by

Confluence

Life flow.

That of many rivers.

Allegheny Urubamba Waiakeakua

all aglow

in ribbons as you pan away.

Parallel streams diverging,

trickling into the possibility

that the lives you never lead

or the moments believed

inconsequential,

hold headwaters in dreams

before seeping into reality.

You question the meaning

of these wayward threads,

frayed at the ends

of transit lines.

Climbing into the hills of

San Francisco

to get a bird’s eye view

of what lay ahead

beneath a blanket of fog

and a sleeping bag,

the confluence

of gypsy lives entwined

and enshrined in writing.

Now swirling through flashbacks,

falling through the cracks

of career paths,

enduring in the diary of memory,

a motion

that held a kind of purity.

The fragility of a leaf

pulled west by destiny

disguised in

youthful invicibility

subject to chance and illusion,

the varietable trades

that begin and end

with Hawaii.

2.

There’s a certain resignation

to being surrounded on all sides.

Whether in city

or in wilderness,

domesticity or bitterness,

the urge to wander remains

hemmed in by love,

bound in its chains.

Oceans apart,

we exist with kind of

captivity of the heart

at the confluence of

kindness and cruelty,

the silent language

that breathes life into creativity,

flowing to black point by morning

beneath the surfaces of mystery,

like a current lending

its lighter shade to the way forward.

In time we’ll overlap

in the dark legacy

of what it leaves behind.

Hawaii,

a soft fabric over

an ancient collapse,

a confluence

of inner landscapes and

overgrown paths.

You come as outcast

to the brackish waters

of the estuary

seeking sustenance,

mutual recognition

in the silent coalescence

of contrast.

The futility of fully letting go,

that wry shadow of control

twists into the unexpected

that exists in acceptance,

while the sky holds every

cloud without judgement.

We’ll cling here to this ridgeline

before drifting away.

by

Witness

I have tried to understand

what resides

under the surface.

Mute, silent,

giving form to darkness

across the

straits between us.

The light of the beacon

briefly touches your edges

and the waves

that lap the shore

take on an eerie silence.

For a moment the sea flattens

and all is rendered still.

In this calm

precursor to violence,

the veneer is stripped away,

laying bare the illusion

that we are safely out of reach

of these forces

governing from beneath.

Attraction, passion

unresolved urgency

building like magma

in an ancient culdera

until the walls collapse

and it is no longer held together.

It happened in a flash,

the ashen sky

goes from light to black,

the picture fades

disassociates

in a cracked mirror

that portends disaster.

Standing unsteady

on the edge of this crater,

peering into the abyss

of the frenzied future

full of

pyroclastic laughter and

spewing lava

into the night

that receives it

like a distorted theater.

In the aftermath of

overlapping limbs,

we’ll leave footprints in ash

for future winds.

Poised on the precipice

of a passing moment,

the keeper of light

casts it like a net

to salvage what’s adrift,

reeling in dawn

when the mist lifts

and everything is gone,

swept away

by the unfathomable wave

of life ephemeral

safety mutable,

all structure

so quickly reduced to rubble.

From the explosion heard

at the far corners of the earth

comes an all consuming

cry of uncertainty,

hitched against a blood red sky.

As if in essence,

the face of human frailty

witnessed

screaming in the strange glow

for years to come.

Clawing at the hills,

climbing on top of each other

to escape destiny,

that personal Krakatoa

that rises like a seed from within.

This faceless silhouette,

a hulking specter of fear,

all can find it there,

convinced it takes

in an instant

everything that is held dear.

I have tried to understand

what resides at the heart of this,

holding a candle to it,

mute, silent,

bubbling under the surface

until it gives vent

to incomprehensible darkness.

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Emptiness

I’ve searched every corner

Scoured every inch of Tantalus.

Through each gap

a renewed hope,

until road’s end

strung along on its rope

that becomes

empty and slack when

you have nothing to attach.

I’ve searched every contour

And in the depths of your eyes,

a mirror of my own,

it’s the collective alone

and those dense trails,

wet with tears

briefly glimmer

in the reflective pools

shared with grief.

Another night comes and goes.

Get some sleep.

Cry streams to

relieve the empty beds

cutting like a swarth

through a forest of loss.

Toss and turn

the ghost to shadow

and the familiar on its head.

The sounds and scents

Inseparable from an event

I never witnessed,

yet chained to the motion

to fill what is missing.

A heart ripped away

leaves a crack in its absence

for the wind to dance through.

It howls from afar,

no longer carefree and calm

or caressing the palms

but losing its bearings

and scattering in all directions.

All trails lead out from Pauoa Flats.

Experience

left no prints, drew no maps

from any previous collapse

of what held everything together.

There’s a mist that covers the

thoughts that go hollow,

placing hope in this limbo,

a heart in this darkness

like a candle left in a window

of wavering trees.

Manic is the wind

when it is the only one answering

the calling of her name.

You’re given no sense of

how long she’ll wander

on the edges of wilderness

where the smear of wet paper

hides tears

in the stories we tell each other,

wondering and waiting

never knowing

how the narrative ends.

There was no resolution

when the poet Lew Welch

disappeared into the forest

to never to be seen again.

Sometimes you hold on to the memory

of small gestures

to temper all that is uncertain.

I think of holding

my grandfather’s hand

shortly before his final curtain.

Everything went dark

but with the luxury of preparation.

Here mystery was revealed

as a brief flash across our path

and we’re left chasing change.

The loss of control,

a cruel kind of surrender

the way movement

worked restlessness into serenity.

The routines were always

the illusion of control anyway,

the universe had other ideas.

Absence is one side of emptiness,

openness the other.

A blank state is the uncluttered

ways to receive

a thread, a lifeline,

a tiny light in the forest

when searching

beneath an unrelenting canopy.

Shreds of hope

like trails of food left lonely

with the passing of time

and the realization

we may never know.

So we let it go.

When it comes to pass there’s

no other choice.

I’ve searched every corner,

every inch of Tantalus

scoured every crevasse

finding only emptiness and

the awareness that we were

just a temporary space

for something whose spirit

is as wild and as free as our own,

whose true nature is to roam

and to stray unencumbered

into the widening void.

We think of her out there

chasing clouds

into the space

she once occupied

that we are now free to fill with love.

by

There is more

There is more than just fear

to the atmosphere

hanging like sheets

over the teeming streets

of humanity

squeezed to the fringes

in defeat.

There is more to the rain

than low lying clouds

and the imagination

that clings to the brain

overlapping illusion with

wet whispers of transformation.

Storm fronts disperse to calm,

clear currents through a muddied stream.

Sunlight on the surface is relief,

a glittering moment

amongst the black speckled reef,

a brief and feverish respite

before life slides into the deep.

There’s more to the leaves

as the momentum of the wind heaves

colors at the immortality of the sea.

Clinging to the past

amidst broken debris,

like a raft in this journey

to keep from sinking.

There is more to this piano

than the melancholy keys

you wept for the

loss of childhood and

squandered memories.

It is this feeling that pushes the art

in the ceilingless cathedral of the heart.

Is nothing holy?

Are there not vast kingdoms

and dreamscapes to the clouds?

There is more,

yet ask it for nothing.

Not for time

Nor experiences

to have meaning or rhyme

only surrender,

moments distilled

into a fine hourglass sand

collapsing

into the sea

from the ground where you stand

words giving wings

to the butterflies

innocently deciphering

beauty

in everything transitory.

Holding on and then letting go,

all of its nature

pulled on silver strings

of wind beckoning

unseen hands

to dance with the swallows,

to figure eight

and illustrate

that there is more

than just control

under this sky.

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First light

I sought renewal

disguised as the moon

and the first light that approached

the Chinese cemetery

still cloaked in darkness.

The old weathered stone wall

was an intermediary

between

two converging worlds.

The glow of the lichen,

particularly heightened

at this hour,

harbored all of the chi

and the residual energy of

each nocturnal moment

strung together

through the contours of a dream.

Like a mist

that gently spills

over the ridge,

it fills consciousness

with new definition

as dawn is

slowly drawn

up and down it’s width.

On ancient pathways,

shadows were depositories

for the dark to receive it.

Receding backwards

like pools

in a ghostly mirage

fleeting

beneath trees and hedges,

all along the

haphazard edges

of branches,

the moon balanced

on the delicate parchment

of your glances.

In the cloud’s white garments

you were

lost to enchantment,

a wayward correspondent

whom night after night

is misshapen by flight.

Features once full

now waning

leaving

fragments and partially remaining

for the senses to lift it

like a morning incense.

From an altar

Where tension and fear go

up in smoke,

you’re attentive to the falling leaves

and the plumeria

once the night broke.

The beads of dew

on each blade of grass,

the sweat and the

steps that trespass

on hallowed ground

are the next link

in a fine illuminated web

from the roots to the graves

and with the respect

that connects

to all that came before

and all that is to come.

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The Scattered Dossier

Whatever happened to my good friend Bob?

I see his face in a train window

but soon it is gone,

replaced by my own.

In the dark of a tunnel,

on a platform alone

time

stretched out like a rift

in a landscape

seen from above.

Carved by rail and by road,

the distances between

all of the experiences you’ll fold

into the past

abstract

that’s kept closed.

The way the free flow of letters

finds boxes and

undeveloped film is

condemned to canisters,

the frozen faces and

forgotten moments

pendulous as icicles

hardened by the many winters

between them.

It begins to thaw again

waterfalls of recall

trailing off to no end.

Defying horizons

enduring silence

indifference

scorched earth and resentment.

They’ll stay in touch with land

amid oceans vast and wide

indistinguishable from the sky.

Days fade to darkened cabins,

the setting sun’s last rays

and the glint of its passion plays

the length of the rails

as it passes Elko.

Trading action for reflection

entranced in solitude

and its grinding punctuation.

Unencumbered distance and

the stillness of mountains

outlined in a glacial lake.

From Salem’s

deep ancestral bones

to the rusted pylons and ballast stones

that have transformed

to coral in the glimmering shade.

Another hour melts away.

Another myriad harbor

to lose track of days.

Soon all bearings are gone.

Fractured into multiple screen

interaction and the distance

that increases by subtraction,

for we are no longer the same

individuals within the machine.

Trapped and pressed,

relationships built over years

become reduced to text,

experiences staked against

impermanence.

You look to see if they remain,

scrawl in an archive,

pictures in a mainframe,

a dossier in

the desert wind,

the perfect image

of your scattered friends.

I think of Bob as I look through this arid lens

wondering if I’ll see him again?

Over those hills like a tall shadow

with a shattered watch and

the tattered arrow

divined from clouds

pointing the way.

Restless, dreaming,

along the banks of the sea of Galilee,

he disappears deeper

into his own movie.

One of many

motion pictures

on a moving train,

whose windows

look back 15 , 20 years

Into an unrecognizable

face disappearing

into the breath of a Frisco fog.

You used to scratch

some words of freedom there,

condense some belief in its longevity

avoiding dead end

apparitions lacking in

sincerity.

There in the suffering of pain to come,

in the illusion of loss

comes an appreciation for the friends

on that train that never ends.

Some remain lodged in their distant yards

some never still for long

journey on.

May we cross tracks again

under wide open skies

beyond these hardened walls of memory.

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Hinting at the Immensity

As the spirit wanders

into the shadow of mountains

among the ancient and uncluttered things,

It gathers mana,

the essential energy

to recycle through dreams

the hidden identity

of clouds

the images

partially formed and unique

to this vantage point

of the high peaks,

Shandoka, Konahuinui.

given a brief glimpse

of their immensity.

The plot thickens

as the clouds congregate

with subconscious clues

as in a Fellini,

meaning is gleaned slowly,

through light and dream sequences

weaved into the unfolding story.

On the banyan veranda

an idea begins from a single tree.

From the roots, branching out

re-rooting,

breaking through the concrete

with the immaterial

call and response echoes

from discreet

recesses of inspiration.

The path is transforming

as you pass

between gates, beneath eaves

cautiously

beginning again

from under this immense canopy.

On the far end of the forest of chaos

there is a serenity,

a place of refuge

along the southern coast.

Beyond the smoke of fear and negativity

there is always fire.

Sure that the life you built is burning,

all the travel and the domesticity

still affirming

what the other is missing,

a craft that takes in water

usually amounts to the same mirror

glistening in the disorder.

An ocean for an image

that barely lasts beyond

shards of light and misshapen glass.

A grey and windswept beach

for dawn to teach

that a moment’s beauty is a brief

augury

pinpointing the identity

of a fading picture, a memory,

a paper moon teetering halfway

over the horizon of creativity.

It is like a parachute

circling slowly

into the depths

of what is known and quickly unknown.

Absorbed

by the maelstrom

of streams and all things

converging.

In the liquid glimmer , a mere ripple.

Who sees its final plunge

spread eagled and with luminous intensity?

Before being sealed over

by the sea and it’s unfathomable

immensity.

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Canine Interludes

After the record spins

and the music blends into

the sound of engines

on University and King,

not long after dinner

when the apartments are all a flicker

and tv lumination

sets the scene

for the evening ritual

of taking the dog downstairs

for a little business

between the hedges.

We’ll wait outside the door

for the floppy ears to appear,

a grey and sinewy form

half-asleep

and sauntering

along the 3rd floor landing

distinctly

scratching in cadence

to whatever song I had lingering,

or to a marching band’s

25 or 6 to 4 from a nearbye field.

It is soundtrack

to what is slowly revealed

by tentative paw and

voices encouraging

what is never in a hurry

to move along.

So slowly falling

into the tail wag of time,

becoming aware of the

transitions in the sky.

Aka is the light

that sits on the edges

before the moon emerges,

cloistered in chiaroscuro

descending

upon each blade of grass

to bend and sniff

each turned over leaf

and crumpled wrapper

that gleams of potential treasure

beneath the garden conifer.

It’s a brilliant time

of tropical night

as the scorching day

subsides to trades

pulling clouds

across like lampshades.

Each night in a different phase

of wax and wane,

moments

putting the future away,

bringing relief

from the sirens and the

screetch of

urban turbulence.

The endless litany

from those making a home

of the bus stop canopy

while the fumbling kickstarts

of a dying moped

means everything is amplified

when in close proximity.

Neighbors,

no longer strangers

with faces

of sullen work weeks on repeat,

blur into the next time we meet

on stairways and landings,

no longer just passing over

the textures and gestures of

restlessness to

what lies beneath,

the dog now leading

a routine refusal

to be anywhere else

but this grassy space,

to roll in place with abandon.

You’ll reach out to pet and grasp,

letting the leash go slack

until everything becomes relaxed

and the universe winks back

for an extended moment

that seems an eternity

unbroken from the last.

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The Many Ways To Return

1.

In nature

chaos and order

are one in the same

remembering

that spirit is never still.

It permeates with the softness

of wind against stone,

pulling spray like a bow

from the tops of waves

before letting go.

Thoughts on the future

abstractions of control

where the mind

tended lines

grow like gardens

over the peripheral,

blurring with the jungle’s

loss of visibility

and recurring rain

washing time away.

Through slow immersion

becoming aware

of the present,

of watching and being watched.

An Auku’u’, the night heron

draws you in

to its jeweled stare,

entranced

to the quiver of pools

from its overhanging branch

in patient perseverance

until a sudden movement

pierces the surface of

forests inside of forests.

2.

In Manoa

returning to the river

to find order

in the chaos.

The supple curves

and pendulous drops

oscillate

between thoughts

and their source.

Steps balanced on rocks

become

patterns in the

deliberate forms

of a miniature world

beneath the feet.

The smooth surface

and fleeting glance

where alchemy marries chance

and the unconscious cruelty

of machinery or glass

is given to a kind of

haphazard unity

when the valley replaces the city.

Lost in the maze of concrete beneath,

there’s no longer any outlet

for trapped energy

and stacked dwellings

hold little solitude or silence.

Tuning in to movement,

the knowledge

of subterranean streams,

returns even the streets

to the flow of cars,

like leaves

on their journey to oblivion.

It’s a passing moment, this living,

impermanent

dreamlike and akin

to a cat retreating

through a darkened doorway.

From the cave mouth’s

instruction

the ways are many,

taking everything,

burning brightly before death,

giving of oneself

returning

to one binding breath.

by

Guiding You Home

In the clefts of an inaccessible valley

In the myths of Kahalaopuna

that the wind

whispers through Aihualama,

the forest dances in answer

as the bamboo rubs together

the drums of sudden ritual

and quiet commencement

combing through

the low lying clouds

of stranded hair

spilling over shoulders.

Where the temporal is imbued

in a supernatural glow,

each rainbow

renders her legend legible

across the mossy script of pohaku,

in the gnarled and gargoyled trees

the stories are told through the roots,

channeling beauty and tragedy,

the courtship and the jealousy

each cliff and crevasse

contorted into the visage

of this land being formed

through the spoken word.

In the meandering of streams

thirsting to relieve

the sounds of the peaks,

birds murmur

like running water

under the canopy.

Looking up to a sliver of sky,

light cascades like coins

to the surface

eyes bubbling,

quivering as the rain

drives harder

into waiting craters

of ardor.

The sound

resonates through

the entire landscape,

outward, inner

nourishment received

like seeds

from the beaks of ancestors,

winged emissaries

from the intermediary spaces.

What remains of their essence

is accessed

like a hidden pool

you climbed to,

bathed in the

reddish hue of

late afternoon

quiescence,

you’ll wait in the

cathedral shadows

of forest columns

for flickering lights to

appear like candles

on the passages that

guide the spirits home.

Kahalaopuna, one of the many guises

of illumination and a moment’s silence

bridging this rift in time.