Huaka’i Pō

Sometimes known as death dealers, these little
people of old marched through our Moloka’i
living room one night, nearly thirty years ago;

My own father was visiting, as he rarely did,
forced into life in the moment after receiving
a prostate cancer diagnosis; hopped a flight
to the islands, Pearl Harbor reunion after the war,
had not visited since, not that one could call
wartime a vacation, but it is how so many
young men viewed Paradise, wretched paradox
that it was;

A longtime alcoholic, he thought he was having
delusional visions, waking up to footsteps,
opening groggy eyes to many small figures marching
through our tiny house; he did not cross them,
nor did he likely look any in the eye, both forbidden
or face the consequences; the gripping fear
of the unknown might have been this man’s
one dread, eschewing any type of spirituality,
having been abused by priests as a young orphan;

It is said in Hawaiian folklore that a person should
not live in a house where doors line up, and this
small house in Japanese camp from pineapple
plantation days bore out that history, evident
as we scrubbed obscenities off walls before painting,
as if somehow a surface renewal might soften
the harshness of its history;

We never saw them, Chris and I, though we might have
appreciated the vision; instead, the disbeliever
among us witnessed what many relegate to myth,
and dad went on to live many years afterward, cancer
in remission; it was a legacy of abuse he could not escape,
and died, some might say, of a broken heart.

Moloka’i footsteps

Cosmos

The world cries out for Mother;
fast food and high heels can
never get us back to hands
in earth, in soil, rich firmament
above, dark umber below; heads
in a clear azure sky and feet
on the goodness of ground;

On the ground we may feel,
can sense a pulsing heartbeat,
the oneness with all; there is
no disconnection, sky from soil,
tree from root, sentient beings
one from another, we all crave
nurture, a lasting sustenance;

We may do others a disservice
when expecting them to stand in
for the Elements, arms seem to
come up empty every time; people
leave our lives, everything changes,
so much loss and toward what end?

Meanwhile as long as we draw each
necessary breath, this dependence
automatic, the Sacred awaits our
intentional participation
in this ecstatic cosmic dance.

All photos ©2019, Bela Johnson

Hold Fast

Hold onto the preciousness of this day, squeeze it
until dawn breaks, fanning out like silvery wings
of a hawk circling overhead, spreading a watercolor
morning across misty skies, eggs cracked into creamy
melted butter in a hot silvery pan;

Hold fast, wind sweeping across undulating fields,
cracking dead limbs from ancient trees, ruffling
whitecaps in this ever-changing oceanic landscape;

Drop anchor, stay awhile with the presence,
the in-draw of breath, the outflowing currents
of busy-ness, postulations, abstractions, suspicions
cast away now, before they clinch and claw
at the treasured peace of bliss held in the moment,
for this, as we make it, this intentional pause
stretches into constellations of ticking time;
We can choose. This is our life.

Parenthetical

Sitting still always an option, gazing
at mellow reflections, morning light
on old fir flooring burnished
by the feet of generations;
yet compelled, ever coaxed
out of doors and into an emerald
wonderland punctuated by floral
scents and hues, exuberant birdsong,
busy-ness of others dulled down
into static distance;

Staying with never the issue,
languishing in quiet unfamiliarity,
pausing beyond what is known
to drink in nature’s bounty, forest
or field, oceans or rivers streaming
along with time, alternatively
stretching and restricting, lungs
of creation drawing in sky,
expelling molten earth now
onto seashore rent by surf,
cooling waters receiving,
transforming, amending,
yet perpetually flowing.

Sanctuary

Shower trees quiver blossoms
of shell pink or flaxen yellow
with ivory struck through, sucking
up abundant rainwater, tips a brand
new green in these late spring days;
shooting ever upward, obscuring,
as originally planned, any traces
of power lines stretched between
poles fashioned from dead relations
coated in creosote, convenient
for humans more dependent,
though little they might remember,
on the lilting shade provided
in the increase of summer heat,
stretched sideways now into spring
and fall, escalating;

I planted them all in the half-acre
lawn claimed as home, knowing
how they would reduce exposure
to relentless subtropical sunlight,
dappled respite for fragrant cattleya
and glossy-leafed anthuriums,
while wing-weary fliers seek shelter
and water untinged with roadside
poisons meant to choke back
jungle vegetation that simply
cannot be contained, conditions
being prime for proliferation.

All photos ©2019, Bela Johnson

 

No Vanity

There is green, and then there is the delicate
curled chartreuse ribs of a fern frond
as sunlight trips fantastic through the rhythm
and hum of a late afternoon, busiest time of day
for folding in fragments of lost time in preparation
for the long shadows of impending nightfall;

Meanwhile peachy colored bell-shaped blossoms
drop from angel trumpet trees, hibiscus hybrids
twist tight their once-riotous display and do
not contemplate whether enough eyes
have witnessed the shade or texture of what has,
for them, taken not inconsiderable time and effort
to pull together for all who would witness,
setting the stage for a repeat performance
on tomorrows yet to come, bold beauties
on parade, regardless.

Coast

When the silver spool of dawn unravels
in languorous wisps, as clouds unfurl low
and wide in the overhead sky, my gaze sweeps
broadly and what I behold is the artist’s palette
come to life, a masterpiece with every dawning
and dusky day while the earth spins slowly
on her axis, oceans holding fast to the anchor
of gravity, fathoms of depth containing secrets
they intend to keep for eternity, horizon bending
at the ends, not level as many presume;

Soon a stark light prevails, flattens out,
shadows vanish as too-bright colors define
this segment of day, creatures move or retreat
as befits patterns held by generations of their kind,
minutes tick somewhere in cities and towns,
bells toll, hands of giant timepieces click into place
ticking time with the pace of that frantic life,
while elsewhere the sleek white neck of a swan
settles into its downy shoulders to paddle serenely
around the cool mossy waters of a still,
reflective pond.

Photos ©Bela Johnson

Loving the World

My Instagram post this morning quoted Mary Oliver, “My work is loving the world.”

Despite what the day brings, and sometimes it seems overwhelming, could there be anything more meaningful? When the floor slips out from under my feet and I fall like Alice down the rabbit hole, I can be certain I will eventually land on solid ground. And it is this ground of my existence I trust.

Enjoy these sunrise photos I took of Pololu Valley. Aloha. Be well.

Glimpse

Shards of light splinter azure skies piercing grey
and white veils hung over days we have grown
accustomed to, days drowned in deluges of drenching
rain once sent to nourish, now stripping shrubs
and flowers of nutrients washed deep asunder;

One tree standing stark and brittle, cut
down in last week’s pruning while others thrive,
throwing verdant foliage out as springtime winds
casually whirl them down to boggy soil, carpeted
now with thick mulch meant to soak up excess
in anticipation of summer heat yet to come,
as it will, eventually;

Changing climate brings to mind old plantation
days, hard labor cutting cane, hacking through
jungle-thick mountain forests, knee-deep in mud,
to construct miles of irrigation ditches, flumes
and sluiceways now used recreationally, history
fading for all but a few lingering elders
whose scattered memories find their niche
in the rolling wheel of apocryphal time.

All photos ©Bela Johnson

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RITUAL

I ask first the trees, honoring the foliage
that shades fragile skin, Will you take root
in my heart?

I ask the black and gold glittering sands,
Will you accept the imprint of my passing?

I ask the ocean, placing palms and soles
upon shores cooled by your blessing,
Can you cleanse away the temporal madness
enjoining me to a fractured humanity?

I ask the pali, jutting purposefully out
and over the sea, What shall I sacrifice
to your astounding beauty so that you might
endure all that is yet to come?

I sit in wonder and my spirit is calmed,
as the breeze gently enfolds her daughter,
whispering, whispering:

This is all: you are my eyes and ears;
you feel our is-ness, your hand records
our passing, awakening others who might,
in their own time, and in their way, return
to us pure and whole and healed.

all images © 2019 Bela Johnson