Güd wrtr

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.

Good night, sweet ones,
as you head into the dark.

Oyasuminasai—wishing
you restful sleep, as they
say in Japan.

Buenas noches to your
yawn, to your mind
curling around itself
readying for rest.

Buonanotte, whisper
Italians, as your
lashes kiss each other
and settle into sleep.

Oíche mhaith,
they say in Ireland, as
you try to wrangle your
tongue around it:
eee-ha wah

Or, as they say in Jamaica,
Gud nite, boonoonoonoos,
darling one,

Gud nite.

Some people like to build boats in the basement.
I like to do things to food.
—Julia Child

Bless me, Julia, for I have stepped
again into the kitchen where I have
few natural gifts,

and though I am not tackling any
of your greatest hits (still working
up the nerve to attempt

your French onion soup), I have,
in recent weeks, made five batches
of custard, and dazzled the man

in my life by showing up in his
kitchen with ingredients chopped
and ready to sizzle in the wok

for chicken stir-fry. Forgive my pride
in carrying off this simple meal
reasonably well (the chopped

Brussels sprouts were a nice touch,
if I do say so myself), but I count this,
along with my friend Lisa’s split pea

soup that my mother loved in winter
and my grandmother’s brownies—
ideally not consumed together—

as one of a handful of kitchen
accomplishments (besides
opening umpteen cat food cans

over many decades). You who
dropped a whole turkey on the floor
(“well, that didn’t go very well”)

and picked it up and kept going
on live television remind me
that food failures happen,

that we laugh and start again.
And if I keep this up, I might
get brave enough to try your

Quiche Lorraine, the secret
of which, you said, was cream
in the custard, and, oh, Julia,

custard I can do.

All this light on Easter,
as so many wish for
and don’t have,

along with warmth
and tenderness and
blossoming things.

But hope, even under
a waning gibbous moon, 🌖
is also given this day,

every day, really,
to all beings everywhere,
not least, dear one,

from me to you.