There's a steel drum playing loudly in the valley,
the tinks are infectious and lively
The shadows are rolling down the cliff with the breeze,
everything is right in the world we know to be true and sane
The thicket is dry and full of keawe thorns,
the bush is rustling with critters that show their fangs in the twilight hours
Our dogs are satisfied with the cool evening gentle wind gusts while the shores are still being lapped from the strong
The day was difficult due to the heat,
when this happens we all suffer
The streams of sunlight dwindle and night settles in.
The night owls make their runs to town and back,
while the guard dog is chained and fast asleep
The night is long and only gives way to only the heat of the
the birds chirp again
See!! The world is correct while we sleep, while we are active and while we breathe the Kona winds off the cold Pacific waters.
Nothing in life is just one event. It's merely the rhythm of life that occurs.
Slow country livin'
There's a hint of melancholy left in my breath,
a hint of cold in the summer
It's staples of nourishment that has lighted
pathways to salvation,
lighted pathways to safety and a distance from chaos
places like this on the horizon and a day's sail further
exist in a iridescent dream in my recollection
Islands of landmass proportions that rival the wonder of planetary revelations and celestial events that streak through the sky,
float among the ocean currents along side the ring of fire
The children of the Pacific remember these fiya skies and
praise those little portions of stardust lingering on the breeze
that create it.
The saline air collects in my lungs
beautiful coastlines with saltwater clouds 100 meters above the cliffs are home to those that ride on air gusts
they nest with their young hidden in caves a ways above the pristine and rugged rock face
the sun hits them quietly to warm and she leaves them the cooler at dusk on the ridge
Children of the Pacific all know this to be truth,
we established this fact through generations of life
It is how we ensure our survival as a people,
It is community collected lessons that we feed on and digest daily, to share this with the world is our privilege and responsibility,
one that we take seriously...
I am birthed of fire and nurtured by water all in the vast emptiness of the Pacific.
The world turns on a Shepard’s staff.
He, of whom the Shepard is, is a guide through the treachery and trickiness of the thick weeds.
The foothills have been passed and the plains of this earth is now the marked destination to rest. We eat there. Beware
The sheep have been calm this journey, and it’s lax for the collie, our animal ally.
He is prepared at a beckoning and that is all that is required for herds safety. He comes and goes throughout the brush to scout and prepare reconnaissance. Again, a ally.
The sun moves slowly and eventually rests past the horizon. Twilight and on a clear night, spreckels of stardust show their face over the herd and friendlies. The wolves do not bother the fire tonight.
We rest with a relative ease.
We wake and begin the day.
Pedestal talk from sheep
In the wee morning hours, while the world sleeps, thoughts of my fiya burns brightly and with substantial heat.
My child is growing without her father, regardless. It pains me that she will never be under my command. She is a seeker of a man's comfort and in all due rites, it is my comfort that she seeks in another man, a male.
A father's role in a child's life is a decent responsibility. It is honorable and respectable lifelong deal, or until the child exceeds legal commitment.
I find myself seeking her out, my sweet fiya, and finding comfort in women. Not the mother. I did not fully accept her, the mother, and we were forced to cut the courtship short upon pregnancy. It was forged in a manner that sits uncomfortably with me. Forevermore.
My intentions were to save and although it forced my hand many times, I do not see why her love is not reciprocated from me.
The flames grow in my guts and it leaves a charred taste in my mouth. My fiya, my sweet fiya, will grow free of a circumstantial monsoon rain. She will grow in size and warmth.
Eternamente, filha, eu sou seu pai.
Eu te amo, lindo.
The angels that occupy my slanted paradigm has created a stir in my life.
The monsoon rains are the tears of these occupants. The pain is real for all they do is work. I feel the cold sideways droplets stinging my skin at all times. I am alive.
The grass will grow quickly and **** out the unwanted. Nevermore will this natural occurrence happen, for once it does the job is completed it will never be second guessed.
The competence of a man is not judged by the amount of responsibilities, it is judged by the amount of responsibilities done correctly and without assistance. I am a competent man.
I live within my own means while the angels work and war. I am alive like no other in history. Be aware that this prose is my own judgement and I am coherent in my life, participating and eliminating.
From the Pacific Ocean of my mind
On a tiny Little Rock, in the middle of the sea,
It was fashioned to me,
The answers I seek,
Will forever be
My dreams shall reveal
Oh rock in the middle of the sea,
Why you have done this to me,
And explained my fantasy to me, intimately.
For it is I, the wave rider, that is in need,
Of a adrenaline shot of the greatest capacity,
To fulfill my heratige in the middle of the sea.
Pacific Ocean of my mind.
To speak such words that rise above the clouds and ride on unbroken waterfalls of the sun is not madness, it is the privileges of the poet.
The hearing of these words will continue to be indulgent and available for the narcissist as he, ever self deprecating, will use his ears to spread his ways to the reality of others.
The night, beautiful and cold, will give way to the heat and excitement of the midday. This mundane celestial event is as beautiful as the mourning star, yet even of more importance to the universe we are a part of. The white dwarf will crumble, ingest itself and shift towards a entirely original form of being.
The red dawn of this day will be seen over the span of a millennia and appreciated by unspoken words that mean so much to us all.
My wayward ears, finely in tune to the depths of suffering, will abandon all my hopes and dreams to make this world a better place, not for me but as a social agreement as a capable member of this great society.
It is my word and I am a man of honor. Tried and true, weighed and measured.