Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2022)

A life lived in abeyance

Only delivers returns

Of uncertainty.

repetition can be a gift

a necessity

a mantra

a prayer

a Bismillah, whispered

before eating

or traveling

the repetition of now

is the journey of a single step

one done in place

over and over and over and over and over

again

maybe it builds character

maybe it builds stamina

we hope at the very least

it will keep us alive

but even marathons end

and some end

in a different space

and a different place

from where they started

we soundtrack the journey

with tunes to muffle out

the sound of tears

we soundtrack this dance of existence,

once a dance of Life,

in place

a mind and heart full of memories

of summer nights

with fire flies darting

or swaying paper lanterns, enchanting those below

the momentary embrace in a darkened dance hall

the magic of Christmas markets

with the scent of sugared roasted nuts, sold in paper cones

and melodies of church bells ring

interwoven

with the tunes of the carousel

the bells swing to and fro

the painted horses rise, and fall

and rise

again

this heartache, slow motion

of the departed

of friends and places, homes lived in, trees cut down

languages once spoken, now forgotten

can’t be quelled

when memory of what was is compared to what is

is just too much

floating somewhere between a liturgy

and an elegy

my song drifts between hallelujah and a heavy-hearted dirge

but god is not responsible for the difference

or the deficit

or even the sigh, at the end of the day

we are all here: at the mercy of a hundred million things

starting with a virus, we cannot see

it brings us to heel

makes us submit

some comply and commit

taking refuge in safety, imagined and created

so many cannot admit: they feel small

afraid, confused

they deal in anger laced with arrogance,

passed off as being patriotic

instead of unethical and idiotic

they stamp their foot to say “NO!”

willing to die for the right to die

from something possibly avoidable, if they wore a mask

we have a new address in a new country of Confusionastan

people fight to be lone wolves

fight, against the common good

fight, against common sense

fight, to call others sheep

fight, for their right to party

and get a haircut

all the while strange fruit still hangs

from the poplar trees

blood at the root

blood on our hands

a nation drenched in the blood of descendants who had no choice to be here

and no choice, to simply Be

our nation

marinated in fears, the endocrine system fried from generations

of flight or flight

some, will freeze

others, will fawn

“ooh—can i touch your hair- it looks so cool”

and that someone says ‘Yes”, too afraid to express “No”

“But things are so much better now”

it’s pleaded, offered, cooed, asserted

Are they?

To speak one’s mind, to live one’s convictions, to bring Truth to Power

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

The First Amendment is what makes this nation Amazing.

But friends, we have been hijacked, and there’s no one in the cockpit

it’s the longest descent ever

the most protracted fall from Grace

this is slow motion cancer

it rots us from the inside out

no makeup can conceal it, no veneers can out-smile the filth

while an orange-hued snake oil salesman tries to convince us all

this metastatic growth is Fantastic!

the only way to Make America Great is for him to Leave.

But the damage has been done.

who needs clear air or sacred parks?

who needs to have allies respect us?

dictators now dig us, and laugh behind our backs

we are both the joke and the punchline

but did you hear the news?

WE’RE NUMBER ONE!

Number One in cases

Number One in deaths

Number One in lies

Number One in incompetence, confusion and chaos

who’d believe a green-balled virus with red spikey flowers could be all our demise?

Scientists called it Corona—cause they thought it looked like a crown

(racists, call it Wuhan flu)

Early on I joked we should simply offer a Ram, and get it over with

(Old Testament humor, I found, is an acquired taste)

But how I wished it were that easy

even though I can’t imagine feeling the beast’s racing heart beating

the cries, sounds and bleating

silenced

warm blood, on the knife and my hands

Instead on the altar I offer my dreams

plans of travel, reuniting with friends,

learning near and far, deepening my music within

convening with Yogis and Sufi alike

dancing round the yagura, every summer weekend

to remember ancestors of choice and by relation

celebrations—so many celebrations: Nowruz for Persian New Year

a birthday—another journey round the sun

every Sunday at church—and post-service chats with the cookie crew

night markets and museum runs

late nite bargains at Ross for things I didn’t know I needed

to share meals with friends

hug

and laugh

i give these in hopes for an exchange of safety, peace and health

but no response

no signal

no sign of a trade accepted

a barter agreeable

silence

between the deafening whys

woven with Kyrie Eleison

it isn’t an exaggeration to say

i might have been the most photographed girl in hawai’i

as a child, i might have thought in the world

and others might suggest ‘only mānoa’

but i am sure this isn’t so

i claim hawai‘i for the title

but i am specific with reason:

i was photographed the moment i left my mother’s womb

wailing from the slap

the obstetrician smiling, eye crinkling, peeking out from his mask

holding me up in his hands

my mother was a blonde, on that day

the top of her golden hair, at the bottom of the frame

radiant

even in black and white

there are baby pictures of me

looking up at mom

she, in an indigo yukata kimono robe

looking golden haired

and exhausted

pictures of me

a first bath

in a small baby-sized tub

a silver plaited brush, likely a gift

smoothing my baby hair

baby powder and baby shampoo

line the table

“no more tears”

a thousand pictures of me

taken

with chubby knees

wearing a floral tunic

and a diaper

in front of

a small table-top Christmas tree

festooned with tinsel and small lights

things that sparkled

things that were bright

and a thousand more pictures were taken

in front of our living room door, painted red

the chinese good luck color

over those early years pictures

a thousand photos taken

‘willow, smile for the camera’

with calabash aunties, and cousins

who were around more, in my youth

pictures with Easter baskets, filled with plastic green Easter grass

and bright plastic Easter eggs,

jellybeans, colorful, inside

and pictures of me

every Halloween

a thousand more photos

in front of the front door

please photograph me later- so i can leave early

and come home with my candy haul

inventoried, on the living room floor

all my incarnations

photographed

medieval princess, gypsy, Medusa

the witch who is wise

each costume, a clue to me, then, of who i was becoming

although some dress to be in disguise

on the 31st, on every single Halloween

i felt seen

‘willow, smile for the camera’

but there was need to ask for a smile

no need, to ask

even before i was eight

i begged to wear my hair in plaits

cause momma said “we have Indian blood”

i didn’t know the silt-filled mud

of the Chesapeake Bay

is where our Susquehannock

lived their way

in homes

where you didn’t knock to enter,

or to play

i didn’t know, that they were forced to roam

and that every colonizer

called them a different name

from what they called themselves

that this warrior tribe was unique

and not same

from surrounding tribes

but i know from experience, when ‘othered’

by others

you’re robbed of your voice, and even your name

they’ll write the history

and call the thief, winner, of a stolen game

a few years back

i was hungry to find out more

than just genealogy

from a paper tree

i had a suspicion the internet could be key

for unearthing beads of knowledge

to string on to a necklace

of fragmented stories

i typed in Susquehannock, but i felt no glee

instead of vanquished

our tribe now classified as

 

…vanished.

i am pained to say

what’s now typed and posted as fact

recounting the vile, extinguishing, and murderous acts

of youthful, drunken colonizers

wielding their ax

the Paxton boys finally had their way

swinging axes on the axis

where violence and hatred

meet

to decimate the peaceful ones

to leave less than one

and leave behind

only bloodied bodies and bloodied streets

the news made me sick.

the news makes me sick.

the news is sick.

i feel sick.

i am sickened, sickened by the news of then, now.

i am sickened, sickened by the news of now, now.

and again.

and again.

and again.

and every few years i return

to overturn

new digital stones

hoping for a different outcome

when does hope become delusion?

may i never find a solution

for my hopeful heart

dreaming of a different outcome

i pray my heart doesn’t get hard

i continue searching

in the digital play yard

rabbit holes of the general unknown

things we were not taught in school

things we were not taught in school

today i learned the other names

others called

who are called

the Susquahannock

the Huran called them Andastoerrhonon

the French called them Andaste,

the Dutch and Swedes called them Minquas

in Pennsylvania, (where I also have family),

the English (which we are)

called them the Conestoga,

a reference to where they lived

an attempt at the Pennsylvania Dutch (which we are) term

Kanastoge,

translating as “place of the immersed pole.”

Sasquesahanough, is a Algonquian-speaking tribes term

meaning “people at the falls.”

Susquahannock

(is not what they called themselves)

we don’t know what they called themselves.

No historical record exists.

years after he passed, she read his diaries

not the ones of his adult life, and their adulting spent together

but small leather-bound books

diaries, of his days as a youth

chronicling what we now call code switching

speaking sing song cantonese at home

and his days as an adolescent

attending Roosevelt School, once called “English college”

which taught “English Standard”

attendance and admission granted, via testing

these diaries, are what she thumbed through

read

privately and with devotion

like a believer with a worn copy of a family Bible

“Did you know your dad had a pet dog?”

she’s ask me, from across the living room

“No, I did not”, I’d reply.

and that, was that.

She’s drop small hints of reveals she felt were important:

the name of a best friend,

who his childhood crush was,

what double feature he saw, at the local cinema.

i felt uncomfortable with it all

reading what was intended to be private

reading it, without him here to grant permission

wondering, what did she feel she’d learn

about her husband

in these diaries of an 11 year old

years later, i recognize now, in dad’s absence:

it was the only time she even mentioned him

with wonder and curiosity

this boy who many years later

would become her husband

the father, of her children

and author

of her favorite books

i’m here to tell you, little one

it’s going to be o.k.

i’m here to tell you

the things you wanted to hear

i’m here to tell you, hapa girl

the things you needed to hear

i’m here to tell you

you’ll be misunderstood

but the ones you’ll admire

all are

i’m here to tell you

that it’s good you don’t mind hand-me downs

you’ll become a queen of thrifting

your discerning eye will know in a heartbeat

what’s wearable

salvageable

and precious

i’m here to to tell you

your need for clean and order

is not a disorder

but a a tool to cope and a skill

i’m here to tell you

the trouble you have in math class

won’t change the reality

you have great spacial abilities

and the capacity for logic

and if you take your time, you’ll be fine

i’m here to tell you, my butterfly

that there’s nothing wrong with being social

curious, aware and engaged

i’m here to tell you

you’ll be told you’re ‘too sensitive’

even mom will say it, to us, our whole life

that’s nonsense.

it’s marvelous to care about others

i’m here to tell you

that crying is a superpower

and yes, you can read the room

trust your gut.

and i’m here to tell you

no-one should ever force you to eat foods you are allergic to

your stomach, upset for years and decades

was a sign of stress

and i know, you were stressed

by being teased,

for second hand clothes,

misunderstood,

on a daily basis

troubled,

by others who weren’t as organized

dismissed in math class

due to gender, and not testing well

there’s nothing wrong, with needing more time

nothing wrong

with wanting patient teachers

nothing wrong

with wanting to understand the confusing

little one

i’m here to let you know

being social is a skill

being diplomatic is a gift

(but not at the expense of your dignity)

there will be those who won’t listen to you

those are not your people

dear little one

i’m here to tell you again

it’s going to be o.k.

i’m here to tell you

you’ll be misunderstood

but listen to your heart

listen to our heart

our heart

has guided us

this far

and remember, little one

it’s a gift, to ask questions

you’ll never lose this

even in the darkest hours

and those dark hours

become light, little one.

l.

the drive back from the old folks home never feels the same way twice

and it’s hard to put in words

what’s not really nice

but i won’t simply swallow simple silence, and stew

and i confess: i can’t help but think about

me, and you

what was, and what is

that the only guarantee of what will be

is an eventual exit

i hope it’s pain free, and somehow, welcomed

when it’s time

and in this eventual exit, i will take no comfort in

with your passing, it will be only another chapter

not the end

of a story i wished weren’t mine

because this family feud was nurtured

with the essence of deception

and rejection

i know this, in my bones, my blood,

my flesh and in my dreams,

this absolute truth.

ll.

every time i drive up the mountain,

into the mountain

and drive through the mountain

heading home

going home

to a home i made of my own

a home, made without you

i can’t help but think

at least once

“momma- i wish you took my advice”

and

“momma…i wish you took my advice”

i feel no better knowing now that you wish for it too

that you now know

that your humble, sad ‘arrangement’,

is nothing i’d ever do to you

not then-

after false and real evictions

not then-

after family theft

(don’t call it a threat or sticker fingers. larceny, is larceny).

not then-

after you tried to break me

smash me

trash me

and laugh at the aftermath

i wouldn’t do to you then, what is your now

ever.

lll.

i drive this car

my 15 year old car

up the mountain,

into the mountain

and through the mountain

a single tear

leaves

the corner of my eye

taking with it

the pride

of ‘holding it together’

a single tear becomes two

it’s such a beautiful day

not now

not yet

the day has only started and i don’t want to feel blue

but

two tears become three

because i know the only way to be free

is to feel

to weep

and be

three tears become four

four tears to unlock the door

to accept i’ve done what i can

and now i must focus on the road again

drive this car

up the mountain,

into the mountain

and over the mountain

heading home

going home

to a home i made of my own

a home, made without you

lV.

3 o’clock

i drove home 2 hours ago

my body is here

in a home i made of my own

a home, made without you

i listen to the birds outside

sing about their day

but my heart?

still, thinking of you

in the prison, with mint green walls and tropical floral curtains

the prison, of non-stop daytime television

the prison, of not being able to walk or shop, read or draw

slouched by corporal design in a wheelchair

sporting what you once called a ‘dowager’s hump’

i never though this would be you

ever.

i spoon fed you

(as you no longer can hold a spoon

or a hairbrush

or dial a phone)

hands that once based and made quilts

now, gnarled beyond use

you always were a self-imposed tug of war

between the practical

and the creative

sometimes it was a draw

sometimes a duel

sometimes, a bitter, nasty brawl

between the two

and now you can’t choose either

to be on team practical,

or to floss with care

to press play on CD Great Courses

you loved to listen to

and time travel to Ancient Rome

“what ever happen to the colored markers I bought for you, mom?’

i asked on my last visit

“i don’t know…i don’t know” she said

“do you want me to look for them?” i asked

she silently nodded her heavy head for ‘yes’

i did an inventory of her few belongings- and found… nothing

not the pens, not the notebook

“it doesn’t matter,” she said,

and added “i can’t hold anything anymore”

said with an exhausted and apologetic tone

the air of defeat

hanging

in her room, with mint green walls and tropical floral curtains

the sound, of non-stop daytime television

humming.

l.

someone i once knew called me a “wordsmith”

marveled

at the poems i spun from pain

experiences of loss made shimmering

truth telling

woven

into petals of prose

flowers in the garden of my life

ll.

when someone who loved you

begins to torment you

you can’t begin to figure out

how to stop the rot

the bleeding, internal

can’t benefit a tourniquet

from outside

and years later

you might accept

it’s not your place

to stop either

only embracing

that escaping

was the only chance for survival

lll.

radio silence

some tune in

wanting to cast the spell

rekindle fires

replace angst with desire

“give it space”

“give it time”

think of what’s ‘ours’ and not ‘mine’

some cast the runes

light the joss sticks

soundtrack the sadness with favorite tunes

aching to shake the loss

employing every trick

lV.

i used to be bummed

thinking i had become someone

who grew numb

ironic

for the super taster

and the person

for whom music

is an elevator

i see music in many hues

the remember

your scent

the smell

of the valley rain

the jasmine in tunisia

on late summer nights

layla wa layla

layla means night

and layla means dark

and i have loved the first

and tried make sure the second

won’t leave its mark

V.

i mentioned you in passing

to a dear friend

last week

amazing, really

what was supposed to be the love of my life

the beginning of resurrection

a new name, me as wife

maybe, bring to the world

a new life

but just like that

demoted

to a cautionary tale

i try to find a punchline

but it lacks humor

and i think our story deserves more

than a rimshot

(da-dum-dum!)

yes we were young

not on a calendar

but a young love

an elegant brute from the banlieue

and me

now fatherless, seeking to be my best kwan yin

i see now my family has a history

of betting on the wrong horse

and i am no exception

Vl.

he bought me best shoes

always unprompted

always a surprise

always just what i wanted

squirreled away in my closet

he’d place them

a shoe santa

comme un pere des chaussures

so i may by chance find them

and the little note inside the insole

Vll.

Raised in the desert,

where earth and sky are divided

by a neat geometrical line

of unadorned mountains,

and nothing comes between

one grain of sand sliding

cleanly against another,

I am still awed by the fearsome energy

of green growing things in these islands.

another hurricane warning.

A pile of unanswered memos

lies limply on my desk.

Kona weather presses in on me.

As I leave for work, moisture-laden air

fills my mouth, my sinuses.

Overnight, weeds have thrust their way

through the hairline cracks in the driveway.

I see a young tree growing sideways

from between two concrete slabs

in the retaining wall.

A lawnmower, abandoned by the side of the road

just a few months ago

has already been strangled by banana poke vines

and swallowed whole.

that my broken-down Toyota,

parked on the street in front of my house,

has its windows all steamed up inside.

A note, stuck on the windshield

by an impatient neighbor, says,

“Get it fixed or get it towed.”

assault my nostrils as I open the car door.

A delicate, tufted moss has woven itself

Into the decaying fabric of the seat covers,

and, from the dirt embedded in the floormats,

sprouts a miniature forest floor.

’Twas the year 2020

when even cognoscenti

fell victim to a virus

much worse than hepatitis.

>Shoppers deserted stores once mobbed.

Others consented their noses to swab.

The daily news brought so much chatter.

Many would ask: What is the matter?

With bars, restaurants, and salons all closed,

everyone wondered: Have I been exposed?

Wear masks, wash hands, stay distant they said.

Keep loved ones at home, alive, and well fed!

Each day the same, routine and mundane.

Is it Tuesday or Wednesday? It drives me insane!

With so many rules to make us all weary,

I just want to dive into Lake Erie!

Essential workers kept the economy going;

others stayed home for a Zoom recording.

Parents became teachers in less than a day.

Tomorrow, we’ll learn to dance a ballet!

So many “bubbles” swirling around.

Will there be another shutdown?

A few months later the curve did flatten,

even as bad things continued to happen.

Many sought shelter when great fires erupted.

So many lives were now interrupted!

An officer’s knee on George Floyd’s neck,

made racial harmony a total wreck!

Our hero Judge Ruth, she couldn’t hang on.

Her days on the bench, now were all gone!

No, Integrity! No, Decency! No, Empathy, too!

On, Democracy! On, Checks! On, Balances! Wahoo!

The Dems were elated, 45 was dejected.

Their Mr. Joe was finally elected!

Many just wanted 2020 to end,

hoping safe life would round the bend.

When congress convened to count the electors,

They had to seek shelter from the protestors.

Many now wonder: Can democracy be saved?

Can Biden and Harris survive unscathed?

Trash the ozone layer

And the angry sun glares through

Sucking moisture from all that is green

Kindling drought-dry-grass and timber

So any spurious spark ignites disaster

Wanton winds lob the sparks

Fan the famished flames

Setting California, the Amazon, Siberia,

And the edges of Africa

Ablaze with massacre

Meanwhile the hot oceans load the heavens

Then vomit monster hurricanes that

Dump deluge and spawn a vicious vortex of violence

Never mind

Burn the coal, pump the oil

Swelter in our hard-earned sweat

While our Big-Foot carbon prints punish the earth

Tempting nature’s natural revenge from eons of neglect

A grand fossil fuel finale

The hills remind me of our dear Ko‘olaus

Green and to the East with many Houses

Nestled between the trees up to the crest

Clouds often get caught there lingering

With the Bay transit trains swooshing past

Rushing fast along the base of the hills

How nice it would be to explore Tilden Park

If we were not so restricted by this pandemic

Keeping us maybe safe and masked indoors

Our family and friends are nearby unreachable

Across the bay, even some not so far away

How we hope to see our grand Children

So far the traffic on the roads is so sparse

Making it even more tempting to reach out

And regain contact with our dear friends we left behind

O, Mountains of the Holy Spirit

Preferred place for our God’s revelations

Refuge for Moses to find the burning bush

And the voice and commandments of our Lord

Mountains are the place where we seek Peace

Away from the crowds in the low lands

Communing with their select nature

Amidst the clouds with their high stature

I always relished being up there

When I could, feeling their peace

Among the rocks and the trees

Looking down on the troubles below

2012-04-15

street chair man

I live in a chair

between the sidewalk and the curb

On the edge of the park

You see me you do not look

I look at the trees the passersby

Turn my back on the busy boulevard

And on the cars and hills

I do not see the hills

I do not lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

from whence cometh my help?

2013-04-07

bag chair man

I live in a chair

still live in a chair

will do so, what? to the end of time?

double bags piled up about me,

untold treasure under the streetlamp,

treasure that says “me,”

little savings from a long life:

if I leave my live-in chair

will I lose myself?

2013-04-14

rain chair man

umbrella under the pour and roar

one small umbrella my roof

against the downward universe of water

living water

am I not living too, in my chair

on the edge of the park

even with holes in my umbrella

you do not see me

wet through the holes in my boots

under the umbrella

on the chair

in the rain

2014-02-04

and today even the flowers are gone…

how to say this?

I know we are all temporary

but this? street chair man’s spot is empty

the chair is gone

all the bags, the man himself

all gone

the spot under the lamppost

now just bare empty dried grass;

that was yesterday’s news

and today the kicker: a bouquet of flowers

lying next to the lamppost,

does it sing?

does it weep?

what does it say to you and to me?