Francisco, flying over the
Hawaii and thence to the island of
Songs written on that trip,
the first for slack key guitar to the tune of
O 'ahu, got petroleum, superhighways,
steamboat mu seums, sugar hills,
bishop estates, leases, homesites, to the
An d the military highways
closed off to the ocean over
superhighways, glass hotels.
Hawaii's buried under steamboat museums,
sugar hills, bishop estates, leases, homesites
And the military highways closed off
superhighways, glass ho tels.
Es tates leases home sites to the
And the military highways
closed off to the ocean over
Croon, quatrains, mirror image, two poems,
four quatrains each, written sitting
on the beach, no particular music in mind,
or what music was in mind disappeared, so
Fiji sands and what did I think of next?
You, big -eared listener,
Melville's rhyme on olden
Kerouac's choo -choo time in
A light rose up my body and spine
Smiling head that consciousness
reached all my teachers in hell
Oh music that washes from shore to shore
Oh rhythm turned centuries old
Sing through our mouths and
The bard's first chanting foretold.
What does the sunlight reveal?
Coral bones on the tiny beach, grass,
flies on my hand, wash and kneel.
Crabs in brown valleys of sand,
tree elbows leaned on the sea.
Australian children yelling at wavelets,
a rowboat in shade of the tree.
Peaceful chatter of baby waves, white caps distant reef roar,
birds whistling through green palm arms, jeep tires speeding the shore.
Oh, presence as timid as a white dog
that swims on the shallow tide
Salute, blue ocean in heaven,
through which our war bombers ride