Güd wrtr

5ish a.m. We’re both up,
listening to the surf below us,
while just outside the early birds
begin yakking above the whoosh
of waves.

This is not our time of day.
I have no idea why we’re awake.
He says he’s waiting for sunrise,
the day’s first pinkening of cloud
out there beyond the horizon,
see if there’s a photo to be made.

I awoke in the dark with words
coursing through my dreams,
ones like twittering birds that
disturbed my sleep, though
I could not discern the random
syllables.

Still, something pulled me,
as it the divine often does,
to open the magic lid, call up
the blankness with its blinking
cursor, put fingers to keys.
No thought. Just type.

Oh, look. I see the barest bit
of color in the dove gray sky,
a flotilla of clouds sailing north,
a majestic tall ship of cumulus
leading the way

into this grace-full day
that has once again
been given to us.

And, of all the things that make
this day special, people in Hawaii
wrap themselves and each other,
along with statues of important ones,
in all manner of floral neckwear.

We buy lei for loved ones arriving
this day—simple ti leaf lei for
good luck and protection.

Aloha nui loa, we say. E komo mai.
Warm greetings. Welcome.

We drape lei around necks
with a kiss on the cheek.
Because wearing a lei, it is said,
is like having someone’s arms
wrapped around you.

And who among us could
not use a hug?

(for Briana Martinez and Dick Schmidt,
siblings of the heart)

Never forget that you’ve been given
a second chance—

more than once, it turns out—
a series of fleeting mercies

that whiz by so fast you
rarely notice them.

But this evening, after dinner
with a friend from far away,

you catch the reflection of
the last of the day’s rays,

the sky with its never-before glow,
and you two, forever grateful,

stand and marvel, as only
the truly resurrected can.

•••

(With thanks to Pamela Foster and the AED Institute
for their good work in installing defibrillators throughout
Hawaii like the ones that restarted the hearts of
Briana Martinez and Dick Schmidt.)

Ankle deep in the Kalapaki surf,
I walk by two pale teenage boys
sitting on the sand,

one pinkened by sun, his clavicle
sporting a bone-white circle
of puka shells.

A few yards later I walk by
two local boys browned by sun
on boogie boards

in the shallows, as one says,
“See haole boy with puka?”
He issues a derisive snort.

“Puka boy.”
His friend snaps back,
“Brah, you wear puka.”

Stink eye exchange,
exuberant splashing.
“I nevah…”

“You wear puka Lina make fo’ you.”

More stink eye. Then small smiles
broaden into grins as big as
their boards, heads wagging

back and forth in recognition
of the unfathomable
manifestations of love.

(in memory of Dottie Schmidt
June 16, 1949–April 28, 2025)

In your passing
we say mahalo
for becoming part
of our family.

We say
what cannot be
said often enough:
We love you.

We say,
E hoʻomaha me ka maluhia,
rest in peace.

We say
a hui hou,
until we meet again.

We say
with our whole hearts,
with compassion,
peace and mercy,
a grateful aloha.

(for Dickie)

“Now we’re here,” he likes to say
once we’ve arrived on island,

usually when we step out of
the forced air of plane

and into the thicker breath
of green and seastuff.

Or sometimes when,
as soon as possible,

I make my way across sand
to put my feet in warm ocean.

Or when we figure out what
to order for lunch based on

a favorite dessert. Because
this place, more than any other,

teaches us again and again:
Life is short. Don’t wait.

Absorb all the sweet stuff
you can.

(for the dancers of the Merrie Monarch Festival)

They look like floating clouds
wearing yellow lei, the dozen

wahine of He’eia dancing
nahe nahe—gently, delicately,

as they say in the islands
where I will fly in the morning,

paying tribute to the goddess
of snow in the place where

so many talented dancers have
competed in recent days.

I have sat before the small screen
deep into the night watching,

sometimes weeping at aloha
in motion, tributes to Hawaiian

family and teachers—
ohana and kumu—

by the men and women—
the kane and wahine—

whom I will carry as I fly,
looking out the window,

watching the storytelling clouds
dancing so high in the sky.

I mean, really, I wouldn’t be sitting here
on a Saturday morning,

having shlepped snacks and prompts
and, heaviest of all, me out of bed

to sit at one end of this four-table
rectangle and put my fingers to

the keyboard earlier than they’re
used to if it weren’t for you.

I mean, really. I do it to watch you
all write, hear you scratch on a page

as though your lives depend on it
(which, in a way, they do),

so focused, spinning syllables and words
and random punctuation through the air

like confetti, which falls upon me,
on everyone. And, it lands on my skin.

If I stick out my tongue, I taste it, swallow it,
the best of you becoming part of me.

I swear, if someone looked at our DNA,
we’d share some of it, the kind funneled

into a category marked “writer.”
Which makes us deeply related.

Your essence lives in me, is what I want
to say, in the best possible way,

and yes, I’ve told you this before,
and I’ll tell you again because

I mean, really.

•••

(For all those who write with me—in the actual loft or the virtual one—
with my love and gratitude. And, as always, to Katie McCleary, who
created the lovely space for writers and gave it to me.)

Soft kitty cry,
I reach out a hand
touch the soft, smile, sigh.

When he cries, I hear
her voice answer him from
her place in the firmament:

Maxi, I’m here.

This, now, is how
she appears to
both of us.

•••

(for Mom)

This old dog loves to learn
new tricks, squirelling away
newly acquired facts

like, well, you know,
not caring about mixing
metaphors or other

annoying rules. Like today,
reminded by my favorite
bug writer/photographer

friend writing about
Valley carpenter bees,
aka teddy bear bees,

that, in the words of an
esteemed entomologist,
“Boy bees don’t sting.”

That’s right up there
with “Big girls don’t cry,”
in my humble estimation,

so now I’ve got that earworm
(to use a nifty science term)
buzzing around my brain.

Who knew that the blond,
fuzzy boy bees with green eyes
are not only dreamboat

carpenters but also great
defenders of the nests as well
as doing their part with

female teddy bear bees
to make baby teddy bear bees?
Another reason not to fear

flying blond teddy bears because,
now I know (sing it with me),
“Boy bees don’t sting.”

•••

If you need to hear this (and you know you do),
give a listen to “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Frankie Valli
and The Four Seasons (1962). Songwriters: Bob Crewe
and Bob Gaudio.