Mostly

Trees stretch impossibly tall and wide
covered in lichen and rusty bark
fat vines crawling for succor 
around their broad waists.

We sit beneath a bright yellow sign and 
words tumble out easily like rocks on the shoreline
the deep rumble of waves
the depth of the ocean’s darkness
and strength.

we climb the crowded path in the rain 
eager bodies all around us
searching for paradise
co-regulating with the land
anxious, mosquito-laden
damp and covered with sunscreen 
stumbling over rocks and dreams. 

frameworks strategies living
travels family recognition
growth gathering catalyst 

who will we become in the context of 
our story our lives our work our community

who will we be amidst our genealogies,
broken yet holding
obscure and wise 
disconnected, tied, finding acceptance 
searching for (home)land?

somos nosotros (we are the ones)
finding the way. 
Largo, long the journey 

but the sheets of rain continue their misting
of the valley, the trees, 
Largo
looking back to make sure we’re still here
our faces stretched towards the wet sky.

the waves seek the shore with a primordial constancy.
the dull roar, the pulling and release 
the comfort of this,
Becoming.

Let the poetry speak for itself. I write, delete, realize I’m being redundant to what is already on the page. Do I need to explain how this poem was born, how it came to be, the look in the eye of a beloved four-legged creature? The context of the trees, wind, and rain? A poem can contain a universe, however esoteric. The boundaries of stanzas and lines, structure, language, alliteration, the way we rhyme, the closeness of syllables, setting the context, then going deep and wide. Poetry has been a lifeline for me throughout my existence, reading it but mostly writing it. And it’s mostly for me.  Mostly no one will read my poems. Old poems are like family members, some I know by heart, they’ve been with me for decades now.

Once, Aunty Pua said: “Prayers can be difficult, we all come to them in our own way, it can be difficult to hear what is being said. Poetry is a way of saying important, sacred things in a small amount of words. It will hold that shape forever. You can go back to it over and over and over again. Sometimes you need to be able to say something about who you are.” and “…part of my work is to encourage others to see, listen, write, share their heart and wisdom in the form of story or poetry.” She also said “Poetry has always been for me the way I freed myself from anger, shame and guilt…” 

I believe that’s one reason I was drawn to Aunty Pua and her work; as a poet she knew what it was to need poetry to survive and process and celebrate life. To be free.

In Hawai‘i we understand this deeply. Our language is oral and poetic. Our language embraces the necessity of metaphor. We intone: “…mai pa‘a i ka leo..” Do not hold back the voice. When one is requesting permission to enter, chanting, chanting, the voice entreats an answer, answer, permission, entrance, acceptance. We also say “I ka ʻōlelo no ke ola, i ka ʻōlelo no ka make”—in the language there is life, in the language there is death. We compose our existence with our words, carefully. Through our language we continually make and remake ourselves and our world, our relationality. Chants and ka‘ao, mo‘olelo, they are stories and guides that help us understand who we are, who we have been, and the potential of who are becoming.  

I reflect too that poetry isn’t everything. Life and death are everywhere. In budgets there is life, and also death. I hope that none of us ever get so disconnected from the everyday needs of our fellow citizens that we would condone anything that prevents folks from the right of living, to source and be resourced, to become. 

What’s your poetry?

Mahalo,

Dawn

Photo taken 7/4/25 in Mānoa Valley