Several dozen people have participated in the Writers’ Workshop since its inception in 1992. The workshop provides a safe place for members of the LCH community, their families, and friends to develop their own voices through writing poetry, fiction and non-fiction prose.
Kathryn Klingebiel founded the group and served as facilitator from 1992 to 2018. The Workshop meets seven or eight times a year in the Spring and Fall, with time off during the summer. Meeting times are set by the group. All are welcome to participate. Express your interest to Peter Flachsbart, our current facilitator.
As part of Faith & Arts Weekend (June 24–25, 2023) writers shared their prose during the Saturday evening performances and in the display Sunday morning. The display included a bulletin board in the Hörmann Courtyard. This page includes a tribute to long-time member Gerda Turner and poems by Willow Chang, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, and Kathryn Klingebliel.
A Tribute to One Writer…
After 30+ years, and over 50 participants, Old Timers in the Workshop have fond memories of many others who have been involved over the years. We’ll highlight one participant, Gerda Turner, as representative of all the writers who have shared their work with the LCH congregation. Gerda’s residence in Hawai`i during and shortly after World War II gave a unique perspective to her writings.
Gerda M. Turner, age 94, died Wednesday, December 2, 2009 in Honolulu, Hawai‘i.
She was born Gerda M. Rasmussen in Day County, S.D., in 1915. She received a B.A. in music from Augustana College.
Gerda first came to Hawai‘i in 1944 and was employed by the U.S. Air Force at Hickam Field during World War II. While in Honolulu, she met and married Robert B. Turner. After the war, they made their home in New Bern, North Carolina. Mr. Turner was employed by the FAA and was an active member of the Masonic Lodge in New Bern. Mrs. Turner was an accomplished pianist, and during her time in New Bern, she taught piano and gave many concerts. In New Bern, she was a member of Garber United Methodist Church.
After her husband’s death in 1969, Gerda returned to Hawai‘i, and taught piano at Kamehameha Schools. She was a published writer and member of the Writers’ Workshop at the Lutheran Church of Honolulu. She was also active in the Post-Polio group.
Gerda Turner died on December 2, 2009, cared for by members of the LCH Writers group. The last Workshop meeting she attended was October 26, 2009, about two months before her death. Services were held in Honolulu. She was inurned in the New Bern Memorial Cemetery with her husband. In recognition of her love of music and keyboard skills, memorials were directed to the Gerda M. Turner Memorial Music Fund, c/o Lutheran Church of Honolulu, 1730 Punahou St., Honolulu, HI 96822.
I REMEMBER
A beach-side view of the Moana Hotel, built 1901. The large building on the shore is the hotel’s dining pavilion.A memorable day was April 1, 1946. That was the day that the surprise tsunami struck Honolulu.
Many hair-raising stories cropped up about personal experiences of struggles with the crushing waves. Hilo suffered devastating ruin. Many narrowly escaped death.
Waikiki felt the wave, but not to the extent that Hilo did during the next few days.
I lived in Honolulu at that time, and I remember hearing about the tsunami at noon. News kept trickling out during the next few days. That was before TV.
We all have personal memories of what affected our lives. What changed for us?
I am not alone in missing the glass-enclosed restaurant at the Moana Hotel. It spread out over the ocean. How we enjoyed dining there, especially for Sunday lunch. It was a favorite of many.
We’d always enjoy the surfers as they rode the waves outside the windows.
I remember one Sunday when one of the Laupahoehoe school teachers who survived the tsunami, ate at the restaurant with the man who rescued her. All eyes were on them that day.
The restaurant remained in place for some time, but we were shocked to learn that the underpinnings of the restaurant had been damaged by the tsunami. The owners decided it would be too expensive to repair. Instead, they tore it down—to our dismay.
Only delightful memories remain. And they really do remain.
by Gerda M. Turner
Written for the LCH Writers’ Workshop, c. 1995
for Gerda beyond
beyond and above?
beyond our knowing,
the last cupcake,
chocolate-loving friend:
one last hug in the white bed there
no need to cry
one last quiet farewell:
let the message be clear,
we are here
we care
chocolate love
goes with you to the end
Kathryn Klingebiel (2009-12-07)
Architects of American Privilege
I’ve rubbed elbows
with the Architects of American Privilege
inhaled their exhales
of rarified air
i gazed out at the well heeled crowd
with cocktails in hand,
chins raised high
and no one
not one
even noticed
my bewildered sigh
claiming to sharing spaces
seems like a generous term
these are more like rented ballrooms
souped up
and bedazzled
to resemble
far away places
their visa is bloodline
their currency, belonging
they think i am just the dancing girl
or the delicate torch singer
procured
to give their event an air of legitimacy
or Exotic! flair
someone one once said right to my face,
un-ironic and unapologetic
and completely enthusiastic
“you bring the spice!”
my momma would think writing this
isn’t very ‘nice’
that i should be grateful for each gilded crumb
tossed my way
by the power elite
those fortunate
even entitled
tax evading bums
and i confess
the audacity to call the hiding of assets
a tax ‘shelter’
makes me shuddering wonder
how did our country completely lose its rudder?
its compass
our ability to discern
it’s like amnesia
as if we collectively unlearned
the lessons of the Boston Tea Party
and the French Revolution
all rolled up into one
fortunes used to be earned on the backs
of those who brown
under the sun
but today it’s junk bonds and crypto
computer titans and house-flippers
it’s CEO’s buying back stocks
none of these cats hide their allowance
in a sock
squirrel away for the rainy day
off shore investing has found a way
to ensure the rich stay rich
the poor, stay away
under foot
doing nails
singing for our supper
the dancing girls
whirl
move, twirl
and entertain
the master of spin
the neu und alt Architects
of American Privilege
-willow chang
june 20th, 2023
prayed for a reprieve
it still hurts my heart
to know that for so long
you were seething
loathing me
from across the room
giving me the evil eye
while i prayed for a reprieve
a pause for punishment
for my unknown sins
mildly aware
under your thumb
i could never win
now years later
you are laid up
in a hospital room
unable to dial a phone
or brush your teeth
you remain unstimulated
with no routine
i was at least able to get you away
from the kaneohe nurse of mean
and these days, you have no energy to be seething
you having a hard time
just breathing
with all that has been lost
what little you have gained
you may not know it
but momma- i still cry quietly
when it rains
i now have the space to sleep
even nap, uninterrupted
see where my subconscious off the clock
soars or leaps
every day that’s past
i only know this:
all of this, all of this
will never make sense
and it will never be right
sometimes, i don’t know what to say to you
but i want you to know
i still pray for you, every night
my heart still hurts, my eyes, still weep
i pray the Lord, my soul to keep.
-willow chang
april 6th, 2023
no. 6 of 30, april poetry challenge
shades of blue
shades of blue
are what i come home to
a home of my own design
a space
i could call mine
shades of blue
for me and you
two aqua chairs, placed with care
atop a blue and white
maghreb-esque rug
makes our tiny home
feel snug
against the wall
are rows of turkish tiles
vines weave, flowers spin
tulips, enchant
in shades of blue
the pillows are aligned
two by two
ready to support, or caress
outfitted in their shades of blue best
patterns recall places
i still dream of
when i take rest
kyoto, hong kong, sidi bou said
zamalek to zürich
each was a temporary home
to a wanderer in need
shades of blue
comfort me
in this private space, true
blue, like hawaiian skies
blue, like protective glass evil eyes
blue, like the indigo oceans
i’ve traveled far and wide
to find peace
in people, and beautiful views
only to discover
there’s always peace
in shades of blue
-willow chang
april 3rd, 2023
no.3 of 30, april poetry challenge
sway in the breeze
driving through a mountain
i’m driving home, through a mountain
i marvel at this reality
i’m still filled with wonder
and curiosity
who would think of making a tunnel through a mountain?
and why, would someone want to?
these mountains are strong
she hums and sighs with mana
her energy vibrates
even as my old car climbs the mountain
steadily, but slowly
i can feel her purr
she is tall, yet soft
her curving sides are covered
in Palapalai ferns
i remember this plant’s name
from fern gathering, so very long ago
with my Kumu
we made lei which at the time we called haku
but are now called lei po‘o
such majestic lei, caress the head
lei, woven
with flowers, ferns, berries and plants, fragrant
colorful
and always, with meaning
i play the music of hui ohana
as i drive through the mountain
these falsettos
melodic leo ki‘eki‘e
carry me on the mele
“sweet lei mokihana…”
‘it’s been years since i was on kauai’
i think to myself
‘i must return,’ i say to myself
as my car brings me back to ‘town’
i drive towards a slowly setting sun
i drive back to memories brought to life, through the mountain
music playing
from the year of my birth
hawai’i from long ago
i one still long for
its old hawai‘i i want to drive to
but it’s out of reach
like the sun slowly setting over the mountain
while the Palapalai ferns sway in the breeze
-willow chang
april 5th, 2023
no. 5 of 30 april poetry challenge
the double feature, pt. 2
the only time i recall
hearing my father raise his voice
was at the movie theater
we only went to matinees
at ‘regular theaters’
but more often as a family
we would go to the ‘cheapie theater’
of second show runs
and paired
with double bills
the low ticket price
made theater-bought snacks an option
to outing
that always and already felt like a treat
but inside
we might have the misfortune
of sitting near chatty cathys
and analyzing annas
maybe a mumbling mike
or an obtuse eunice
people, who just couldn’t shut up
when the film started
would experience
the elegant wrath of Chang
he’d wait for them to dry up
clam up
shut up
zip their lip
get it in check
but that rarely happened
they’d talk
sometimes, not even about the movie
but just talk
making white noise offensive
and obtrusive to these cinéphiles
seasoned and in training
and then the rumble
from nowhere
when the chatting might have paused
for a sliver of a second
a booming voice
never heard before
filled the room
“CAN WE PLEASE HAVE SOME QUIET!!!”
he’d say with every energy within
the room, tasted like shell-shock
the chatties, silenced
the cinéphiles, satistifed
and Mr. Chang
back to factory settings
known as Zen.
-willow chang
april 10th, 2023
no. 9 of 30 april poetry challenge
to cradle the inevitable
to the sound of murmurs
i walk towards the altar
i wear no floral dress
no colors of spring
i’m wrapped up in black
black blouse, with peplum
black skirt, past the knees
black stockings, with black roses
black shawl, with dancing paisleys
black
which is no color
black
the absence of color
but my heart is not black
there is no void
within
i hold the reflection
without anger
i cradle the inevitable
with a certain sadness
i have said my prayer
danced my prayer
sung my prayer
whispered my prayer
in church
in temples
in my bedroom
on streets
where i didn’t know the name
tonight,
i am reminded again
that i am dust
and to dust i shall return
remembering the powdery aftermath
of incense burning
smoke floating
tomorrow’s lilies, wilting
-willow chang
april 1st, 2023
#1 of 30 for april national poetry month
Green Man
So, who is looking
From behind the foliage
As if from another age
At us human beings?
Who is behind that face
With a mysterious smile
Wishing we too would smile
With such tender grace?
Surely its message of peace
And harmony with Nature
Was here long ago to endure
And inspire us and tease.
Man of many times
Has of stone or wood shaped
His splayed leafy cape
Under many climes.
Yet while no two are alike
The same spirit is universal
Its character equal
The green aura we like.
Long before our God was manifest
Man had realized His presence
Call it if you may pre-science
The GREEN MAN has stood the test.
Jean-Paul Klingebiel
JPPoem24c-Green Man-2018-12-09
for Jim at the end of a long
when is the exact moment
that Jim sitting alone waiting
for the others to come
begins to sing
began to be doing not waiting
began to be stretching his own thoughts
into new lifeonpaper
when the others who were never there
became not there at all ever
and focus shifts to the here and now
and thinking begins to swarm like
honey bees to the paper
waiting still silent
open maybe crinkled full of space
and most of all
the right place,
the moment:
he doesn’t look back
lifeonpaper his for the taking
waiting
and now the story is his to tell
listening
at the end of a long whenever
now writing
Kathryn Klingebiel 2004-05-15
organo oceano
solo splendor on the high c’s
blaring, thrilling, rumbling g’s,
reeds, trumpets, whistles, bells,
half hour voyage through the night
with a thousand voices pealing
fingers and toes rowing
through the show-off swells of sound,
the powerful flux of dark and white,
bright lighting here and there,
the moon above the storm shining
teasing whispering blaring groaning
the immense wonder thunder
the player barely seated, flying
rapt to steer the course,
ringing, roaring, resolving
head bowed, eyes closed
twenty digits on the final chord
bringing the organ into harbor
when is the exact moment
that Jim sitting alone waiting
for the others to come
begins to sing
began to be doing not waiting
began to be stretching his own thoughts
into new lifeonpaper
when the others who were never there
became not there at all ever
and focus shifts to the here and now
and thinking begins to swarm like
honey bees to the paper
waiting still silent
open maybe crinkled full of space
and most of all
the right place,
the moment:
he doesn’t look back
lifeonpaper his for the taking
waiting
and now the story is his to tell
listening
at the end of a long whenever
now writing
Kathryn Klingebiel 2004-05-15
solo splendor on the high c’s
blaring, thrilling, rumbling g’s,
reeds, trumpets, whistles, bells,
half hour voyage through the night
with a thousand voices pealing
fingers and toes rowing
through the show-off swells of sound,
the powerful flux of dark and white,
bright lighting here and there,
the moon above the storm shining
teasing whispering blaring groaning
the immense wonder thunder
the player barely seated, flying
rapt to steer the course,
ringing, roaring, resolving
head bowed, eyes closed
twenty digits on the final chord
bringing the organ into harbor
Kathryn Klingebiel
After hearing:
Franz Liszt: Fantasia e fuga “Ad nos ad Salutarem Undam”
Francesco Filidei, organist
Concerto d’organo (Organ Concert)
Chiesa Santa Maria dei’Ricci, Firenze
9 giugno 1999 (21:15)