An Evening on The Porch
Fireflies, go dancing,
a tune when no one’s watching.
summer’s dusk, magic.
Delicious is dangling ‘hot feet in a cool pool ~ ocean within earshot,
First sips of a thick banana coconut shake at Kilauea’s Banana Joe’s,
Delicious is landing in Lihue, off with mainland clothes
on with dakine island shift & bamboo slippers,
Hamura’s here we come ~ deeeeeeeelicious is lilikoi chiffon pie
Walk in, screen door slam, worn wood threshold, seat at counter same as before,
“Aah, back for more, you know da kine, yeah Lilikoi!”
Delicious is ‘talk story’ ~ long time, slow time, hammock swing island time, take time eat pie time talk s’more story
Hamura gal shouts out, “Gev um hana hou (more) not pau (finished) already!”
“Yeah Bro, so ‘ono’ (delicious) don’t wanna get momona (fat) though,”
“No Bro, you no momona (fat) just good you be home . . .”
Kauai, same EZ, same ‘ono’ dat delicious da kine sweet island way . . .
Switchgrass and sedge, tall fescue, river cane–
these gracious grasses lie underfoot
most of the time. We used to bale them
in Frosted Wheat circles–climbed them as kids,
the old gods of our hazy childhood.
For Whitman,
the grass was mystic. Symbol of a great rechurning–a song
that only he knew the words to. Picture him in DC
nursing the wounded with letters and licorice.
Queer thoughts sprout like grass in the dark.
Green man, he knew too well that one day
the dirt would too be his home.
Someone I knew didn’t think they’d ever die–
they’d wound up in the grass and were saved
a couple times–night spinning around them
like only wild young nights can blur young wild.
We’d stood together on patchy graveyard grass
in the rain. I guess Whitman is right–that it circles
round again. When my friend passed, I didn’t cry
to God exactly. I could not know their reasoning,
though I disagreed.
Oh Walt Whitman, the grass can be–
it is so damn green–
each leaf its own little sort of hallelujah.
I heard something once-
“No one has a firmer hold on you
than a person who doesn’t want you,
but will not let you go”
And I was happy to know
That I’m not experiencing that alone
But what I can’t help but wonder
Is why won’t they let go?
Everytime I feel like I’ve let go
They wrap their words around me and pull me back
Everytime I ask if they want more
They’ll look at me like I’m crazy
Everytime I say I’m done
My phone will ring
And I know, I know
I should block them, delete them,
Forget them
But it’s easier said than done
I just need you to let me let you go
i’ve been taking lots of pictures of my cat the past couple of days
my dolce my sweet orange & cream creature that perches
in place like a delicate tiny lion at all times
a calm chattering one at that emerald eyes intense
& always keen to peer at me in judgement or longing or
impatience due to her quick & hearty hunger.
this chapter of motherhood is new plants to a biting being
whose made herself comfortable quickly siting in place
picturesque & content like she’s always belonged
inside these walls
First lightning bug
on a June evening
Flitting among the trees
Evokes memories of
Of my mountain home
surrounded by oaks and maples.
No need for strings
of tiny electric lights.
Summer evenings were aglow
with hundreds of luminous
fireflies sparkling amid
leafy green canopies,
accompanied by symphonies
of spring peepers,
the distant call of whippoorwills
in the underbrush.
Cool evening breezes
perfumed with mimosa blossoms –
Peace was all around me.
6/7/2024
KW
The dandelion in the backyard was still asleep this morning
When I looked out the downstairs window
I stretched my legs and opened the screen door
As the dogs ran to investigate if anything had changed since last night
A bowl of cereal then a drive to the thrift store
This curvy road is full of green grass and hills
I stutter in lyrics and catch my daydreams
Before they drive the car
And I’m sick with that bug of travelin’
That feeling of smallness that I crave
Keeps the car in line
The eyes full of water
And the gut overflowing like a gutter full of leaves
