in Mickey’s grotto. Disney’s power to shift a flawed Aunty to another better Aunty has kept Aunty Logy standing in line for hours, in grueling and claustrophobic conditions, just to go on a one minute ride, and then to find another line to stand in. Aunty will do that nowhere else, for no reason and no one.
Aunty Logy is now middle-aged and still enchanted with Disney films. Aunty, still emotionally involved with Haley Mills, now adores Lilo, who is a future graduate of Kapa’a High School. Aunty Logy grew up with Lilo’s Aunty Lehualani, another proud and reverent Mouska-tutu with extra large hair.
In middle-age, Aunty Logy still sings along to countless Disney hymns. Aunty ariates that clever homage to handsome, misguided Gaston, whose moral flaws delightfully rhyme, and Aunty resonates Ariel’s touching lament that everything is not enough for one wahine. Aunty sings these words. Aunty is these songs.
At some point in the many decades since 1955, Aunty Logy became a Disney Warrior battling on the side of Walt the Good. Aunty is now a Dwarf-wannabe, all seven of them, marching to and fro in the name of Disney and a career in mining. It’s the truest truth with a catchy beat.
And when Aunty Logy leaves Kauai and makes a pilgrimage to one of the lands of Disney, Aunty is the friend of all strangers. Aunty is never disliked. Aunty is always worthy.
Disney is not just Aunty Logy’s church, Disney is Aunty’s best friend. This knowledge gives Aunty comfort. This information makes Aunty Logy safe from Aunty’s own dark side. This belief keeps Aunty in line for the Adult Forest ride.
Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas, causing controversy and discussion.
Gae Rusk copyright 2007
Aunty Logy worships at the Church of Disney.
Yes, says Aunty’s tutu, little keiki Logy was among the first toddlers to enter the Land of Disney. This crucial event in Aunty Logy’s life included an encounter with the Matterhorn, which became the most important structure in Aunty’s world, looming far taller than Wai’aleale or the Na Pali seacliffs. Aunty has studied that spire many times since 1955 and has entered its hollowed ground as often as allowed.
On that very first visit, keiki Logy took Disney’s credo to heart and still sincerely practices what Disney preaches. Such as, sugar makes life more better. Such as, stay looking at the shiny side of life. These maxims work well for Aunty.
As an adult, Aunty has unashamedly wept in the presence of Mickey. Aunty has chased the Dwarfs across the Park to get photos with them, later on to get photos of them with Aunty’s own keikis. And though Aunty Logy has knocked over others in pursuit of photos of big hair - especially at Kapa’a High School graduation – Aunty has never flattened a child of Disney.
This reverence glows within Aunty’s impatient nature like lit crystals in Mickey’s grotto. Disney’s power to shift a flawed Aunty to another better Aunty has kept Aunty Logy standing in line for hours, in grueling and claustrophobic conditions, just to go on a one minute ride, and then to find another line to stand in. Aunty will do that nowhere else, for no reason and no one.
Aunty Logy is now middle-aged and still enchanted with Disney films. Aunty, still emotionally involved with Haley Mills, now adores Lilo, who is a future graduate of Kapa’a High School. Aunty Logy grew up with Lilo’s Aunty Lehualani, another proud and reverent Mouska-tutu with extra large hair.
In middle-age, Aunty Logy still sings along to countless Disney hymns. Aunty ariates that clever homage to handsome, misguided Gaston, whose moral flaws delightfully rhyme, and Aunty resonates Ariel’s touching lament that everything is not enough for one wahine. Aunty sings these words. Aunty is these songs.
At some point in the many decades since 1955, Aunty Logy became a Disney Warrior battling on the side of Walt the Good. Aunty is now a Dwarf-wannabe, all seven of them, marching to and fro in the name of Disney and a career in mining. It’s the truest truth with a catchy beat.
And when Aunty Logy leaves Kauai and makes a pilgrimage to one of the lands of Disney, Aunty is the friend of all strangers. Aunty is never disliked. Aunty is always worthy.
Disney is not just Aunty Logy’s church, Disney is Aunty’s best friend. This knowledge gives Aunty comfort. This information makes Aunty Logy safe from Aunty’s own dark side. This belief keeps Aunty in line for the Adult Forest ride.
Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas, causing controversy and discussion.
Gae Rusk copyright 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
River Stone
(Inspired by: Burlap Sack by Jane Hirshfield)
by Pam Woolway
A woman experiences a loss
the way a river stone is colored grey or beige
Someone says, “Pick up the stone,”
so we touch its surface,
brighter if left in the water.
To wish for the colors to have a meaning is a mistake.
To wish for loss to have meaning is a mistake.
Meaning wears loss like a tree wears leaves,
dropping slowly beneath branches, one at a time.
The tree is not its bark or branches or leaves.
The meaning is not the shade nor sky nor grass.
What might happen if we skip the stone across the surface of a lake,
to let the round pebble dance with its own reflection?
What if we rest beneath the tree in deep shade,
leaves twirling around us in spirals like kamikaze kites?
by Pam Woolway
A woman experiences a loss
the way a river stone is colored grey or beige
Someone says, “Pick up the stone,”
so we touch its surface,
brighter if left in the water.
To wish for the colors to have a meaning is a mistake.
To wish for loss to have meaning is a mistake.
Meaning wears loss like a tree wears leaves,
dropping slowly beneath branches, one at a time.
The tree is not its bark or branches or leaves.
The meaning is not the shade nor sky nor grass.
What might happen if we skip the stone across the surface of a lake,
to let the round pebble dance with its own reflection?
What if we rest beneath the tree in deep shade,
leaves twirling around us in spirals like kamikaze kites?
Monday, January 22, 2007
Portrait
by Kim Steutermann Rogers
If I were to paint
the face of Kauai,
I would use a palette of greens.
Eyes whorled in iliau
lashed with lau hala
browed in banana leaves exposed
to northeast tradewinds
Moving down to the nose,
I would paint kalo
veined with life in full sun
A mouth in the thin grin of koa,
dimpled with unripe loulu berries
If I were to paint
a male face in green,
I would introduce a beard
of ironwood fuzz
But I think of Kauai
as a woman, and so
I would add strands of maile
vining from the top of her head to her toes
And rouge her cheeks
the newness of resurrected alula leaves.
If I were to paint
the face of Kauai,
I would use a palette of greens.
Eyes whorled in iliau
lashed with lau hala
browed in banana leaves exposed
to northeast tradewinds
Moving down to the nose,
I would paint kalo
veined with life in full sun
A mouth in the thin grin of koa,
dimpled with unripe loulu berries
If I were to paint
a male face in green,
I would introduce a beard
of ironwood fuzz
But I think of Kauai
as a woman, and so
I would add strands of maile
vining from the top of her head to her toes
And rouge her cheeks
the newness of resurrected alula leaves.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Love Poems from a Tall Island
by Gae Rusk
II. Cartography
Are you learning to read maps?
I’m depending on you now
I’m needing you now
for it’s a navigator I have lacked
Think of where we could go
we could earhart the sky
we could collect continents
then fly off quick
when they shift
below our feet
we could avoid night blindness
going on autopilot
letting the map read itself
routing us
at last
to consummation
You need to stay still now
so I can find you
I know echo location will work
I know all the legends on all the maps
of this entire earth
will lead me to
you
I know kilometers and miles have conjoined
marking the spot where
we
will finally
meet
copyright 2007
II. Cartography
Are you learning to read maps?
I’m depending on you now
I’m needing you now
for it’s a navigator I have lacked
Think of where we could go
we could earhart the sky
we could collect continents
then fly off quick
when they shift
below our feet
we could avoid night blindness
going on autopilot
letting the map read itself
routing us
at last
to consummation
You need to stay still now
so I can find you
I know echo location will work
I know all the legends on all the maps
of this entire earth
will lead me to
you
I know kilometers and miles have conjoined
marking the spot where
we
will finally
meet
copyright 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
Lost in Translation
by Pam Woolway
You live here?
King Kalakaua was forced to sign the "Bayonet Constitution" in 1887, sharply curtailing his powers and diminishing the Native Hawaiians' voice in government.
Where’s a good place to surf?
All men shall have the right, in an orderly and peaceable manner, to assemble.
Is there a place to rent surfboards?
Whenever a slave shall enter Hawaiian Territory, he shall be free.
I’m not going nowhere till I find a bar.
Involuntary servitude, except for crime, is forever prohibited in this Kingdom.
Have you ever been to Oregon?
The person of the King is inviolable and sacred.
Ha ha ha ha . . . how long?
All men may freely speak, write, and Publish their sentiments.
Is there any good beaches?
All men are free to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences.
How warm’s the water?
This sacred privilege hereby secured, shall not be so construed as to justify acts of licentiousness.
Where do you stay at?
The King convenes the Legislature at the seat of Government, or at a different place, if that should become insecure from an enemy or any dangerous disorder.
Is there a bar there?
Or practices inconsistent with the peace or safety of the Kingdom.
Do they pay for your food?
He shall be obliged to contribute his proportional share to the expense of this protection, and to give his personal services, or an equivalent when necessary.
Ha ha ha ha . . . do you surf?
God hath endowed all men with certain inalienable rights.
Do you fish?
In times of peace.
Can I see your tattoo?
Except on probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation.
How long did that take?
It shall be held inviolable forever.
You ever been off Hawaii?
The Princess Liliuokalani, and the heirs of her body, lawfully begotten, and their lawful descendants in direct a line.
Ever been anywhere?
When in cases of rebellion or invasion.
By choice?
Life, liberty, and the right of acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and of pursuing and obtaining safety and happiness.
So what do you do for fun?
War, invasion, rebellion, pestilence, or other public disaster.
Do you own a boat?
No person shall ever sit upon the Throne, who is insane or an idiot.
You live here?
King Kalakaua was forced to sign the "Bayonet Constitution" in 1887, sharply curtailing his powers and diminishing the Native Hawaiians' voice in government.
Where’s a good place to surf?
All men shall have the right, in an orderly and peaceable manner, to assemble.
Is there a place to rent surfboards?
Whenever a slave shall enter Hawaiian Territory, he shall be free.
I’m not going nowhere till I find a bar.
Involuntary servitude, except for crime, is forever prohibited in this Kingdom.
Have you ever been to Oregon?
The person of the King is inviolable and sacred.
Ha ha ha ha . . . how long?
All men may freely speak, write, and Publish their sentiments.
Is there any good beaches?
All men are free to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences.
How warm’s the water?
This sacred privilege hereby secured, shall not be so construed as to justify acts of licentiousness.
Where do you stay at?
The King convenes the Legislature at the seat of Government, or at a different place, if that should become insecure from an enemy or any dangerous disorder.
Is there a bar there?
Or practices inconsistent with the peace or safety of the Kingdom.
Do they pay for your food?
He shall be obliged to contribute his proportional share to the expense of this protection, and to give his personal services, or an equivalent when necessary.
Ha ha ha ha . . . do you surf?
God hath endowed all men with certain inalienable rights.
Do you fish?
In times of peace.
Can I see your tattoo?
Except on probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation.
How long did that take?
It shall be held inviolable forever.
You ever been off Hawaii?
The Princess Liliuokalani, and the heirs of her body, lawfully begotten, and their lawful descendants in direct a line.
Ever been anywhere?
When in cases of rebellion or invasion.
By choice?
Life, liberty, and the right of acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and of pursuing and obtaining safety and happiness.
So what do you do for fun?
War, invasion, rebellion, pestilence, or other public disaster.
Do you own a boat?
No person shall ever sit upon the Throne, who is insane or an idiot.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
UNTITLED CIVICS LESSON
by Charley Foster
At the Fifth District Court House
In a field of long green grass
Next to a ball field
Deputies send a man out
To knock orange mud from his boots.
Elsewhere are the executive
And the legislative branches,
So to speak. Kauai rules itself
By a mayor-council form
Of county government.
The county council is comprised
Of seven at-large seats.
Council members are vested
With the power to consult oracles
And provide divination.
In addition to predicting the weather
And healing the sick,
Council members supervise
The construction of temples
And the making of canoes.
They sometimes indulge in necromancy
And can cause grave illness
By "praying a person to death."
The mayor implements ordinances
Passed by the council.
A warrior, the mayor lives
Entirely off material goods
Provided by the common people
Who must, under penalty of death,
Prostrate themselves when
In the mayor's presence.
The office is hereditary
And some mayors have been
Of such high rank that they
Found no peers worthy of marriage
Except their own siblings.
The mayor must submit
To the council
An annual budget.
Once each month
On a designated night is made
A human sacrifice.
Often victims are prisoners taken in war,
But if none are available,
A person secretly chosen from the community is
Strangled in his or her sleep;
The body hung from a tower
Constructed of ohia poles
Until morning when it is
Placed on a lava stone alter.
Only after the flesh has
Entirely rotted from the bones
Is the body removed and buried
On a bluff overlooking the Wailua River.
At the Fifth District Court House
In a field of long green grass
Next to a ball field
Deputies send a man out
To knock orange mud from his boots.
Elsewhere are the executive
And the legislative branches,
So to speak. Kauai rules itself
By a mayor-council form
Of county government.
The county council is comprised
Of seven at-large seats.
Council members are vested
With the power to consult oracles
And provide divination.
In addition to predicting the weather
And healing the sick,
Council members supervise
The construction of temples
And the making of canoes.
They sometimes indulge in necromancy
And can cause grave illness
By "praying a person to death."
The mayor implements ordinances
Passed by the council.
A warrior, the mayor lives
Entirely off material goods
Provided by the common people
Who must, under penalty of death,
Prostrate themselves when
In the mayor's presence.
The office is hereditary
And some mayors have been
Of such high rank that they
Found no peers worthy of marriage
Except their own siblings.
The mayor must submit
To the council
An annual budget.
Once each month
On a designated night is made
A human sacrifice.
Often victims are prisoners taken in war,
But if none are available,
A person secretly chosen from the community is
Strangled in his or her sleep;
The body hung from a tower
Constructed of ohia poles
Until morning when it is
Placed on a lava stone alter.
Only after the flesh has
Entirely rotted from the bones
Is the body removed and buried
On a bluff overlooking the Wailua River.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
The Roosters
by Charley Foster
Who knows what sets them off in the middle of the night, hours before
the dawn. It begins with the scream of a single rooster and undulates
across the landscape as neighboring roosters join in the mass
assertion of territorial and hierarchical dominance. It creeps up on
you lifting you from sleep; a tsunami begun somewhere on a distant
hill in a distant patch of jungle spreads in expanding rings, snapping
awake each blinking rooster who raises his head in turn to add his own
voice as the cacophonous wave floods past. Does it begin with a single
epicenter, like a stone dropped into a pool, or do they commence
spontaneously all over the island like raindrops.
One imagines all the chickens on the island have added their voices
before they are through. Why would it stop before they have all heard
and responded. Maybe it goes all around the island several times,
like a crowd in a stadium doing the wave at a sporting event. It seems
that way some nights.
Who knows what sets them off in the middle of the night, hours before
the dawn. It begins with the scream of a single rooster and undulates
across the landscape as neighboring roosters join in the mass
assertion of territorial and hierarchical dominance. It creeps up on
you lifting you from sleep; a tsunami begun somewhere on a distant
hill in a distant patch of jungle spreads in expanding rings, snapping
awake each blinking rooster who raises his head in turn to add his own
voice as the cacophonous wave floods past. Does it begin with a single
epicenter, like a stone dropped into a pool, or do they commence
spontaneously all over the island like raindrops.
One imagines all the chickens on the island have added their voices
before they are through. Why would it stop before they have all heard
and responded. Maybe it goes all around the island several times,
like a crowd in a stadium doing the wave at a sporting event. It seems
that way some nights.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Where Are You Nato Potato?
by Leo DuBois
It’s another bright Sunday morning and I’m sitting
in the quiet corner of a coffee house sipping my
dark, tasty caffeine treat. From my soft, comfy
chair I observe the regulars swapping cheerful
greetings and rubber necking websites via the free
wireless access.
A sandy-haired fellow with a grizzled beard sits at
nearby oak stained table putting the finishing
touches on one of several beaded necklaces. He looks
like he might be an artist preparing to sell his
wares. Soon a small group of his friends arrive and
greetings are exchanged. As I observe this offline
chat group, my mind wanders back to another free
spirit that once held court on Kauai not so many
years ago.
I can’t remember how or when I first met Nathan Lee
(his artist moniker), but I do remember that he had
many endearing names including Nato Potato,
Nate-the-Skate, and Nately-Skately.
Nate had dark curly hair, bright hazel eyes, an
average build, and a perpetually crooked smile. He
was one of the few “health conscious” friends I knew
back in the early 80’s. He was an artist, a
musician, and somehow was able to survive by sheer
reckless whimsy. There were times when his money ran
out and he was forced to take on chores as a Kauai
educator, but between the years 1980 through the
1990s when I knew him, he had worked out a clever
scheme to support his art by buying and refurbishing
fixer-ups.
The Plan
Stage 1: Buy a house, fix-it-up and sell it.
Stage 2: Take a portion of the money and throw a
huge party at a local hotel and invite simply
everyone on Kauai to come and enjoy the fruits of
his invested achievements.
Stage 3: Buy another house and repeat Step 1.
Upon purchase of his first house Nato began hiring
his local friends to work on his
“Estate-of-the-Arts”.
A year passed by and the quaint little cottage now
looked like a jewel-by-the-sea. Up on the auction
block that little sweetheart went and within a short
space of time, BAM! went the gavel and Nato Potato
now had a nice pile of money to throw into the bank.
I personally chided him over and over and over for
selling that sweetest of seaside homes. Sure the
property was the size of a Grenada postage stamp but
who cared? It was sweet. It was like your Grandma’s
house-by-the-sea.
During those years of house makeovers Nate would
earnestly paint on canvas and create works of art as
well as record original music and videos to share
with the island’s people at his art parties.
Nato carefully pre-advertised the party in the
Garden Island newspaper, put flyers up on local
market bulletin boards and spread the word on the
coconut wireless. When the night of the
Viva-Las-Vegan party finally arrived Nate’s surf
band, “The Thrusters” rocked the night away sending
young and old shaking their okoles out on the
Voyager room’s polished dance floor. Nate made sure
to invite all his local comedian, actors and
actresses to perform skits and off-the-wall impovs.
Video and still cameras clicked and whirred
everywhere recording both the performers and the
colorful attendees. Each year these parties became a
“must-do” annual event and residents of Kauai looked
forward to these social affairs to see what new and
old faces would appear mixing around like one of
Nato’s vibrant paintings.
Nato’s paintings were 100% pure whimsical fun and
you either loved it or you stood around shaking your
head. Nathan did in fact sell a few paintings at
these events but a Paul Gauguin he was not and the
parties were simply an excuse to bring fun and color
to an otherwise island still-life. It was all about
sharing the pure fun with a wide mix of young and
old, locals and visitors alike. Everyone was left
filled with the passion of the Nato juice.
One day I heard that Nathan left us for another
island. Like a tropical breeze that flirts from one
island to another he had picked up and was swept
away to find a new place to exhibit his uninhibited
ambitions.
Where are you Nato Potato? I wish you were back on
Kauai. I know that necklace newcomer and all his
friends at the next table are ready for a good time.
…and Hey! ...so am I.
It’s another bright Sunday morning and I’m sitting
in the quiet corner of a coffee house sipping my
dark, tasty caffeine treat. From my soft, comfy
chair I observe the regulars swapping cheerful
greetings and rubber necking websites via the free
wireless access.
A sandy-haired fellow with a grizzled beard sits at
nearby oak stained table putting the finishing
touches on one of several beaded necklaces. He looks
like he might be an artist preparing to sell his
wares. Soon a small group of his friends arrive and
greetings are exchanged. As I observe this offline
chat group, my mind wanders back to another free
spirit that once held court on Kauai not so many
years ago.
I can’t remember how or when I first met Nathan Lee
(his artist moniker), but I do remember that he had
many endearing names including Nato Potato,
Nate-the-Skate, and Nately-Skately.
Nate had dark curly hair, bright hazel eyes, an
average build, and a perpetually crooked smile. He
was one of the few “health conscious” friends I knew
back in the early 80’s. He was an artist, a
musician, and somehow was able to survive by sheer
reckless whimsy. There were times when his money ran
out and he was forced to take on chores as a Kauai
educator, but between the years 1980 through the
1990s when I knew him, he had worked out a clever
scheme to support his art by buying and refurbishing
fixer-ups.
The Plan
Stage 1: Buy a house, fix-it-up and sell it.
Stage 2: Take a portion of the money and throw a
huge party at a local hotel and invite simply
everyone on Kauai to come and enjoy the fruits of
his invested achievements.
Stage 3: Buy another house and repeat Step 1.
Upon purchase of his first house Nato began hiring
his local friends to work on his
“Estate-of-the-Arts”.
A year passed by and the quaint little cottage now
looked like a jewel-by-the-sea. Up on the auction
block that little sweetheart went and within a short
space of time, BAM! went the gavel and Nato Potato
now had a nice pile of money to throw into the bank.
I personally chided him over and over and over for
selling that sweetest of seaside homes. Sure the
property was the size of a Grenada postage stamp but
who cared? It was sweet. It was like your Grandma’s
house-by-the-sea.
During those years of house makeovers Nate would
earnestly paint on canvas and create works of art as
well as record original music and videos to share
with the island’s people at his art parties.
Nato carefully pre-advertised the party in the
Garden Island newspaper, put flyers up on local
market bulletin boards and spread the word on the
coconut wireless. When the night of the
Viva-Las-Vegan party finally arrived Nate’s surf
band, “The Thrusters” rocked the night away sending
young and old shaking their okoles out on the
Voyager room’s polished dance floor. Nate made sure
to invite all his local comedian, actors and
actresses to perform skits and off-the-wall impovs.
Video and still cameras clicked and whirred
everywhere recording both the performers and the
colorful attendees. Each year these parties became a
“must-do” annual event and residents of Kauai looked
forward to these social affairs to see what new and
old faces would appear mixing around like one of
Nato’s vibrant paintings.
Nato’s paintings were 100% pure whimsical fun and
you either loved it or you stood around shaking your
head. Nathan did in fact sell a few paintings at
these events but a Paul Gauguin he was not and the
parties were simply an excuse to bring fun and color
to an otherwise island still-life. It was all about
sharing the pure fun with a wide mix of young and
old, locals and visitors alike. Everyone was left
filled with the passion of the Nato juice.
One day I heard that Nathan left us for another
island. Like a tropical breeze that flirts from one
island to another he had picked up and was swept
away to find a new place to exhibit his uninhibited
ambitions.
Where are you Nato Potato? I wish you were back on
Kauai. I know that necklace newcomer and all his
friends at the next table are ready for a good time.
…and Hey! ...so am I.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The spirit of aloha is alive and well even in Los Angeles
by Severine Nichols
There is a saying that goes "Wherever you go there you are" it is such a profoundly true thought. We each carry with us our thoughts and emotional baggage to every destination we journey to, without even realizing it.
After going through a divorce this earlier this year, I was feeling a bit down so my friend Kaulana and I decided to combine a trip to Los Angeles for business and to celebrate my 35th birthday.
We left the Garden Isle on red-eye flight out of the Lihue airport and by the time we arrived in Los Angeles airport, we were exhausted, with yet a full day of work and activities ahead of us.
At the end of our day, with our business complete, my friend Kaulana and I decided to take a trip into the heart of Rodeo Drive for some heavy window shopping and possible star gazing.
Since it was my birthday we wondered into the Gucci store to look around and admire all of the wonderful purses inside. I have a mad weakness for well-made handmade Italian leather handbags. I immediately fell in love with one and after trying it out several times, I looked the price tag. It was over 1, 100.00 dollars! I almost gasped out loud, but thank goodness, I did not.
I put it back on the shelf and started to walk away, but my friend said it is so pretty and it is your birthday after all….so I succumbed to the desire and pulled out my debit card and tried not to think about my ever dwindling bank account.
With my new purchase safely tucked in my hand, we called our hotel for a car to come and pick us up. (one of the many perks staying at the Park Hyatt is they provide such fantastic service, such as a town-car service to Rodeo Drive.)
We sat down outside to wait for the car, on a marble window-sill of the Gucci store which doubled as a bench; we were having a nice time people watching all of the various Hollywood types we don't really get to see over here on Kauai.
Suddenly we were approached by an elderly legless, African American man in a wheelchair holding an almost empty coffee cup in his left hand. He rolled up to us with clear eyes and a sweet smile on his face. There was something very gentle and different about this person, it was immediately noticeable from the start; there was not a trace of pity in this man, only happiness and pride. He did not ask for money nor did he beg. He asked how our day was and if we were enjoying our shopping experience. This made us smile and laugh deep inside for we were not the typical rich city money shoppers; we were just regular island gals out for a visit to the big city.
He said his name was Ron and started to do impressions for us, the first one was of a lifeless statue, he must have held that pose for well-over 2-3 minutes. All the while Kaulana and I were giggling like teenagers and smiling at his wonderful performance. Kaulana handed him a few dollars for his effort and I pulled out my wallet and proceeded to give him all of my cash, I think it was eleven dollars.
He looked at me and said thank you sister. To which I replied, "No thank, you gave us the gift of laughter and I thank you for sharing with us your talent."
" He said you know there are angels that walk around among us, everyday and most folks forget to look for them." I nodded my head in understanding.
I took it step further and said; "I think it is the spirit of Aloha; in being able to give and being open to all people, no matter where you are."
It was just at that moment our car arrived and we had to leave the nice man, who had so freely shared his gift of laughter. As we got in the car and we pulled away, it was then I realized though my wallet was empty of any cash, my heart was both richer and fuller and somehow I felt had shared some of the spirit of Aloha with an angel of Los Angeles.
There is a saying that goes "Wherever you go there you are" it is such a profoundly true thought. We each carry with us our thoughts and emotional baggage to every destination we journey to, without even realizing it.
After going through a divorce this earlier this year, I was feeling a bit down so my friend Kaulana and I decided to combine a trip to Los Angeles for business and to celebrate my 35th birthday.
We left the Garden Isle on red-eye flight out of the Lihue airport and by the time we arrived in Los Angeles airport, we were exhausted, with yet a full day of work and activities ahead of us.
At the end of our day, with our business complete, my friend Kaulana and I decided to take a trip into the heart of Rodeo Drive for some heavy window shopping and possible star gazing.
Since it was my birthday we wondered into the Gucci store to look around and admire all of the wonderful purses inside. I have a mad weakness for well-made handmade Italian leather handbags. I immediately fell in love with one and after trying it out several times, I looked the price tag. It was over 1, 100.00 dollars! I almost gasped out loud, but thank goodness, I did not.
I put it back on the shelf and started to walk away, but my friend said it is so pretty and it is your birthday after all….so I succumbed to the desire and pulled out my debit card and tried not to think about my ever dwindling bank account.
With my new purchase safely tucked in my hand, we called our hotel for a car to come and pick us up. (one of the many perks staying at the Park Hyatt is they provide such fantastic service, such as a town-car service to Rodeo Drive.)
We sat down outside to wait for the car, on a marble window-sill of the Gucci store which doubled as a bench; we were having a nice time people watching all of the various Hollywood types we don't really get to see over here on Kauai.
Suddenly we were approached by an elderly legless, African American man in a wheelchair holding an almost empty coffee cup in his left hand. He rolled up to us with clear eyes and a sweet smile on his face. There was something very gentle and different about this person, it was immediately noticeable from the start; there was not a trace of pity in this man, only happiness and pride. He did not ask for money nor did he beg. He asked how our day was and if we were enjoying our shopping experience. This made us smile and laugh deep inside for we were not the typical rich city money shoppers; we were just regular island gals out for a visit to the big city.
He said his name was Ron and started to do impressions for us, the first one was of a lifeless statue, he must have held that pose for well-over 2-3 minutes. All the while Kaulana and I were giggling like teenagers and smiling at his wonderful performance. Kaulana handed him a few dollars for his effort and I pulled out my wallet and proceeded to give him all of my cash, I think it was eleven dollars.
He looked at me and said thank you sister. To which I replied, "No thank, you gave us the gift of laughter and I thank you for sharing with us your talent."
" He said you know there are angels that walk around among us, everyday and most folks forget to look for them." I nodded my head in understanding.
I took it step further and said; "I think it is the spirit of Aloha; in being able to give and being open to all people, no matter where you are."
It was just at that moment our car arrived and we had to leave the nice man, who had so freely shared his gift of laughter. As we got in the car and we pulled away, it was then I realized though my wallet was empty of any cash, my heart was both richer and fuller and somehow I felt had shared some of the spirit of Aloha with an angel of Los Angeles.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Relic of the Past Looking into the Future
[Eds. note: This is the last of the runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Kimie Sadoyama
by Kimie Sadoyama
Friday, December 01, 2006
Last of the Ma and Pa Stores
[Eds. note: This is the 13th of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Kimie Sadoyama
If you could see my parents’ store in the middle of
Kapa’a town, on the island of Kaua’i, you would have
chosen a cleaner more modern supermarket to do your
shopping. Its rows were so narrow that two Filipinos
walking opposiste each other would sometimes knock
over a bottle of mayonnaise on the cement floor, much
to my mother’s disgust. Someone once said of the
store, ”You can buy anything from fishhooks to
muumuus.” All I could remember about it was there were
wall-to-wall things in the back of the counter. You
could see everything hanging on hooks which had no
rhyme nor reason, from hammers to lighters, to cards
and flashlights. My mom always had a roll of wrapping
paper on the bottom and some spindles of ribbon on the
counter in case anyone needed them to be gift wrapped.
It was not a grocery store but they carried potatoes,
onions, garlic, eggs, and milk fresh. Their customers
were mostly Filipinos who worked at the sugar
plantations and grew their own vegetables in their
gardens.
My mother was the kind of woman who could look into a
person’s eyes and tell instantly whether he or she was
good or bad or just a victim of circumstances. She
knew just about everybody who walked into her store.
People would come in, and she would grab a ledger and
write down their charges.
She would describe people to me by what they bought.
She’d say to me, ”You notice these old Filipinos, they
don’t buy toothpaste or toothbrush? They don’t brush
teeth! That man doesn't buy toilet paper because he
lives in his car and parks in the sugarcane field to
sleep and uses the pavillions to go to the bathroom."
I’d laugh as they looked at me smiling and chewing
their tobacco with brown stained teeth. Why, she’d
know them so well that before leaving she would say to
them, ”What about apple cider vinegar, did you forget
it this time?” They would say, ”Oh yeah, missis, I
porgot da vin e ga.”
At night after dinner she would read the paper
thoroughly. Her favorite section was the obituaries. I
always thought that it was a bit morbid, but she would
say, ”It’s always good to know who died. You might
know someone.”
My parents’ store was one of the first Ma and Pa
stores to close down in recent years, giving way to
progress and the grocery-chain supermarkets of the
modern times. But the nickname Ma and Pa was not just
a nickname. Here on Kauai’i it was a reality.
Not only did these poor Filipinos come to my
parents’ store for groceries, but they depended on my
father for legal help, tax preparation and, of course,
borrowing money. My mother had seen enough of Kapa’a
town to know why people wanted to borrow money. You
see, my dad was always busy with his books upstairs,
so when someone wanted to borrow money, they would
have to go through my mother first. If it were up to
my dad, he would lend money to most of the steady
customers for he knew that he would be paid back with
interest. But my mom would needle them for hours until
my dad would come down from his office. Their
cusstomers were like their children, and their
well-being, whether it be getting duped at the
gambling tables or having one too many drinks. Besides
selling goods from their store, this was also included
as part of their jobs. This was a real Ma and Pa
store.
There was a bar right next to the store run by a
widow. I would hear stories of how she had, in the old
days, ladies of the night working for her. She opened
at noon and always came into the store before opening
up to buy some last minute ingredient for her
appititizers, which she always served for free with
your drinks. In the evenings you could hear the juke
box playing through the wall and you’d know that the
bar was hopping.
One day an old steady customer of my mom’s was
bugging her for twenty dollars. He had spent his last
dollar on a drink at the bar and was ready to hop over
to the next one a block away. My mother kept telling
him not to drink too much, but no. He stuck around
till closing time and she felt sorry for him and
grabbed twenty dollars out of her bra and wrote it
down in his ledger. The next day she fould out that he
had been hit by a car drossing the street outside of
the bar. He was not hurt too badly. The next time she
saw him he had a bandage on his head. My mom felt so
guilty that she yelled at him: ”You see, if I hadn’t
lent you that twenty dollars, you wouldn’t have gotten
hit. I told you to go straight home! You see.” That
was my mom. She was the mom of everybody.
The store was closing down for good, my mom was
recommending her customers to another store that would
take their charges, but some families preferred to
shop with cash in the larger supermarkets. My
grandfather started this business two generations ago,
and here it was now, my parents were going to retire
and close this store that served as a gathering place
and a second home for many of their customers for
almost three generations.
This old Japanese man was so old with nothing to do
so he would walk into town every day and sing Japanese
songs to the kids. They would just laugh at him and
try to get away, but he’d grab them, sit them down,
and sing songs to them from Japanese movie magazines
sent to the store for him. I would catch him stealing
candy from the rack and I would turn to my mom, who
would just put her finger to her mouth and say sssh.
Sometimes when she could tell that he wasn’t feeling
good, she would pour a little Seagram 7 in his 7up. He
would sing his songs all afternoon in the hot son,
then when it was time for me to drive him home, he
would race all over the store picking up his
groceries, yelling at me ”chi chi chi chi.” Which
means boobs in Japanese. To him it meant milk. Putting
all of his goods in an onion sack, already laden with
a gallon of sake, we would be off. My mom always
complained that he would dilly dally all day long and
at the last minute would be in such a rush. Every time
I drove him home, he smelt of urine. My mom says he’s
so old that he misses when he pees. He would always
give me a couple of dollars and avocados and papayas.
A few months earlier he would come down to the store
at the beginning of every month in a frenzy wanting to
buy a lock. He’d say, ”Those no good Hawaiian kids
stole my money from my drawer.” At the beginning of
every month my parents would cash his social security
check and he would pay his bill and buy some groceries
and go home to build his fire for his bath, an
old-fashioned Japanese bath called a ”furo” which was
outside of his house. He would put his whole month’s
cash in a drawer next to his bed and go outside to
start his bath, and by the time he got inside, his
money would be gone. Every month it was the same
thing. I need a new lock, he would say. This went on
for months. My mother told me that he just felt sorry
for those Hawaiian kids and that he had money in the
bank. He soon died of old age in his broken down
shack, a furo out back, with avocado and papaya trees.
Just like Yasui old man, my parents’ store died of
old age. Why, the shelves were so termite eaten that
if it weren’t for the paint I couldn’t see how they
held all those things on it. The next year my dad
leased it out to a feed business, and hurricane Ewa
knocked the whole thing down. Someone said that the
termites in the wood were holding hands and if one of
them let go, the whole thing would come down. Well
that was probably not too far from the truth, for
after the hurricane the only thing standing was the
rock wall in front of Betty's Inn, the bar next door.
I drove by, and someone had a sign up that said ”Yard
Sale. Everything Must Go!” right in front of the
rubble and a friend was taking his picture.
I am proud to have been born and raised here on Kauai
and have seen many changes but I do believe that if we
can understand how we lived here in the past we can
learn from it and would not be so disrespectful of the
old ways and brush them aside just to sweep in the
new. Thank you very much for providing me the
opportunity to have my words be heard.
by Kimie Sadoyama
If you could see my parents’ store in the middle of
Kapa’a town, on the island of Kaua’i, you would have
chosen a cleaner more modern supermarket to do your
shopping. Its rows were so narrow that two Filipinos
walking opposiste each other would sometimes knock
over a bottle of mayonnaise on the cement floor, much
to my mother’s disgust. Someone once said of the
store, ”You can buy anything from fishhooks to
muumuus.” All I could remember about it was there were
wall-to-wall things in the back of the counter. You
could see everything hanging on hooks which had no
rhyme nor reason, from hammers to lighters, to cards
and flashlights. My mom always had a roll of wrapping
paper on the bottom and some spindles of ribbon on the
counter in case anyone needed them to be gift wrapped.
It was not a grocery store but they carried potatoes,
onions, garlic, eggs, and milk fresh. Their customers
were mostly Filipinos who worked at the sugar
plantations and grew their own vegetables in their
gardens.
My mother was the kind of woman who could look into a
person’s eyes and tell instantly whether he or she was
good or bad or just a victim of circumstances. She
knew just about everybody who walked into her store.
People would come in, and she would grab a ledger and
write down their charges.
She would describe people to me by what they bought.
She’d say to me, ”You notice these old Filipinos, they
don’t buy toothpaste or toothbrush? They don’t brush
teeth! That man doesn't buy toilet paper because he
lives in his car and parks in the sugarcane field to
sleep and uses the pavillions to go to the bathroom."
I’d laugh as they looked at me smiling and chewing
their tobacco with brown stained teeth. Why, she’d
know them so well that before leaving she would say to
them, ”What about apple cider vinegar, did you forget
it this time?” They would say, ”Oh yeah, missis, I
porgot da vin e ga.”
At night after dinner she would read the paper
thoroughly. Her favorite section was the obituaries. I
always thought that it was a bit morbid, but she would
say, ”It’s always good to know who died. You might
know someone.”
My parents’ store was one of the first Ma and Pa
stores to close down in recent years, giving way to
progress and the grocery-chain supermarkets of the
modern times. But the nickname Ma and Pa was not just
a nickname. Here on Kauai’i it was a reality.
Not only did these poor Filipinos come to my
parents’ store for groceries, but they depended on my
father for legal help, tax preparation and, of course,
borrowing money. My mother had seen enough of Kapa’a
town to know why people wanted to borrow money. You
see, my dad was always busy with his books upstairs,
so when someone wanted to borrow money, they would
have to go through my mother first. If it were up to
my dad, he would lend money to most of the steady
customers for he knew that he would be paid back with
interest. But my mom would needle them for hours until
my dad would come down from his office. Their
cusstomers were like their children, and their
well-being, whether it be getting duped at the
gambling tables or having one too many drinks. Besides
selling goods from their store, this was also included
as part of their jobs. This was a real Ma and Pa
store.
There was a bar right next to the store run by a
widow. I would hear stories of how she had, in the old
days, ladies of the night working for her. She opened
at noon and always came into the store before opening
up to buy some last minute ingredient for her
appititizers, which she always served for free with
your drinks. In the evenings you could hear the juke
box playing through the wall and you’d know that the
bar was hopping.
One day an old steady customer of my mom’s was
bugging her for twenty dollars. He had spent his last
dollar on a drink at the bar and was ready to hop over
to the next one a block away. My mother kept telling
him not to drink too much, but no. He stuck around
till closing time and she felt sorry for him and
grabbed twenty dollars out of her bra and wrote it
down in his ledger. The next day she fould out that he
had been hit by a car drossing the street outside of
the bar. He was not hurt too badly. The next time she
saw him he had a bandage on his head. My mom felt so
guilty that she yelled at him: ”You see, if I hadn’t
lent you that twenty dollars, you wouldn’t have gotten
hit. I told you to go straight home! You see.” That
was my mom. She was the mom of everybody.
The store was closing down for good, my mom was
recommending her customers to another store that would
take their charges, but some families preferred to
shop with cash in the larger supermarkets. My
grandfather started this business two generations ago,
and here it was now, my parents were going to retire
and close this store that served as a gathering place
and a second home for many of their customers for
almost three generations.
This old Japanese man was so old with nothing to do
so he would walk into town every day and sing Japanese
songs to the kids. They would just laugh at him and
try to get away, but he’d grab them, sit them down,
and sing songs to them from Japanese movie magazines
sent to the store for him. I would catch him stealing
candy from the rack and I would turn to my mom, who
would just put her finger to her mouth and say sssh.
Sometimes when she could tell that he wasn’t feeling
good, she would pour a little Seagram 7 in his 7up. He
would sing his songs all afternoon in the hot son,
then when it was time for me to drive him home, he
would race all over the store picking up his
groceries, yelling at me ”chi chi chi chi.” Which
means boobs in Japanese. To him it meant milk. Putting
all of his goods in an onion sack, already laden with
a gallon of sake, we would be off. My mom always
complained that he would dilly dally all day long and
at the last minute would be in such a rush. Every time
I drove him home, he smelt of urine. My mom says he’s
so old that he misses when he pees. He would always
give me a couple of dollars and avocados and papayas.
A few months earlier he would come down to the store
at the beginning of every month in a frenzy wanting to
buy a lock. He’d say, ”Those no good Hawaiian kids
stole my money from my drawer.” At the beginning of
every month my parents would cash his social security
check and he would pay his bill and buy some groceries
and go home to build his fire for his bath, an
old-fashioned Japanese bath called a ”furo” which was
outside of his house. He would put his whole month’s
cash in a drawer next to his bed and go outside to
start his bath, and by the time he got inside, his
money would be gone. Every month it was the same
thing. I need a new lock, he would say. This went on
for months. My mother told me that he just felt sorry
for those Hawaiian kids and that he had money in the
bank. He soon died of old age in his broken down
shack, a furo out back, with avocado and papaya trees.
Just like Yasui old man, my parents’ store died of
old age. Why, the shelves were so termite eaten that
if it weren’t for the paint I couldn’t see how they
held all those things on it. The next year my dad
leased it out to a feed business, and hurricane Ewa
knocked the whole thing down. Someone said that the
termites in the wood were holding hands and if one of
them let go, the whole thing would come down. Well
that was probably not too far from the truth, for
after the hurricane the only thing standing was the
rock wall in front of Betty's Inn, the bar next door.
I drove by, and someone had a sign up that said ”Yard
Sale. Everything Must Go!” right in front of the
rubble and a friend was taking his picture.
I am proud to have been born and raised here on Kauai
and have seen many changes but I do believe that if we
can understand how we lived here in the past we can
learn from it and would not be so disrespectful of the
old ways and brush them aside just to sweep in the
new. Thank you very much for providing me the
opportunity to have my words be heard.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Homeward Bound
[Eds. note: This is the 12th of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Carrie Rautmann
Kolea sees the rising of Orion's Belt,
And follows the belt
Into Dawn's day.
He spent his winter
On green pastures of Kauai
Nourished by rain waters
Which have fallen from
Wai'ale ale to swell into rivers and land.
Plumage changes, reminding him
Of his return to the Alaskan tundra.
How can he know this path
Of 3,000 miles across ocean
To ancient nesting grounds
His grandmother has used?
What faith does he need
To ride through currents of air
Across vast waters
To reach land?
He arrives in open tundra,
And finds his feathered
Brothers and sisters.
Seeking his mate,
They find each other
Build their nest.
Eggs laid, they wait patiently.
Hatching, the young ones
Feed well, and grow strong
For the journey home.
They watch the sky,
For the sign to return.
Some seekers who have
Called him papakolea
Follow him now in double hulled
Canoes, praying to the night sky
While papakolea listens for the
Whisper of the dragon thrashing
Across dark skies.
In the middle of the ocean
He rides on dragon's breath
To find a pasture on an island
Where he had fed a year ago.
Paddling canoes
Tracing after stardust from papakolea,
They reach the shores
And reunite to land.
In this way,
Seabirds and seekers
Find reunion.
by Carrie Rautmann
Kolea sees the rising of Orion's Belt,
And follows the belt
Into Dawn's day.
He spent his winter
On green pastures of Kauai
Nourished by rain waters
Which have fallen from
Wai'ale ale to swell into rivers and land.
Plumage changes, reminding him
Of his return to the Alaskan tundra.
How can he know this path
Of 3,000 miles across ocean
To ancient nesting grounds
His grandmother has used?
What faith does he need
To ride through currents of air
Across vast waters
To reach land?
He arrives in open tundra,
And finds his feathered
Brothers and sisters.
Seeking his mate,
They find each other
Build their nest.
Eggs laid, they wait patiently.
Hatching, the young ones
Feed well, and grow strong
For the journey home.
They watch the sky,
For the sign to return.
Some seekers who have
Called him papakolea
Follow him now in double hulled
Canoes, praying to the night sky
While papakolea listens for the
Whisper of the dragon thrashing
Across dark skies.
In the middle of the ocean
He rides on dragon's breath
To find a pasture on an island
Where he had fed a year ago.
Paddling canoes
Tracing after stardust from papakolea,
They reach the shores
And reunite to land.
In this way,
Seabirds and seekers
Find reunion.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Morning Dew
[Eds. note: This is the eleventh of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Carrie Rautmann
Taro leaf cradles morning dew
Sunlight scattering
Silver tones into garden patch
Casting notions of fertility
And vitality into day.
Outward bound,
Yet held in pregnant pause,
Female water,
Round and full upon leaf,
Speaks of muted heart shape green
And ancient purple lineage
Of Mother taro.
How can one drop be held
In such Reverent Suspension?
Separate, yet offered as gift
In a hungry moment
To thirsty tongues who may drink
From this leaf,
Or to the wind, who may
Cast this water onto Earth in one shake.
What journey can this dew drop begin?
And inside the light of Dawn
Streams onto the faces
Of Two who have woven in embrace.
One drop of Essence reaches egg.
In female waters,
Life begins in womb,
Eggs multiplying again and again.
Innocence, born from Passion,
Becomes alive from this Union
And outside, the morning dew
Dances its belly dance
Upon leaf, like a heartbeat
Drumming itself into life,
And when the drop falls to Earth,
It innocently begins
The journey again,
Drinking upon Earth,
To river to ocean to cloud,
To fall to Earth again, and
Again, and again and again.
by Carrie Rautmann
Taro leaf cradles morning dew
Sunlight scattering
Silver tones into garden patch
Casting notions of fertility
And vitality into day.
Outward bound,
Yet held in pregnant pause,
Female water,
Round and full upon leaf,
Speaks of muted heart shape green
And ancient purple lineage
Of Mother taro.
How can one drop be held
In such Reverent Suspension?
Separate, yet offered as gift
In a hungry moment
To thirsty tongues who may drink
From this leaf,
Or to the wind, who may
Cast this water onto Earth in one shake.
What journey can this dew drop begin?
And inside the light of Dawn
Streams onto the faces
Of Two who have woven in embrace.
One drop of Essence reaches egg.
In female waters,
Life begins in womb,
Eggs multiplying again and again.
Innocence, born from Passion,
Becomes alive from this Union
And outside, the morning dew
Dances its belly dance
Upon leaf, like a heartbeat
Drumming itself into life,
And when the drop falls to Earth,
It innocently begins
The journey again,
Drinking upon Earth,
To river to ocean to cloud,
To fall to Earth again, and
Again, and again and again.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Blessing
[Eds. note: This is the tenth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Rocky Riedel
A rock spoke to me. It was in the stream up there in Kapahi, at the little bridge near the end of the road. I was leaning over the white wooden railing, watching the water glisten as it danced down the stream. The water and I were both reflecting.
I was there for a while when a rock, its nose jutting up just above the happy water, started speaking to me. I could barely see its mouth but it was definitely gurgling and burbling, asking me to listen as the water washed over its face.
I can’t repeat what it said because it didn’t use specific words. It was more as if crystal droplets of language leapt from the rock’s lips, landed on my skin and soaked straight through to my heart. Suddenly full of unspeakable knowing, my heart brimmed over. Grace anointed my very soul like a rich soothing oil.
I don’t remember how much time passed and I don’t remember what I was thinking or if people walked by or even if it rained. I can only tell you this: I was healed and I was loved.
After a while I knew it was time for me to leave. I bowed low to the rock, humbly thanking it for its glorious blessing. And then I crossed the bridge to the other side.
by Rocky Riedel
A rock spoke to me. It was in the stream up there in Kapahi, at the little bridge near the end of the road. I was leaning over the white wooden railing, watching the water glisten as it danced down the stream. The water and I were both reflecting.
I was there for a while when a rock, its nose jutting up just above the happy water, started speaking to me. I could barely see its mouth but it was definitely gurgling and burbling, asking me to listen as the water washed over its face.
I can’t repeat what it said because it didn’t use specific words. It was more as if crystal droplets of language leapt from the rock’s lips, landed on my skin and soaked straight through to my heart. Suddenly full of unspeakable knowing, my heart brimmed over. Grace anointed my very soul like a rich soothing oil.
I don’t remember how much time passed and I don’t remember what I was thinking or if people walked by or even if it rained. I can only tell you this: I was healed and I was loved.
After a while I knew it was time for me to leave. I bowed low to the rock, humbly thanking it for its glorious blessing. And then I crossed the bridge to the other side.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Returning To My Island Home
[Eds. note: This is the ninth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Coral Miles
Longings soon to be fulfilled
Doors fall open, my heart leaps,
Inhaling deeply, memories awake
Sweet fragrance fills the air
But then, other odors linger there
Chant: Welcoming home… Welcoming home…
Welcoming home…
Seeking again visions of my youth
Waking to compelling truth
Quiet retreats, unfilled shore
Once were mine, but now no more
Chant: Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…
Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…
Crawling traffic, multiplied lights
Why can’t I see the stars at night?
Crossing fields, traversing lanes
Finding barred with fence and chains
Chant: Kapu, Keep-out… Kapu, Keep-out…
Kapu, Keep-out…
We must gain we must prosper
Keep it coming, growing faster
Pursuing hope in ancient places
Metal bird in air erases
Chant: Aloha compromising, another building rising… Aloha compromising, another building rising...
Youth with smiles, lilting laughter
Aunties, tutus, running after
Now empire feet and belly things
Beeping sounds and smoky rings
Chant: We like ta-ttoos… We like ta-ttoos… We
like ta-ttoos…
Once proudly worn your teeming reef
Now dying rock and crowded beach
Still the water warm and clear
The sun still warms my shoulders
Is it just that I am older?
Chant: Paddle hut… Paddle ho… Paddle hut…
Paddle ho…
Lei circling my neck, fast fading flowers
Regaining paradise, hope in measured hours
Though our island keeps on giving
Growth with pain, pain with living
Chant: Tourist in jeep... Tourist in jeep...
Tourist in jeep...
Returning to my island home
You and I have surely grown
Heaven’s touch still surrounds
Your velvet peaks, your radiant ocean
Inspiring our divine emotion
Chant: Terra healing, God revealing… Terra healing, God revealing…
Questioning what I must do
How can I give back to you?
A willing sacrifice I pledge
I will sow... I will seed
Endeavoring to fill the need
Strains of: “Aloha Oe”
by Coral Miles
Longings soon to be fulfilled
Doors fall open, my heart leaps,
Inhaling deeply, memories awake
Sweet fragrance fills the air
But then, other odors linger there
Chant: Welcoming home… Welcoming home…
Welcoming home…
Seeking again visions of my youth
Waking to compelling truth
Quiet retreats, unfilled shore
Once were mine, but now no more
Chant: Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…
Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…
Crawling traffic, multiplied lights
Why can’t I see the stars at night?
Crossing fields, traversing lanes
Finding barred with fence and chains
Chant: Kapu, Keep-out… Kapu, Keep-out…
Kapu, Keep-out…
We must gain we must prosper
Keep it coming, growing faster
Pursuing hope in ancient places
Metal bird in air erases
Chant: Aloha compromising, another building rising… Aloha compromising, another building rising...
Youth with smiles, lilting laughter
Aunties, tutus, running after
Now empire feet and belly things
Beeping sounds and smoky rings
Chant: We like ta-ttoos… We like ta-ttoos… We
like ta-ttoos…
Once proudly worn your teeming reef
Now dying rock and crowded beach
Still the water warm and clear
The sun still warms my shoulders
Is it just that I am older?
Chant: Paddle hut… Paddle ho… Paddle hut…
Paddle ho…
Lei circling my neck, fast fading flowers
Regaining paradise, hope in measured hours
Though our island keeps on giving
Growth with pain, pain with living
Chant: Tourist in jeep... Tourist in jeep...
Tourist in jeep...
Returning to my island home
You and I have surely grown
Heaven’s touch still surrounds
Your velvet peaks, your radiant ocean
Inspiring our divine emotion
Chant: Terra healing, God revealing… Terra healing, God revealing…
Questioning what I must do
How can I give back to you?
A willing sacrifice I pledge
I will sow... I will seed
Endeavoring to fill the need
Strains of: “Aloha Oe”
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Walking Trail
[Eds. note: This is the eighth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Charles Looney
It is a walking trail.
It offers
a lungful of plumeria air,
a chat with the broke winged nene,
a glimpse of heron blue predator
rippling the green lagoon waters
with wings to an island, an egg, a fish,
and silly white-masked Coots
or red-masked Moorhens
who talk like geese
who walk on tiny stilts
who want to but can’t be
ducks at all.
It is to be assaulted
with the usual machines
for the usual reasons.
Some will survive the
carbon monoxide
and the ripping of the earth.
Some will collapse
into history.
Some will linger
to remember,
a poison tree on a poison hill.
by Charles Looney
It is a walking trail.
It offers
a lungful of plumeria air,
a chat with the broke winged nene,
a glimpse of heron blue predator
rippling the green lagoon waters
with wings to an island, an egg, a fish,
and silly white-masked Coots
or red-masked Moorhens
who talk like geese
who walk on tiny stilts
who want to but can’t be
ducks at all.
It is to be assaulted
with the usual machines
for the usual reasons.
Some will survive the
carbon monoxide
and the ripping of the earth.
Some will collapse
into history.
Some will linger
to remember,
a poison tree on a poison hill.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Wild Sea
[Eds. note: This is the seventh of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Mary Hunter Leach
Surf is up! The wild sea is calling,
calling all who hear, calling even me (one who does not surf).
This is not a day to be indoors, to be contained,
I tell my friend. We must go out! And so we leave
our smaller, undone things, called by the wild sea.
How high they are, these waves--huge, unconquerable, salt-spraying waves--
crashing over lava rock and shoreline,
ten, no twenty feet high: glorious!
Breaking, spraying, breaking
again and again,
rhythm unseen, rhythm nevertheless.
Giant waves rush onto shore, take the beach that we know,
claiming the sand we stand on, loose branches, seaweed, so many shells.
All moves seaward, even the eyes of scattering tourists,
who find no resting places in the sun. Not today!
This is ocean, nothing less will rule!
We enter her, slowly at first, aware of danger.
Soon we are swimming out, rolling in, carried farther and farther out
each time, though we are still near shore.
I long to roll past all this, take the highest wave and soar,
but even our strongest strokes are no match
for ocean’s sweeping song.
I hear my fear, taste the salt of it, asking
how far into this wildness will I be thrown?
Will I return, still be alive?
No answer from the huge waves crashing, no
letting up, no stopping this wild sea. She is alive!
My friend’s gentle voice, laughing, relaxes me
until I become the water: I am the sea,
flowing in and out toward shore, trusting the unseen
rhythm, all that wildness flowing into
something I can bear.
Later that night, I still cannot contain myself.
I must see your face, must bring you this wild sea.
You are covered in duty, I interrupt you, yet you let me,
smiling. “I can smell it,” you say. You know the surf is up.
“Yes,” I say. I know you do, as I look at you,
calling to your own unseen wild seas.
I know you know the wild sea.
by Mary Hunter Leach
Surf is up! The wild sea is calling,
calling all who hear, calling even me (one who does not surf).
This is not a day to be indoors, to be contained,
I tell my friend. We must go out! And so we leave
our smaller, undone things, called by the wild sea.
How high they are, these waves--huge, unconquerable, salt-spraying waves--
crashing over lava rock and shoreline,
ten, no twenty feet high: glorious!
Breaking, spraying, breaking
again and again,
rhythm unseen, rhythm nevertheless.
Giant waves rush onto shore, take the beach that we know,
claiming the sand we stand on, loose branches, seaweed, so many shells.
All moves seaward, even the eyes of scattering tourists,
who find no resting places in the sun. Not today!
This is ocean, nothing less will rule!
We enter her, slowly at first, aware of danger.
Soon we are swimming out, rolling in, carried farther and farther out
each time, though we are still near shore.
I long to roll past all this, take the highest wave and soar,
but even our strongest strokes are no match
for ocean’s sweeping song.
I hear my fear, taste the salt of it, asking
how far into this wildness will I be thrown?
Will I return, still be alive?
No answer from the huge waves crashing, no
letting up, no stopping this wild sea. She is alive!
My friend’s gentle voice, laughing, relaxes me
until I become the water: I am the sea,
flowing in and out toward shore, trusting the unseen
rhythm, all that wildness flowing into
something I can bear.
Later that night, I still cannot contain myself.
I must see your face, must bring you this wild sea.
You are covered in duty, I interrupt you, yet you let me,
smiling. “I can smell it,” you say. You know the surf is up.
“Yes,” I say. I know you do, as I look at you,
calling to your own unseen wild seas.
I know you know the wild sea.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Makuahine
[Eds. note: This is the sixth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Kimberly Kirk
by Kimberly Kirk
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Surrender
[Eds. note: This is the fifth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Suzanna Kennedy
I surrender to the coconuts that fall unto my roof and wake me up at night
I surrender to the roosters that crow before dawn
I surrender to the mangos too numerous to harvest, that litter my yard, fermenting
I surrender to gecko poop on my furniture
I surrender to the mold that belies the moist salt air
I surrender to you, Kauai
You have stripped me naked of all
my armor and weapons
You’ve struck down my defenses against love
Defenses against vulnerability
Against intimacy
And authenticity
I’ve done battle with you, Kauai
Trying to keep your abundance at bay
To preserve my illusion of order
Trying to squeeze your love into shapes and
forms that where familiar
But why?
Those forms never worked for me anyway
Those forms were my prison
Why cling?
Why fight?
Why force and push?
Why labor at all?
I surrender to you, Kauai
You win
Go ahead and love me, anyway you want
by Suzanna Kennedy
I surrender to the coconuts that fall unto my roof and wake me up at night
I surrender to the roosters that crow before dawn
I surrender to the mangos too numerous to harvest, that litter my yard, fermenting
I surrender to gecko poop on my furniture
I surrender to the mold that belies the moist salt air
I surrender to you, Kauai
You have stripped me naked of all
my armor and weapons
You’ve struck down my defenses against love
Defenses against vulnerability
Against intimacy
And authenticity
I’ve done battle with you, Kauai
Trying to keep your abundance at bay
To preserve my illusion of order
Trying to squeeze your love into shapes and
forms that where familiar
But why?
Those forms never worked for me anyway
Those forms were my prison
Why cling?
Why fight?
Why force and push?
Why labor at all?
I surrender to you, Kauai
You win
Go ahead and love me, anyway you want
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
WE MOURN YOU, RAYMOND NAPOLEON
[Eds. note: This is the fourth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
C. 2005, Dawn Fraser Kawahara
By the heiau a cloud envelops me
obscuring the river, obscuring the sea,
a rainbow rises, shimmer bridge
from the Hundley Hill pines
to Kalepa ridge
and the plum trees
at the edge where Raymond took his life.
The road drops down to a leaden river,
a tarnished sea, how could it be
that he had had enough
at twenty-five. . .
His name in the roll book
ten years ago comes alive–
the boyish grin, intelligent eyes,
well liked, well grounded,
attends to his work, no trouble
even to a substitute.
After school we’d see him
hefting his golf bag,
power drive, two putts
topping his good short game--
Raymond Napoleon.
Met him again in Waipouli
friendly as ever
white apron wrapping his waist,
his family, he said, was fine.
And Raymond? Fine, just fine,
not much time for golf
working Aloha Diner.
Same grin–the likeable boy
now a likeable man.
On the way to golf
one summer afternoon
we saw a car parked
by the trees that cling to the ledge,
wondered who might have stopped
to look toward O`ahu,
nap on the heiau’s edge.
The next day’s obituary–shock!
as we remembered Raymond.
Later we learned
he’d looped the noose
on a branch of those same trees.
We lash ourselves, so unaware,
oblivious to his pain,
how could we pass so close to his last stand
unknowing, unable
to reach out, hold him
to the promise of his life,
stop our former student friend
from following his dead-end plan.
C. 2005, Dawn Fraser Kawahara
By the heiau a cloud envelops me
obscuring the river, obscuring the sea,
a rainbow rises, shimmer bridge
from the Hundley Hill pines
to Kalepa ridge
and the plum trees
at the edge where Raymond took his life.
The road drops down to a leaden river,
a tarnished sea, how could it be
that he had had enough
at twenty-five. . .
His name in the roll book
ten years ago comes alive–
the boyish grin, intelligent eyes,
well liked, well grounded,
attends to his work, no trouble
even to a substitute.
After school we’d see him
hefting his golf bag,
power drive, two putts
topping his good short game--
Raymond Napoleon.
Met him again in Waipouli
friendly as ever
white apron wrapping his waist,
his family, he said, was fine.
And Raymond? Fine, just fine,
not much time for golf
working Aloha Diner.
Same grin–the likeable boy
now a likeable man.
On the way to golf
one summer afternoon
we saw a car parked
by the trees that cling to the ledge,
wondered who might have stopped
to look toward O`ahu,
nap on the heiau’s edge.
The next day’s obituary–shock!
as we remembered Raymond.
Later we learned
he’d looped the noose
on a branch of those same trees.
We lash ourselves, so unaware,
oblivious to his pain,
how could we pass so close to his last stand
unknowing, unable
to reach out, hold him
to the promise of his life,
stop our former student friend
from following his dead-end plan.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Mourning the Bougainvillea
[Eds. note: This is the third of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Keahi Felix
They are fallen warriors, now assigned to unknown graves. One day these warriors of beauty and goodness stood at their posts as they had done for years on end. The next they were gone.
They demanded nothing of us, not wages, not shelter, not even food. They were friends of nature and nature took care of them.
Who will remember them now? We know not where they are buried. We, some of us, rather many of us who benefited, recall the blessing of riotous color they gave us, Red, Pink, Yellow, Purple, Orange when, by divine instinct, they answered the prompting of the seasons. Was this the crime they were accused of and for which they died?
Their posts empty; left like scars on an abstract painting whose form still remains intact. Those who wait at the bus stop stare unbelievingly. The tourists who took pictures beneath their arbor like branches will not recognize the spots as the same ones they took home with them in their photo albums from their vacation on Kaua`i.
We, many of us, mourn the absence of the bougainvillea gateway that was meant mostly for those who live on the Garden Island. Now our hearts are taxed beyond repair.
In a parking lot in the center of the government, cultural, and business district lived one generation of our bloodline. We will not be able to grow a substitute of a like spirit of self-giving, unless we ourselves are willing to help nature nurture nature.
by Keahi Felix
They are fallen warriors, now assigned to unknown graves. One day these warriors of beauty and goodness stood at their posts as they had done for years on end. The next they were gone.
They demanded nothing of us, not wages, not shelter, not even food. They were friends of nature and nature took care of them.
Who will remember them now? We know not where they are buried. We, some of us, rather many of us who benefited, recall the blessing of riotous color they gave us, Red, Pink, Yellow, Purple, Orange when, by divine instinct, they answered the prompting of the seasons. Was this the crime they were accused of and for which they died?
Their posts empty; left like scars on an abstract painting whose form still remains intact. Those who wait at the bus stop stare unbelievingly. The tourists who took pictures beneath their arbor like branches will not recognize the spots as the same ones they took home with them in their photo albums from their vacation on Kaua`i.
We, many of us, mourn the absence of the bougainvillea gateway that was meant mostly for those who live on the Garden Island. Now our hearts are taxed beyond repair.
In a parking lot in the center of the government, cultural, and business district lived one generation of our bloodline. We will not be able to grow a substitute of a like spirit of self-giving, unless we ourselves are willing to help nature nurture nature.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The Hems of Her Skirts
[Eds. note: This is the second of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Kerith Edwards
When we come to Kauai to live, she gives us a gift. Or she does not. She is a living intelligence, a biological and spiritual force of her own, like a woman who is so large that we cannot quite see her with our eyes, but whose will nonetheless moves the air, the ocean, the land, and our own air- and water-filled bodies. According to her sensibilities, we are either allowed to stay and prosper or not. How many people have I met here who say, “Ah, well, Kauai either embraces you or spits you out.” The land, sea, and air are charged with an intelligent mana, and when we are ready to listen and respond, we are given a graceful, peaceful life within the embrace of Kauai’s strong and loving arms. Those of us who love and honor this place know how sweet and kind that embrace can be.
Sadly, what I have seen in my time here, is that those who are charged with the official protection and preservation of this massive, sacred and powerful “woman”—the Island of Kauai—have allowed her to become increasingly burdened and distressed. It is as if the hems and ruffles of her skirts, all around the periphery of the island, are becoming ripped and soiled, tugged upon by disrespectful and self-serving children. The restless tourist overload; the development of resorts, big homes, and commercial centers; the all-day traffic jams, and the heavy American corporate presence; all of these create stress not only in people who make this home, but in the lands and waters we depend upon for our well-being and peace of mind. How many residents have I heard softly remarking, “Ah, well, maybe we will get another hurricane and get rid of all these tourists and developers. We need a radical change.” What is happening when people aim their hopes for relief and change at a potential hurricane? Perhaps they feel things are out of control.
Kauai’s well-being is a sacred purpose shared by those who love, cherish, care for and honor this island, and we all know that something must change, and soon. When I get sick after swimming in the ocean and break out with infections across my skin, even after scrubbing hard and long, I think, “Something must change, and soon.” When I go to town to buy food, collect mail, meet a friend, and then end up in a seething bumper-to-bumper traffic jam for 45 minutes just to get back home, I say to myself, “Something must change, and soon.” When I take my hard-earned and hard-saved money and look for agriculturally zoned land to buy so that I can start a small farm, and then find that much of the good agricultural land has been illegally developed and is now unaffordable for working people like me, I think, “Something must change, and soon.”
I love the great woman that is Kauai, and change must come--soon. No one and nothing should be permitted to further soil and disturb her shimmering skirts, her glittering jewels, her wild flowing hair, her full mothering breasts, her rounded pregnant belly, her beautifully textured skin, her glinting (and sometimes bared) teeth, her long curving arms, and her warm, fresh breath. So, lovers of this precious Woman, what should be done? Bring on the hurricane? Or make one of our own?
by Kerith Edwards
When we come to Kauai to live, she gives us a gift. Or she does not. She is a living intelligence, a biological and spiritual force of her own, like a woman who is so large that we cannot quite see her with our eyes, but whose will nonetheless moves the air, the ocean, the land, and our own air- and water-filled bodies. According to her sensibilities, we are either allowed to stay and prosper or not. How many people have I met here who say, “Ah, well, Kauai either embraces you or spits you out.” The land, sea, and air are charged with an intelligent mana, and when we are ready to listen and respond, we are given a graceful, peaceful life within the embrace of Kauai’s strong and loving arms. Those of us who love and honor this place know how sweet and kind that embrace can be.
Sadly, what I have seen in my time here, is that those who are charged with the official protection and preservation of this massive, sacred and powerful “woman”—the Island of Kauai—have allowed her to become increasingly burdened and distressed. It is as if the hems and ruffles of her skirts, all around the periphery of the island, are becoming ripped and soiled, tugged upon by disrespectful and self-serving children. The restless tourist overload; the development of resorts, big homes, and commercial centers; the all-day traffic jams, and the heavy American corporate presence; all of these create stress not only in people who make this home, but in the lands and waters we depend upon for our well-being and peace of mind. How many residents have I heard softly remarking, “Ah, well, maybe we will get another hurricane and get rid of all these tourists and developers. We need a radical change.” What is happening when people aim their hopes for relief and change at a potential hurricane? Perhaps they feel things are out of control.
Kauai’s well-being is a sacred purpose shared by those who love, cherish, care for and honor this island, and we all know that something must change, and soon. When I get sick after swimming in the ocean and break out with infections across my skin, even after scrubbing hard and long, I think, “Something must change, and soon.” When I go to town to buy food, collect mail, meet a friend, and then end up in a seething bumper-to-bumper traffic jam for 45 minutes just to get back home, I say to myself, “Something must change, and soon.” When I take my hard-earned and hard-saved money and look for agriculturally zoned land to buy so that I can start a small farm, and then find that much of the good agricultural land has been illegally developed and is now unaffordable for working people like me, I think, “Something must change, and soon.”
I love the great woman that is Kauai, and change must come--soon. No one and nothing should be permitted to further soil and disturb her shimmering skirts, her glittering jewels, her wild flowing hair, her full mothering breasts, her rounded pregnant belly, her beautifully textured skin, her glinting (and sometimes bared) teeth, her long curving arms, and her warm, fresh breath. So, lovers of this precious Woman, what should be done? Bring on the hurricane? Or make one of our own?
Saturday, November 18, 2006
The Party Dress
[Eds. note: This is the first of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]
by Richard Diamond
“Am I going to die, Richard?”
I sit quietly, as always, staying with the Presence. I have felt the Presence as awareness, reflecting “isness,” or the “I Am.” Lately, though, the Presence has been filled with light; it is Light. As I remain in the stillness, I experience the Light as the I Am. This Light is the threshold . . . a gateway to that which lies beyond all form . . . all language and all metaphor. I love this Light. It is mySelf.
“Yes, mom, you’re going to die.” I respond.
She closes her eyes and “bounces” her head on the pillow nervously in a kind of circular motion, a habit of hers that helps her release the contraction of fear.
“We are all going to die,” I add. “You are not alone here. Everyone goes.”
“I’m afraid, Richard.”
“I know, Mom. That is why I am here.”
“Why are you here?” a question, she has asked me countless times before.
“I am here to help you let go of your fear.”
“It will never happen,” she responds. “I will always be afraid.”
“Perhaps, mom. But I am here anyway; I am the part of your mind that reflects back to you the peace that lies beyond all fear.”
She closes her eyes again, . . . . and bounces.
Suddenly she stills a bit and opens her eyes. She glances at the closet in her room and asks, “Is my party dress there?”
“Party dress?” I reply, wondering, looking towards the closet.
“Yes, I need my party dress for my party. Can you get me my party dress?”
“Yes,” I reply, of course.
When I am with my mother, I don’t speak to her as a 91 year old suffering from dementia, but prefer to keep the interchange “across the board” and simply be available for whatever comes up. In short, I approach the interaction like an exchange I might have with anyone.
“What color would you like?” I ask her.
“I would like a dark color?”
“Like blue? or green?”
“Yes,” she replies. “Blue or green.”
And with that Mom bounces again, closing her eyes.
“I’m afraid, Richard,” Mom repeats her mantra again.
“Yes, Mom, I know,” I follow suit, my response completing this short dialogue that we have had now . . . hundreds of times. “That is why I am here.”
by Richard Diamond
“Am I going to die, Richard?”
I sit quietly, as always, staying with the Presence. I have felt the Presence as awareness, reflecting “isness,” or the “I Am.” Lately, though, the Presence has been filled with light; it is Light. As I remain in the stillness, I experience the Light as the I Am. This Light is the threshold . . . a gateway to that which lies beyond all form . . . all language and all metaphor. I love this Light. It is mySelf.
“Yes, mom, you’re going to die.” I respond.
She closes her eyes and “bounces” her head on the pillow nervously in a kind of circular motion, a habit of hers that helps her release the contraction of fear.
“We are all going to die,” I add. “You are not alone here. Everyone goes.”
“I’m afraid, Richard.”
“I know, Mom. That is why I am here.”
“Why are you here?” a question, she has asked me countless times before.
“I am here to help you let go of your fear.”
“It will never happen,” she responds. “I will always be afraid.”
“Perhaps, mom. But I am here anyway; I am the part of your mind that reflects back to you the peace that lies beyond all fear.”
She closes her eyes again, . . . . and bounces.
Suddenly she stills a bit and opens her eyes. She glances at the closet in her room and asks, “Is my party dress there?”
“Party dress?” I reply, wondering, looking towards the closet.
“Yes, I need my party dress for my party. Can you get me my party dress?”
“Yes,” I reply, of course.
When I am with my mother, I don’t speak to her as a 91 year old suffering from dementia, but prefer to keep the interchange “across the board” and simply be available for whatever comes up. In short, I approach the interaction like an exchange I might have with anyone.
“What color would you like?” I ask her.
“I would like a dark color?”
“Like blue? or green?”
“Yes,” she replies. “Blue or green.”
And with that Mom bounces again, closing her eyes.
“I’m afraid, Richard,” Mom repeats her mantra again.
“Yes, Mom, I know,” I follow suit, my response completing this short dialogue that we have had now . . . hundreds of times. “That is why I am here.”
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