Oahu with My Pilot

 

 

My Pilot

 

 

Your arms shield me from imagined dangers as we together fly

 

Across the blue Pacific through a sun-filled morning sky,

 

Scattered cumulus cloud puffs linger high above the seas

 

Dotting waves that shimmer brightly, coddled by the breeze

 

Your gentle kisses soothe my troubled brow

 

Your voice so sweet, returning me to now

 

It’s time to love you say, not harbor fright

 

I want so much to show you stalwart knight

 

That I am brave on this, my maiden flight

 

 

 

Can you not see me moving to the light?

 

 

 

We lie on a sandy beach beneath a swaying palm

 

Consuming island beauty, we inhale its blissful calm

 

Children laugh, young men build castles in the sand

 

Hawaiian music wafts from a nearby radio band;

 

Bikini-clad mermaids flee ceaseless ocean waves,

 

That bring in sparkling sea gifts from ancient sunken caves

 

A sudden warm shower drives us to a nearby lanai

 

Where we order margaritas and crispy calamari

 

Mahalo says our handsome server, as we wave goodbye

 

Aloha we call back to the clear-eyed muscled guy

 

Returning to the pristine sands and waters’ mystic lure

 

Their ebb and flow recall again our Pearl Harbor tour

 

Where we saw the names of sailors memorialized in stone

 

Resting now forever in their battleship tomb

 

You sob for their unlived lives, into the cold sea cast

 

That long ago December morn some seventy years past

 

 

 

Can you not see them moving to the light?

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow from this magic place we’ll board another plane

 

And watch Oahu disappear through its little windowpane

 

Ahead the hourglass promises a flow of waning sands

 

But these golden days will find us tracking other distant lands

 

Tonight we dance beneath the stars on Waikiki’s dark bay

 

To music from a distant band ending another perfect day

 

And now you promise me your heart, your fingers lacing mine

 

We’re locked together, lover, until our suns no longer shine

 

 

 

Can you not see us moving to the light,

 

My Pilot?

 

(Posted July 4, 2018)

 

 

 

*     *     * 

 

  

Paint My Tomorrows With Love

    

I will sing you a song of love

 

Edged with sweet longing

 

Colored with rivers of magic

 

Chords of bliss, lyrics of soul.

 

I will gift you with magic

 

Paintings of love songs

 

In hues of sweet bliss

 

With shadings of sorrow

 

 

Love captures our essence

 

Makes our souls soar

 

Showers our tomorrows

 

With yesterday’s longings

 

Sweet core of my being

 

Sing love songs to me

 

Carols of beauty, mysteries of life

 

Paint my tomorrows

 

With love.

 

 

(Posted June 30, 2018)

 

*     *     * 

 

 

 

 

Amazon Says

 

 

Amazon says a merciful death awaits

rats caught in their best-selling trap

A demise so swift the creatures would

transcend this world

Unawares

most patrons agree

but

this morning

kitchen noises

coaxed an early rise

from my bed

Tiptoeing to its source

I beheld a rat  entrapped

Its long-tailed furry body struggling

for freedom and

I wondered

Do rats have souls?

The answer comes fast

Yes, all living creatures have souls

With one exception, I reasoned: Flies!

But even those independent prolific

Disease-carrying insects

Have souls

Don’t they?

 

My love placed the tethered

rodent outside in a

Shaded resting place

Where to life it clung

Baffled by its new prosthesis:

The trap that lured it to its death

by peanut butter

 

Suddenly

A  buzzard

Swooped down

Scooped  up

The struggling beast

And took to the sky

Trap and

All.

 

*     *     *

 

Transition

 

         By Alicia Schooler-Hugg

 

 

 

It’s time to move to another place

 

To occupy a different space

 

To taste of richer, smoother wines

 

And sweeter fruits from vintage vines;

 

 

 

It’s time to march to a different tune

 

To contemplate each passing moon

 

Appreciate life’s ebb and flow

 

And gladly let the old things go;

 

 

 

We weathered all those greening years

 

Laughed our laughs, cried our tears

 

Watched our loved ones come and go

 

Through summers’ sun and winters’ snow.

 

 

 

We grew into this golden age

 

And hesitate to turn the page

 

To close the chapter on our youth

 

And ponder now upon the truth.

 

 

 

It’s time to set aside our fears

 

And wisely use these precious years

 

To counsel those who cannot see

 

We know we’re all that we can be.

 

 

*     *     *

  

Wattspawn

 

Sunny days at 111th Street School

We had flag drills every morning 

And watched with envy those big kids passing by

Laughing on their way to Jordan High

Hi Kindergarten Baby!

Grandma, how far is it to grown up?

Hush child.

 

Church and chicken every Sunday,

Grandpa was a preacher

Hi Ho Hitler! Kilroy was here!

Hush child, don’t say that

Your daddy’s away at war

Overseas?  Where’s that?

Hush child.

 

May Day.

We danced around the maypole

In paper hats with brightly colored

Crepe paper streamers

See the ruffle teacher sewed on my skirt?

Aw, now its torn, how come grandma?

Hush child.

 

Summertime.

Daddy’s home in a brown uniform, 

Then gone.

He gave me a stick of chewing gum

Why can’t I go with daddy?

Hush child.

 

Blackout.

Shaking, shivering, scared

Blankets at the windows

Blue lights in the ceiling

Quick child, under the table

But grandma, I don’t want to die!

Hush child.

 

I pledge allegiance,

Lift every voice and sing

Deep in the ghetto, 

Patriotic black folks

Grandma, what’s a nigger?

Hush child,

Hush.

 

*     *     *

 

 

Some Come in a Blaze

For Grover Washington, Jr.

From Borrego Springs on a dusty windy day – March 28, 2016

 

You bring molten sound,

Sax exhaling magic

Spinning sanguine ribbons of mellow

A musical landslide of rubies and roses

 

You bring green sound,

Germinating growth like the flame tipped ocotillo,

Or the supplicant Joshua tree

Rising from soft desert sands

A musical landslide of emeralds

 

You bring magic

Sparkling like a universe of stars

Canvassing the blackness of night

Over desert creatures

A musical landslide of diamonds

A mystical thrust of sound.

 

 

*     *     * 

 

 

Montecello, Utah

September 15, 2016

 

  

Wind Rivers

 

Rocky mountains loom above

Sculptured by invisible hands

Shadows frolic across canyoned carvings

Refining patinas midst desert sands

 

Tourists occupy viewing spaces

Cameras capturing families of stone

Eternity releases, embraces

Sun-stained sanguine cliff rock

Sentinels of time carelessly flung

Into wind rivers

 

 

 *     *     *

 

 

Once upon a yesterday

 Posted January 7, 2017

 

Once upon a yesterday I sat upon my soul

As slippery as glass it was and white as burnt out coal

It wriggled here and slithered there and tried to cast me out

But I hung onto its writhing mass and won the wretched bout 

 

Once upon a yesterday I found my way to home

Although I’d journeyed all the way from Watts to ancient Rome

Home is where the heart lies, my soul cried out from me

And my heart is in the forest of life’s eternity.

 

*     *     *

 

 

 

Seige: A tribute to the Million Man March

Seige: A tribute to the Million Man March and to all of the marches to come...

 

And so it came to pass that in a giant village square, a throng of African American males raised their collective voices against the weight of hundreds of years of oppression.

 

Diamonds erupted in the square, sparkling messages of hope, faith and love.  Soon the miracles began.

 

The crooked were made straight, sight returned to the blind, the hearing-impaired heard sounds of community for the first time, and those who previously could not speak delivered prophecies unto the elders.  What, then, became of the rest?

 

They were crucified.  The multitudes watched as crowns of thorns were placed upon their wearied brows.  They shouted their anger:

 

“Crucify them, crucify them.  For they are bowed but not defeated, bent but not fallen.  They hunger but are not starved.  Though their tongues are parched from an age of thirst, their campaigns against the monarchs continue!”

 

Among them dwelled the spirits of slave mothers whose fatherless sons strained for knowledge to survive the coming destruction.  House slaves now refused to sit silent in their insular kitchens while their kin wailed songs of sorrow in the fields.  Their attitudes revealed a hunger for the message; their shrugs of indifference created a needed diversion enabling those for whom the message was intended to receive it unaltered.

 

The messenger cried: “Peace, peace be unto you my brethren.  Know you that the light within is your key to salvation.  The light is life fueled by the soul within each of us, and we’re all connected by an invisible umbilical cord to the sun.  (Charles of Mingus noted the messenger’s fingers were crossed and strummed his truth from his bass).

 

And the Angela of Davis cried: “Nay nay!  Listen not to the water bearers, for you might drown in the River of Untruths.  Listen not, for knowledge must come in rivulets, not floods.  Listen not, for too much of it may create saturation and with saturation the end of learning, the demise of living.”

 

And the Colin of Powell said:  “There are no issues that we cannot all claim as a nation, no battles we cannot all fight as a clan and no problems we cannot all solve as one nation under God.  Remove those polyps please.”

 

Now the Louis of Farrakhan, his voice cut like crystal, said:  “Even though the word be stripped of blood, fear no evil.  I am responsible for comments that come unbidden from my flawless tongue.  I mean well, sleep well, eat well, am well.  Be you well and go forward, leaving lands to the landless and flowers strewn along the paths of change.”

The infants, long imbued with the Secret Knowledge of the Ages, cried: “Enough already.  We want to slide on the slides, swing on the swings and make loud preposterous noises when we’ve done the best we can.”

 

The young men in the square took heed.  When they had supped they said: “It is written.  We have mingled with the prophets, drunk the wine of contingencies and labored under love’s lost days.  Our Sammy of Davis danced for three decades—Bo Janglin’ through Christianity and Judaism, black and white and still they did not believe; Louis of Armstrong trumpeted his way through half a century, his sweet blues wafting to life’s ceiling; Josephine of Baker danced the seven veils of life, creating a coat through her many-colored children until the last one fell away.  And now our prophets call down through the mists:

 

“Listen and hear us well.  It was for you we lived and shouted the messages crafted to guarantee a place for your children and their children’s children.  Truth is life’s vintage byproduct, its best lesson.  Your task is simple, yet as hard as that of any living creature:

 

Seek out the great truths, embrace them, live them, and note their relationship to one another.  For without truth your lives will not have mattered and you will have cast not a stroke upon the canvas of eternity.  Life’s basis truths are eternal.  Live your own truth moment by moment and your crops will be bountiful.”

 

 

 *     *    *

  

Weathering Storms

 

Posted March 1,  2017

 

 

Cleansing rains soak vineyards, trees and other growing things

 

Raindrops cling to dead leaves and sturdy evergreens

 

Unbent by wind and steel grey skies and Winter’s ravagings

 

Then stillness rules as breezes quell and souls revive again

 

 

 

We sit inside our warmed caves of wood and glass and stone

 

Our hearths breathe fire from faked logs that warm us to the bone

 

Reading, contemplating what the weather yet might bring

 

Our patience worn like winter cloaks against Ma Nature’s sting

 

 

 

We’re heartened by the rose bouquet from yesterday’s brief ride

 

“They came from South America,” said the lady clerk with pride

 

She wrapped their lovely pinkness in Chinese scripted print

 

“They’ll last until you’re home again and keep their lovely scent”

 

 

 

The winds return to sweep our streets of fallen leaves and trash

 

As mothers usher toddlers through their puddles for a splash

 

We Grands watch with moistened thoughts of yesteryears gone by

 

When our own dear babes intrigued by rain helped our younger days to fly.

 

*     *     *

 

 

April, 2017

  

The Woman, the Rose, the Cat

 

 

At my window watching children play

Thoughts scamper winged like birds in flight

Destined for warmer climes the dove, the jay

Head southernmost or toward a blazing light

 

 

 

Stemmed in the coolness of pregnant soil

 

Red petals shoot toward puffed floating cloud

 

Unveil from bud to fullness now uncoil

 

Their messages of growth they shout aloud

 

 

 

Watching ever stealthily I pounce

 

Movement smooth as finest silk

 

Cat’s eye ever vigilant to trounce

 

Upon that treasured trove of sweetest milk