say cheehoo, hapa!
cheehoo! (Jya-hoo? I used to think it sounded like that.)I can only say it properly when I sneeze. The sound is loud and high-pitched, an exclamation of joy. Happiness! It used to embarrass me. My friends would be over, and we’d hang out in the garage or on the driveway, whichever wasn’t being occupied by my dad working on one of his old beat-up cars. I can’t remember whether we were talking to him or he came to talk to us, but somewhere in the conversation, he’d belt out cheehoo and my cheeks would flush.“Dad, stop!”cheehoo!He’d say it again and again just to embarrass me, or so I thought; later I found out the real reason was because my dad felt immense pride for his culture and wasn’t afraid to show it. I love my mother, rest her ashes upon the top of my bookshelf, but sometimes I feel like I got the short end of the stick. My younger sister has always been darker than me, has the rounder face and puffy cheeks, but maybe the one Chamorro thing I inherited that she didn’t was the nose (and yet still, I have a tiny nose!): wide and rounded at the tip. But besides that, for most of my life people were (and still are) shocked when I tell them I’m half Chamorro.So, thanks for the strong European genetics, mom. Just kidding. I’m less bothered by it now as I’ve begun to embrace a little bit more of my dad’s side. Social media connects us through short, funny videos, dare I name the app – starts with a T – and after a while, Samoans and Tongans and Hawaiians and dozens of other Polynesian and Micronesian folks showed up on my timeline and I watched for hours, in awe!There are so many of us! I thought. A plethora of people with varying looks because they’re hapa too, or multi-mixed race, and most I’d guess were Filipino or East Asian, but no, they’re Polynesian and they all look so different from one another and it’s beautiful.I never learned to speak Chamorro, or the customs and dances ‘cause I’ve got those stiff white-girl hips that only loosen up when I’m drunk; but what I did inherit are the big Chamorro legs and arms and short stature and eyes and nose, just smaller versions than most Polynesians.Never again will I let imposter syndrome get the best of me.I am proudly Chamorro! cheehoo, I say! Louder! CHEEHOO!
CALIFORNIA
A familiar tune carried through the air, circling drinks on coasters on wet wooden tables ‘til it reached the coldness outside. It was upbeat, catchy, one of them songs that was hard not to sing along to whether you liked it or not. You might not even know it really was the end of the world with the way the bar patrons belted all the words of the chorus in-between the faster-paced verses.It’s the end of the world as we know it…One of them looked around at all the faces midway through the song. They could only read along with the lyrics as fast as the karaoke singer sung it, but it got boring after a while ‘cause they weren’t the one singing it. Everyone faced the little corner section, designated by a black rubber square on the floor where singers were supposed to stand. But they were lookin’ at the singer, not that. Black, white, enbies, gays, all of their faces were focused on this one man singing the song.And then the chorus came up again. At the top of their lungs, they joined the singer and their fellow patrons, it’s the end of the world, end of the world, and I feel fine. That line in particular stuck in their head. They looked around again at all the faces, laughing drunks just having fun. Did they really know that the world was ending?Reckless abandon might be the only option in this timeline. They thought about the corrupt government, the endless homelessness, how lucky they were that a friend bought the second round ‘cause buying the first one was a significant ding on their bank account. Everything rose in price and wages could climb higher, too, but they didn’t make a damned difference unless properties lowered their cost.Then they thought of that phrase, cost of living, and laughed silently. To think our timeline had a price on living! And yet, it was true.They whooped and clapped when the song was over and turned to their companions. It was inevitably mentioned that indeed, it was the end of the world. But they all felt fine. And if the world was gonna keep gettin’ worse and they were gonna die anyway, they may as well have a little fun beforehand.They feel fine. I feel fine.
six a.m.
Everything is quiet at six A.M. Only one person is awake; the daughters hear some coughing and shuffling of feet, then a door closing. Someone goes downstairs. The air holds its chill as she performs the daily ritual, prepared by herself the night before. Grounds in, bin full of water. The coffee brews almost silently; at least, it doesn’t wake the daughters.If they hear anything it’s only more shuffling of slippered feet, maybe the television turns on with a quieter volume from the night before. All she watches this early is the news, and if they’re half-awake, they listen, too. The familiar rise and fall of the newspeoples’ tones in a rhythm too familiar and used every waking day.Neither of them have stumbled upon her at this hour on their weekends home from school. But were they to imagine, they could easily picture her sitting in the big black chair in the living room, watching the news with a coffee mug in hand. Out of habit she blows on the liquid to cool it before taking small sips. She drinks it slowly. When she sets it down on the glass coffee table, there’s a napkin underneath to keep it clean. She’ll get up in ten or fifteen minutes to get a refill.Sometimes she makes more than two-cups-worth if the middle daughter wants any when she gets up, but not always. When she finishes her own, she washes the cup thoroughly and dries it with a paper towel. Then she places it on a napkin with a ring embedded in it from the weight of the cup at her spot on the table. The cup’s designated placement doesn’t change. Stuffed inside is a new paper towel and a clean spoon for the next morning.A woman of routine. A woman I love and miss dearly.For you, mom.Nini
Eight Things
Narrow One-Ways
The streets in her neighborhood were all one-ways. Some you could go either way, but they were so narrow you’d have to stop if someone else was driving through or you’d both be leaving tire tracks on someone’s lawn. If you went down one wrong way and got lost, you’d get stuck driving around in circles ‘til you figured out which way led back to the main road. They were dark, too. One lamppost always went out whenever someone walked by it, leaving the street pitch black at night.Port-of-Cal
The little shop on the main road was like a convenience store. On late nights, ones I thought were well past midnight but were probably closer to 10 or 11, her mother would send her out to get milk. The shop was always open late. The way to it was dark but it was only a short walk from her house. Often we indulged in buying ourselves sour gummies or chips to snack on.The Missing Sister
You’d never know she had a sister! I didn’t know for the first few years that I knew her. She spoke of her, sometimes, but you’d think maybe it was just a family friend. Photos in her home showed a girl with a bright face covered in freckles and curly strawberry-blond hair. Looked just like her. If they were closer in age, they could be twins. But she did have a sister, an older sister. Older by about fifteen years.Ginger the Dog
Her mom spent thousands of dollars on that dog. She bought her from a breeder so she was just a puppy when they got her. She was under the impression that it was a family dog and maybe someday her own dog, but her mom had other plans. “She’s my baby,” she’d say, stroking the lightly colored ginger fur on the little poodle pup.The Static
It rang persistently in her ears. She was a night-owl and always stayed up much later than midnight. When her friends came over and fell asleep earlier than she did, she’d put on a movie and lie down to sleep. But it was an old box TV she had, with a volume dial on the side above scratchy speakers. When the VHS was done rolling it would dissolve into a static-y mess, black and white fuzz whose sole purpose was to attack your ears. The noise would wake her up and she’d be too scared to look, remembering what happened to the little girl in the Poltergeist movies – Carol Anne!Mall Shenanigans
Her mom overused the phrase “I am not your chauffeur!” too many times to count. But how else would she get around to hang out with her friends? They’d meet up at the mall and stay there ‘til all the shops and restaurants closed. Then they’d climb their way through metal bars leading to the street and run over as fast as they could to the bookstore. Book browsing was a favorite among them. Only when the bookstore closed did she call her mom to come pick them up.The Closet
Her grandmother had died in this room. Her father’s mother had dementia and sometimes didn’t even recognize her own sons. They gave her grandmother her room to stay in when her uncle could no longer care for her. The walls were a horrible and happy light pink color that greatly contrasted its visitor’s ailing state. Eventually came the day that she died. But the little girl was convinced her grandmother hadn’t left the room entirely. Every time the closet door opened on its own, she felt her grandmother’s presence in the cold darkness.The Smoke
The stench of yellow walls and mustiness hung about them all hours of the day. Cigarette smoke was the most prevalent odor. Her parents were longtime chain smokers and never planned to quit (except her father, some many years later). They smoked almost always, from morning ‘til work time. Windows were never opened, nor doors even with the screen preventing the dog’s attempted escape. The smoke collected into a suffocating mass of putrid air, and upon first step into the old house, discouraged any of her friends from staying for too long. Poison.
Feast Your Eyes
There was a legend about the well in the garden. He was six years old when his grandfather told him the tale. “The abyss at the bottom is what never was,” the old man said. “It must remain hidden from our eyes, else death takes us.” He looked up at the man, at the large bags drooped underneath hazel eyes.“But why, grampa?” he asked. He climbed up the brick enclosure to look down into the well but his grandfather pulled him away and flung him over his shoulder. “Grampa!”“Best not to know, boy.” His grandfather turned away and walked back into the house. He shouted and pounded on the man’s back, staring wistfully at the well through teary eyes. From that day forward, he was not allowed in the garden near the well. Two years later his grandfather died; he was found sitting next to the deep pocket of the Earth, all the air sucked out of him ‘til he was only skin and bone.There was a lot more he did than being curious about a legend that ended with him on death row. The temporary peace brought on at the end of the last age had only survived a few years. Resources became so scarce that he’d fallen in line with the rest of society, burning precious fuel in a traffic jam around the block where civilians were allotted five gallons of gasoline for an entire month. The price had skyrocketed and yet, what was given to them was not enough.He couldn’t let this man get away with murder, with murdering his wife, the only person who’d ever cared about him. He straddled the man and punched his face, the whiteness blinding him again and he was screaming at him and crying, and then the body beneath him went limp. He stopped, arm pulled back to deliver another blow; instead he uncurled his fist and felt for a pulse. There was none.Sirens blasted down the debris-ridden streets and he looked up, shaken as he stumbled away from the body. He held up his hands and looked around wide-eyed; some of his neighbors stood on the lawns of their equally destroyed homes, shielding their children’s eyes from the scene before them. He mouthed “I’m sorry” when the officers shoved him down onto his knees, cuffing him as fast as they could to prevent any resistance he may have offered.He waited long days and long months for his court date to arrive. He refused legal aid and pled guilty to murder. Given the circumstances leading up to the event, any who were arrested on the nights of the riots were given little leeway and all were suspected of being rebellious conspirators. He was given life in prison, later upped to a death sentence when he beat an inmate to death who had been bragging about brutally raping a woman during the riots – a woman “no one cared about.With his final days coming upon him, he had few regrets, if any. The only thing he wished was that he could have saved his wife, taken them overseas to start anew; to get away from the states where anarchy began to overtake the government. The world ran amok outside of the cold and weathered brick walls Avery was confined to.“Any last wishes, fella?” asked the man who was obliged to offer death row inmates a “last meal” type thing. They were limited to that, or family visits.Avery had no family.Upon his silence, the man peered over the edge of his glasses at the inmate, studying him closely as if to read the inner turmoil of his soul. A sly grin spread across his lips and he said, “Do you wish to see the bottom, boy?”Avery’s head snapped up – the only person who’d ever called him “boy” was his late grandfather. Suddenly the tale of the well in the garden was fresh in his mind, as if he’d been warned about it just yesterday.“The bottom of the well, yes, you know of what I speak. I can grant you access. To the depths of the abyss, to the constant what-ifs that I know you play over in your head… They’ve told me about your nightmares.”Avery clenched his teeth. He began to sweat and suddenly the room was ice-cold and he felt a fear far greater than that brought on by the death of his wife. But the man said nothing else, only chuckled quietly before leaving the room. He was left alone for hours, trying to put the pieces together in his head. He remembered the forewarning from his grandfather, remembers the whooping he got whenever he tried to sneak into the garden. “Curiosity kills the cat” was a cliché that he’d heard far too often as a child. Then, there was his grandfather’s death… Most peculiar; Avery had always wondered more about it but his grandmother assured him that the time had simply come.Then came something he hadn’t thought of since his grandfather’s funeral: he’d visited them the week before his death. He was only eight then but he recognized the look his grandfather gave him was one of loathing; why that look was prominent on the old man’s face was a mystery to young Avery.“Grampa, why are you always mad?” he asked, sitting out on the porch with the old man. He snarled and sent Avery back in the house, calling out, “Give him a whoopin’! Boy needs to learn his place!” Avery cried and tried to wriggle out of his grandmother’s arms, but just before she got him through the door, he heard the old man mutter, “If only your mother wasn’t a dirty whore – she’d’a married a rich man and…” He cried out when his grandmother took him into the bedroom and pulled out the belt. He didn’t know what whore meant then, and he knew his father who looked after him was not a rich man.The next week his grandfather was found sitting by the old, empty well. It was then that Avery began to understand.The silence of the room was no longer a bother to him. His thoughts rested and his eyes took in the dinginess of the small room. It smelled awful, musty from years of use; he assumed they only cleaned it when blood was spilt. The bricks were gray and moldy with dampened edges dripping moisture. His eyes left the windowless wall across from him at the sound of a jingling of keys outside the door; his ears had become more fine-tuned during his time locked in a cell.A large man bowed beneath the entrance to fit through the doorway. He was a monster of a man, round and square and so God-like Avery wondered if the man was even human. To further his wonder, two smaller men in black suits and sunglasses followed behind – they were mortal-sized. Then, strangely, a girl with pale skin and dark matted hair entered; she looked about early twenties and Avery wondered what her part was in all of this.“Good day, Mr. Avery,” the man-shaped entity bellowed. His bald head touched the ceiling of the room, yet glided easily across it when he circled around the inmate. “I’m told you have a particular ‘last wish’ the prison can’t grant for you,” he continued.Avery sat in silence, though his eyes followed the giant’s every move when he turned around to face him.
“There was a legend about the well in the garden,” Avery recited, the deepness of his voice giving himself goosebumps. The large man grinned.“You are aware of the terms, Mr. Avery?”“Yes.”The room darkened.“Then you shall see the bottom of the well, the light at the end of the deep abyss – what could have been, what might have been. Let us begin.”One of the men in black released Avery from the handcuffs. The other pressed him down onto the surface of the table until he was flat on his back; he almost wanted to resist – this wasn’t how they killed inmates on death row and if these crooks were here for murder he’d damn well put up a fight. “Relax, Mr. Avery,” he heard the large man say. It did not at all calm him.The girl came forward and placed two fingers on his forehead, soon replaced by a burning sensation where the mark of “The Sign of Well” engraved itself. His vision was blurred by the tears rolling down his scarred cheeks and then the world darkened as consciousness left him.He woke up, face down on the pavement of the street and before his eyes his house was burning down. He stood and wanted to step forward but hesitated – Molly had told him to go. She had asked him to take care of himself. Why did he leave her in the first place? Best he go down with his wife, the woman of his life that meant everything to him. She was all he had after his father passed away.Avery made no move to run back into the burning house. Instead he stood, just like he did on that day for hours on end, watching the flames spread like disease until evening once again turned to night and nothing was left but the heartache in his chest.It was then he remembered what happened next, and before a word could come out of the masked man’s mouth Avery turned and saw him. He clenched his jaw, the rage inside him reigniting but the man looked startled; as if he had meant to sneak up on Avery, having known he just burnt down his house along with his wife’s body. The man’s mouth opened but no sound came. Avery sucked in air through his teeth and stepped forward, grabbing the man by his collar and shouting, “You killed my wife! You killed her!”The sound of a child crying brought him back to the precise details he’d forgotten the first time he let his grief take control: he looked to the left and saw his neighbor’s children being held tight against the bodies of their parents.“He killed my wife,” he said desperately, the man still stuck in his grip. “Please, Helen – Molly, he burnt down our house and he killed Molly…”The woman he spoke to gasped and turned her horror-filled eyes to the man with the mask. She pried the child off her front and left him with his father, and with trembling hands pulled out a cell phone to call the police.“Oh hell no—” Avery pulled the man toward him when he tried to twist free, pulling his fist back to punch him in the nose. The masked man fell back, clutching at the broken pieces of his mangled face. Avery knew it wouldn’t keep him down for long; he turned the man onto his stomach and sunk his heel into the man’s back. “Damn, man, let up – let up! I’m not gonna run, I swear!”Avery spat on him. Like he was dumb enough to believe that.Sirens filled his ears just like they did that day but he panicked and stepped off the masked man, hands up and eyes wide. “He – he—” He stumbled over his words, not knowing what to say or whether the police would believe him or not, but Helen stepped in to speak up.“Officers, I called you – this is my neighbor,” she said frantically. “This man,” she gestured, eyebrows knit together in what was likely fear. “He burned down my house and their house and Molly – oh, Molly! – his wife, she was still there! Officers, please…” His eyes brimmed with fresh tears and he thanked the older woman, wanting to move from where his feet were planted in the ground to hug her. He hardly even knew the woman but Molly had mentioned her enough times for him to gather that they were close.They seemed skeptical, glancing from Avery to the handcuffed man’s bloodied face. “He tried to get away,” Helen continued. “Please – Avery is a good man. His wife was murdered, his house burned down – we’re innocent civilians in this mess! Please. You have to believe me.” After a moment, the officers nodded and put the man in the backseat of one of their cars. They put Avery in cuffs, though he was smart enough not to resist, and explained he’d still be questioned for the brute force he used. He was put in a different car, watching through moist eyes as the police spoke to Helen and her family, among other witnesses up and down the street.He was put into temporary housing until the court date came along, after explaining that he had no assets, no extra cash, and no family to live with until the time came. He became nervous about a month before the date; he knew Molly was likely beaten by another rioter, but the masked man he saw that day was still the one to make her grave. He was well aware that information could cause serious reasonable doubt in the courtroom and would likely not work to his advantage.Then the day came: his heart pounded as he paced back and forth in the hallway, waiting to be called to the stand. He missed his wife dearly, still loved her with all his heart; but being in prison for a decade had hardened him. He cried but only when he was thrown back in time, reliving the same scene that put him in that windowless cell. Any nights following thereafter, he dreamt nightmares but the tears never flowed again. He wasn’t sure his roughened demeanor would convince the jury that he was a loving husband. Hell, it may even turn him into a suspect.“Mr. Avery?”He turned abruptly, fists clenched as if he were back in the prison and constantly needing to watch over his back. They fell to his sides immediately when he saw that the attorney was the same girl that had cast him back to the moment his house burned down.“What the—the hell are you doing here?” he seethed. “And—shouldn’t you be younger? You wanna tell me what the hell is going on—who are you, who’s the big guy—why give me a second chance?”“Shh,” she hissed. “We can’t talk about that. Let’s just say I’ve studied Wicca and the jury’s got a spell put on them to work in our favor.” She winked. “Keep this between us?”He clenched his teeth, ears catching the articulation of his name beyond the doors to the courtroom. “Fine. But you better explain to me after.” She nodded and closely followed Avery as he pushed through the tall doors that closed soundlessly behind them.He’d looked all over the courthouse and even snooped around floors he wasn’t supposed to be on; he had no inkling as to what the girl’s name was or her purpose in this whole thing. He gave up around midnight when most of the building was empty and began walking back home.A ghostly white hand threw itself in front of his chest from a darkened alleyway; he jumped back and shouted, “Who’s there?” He didn’t have anything worth mugging him for, but he wouldn’t let a mugger try.There was no answer, only a gesture inviting him into the darkened space. Before the hand disappeared into the blackness he realized it must have been her, and followed the dim glow without a second thought.“We cannot speak of this ever again,” she warned in a whisper that brought chills to his bones. “They were going to let him free. They had already planted a poisonous apple in the jury tree.” She lifted her hand and an apple appeared, glowing and red but when it cracked open, a green ooze spilled out, dripping onto the ground. It melted the concrete with its acidity.“I am employed by the Gods of the Sky,” she said, again in that same whisper.“What do you mean?” he asked.“We are to seek out those who seek to overthrow their rule,” she explained. “Mr. Avery, you are one of those. You must run. You must be invisible to their eyes. You must hide underground – it is the only way you can live.”“I—what? You’re crazy – I don’t even know what to believe—” He stopped mid-sentence, hissing in pain; his forehead felt like it was being split open with a scorched knife and when he could finally open his teary eyes, he saw on her palm the same symbol that he felt underneath his fingertips. “What—what is this?”“I have told you, Mr. Avery,” she whispered. “Hurry—there is not much time. Go underground. Deep underground. I will find you if I make it out ali—” She choked, her body suddenly going frigid and Avery knew they were caught. He backed away against the cold wall of a building and the darkness turned to a starless abyss: wind whirled around him and the screeching of birds made his ears bleed. He crouched to the ground, covering his head with his arms but the pain became too much and then he looked up, screaming--A door slammed open after a few moments of fiddling with the many keys on a keyring. The little man closed it promptly after his entrance and glared at the large man leaning over his inmate.“You—you—!” He couldn’t find the words; he was angry and stressed but he knew better than to insult the Gods. “What have you done to my inmate?!”The large man finished the last bit of airy stardust, swallowing it deep into his belly before straightening his posture. “My apologies,” he said. “Mr. Avery had to die a bit earlier than scheduled.”“What am I supposed to do?” the man persisted, his entire body shaking with frustration. “What am I going to do, now that I have no body to present to the executioner?”
The large man laughed, a deep resonating sound that made the room vibrate and spines shudder. “Fear not, my old friend,” he explained. He pushed the girl forward and placed his heavy hand on her shoulder. She gasped, her gray eyes becoming green as she stared down at the changing pigment in her skin. Her chest flattened and her clothes mended themselves into a bright orange one-piece. “See?”The little one murmured, “Ah.” His nerves had settled.“There was a tad bit of a problem, you see,” the large man said. “Mr. Avery and this poor, young, stupid witch were to conspire against me. You understand…” He paused, the gray skin on his face tightening and his pupils growing larger. “…That I am not to be overthrown, yes? So, in place of Mr. Avery you shall have Ms. Gretchen who I have worked to look just like Mr. Avery.”“Of course, Your Greatness,” the little man spoke excitedly, bowing to the man in charge.“Burn her.”“Yes.”The girl, who was made to look like Mr. Avery, opened her mouth to beg for forgiveness, but no sound came out. She screamed but still, nothing, and her eyes went wide and she knew she was going to die.She looked around but the large man and his two guards were gone. The little man poked her back with a knight stick and she left the cell, giving one last glance at the man whose life she had tried to save.He sat in the chair, lifeless and empty. All that was left was skin and bone.
The Entity
Cold. A chill in the air remains at my feet, only in that spot, starting right below my knee and clinging to the skin all the way to my toes. I don’t know what’s caused it. Perhaps a fiend? Perhaps the night. The windows are closed but the cracks and crevices that remain unseen let the silent chill in. What then can I do?Warm slippers, a sleeping cat on my feet after they’ve been tucked underneath blankets. Crank up the heat. But then our bill will be high, oh, is that worth it? I am sure there are many who survive without central heating in their homes, so, then why should I take advantage of mine when the cold is truly not terrible. Easily fixed with the methods listed above.But this cold does not cease. It bites at my ankles and it burns when I can’t feel my toes anymore, it keeps them lifted onto the leg of my swivel chair and gets colder the further it creeps upon my skin. Perhaps a change of clothing…? These half-sweats are not protective enough.The cold is unsettling. I’ve looked over my shoulder nearly ten times now, and seeing nothing does not absolve my fears. For the cat in the corner is crying and at what, I do not know.Dearest, chilly entity, won’t you leave my feet alone?
INFINITY
the man looked into a mirror. it was oval & had chipped gold around its frame. he opened it, but there was nothing. a hole! darkness. his head dipped forward into the abyss.there he saw a past. the past of someone unhappy. they called her she, made her wear dresses. told her to keep her hair long until one day she took up shears and chopped it all off. no longer would they call her she…they looked into a mirror. another oval shape. no frame. they opened it and fell forward into the abyss…
Frailty
Auntie’s hair, like red-orange fire
Flowing freely from her head
Length half that of her whole entire
Body, soul, and mind in thread.Flowing freely from her head,
A voluptuous mane we all admire
Body, soul, and mind in thread
She’s the sole heir to that wire.A voluptuous mane we all admire
Sitting back to see, with the breeze, it grows,
She’s the sole heir to that wire
But her long-since struggle, we already know.Sitting back to see, with the breeze, it grows,
‘Tis of perfect shape, with pointed tips
But her long since struggle, we already know
And as she turns her head—it dips.‘Tis of perfect shape, with pointed tips:
Auntie’s hair covers what’s not left to rot.
And as she turns her head—it dips
And we see the strength, her body has not.Auntie’s hair covers what’s not left to rot,
All skin, bone, and curling fingers, without reason
And we see the strength, her body has not.
Who’s the soul that’s done this to her—cretin!Skin and bone and curling fingers without reason,
Auntie’s hair is her only pride.
Who’s the soul that’s done this to her—cretin!
Why, it’s the one and only, up in the sky.Auntie’s hair is her only pride,
As she prays and pleads to her God:
Why, you know, the one in the sky,
Yet, “Why, oh why, what have I done wrong?”
Auntie’s hair, like red-orange fire.
Earthly Ingredients
Grandfather of Earth
heeds daughter’s plea,
tutoring the Mother
of the deep dark Sea.
Questions and tests her
of the sand on the beach.He writes to Mother
and also to Father,
the story of Sun and
Moon and Water.
They sing many long hours
but are never a bother.From err they grow,
young devotees
become toughened bark. Thus
says He: “There are more, you see;
but be not afraid. We work
to create a universe free.”So others they met,
learnt of all different things;
forged friendship and patience
thrived ideas unique.
Greatness will sprout from
They, the All-Knowing.They gather together,
a surprise quite grand:
“Now, here,” says Grandfather,
“I have thought up a plan!
We’ll mold this new Earth of
Sun, Moon, Water and Sand.”
Black Swirls
It’s like magic,
Starts out dark and solid
A deep brown, not quite pitch black
But as you tip the miniature pitcher
White liquid dives down
Deep into the bottom of the shallow well.
And then like magic,
It disappears!
Into the abyss, lost,
Pooling at the bottom.
For this magic trick you’ll not need a spoon,
Merely bring the ceramic curve
To your lips and inhale.
Blow.
Like magic, the deep brown swirls
And swirls and little by little lines
Of white float to the top
In uneven waves.
Blow a little more
And the deep brown becomes caramel.
Sip. Smile.
It tastes like magic.
untitled haikus
Wind blows through the trees
We take a step back and breathe
Mother nature frees.Wind blows through the trees
A backyard full of lush green.
We inhale and smile.
The room, dark and cold
A ringer sounds. Silence breaks
An old pleasant voice.The room, warm and bright
A ringer sounds. The voice is
So familiar.
Salty ocean breeze
Mother earth sings to us, soft
We embrace her love.
風が吹く
緑裏庭
息をする寒く闇
部屋に電話鳴る
久しぶり
Big Laugh
Big laugh, near to tears
Your great never-ending mirth.
Love forever, me.
San Mateo Bridge
Early morning Sunday driving
Running from the sun, smiling
Sets its sight on us as if trying
to burn us, wholly fit.
Toward that darkness we drive
Away, away
Desperate to escape the coming fire.
Thus we run
And to our deaths we go.