I am extremely sensitive to place.
Perhaps my Irish background, with both sets of grandparents only a few miles from each other, shaped me that way. This includes the flora & fauna, the ancestors and the spirits of a place. My poetry is poetry of place, grounded in seasonal settings and the particulars of location.
This is why my poetry over the past twenty-two years is Hawaiʻi-based. It’s also why I dance Kupuna Hula.
Poetry is my life.
Both my grandfathers were poets. I’m simply following their lead. I’ve never stopped writing poetry. I’ve published in small presses, but the bulk of my current published poetry was self-published (under the aegis of the Inkwells, a writing group I belong to here in Kohala, Hawai’i Island).
The Sea Cave
Each time we reach the far end of the beach
we reach into to the cave with our feet
or at high tide our minds
always our coming and going does this
today we turned before the dark mouth
that always pulls us in
next thing I know you're on the sand
back to the lava
the smell of seaweed strong today
the vision of its bright green fringe
Shard
for Kenji
White porcelain piece thumb-sized
fractal of a bowl thrown by the potter
on say an island off the coast of Kyushu
a cross-hatching all that remains
of the blue house where she once waited
for his return the glaze now a thin study
of what endures perhaps wagon wheels
horseback who knows and the long voyage
into the rising sun to the islands located
at 19 degrees latitude themselves shards
Breaking Through Crusted Snow
Breaking through crusted snow
in the woods surrounding your place
sugar pine and Doug fir you’ve taken care of
more than half your life
not once not every time we sink
suddenly a comedy routine laughter
and we feel our way onto the surface again
no longer solid ground no more
The Croissant
The croissant innocent there upon its circle of white porcelain
is the sculptress I lived with on Colney Hatch Lane the girl
with a smile who operated the follow-spot. The Lane led
notoriously to a madhouse but I stayed south with my bicycle
dripping light oil on the knotted cord carpeting just inside
her front door an English racer with taped handlebars
tamed and accounted for like Picasso’s head of a bull
an escaped simile in this short chant dedicated to the metaphors
of my time in Sam Wanamaker’s tent theatre on the Bankside
the Bull’s Head a fantasy pub where I met Chaucer’s ghost
BLUE AGAIN LIKE MORNING
BLUE AGAIN LIKE MORNING
for Slyde
Blue again like morning
but never mind—breath is my friend
though I’ve neglected her these months
while the doctors looked for my throat
Give me my horn I’ll take it up
and summon up that long sigh
the one I gave the first time ever I saw
you walk across a room
THE MYSTERY OF KNOWING
THE MYSTERY OF KNOWING
for Larry
In the beginning was the word, meaning the big
vibration from which all things animate and
inanimate issue forth, but it could very well
have been Hey! You molecules virals spirals
stardust bacterias plasmas miasmas and scilias
swimming in the cosmic sea making your way
to the shores with the Australian crawl
or the little bawl of wax...Get off your
microscopic asses and create life, all right?
THE WAY OF TOTAL INTEGRATION
THE WAY OF TOTAL INTEGRATION
First in the beginning and from the outset
before before before input when laughter
merely stuttered and your name mumbled
in the eucalyptus which did not sway
the snake came and knotted itself inside
your brain into the Celtic sign for geese
in flight you had no say in this although
you knew thirst and all the other cravings
but one which we will not talk about yet
EMPTY SHELLS
a cicada shell;
it sang itself
utterly away
—Basho
EMPTY SHELLS
counting syllables the haiku
disappears from the branch
KEEP ME FROM WHIPLASH
KEEP ME FROM WHIPLASH
Hold me back the world's on fire
too fast too much or not enough as usual
can't make up my mind
not with the lights all green and the roads empty
mover over ghost I see you there
cycling down the margin in daylight
the testy owl languid over your
bobbling frame see how she launched herself
from the fencepost is somebody timing this
SHORTER WITHOUT A NET
SHORTER WITHOUT A NET
You can do it!
That's the voice I want to hear
with me stepping out into space
from the branch of a tree
onto the roof of your house
I know you're in there although
there's no doors or windows
I just need the small voice
to stir me on
The Show Of My Life
I took a bite mmm the crunch of a toasted circle
resounding in the cave of the mouth
I'll just sketch a few lines here on the walls
and forget the public viewing who knows
perhaps some unwitting day tripper lured
off the coastal path by lanterns of red fuchsia
deeper and deeper till they reach this place
how many thousands of years from now
will marvel how I depicted ocean waves
upside down on ceiling ribs found sculptural