Lē‘ahi
Southside Oahu, littered with tuff cones:
Koko Head, labia minor,
Punchbowl, the hill of sacrifice,
Diamond Head, point of the ahi fish, all
grand promontories—extinct volcanic craters.
Rules and restriction translated to challenges,
saucer-shaped Diamond Head called me;
outside the renowned Fire Control Station,
its new and aged military facilities prohibited
all access to taxpaying civilians—daring infiltration.
Sneaking into the naturally fortified crater, eluding
camouflaged guards—real or imagined adversaries—
I stealthily advance; my body clothed in red trunks and tan skin,
blend into tropical surroundings, melt, into plentiful vegetation
encircling the cavity’s inner rim, entering the military mystery maze.
The apparent sound of bullets buzz by,
pierce the dense, dank, jungle undergrowth,
expose themselves as culex quinquefasciatus brown mosquitos
vicariously breeding in stagnate water—feasting
on a liquid banquet from my exposed legs and arms.
Damp, corroded chambers cut in the cavity resemble
Alcatraz cells: steel beds hanging from rusted chains,
ascend 560 feet from the floor past bunkers where
solid concrete walkways shift to a natural tuff
severe switchbacks negotiate the interior crater’s sheer slope.
The rugged trail morphs into steep, stone stairs through a
225-foot tunnel to a fortification that one directed artillery
fire from batteries beyond; reaching its pumice plateau,
approaching a mammoth navigational lighthouse,
I scan the Oahu’s sandy shoreline from Koko Head to Wai’anae.
Historical playground for humpback whales,
oblivious the area doubles as a coastal defense vista.
tropical trade winds brush my face, activating imagination
while the capacious, comforting, cacophony
of Kanaloa’s waves crash like rhythmic pahu far below.
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Bing Thieves
Campbell fertility
fruit cannery pioneer
Santa Clara gem
I long for fruitful harvests
silicon wasteland reclaimed
Ripe cherry orchards decorated the valley
like Christmas Tree ornaments, round, red,
eye popping orbs drew visitor’s attention
away from migrant farm worker camps
or miserable wooden boxes—an excuse
for a home—enjoyed by a cheerful few.
And yes, these orchards offered adventure,
growers aimed two barrels, shot rock salt
in our butts as we ran from their groves,
buckets full, bandito mystique undeniable,
dire warnings from our parents
school authorities—all elders ignored.
Best times never knew the worst yet to come
as stainless-steel chains uprooted tree trunks
tar and concrete smothered fertile fields,
and children grew up dodging street traffic
gathering in malls, frequenting cyber cafés—never
swaggering, searching, pilfering full-grown fruit…
**********************************************
Cracks of Light
Our empty hearts once filled
with unflinching alacrity,
agitated overnight we stood
by oil radiators metal accordions;
cast iron dragons as discolored
as seasoned crêpe pans
heated our hands while we
embraced common sense
depression; huddled together
like snowed-in hostages
sharing their communal discomfort
in sweaty submission,
our restless blues cut through
a hauntingly sober silence
like a machete blade slicing
dense jungle undergrowth
incessantly screaming out
for social emancipation
when disunity and whimsy
displace crude manners
dwarfing responsibility:
lockdown solidarity.
**********************************************
Tilt-a-Whirl Madness
Lock yourself down, hold on tight
you met the height challenge
cork shoe lifters shot you up
two inches & ruffled hair made
you appear gigantic, in control,
ready to spin like a stuntperson
make centrifugal force your own
gravitational pull your companion.
Fold brazen arms behind padded
lap bars, secure yourself & strangers
who ride sheet metal thrillers & share
danger’s safehouse; youthful mouths
missing teeth laugh & scream
like delighted children escaping
tides that grasp ankles as they
scamper from surf to dry sand.
Quartz lights flash perpetual chaos
in motion as the platform rotates,
seven swiveling cars test fortitude
resolve, & moxie, daring bold riders
like yourself to sidestep carnival sawdust
spread on the floor, eerie remains
of motion sickness for those out of sync
victimized by Tilt-a Whirl indifference.
**********************************************
Tipping Point Snapshot
Cars roll down the inner-city gullet
vehicle lights flashing as dawn’s early rays
part mist & unveil crosswalk shadows;
old school skyscrapers jut up towards heaven
protect flying rodents—portrait ready pigeons—
that nest below stone-crafted window ledges—
scarlet scavenger eyes fixate on pedestrians below
looking for careless hands fingering croissants,
& street vendors dropping hot dogs & soft pretzels;
drummers begin beating empty 5-gallon cans
under concrete bank porticos; audible rhythms echo
miles up and down Broadway, rebound off structures;
street singers & mimes soon join in the fray
destitute but happy, many homeless yet carefree,
hats & guitar cases welcome unlikely prospects
as the strip begins to buzz & people shuffle
in line for blocks awaiting Starbucks to open,
fuel & task soul-fed inspiration with caffeine;
meanwhile, escorts saunter home, recline
on their own beds—sleep uninterrupted. Restful.
Free of twilight visitations when overweight patrons
pin them with passion’s pretense allowing groans
to rise & fill voids like subway grate updrafts
decelerating wind as noisy as traffic horn banter
Manhattan minstrels, hucksters, & saints
approach tipping points, regain equilibrium,
& embrace yet another good morning’s night.
