6am Poem 4.
A Tanka on Marriage
Lay with me today.
Honey with me everyday
till we are no more
till our whispers take their shape
in our childrens’ loving acts.
Elizabeth Fellows
efellows
I was born in Los Angeles, in the early '60, both Sun and Moon in Pisces at my arrival, and this intersection seems to pour from me. I am a mother of one, and grandmother now also, wearing the joys and terrors of a life well lived as a sort of armor for my last half here. I am articulate and shy, yet open enough so that no one notices the shy bits, or I hope not anyway. I hold confidences in my hidings. I am educated, try to be well spoken, and am a musician and writer. I work to live, managing myself so that I am never swept away into the opposing world of live to work. I believe in the Collective Consciousness of All that has ever been, All that Is, and All that will ever Be. It, and the extensions of It, are my religion. Regardless of my size, as it is known to fluxuate, I can often be found lying nude, or partially, under the Sun, or buoyant in the waters off my Pacific Island home, allowing healing and growth to purify me, and strengthen me. I am simple. What remains of my heart floats in a zip lock baggy, taped to the backside of my ribcage... I write poems. .
5am Poem 3. Help
5am poem 3
Help
Fire. Storm. Firestorm.
Could we not have called
Mayor Mike back to assist?
Rumble smash smoke sting
melting… melting…
Lahainatown.
We could not have called
Mayor Mike back to assist.
I wrote him several messages.
Deleted them all before sending.
Pilau to even ask.
Where there’s smoke
there’s not always fire.
Sound the alarms just in case.
Pilau to even ask.
Don’t send the message.
Don’t wait to ask.
It’s the rude beg of truth
the black sky of truthfulness
the cover of black sky.
Mayor Mike could have volunteered
maybe could have remembered
Lahainaluna
Ms. Fellows’ students.
Maybe not.
Pilau to ask.
He’ll make a statement
when the shock wears down.
We’re all frantic healing.
I’ll send one of those messages someday any day now.
Mmmm… malama pono.
Ashes call to him
far louder than any words of mine.
Fire. Storm. Firestorm.
.
Poem 2 Some Graces
4am Poem 2
Some Graces
About ten years ago
a teenaged young man
smashed into a pole on Honoa’piilani Hwy
driving home late from work.
He left his body immediately.
There are some graces.
White gloved
I drove him to his home ,
Lahainatown
down Front Street
past the Banyon Tree
through congested little avenues
stopping at his house
where family, neighbors and friends stood
solemnly waiting to fall
into processional to the church
to the cemetery
to his place of final resting.
He was gone.
He is gone.
He and all are gone now,
stolen by firestorm
all gone but the Banyon Tree
of his youngest youth.
There is still some life in our
strong, old Banyon Tree.
There are still some graces.
.
Poem 1. First Responders, Lahaina, Maui, HI, 8/9/2023 “Diana Khoi Nguyen, Selkie Weaning Young (Redux)”
3am poem 1
First Responders, Lahaina, Maui, HI, 8/9/2023
“Diana Khoi Nguyen, Selkie Weaning Young (Redux)”
I imagine they
“trailed fingers down and against grains of” ash
before the futility of rising
left them empty armed
the nameless strewn,
powder on sand,
around their boots
.
Just a few hours away!
Aloha Poet’s!
Well, just a few hours away from start time, and I am still awake… too excited!
Okay, I am going to turn the lights out now, and try to sleep for a while. I wish all of you the muses blessings. See you in a little while!
Aloha,
Elizabeth
Poem 24. America, 2022
Bodies under siege
controlling men weilding pens
raping our freedoms
kidnapping our liberties
taking hostage our bodies.
Poem 23. Green Mansions (a senrua)
The train is coming
please pack only what you need.
Sisters and Mothers
bring your children to the yard.
We’re heading North to freedom…
Poem 22. Tenderness
Of all the wishes
we had as children, all the
hopes and silent prayers
we offered up, tenderness
from Mom and Dad was highest.
Poem 21. This Really Great Kid I Once Knew
He learned to walk in the rain
holding my umbrella.
He liked twirling it most of all
and learning the sign for it,
and for rain,
and for can we go for a walk again,
and for thank you.
Poem 20. Echo Husband
We lost you last year. You went to bed out there in South Dakota, and never woke up. Fifty five years old and gone.
I mean, I know you weren’t mine anyway, hadn’t been for a couple of decades, but your first is always a little yours regardless. I know you agree. We talked about this many times.
I still drive the pali, not as much as I used to, but I still do, and I think about all the talks we had about you coming here to retire, spending your time at Molokini. I hear you laughing through the car, then resigning yourself, and reminding me you had three more years to work. And I always said no. You just want to work for three more years. And you said yeah… then you were gone.
Now, all that’s left is the echo of our conversations about how badly you wanted to be here, and me looking out over the ocean to Molokini, hoping you are there.