Güd wrtr

Most mornings, when he can find
the right kind of driftwood,
Dennis builds two sculptures to love.

One, farther south on the point, reads
ALOHA.

Today, as I begin my walk, I see him
looking around on sand washed clean
by the night tide for something
I can’t discern. People hunt for every
manner of treasure on the beach.

But half an hour later, as I return,
I see that today he has spelled out
LOVE.

He’s having a little trouble with the vertical
piece of the L, trying to fix the wobble.
I watch him search for a different piece
of brokenness, then, with that slender stick,
dig a smaller hole in the sand. Surveying
his art with the eye of a practiced pro,
he places a thicker section horizontally
against the other, and the tall piece,
well rooted, stands firm.

I take a photo of as he finishes, ask his name,
offer to take his photo with his sculpture,
which he shyly accepts.

“I don’t have pictures of myself with them,”
Dennis says, “but sometimes I hang around
and watch other people take pictures
of themselves. They pose one at a time
or together. Sometimes they kiss.”

“Good job,” I say, and he grins, caught
in the act of public art, but not unhappy
about it.

I begin my walk down the dirt road
to our hut. Halfway there, I hear a
whirring behind me. Here comes
Dennis on his electric skateboard.

“Have a good day!” he says, whooshing by.
“You, too!” I call.

And after that, how can I not?

We awaken on a Monday to find that
the power in our little hut near the sea
has vanished. This happens, we know,
having been here many times. But,
awake early for me, I pull on my suit
and flip flops and head to the beach.

The surf is up; there will be no
swimming today. But that’s not
why I’m here.

Once I shuck the footwear and my feet
meet sand, I find myself under a sky
bisected with white fluffy clouds
as well as a swath of gray—a promise
of droplets at any moment. When they
come, as I stand ankle deep in warm
ocean, gazing toward the big mountain,
a surprise:

The sun breaks through just enough
to reveal a large honu close to shore
paddling hard, a large brown saucer
bobbing through earnest swells
that keep pushing him backward.

Up to my calves in frothing waves,
I watch this ancestor of the sea until
clouds again swallow the sun,
water morphing into murky marine
green tinged with navy.

The honu disappears.

I can’t say why my spirits rise
when I see a sea turtle’s head
periscope through waves,
how, even when he vanishes,
and I’m powerless to make him
reappear, I hold onto the notion
that he is still out there
somewhere, somewhere.

All I can do is wait, trust in
that constancy of presence,
that the spirit of the ancestors
is never far away, knowing
that, whether I’m here
to see him or not,
he will pop up again.

(for Mom and Donna from Jan on Kauai)

•••

Deep peace of the running wave to you
Deep peace of the flowing air to you
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you
Deep peace of the shining stars to you
Deep peace of the gentle night to you
Moon and stars pour their healing light on you…

—from “A Gaelic Blessing,” choral arrangement
by John Rutter, 1978

•••

Now I walk in the running wave
as it sweeps my ankles,

warm ocean embracing my calves,
as flowing air sends droplets

to dot my face, as my bare feet
sink into sand, while overhead

the universe prepares its nightly
sky show over the Pacific—

moon two days past full against
a sparkling backdrop of stars,

plus Saturn, Jupiter and Mars,
winking jewels in the dark.

All this I send across the sea,
deep peace of this place to you,

mother and sister who made me—
mahalo nui loa—

me.

•••

Words from William Sharp’s 1895 novel,
“The Dominion of Dreams: Under the Dark Star”

You can hear the Cambridge Singers perform “Deep Peace” here.

Sometimes we must sacrife
a few letters for love,

especially when we declare it
so publicly, as if, by withholding

a vowel and an oh-so-important
consonant, we have made it clear

to the world—if not our beloved—
that we have given up, renounced,

something, ideally, for them.
Or that we, in our zeal to advance

a runner to a base, relinquished
our place to someone else.

We took on the duties of another
in kindness as they have done for us.

We have no idea if we get points
for such selfless action—

or if there are points at all.
That’s not the point.

The point is to put it out there,
proudly, on a wall, if you like,

spelled as best you can,
your self sacrif(ic)e for love,

and leave it for others to
puzzle out what it means.

You know. You’ve sacrifed.
And we love you for it.

Another shitty day
On JanJan’s vacay.

—Dick Schmidt

•••

In case you can’t tell, he’s kidding… We’ve just finished a terrific first week on Kauai and are now on the lovely north shore, which feels like home to us. (Mahalo, Toni Martin… and Samson!)

First, resist the urge for light.

Step from memory across the grass
to the henhouse where the girls sleep
on their perches as if they’ve downed
a few strawberry margaritas.

Tiptoe as you move close to a snoring hen.
Pin her wings gently to her sides,
picking up her fluffy self that weighs
next to nothing, as you shift
her from one perch to another.

Chickens can’t see in the dark.

You’ve been taught to fear what you can’t see,
but darkness doesn’t always mean danger.

Look up—stars populate
the heavens, even when they seem absent.
Meteors streak the night with their
momentary brilliance.

Once relocated, a sleepy hen might squawk
but will soon settle into her new spot.
Before the next sundown she will
return to her new indentation, one
she will recognize by smell, by feel,

settling into the imprint that is hers
where, before rising, she will nest
a pearlescent oval gift for you,
slick and gleaming,
radiant in this new day.

He’s 30 feet up, a spike
on the bottom of each boot
plunged into the slender
trunk curving toward

the ocean, a yellow umbilical
cord around his middle
binding him to this
elder statesman.

A slender U, the tree
trimmer bends like a bow,
intently studying, like any
good sculptor, what needs

to be removed to reveal
the essence of palm.
The coconuts must go,
of course, this being

a public area where
clueless tourists wander.
At any moment clumps
of perfectly good nuts

can fall with a whump!
to the grass below. I
watch from a respectful
distance, my neck craned,

as the sculptor releases
a frond, then the machete,
which bounces, then dangles
from a rope around

his waist like a forgotten
appendage. How must
it feel to shape a living
being at such a height?

How to know what to
take and what to leave?
What does it mean
to spend years in

such precarious
circumstances, caring
for long-lived elders,
keeping them tidy,

checking to make
sure that they have
what they need—
at least for now?

There are two worlds: the world that we can measure with line and rule,
and the world we feel with our hearts and imagination.

—Leigh Hunt

•••

In this place,
this new place,

not new at all,
not even to you

who have immersed
yourself in its loveliness

time and again, you sit
in the dark listening to

a new day germinating
outside the window,

seeping in like the gradual
light beginning to transform

the black jungle outside into
one-hundred-forty-two shades

of green, wildness touching
the edges of humanity where

roosters emphatically announce
the day amid doves’ gentle coos

dit-dit, dit-dit-dit-ing and

competing with the insistent
tweets of birds you can’t see.

The daily predawn counterpoint
swirls overhead as early traffic

swooshes by, not unlike waves
smashing into the sea wall

across the road, which you
cannot hear for all the wingéd

racket drenching your ears,
pulling you into a day in this

world that feels like home,
though it will never be

truly yours—you visitor
on this earth that bore you

and has borne you, giving
your radiant attention to music

created in this moment that,
like a good jazz solo,

will never sound precisely
this way again.

•••

With thanks to poet Marie Howe for an inspiring master class on Kauai.

We lose the people we love we become poets. We fight battles
no one knows about, we use the blood to write poetry.

—“Loss,” Xara Hlupekile, Malawian poet

•••

You see these hands, the ones attached
to the ends of your wrists?

Here are mine. And over there, hers.
And a ways away, his. Oh, and look—

there’s theirs, too. Each pair as unique
as a wave curl before it collapses,

salty, spent and foamy, at our feet. We lose
what we love. We lose those we love.

We lose. But turn these palms up to face
our faces, and look—your creases contain

the universe; they are made from starstuff.
Our lifelines hold radiant energy, the very

electromagnetic waves that have traveled
through space. That’s light embodied

in our palms, transmitted through fingers,
appearing as letters that each of us

can turn into words, into lines, into poems.
We are all poets/dancers/painters/lovers

studded with consciousness, embedded with
kindness. We hold mystic chords of memory,

as Lincoln said, the better angels of our nature.
And as we fight battles only we can see,

let our very blood bubbling with words
write poems that only we can scribe

onto our little patch of earth where each
of us walks or wheels or stumbles or

is carried. Truly, we are all carried.
As the river is carried, as birds are, aloft.

Look—I see the whole Earth cradled
in your palm. You hold the planet

as the Earth holds the One,
which is EveryOne.

Which is you, every you.
Which is me, every me.

(Poipu Beach, Kauai)

Late afternoons they lumber
out of the sea, their powerful
front legs leaving tire tracks

in the soft sand, to heave
themselves up and out of their
world into ours for a time.

Fifty, seventy, eighty green
sea turtles will arrive one
by one, these solitary

marine reptiles sleeping in
silence, a landed flotilla basking
in companionable proximity—

the 50th state the only place
in the world where honu
do this. No one knows why.

That mystery is what draws
people like us to the beach
before the sun makes its

descent. Hundreds of humans
standing a respectful distance
from boulder-sized beings

terribly hampered by gravity
and weight on land, so graceful
in the sea—the very picture

of peace, as are we gathered
in a giant arc around them,
gentled by the sight of such

compatibility, not a shred
of conflict among the throng,
only wonderment, as we

gaze at them with the fondness
of parents looking at sleeping
babies, as we wait for the day’s

last light to slowly disappear,
so that we, too, can eventually
make our way to our rest.