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Waimea
Where the clear water tingles, where the blowhole of the
playful dolphins are opening and exhaling,
Where the sharp-vocal sounds of the seagulls annoy tourists,
where they
often pick at lunch bags left to bask in the
sun,
Where the sand takes on medieval shapes of castles and
dungeons
slowly rinsed and eaten away by the tide,
Where Hercules-strong wind binds the waves only to crash
their tips on the
reef with eroded particles exploding,
Where young feet jump off the high rock into an abyss of
lucky aim,
Where summer lifeguards get sunglass tans from hours of
staring into the rays of redness,
Where planets fizz and set into the depths of the sea,
only to rise again and bring back the friendly
dorsal fins of the dolphins.
Butterflies of the Stomach
I know that feeling—so giddily satisfying—
It’s as if butterflies are mating in my stomach—
Cocoons bursting from the hollows of my insides—
So selflessly, they curtsy and depart the stage
Up—down—around—
And out with a flutter—
Painted beautifully, from what once was ugly
Their exiting wink—
Could downright turn a person to marble
Life on an Island
Dear Mom.
The shoe fit!
I have found my prince charming.
His name is Sir Island.
I never realized how gently the sea kisses the sand,
until I felt its warmth briefly request an affair with my
cheek.
One might think the ocean would be angry,
but instead the water scurried onshore
and accepted the grains of sand on my toes as a gift of
exchange.
Coconut trees crowd the land like cars crowd Highway 101
on a Monday morning,
though these trees don’t use profanity
and are far closer to tolerating their neighboring trees.
The scent in the humid air is so distinct,
that at times,
I can smell the captivating aroma of sweet soft mangos
indulging my senses.
I sometimes wonder if I am so deserving as to taste one of
these delicious fruits.
Its perfection makes me feel guilty for enjoying this
experience,
though I would be underestimating its value
if I were to put mangos in the same category as an apple by
naming it fruit.
Even running on the beach at sunrise is an experience!
The sand crabs burry themselves in the sand in fear of my
loud steps.
A local fisherman smiles as I pass him,
showing off his prize octopus that he skillfully speared for
breakfast.
The young children in the surf giggle as they get up to run
close behind me.
Don’t worry, I never forget to rinse off in the end and meet
the turtles for brunch.
Loving Mom,
I am happy!
You would have treasured this place.
Love, Self
Wandering Butterfly
A flutter, a circle, a wisp of air.
Quiet, no sound, with motions of beauty
Singing the colorful music of silence
I watch, I listen, I try to relate.
Mesmerized, perplexed, I transform to particles
This fly so delicate, it seems almost weightless
It touches, it swoops, it flaps a goodbye.
Departing, merrily, with a kiss at each landing
Content, confident and sure of itself
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