Three poems for Hawaii

                    I

Beneath the canopy

Of towering mango, coconut, albizia and gunpowder trees

The jungle swells in sun-lit waves of green  

Like the belly of a pregnant woman,

Her womb extending for miles across Puna1

 In layers and layers of luminous green upon green.

 

Within, lush ferns and wild grasses

Compete for sunlight
Where boar trails meander

Amidst wild guava trees

And, occasionally, one finds

A small patch of wild orchids that arise

Like the face of an infant that dreams

Inside its mother.  

Here a multiplicity of flora strive     

To fulfill their highest expression,

Each relentlessly climbing for sunlight 

As if squeezed toward parturition.

 

When it rains,

The damp, sweet air inside the jungle

Is like amniotic fluid 

As the passing clouds over Hawaii

Spill drops from off the ocean as they will

Every day, sometimes every hour.

 

                           ************* 

                                II

In my camp deep inside the Puna jungle

A sudden eruption rips through the canopy:

The cries of cardinals

Symphonize around an urgent group call-

Chigo!   Chigo!   Chigo! 

                                                                                                                  

This is rare.  A truly

Stupendous commotion in the jungle!

Never before have I heard the cardinals

Sound this call for so long!

Chigo!   Chigo!  Chigo!

They have all gone off like synchronized clocks

For at least fifteen seconds,

Their collective soul ringing like Monads 

Inside a network of sense and instinct,

An emotion of mirrored recognition amongst themselves

Of some urgent, prime event. 

 

But what?

The commotion dies down..
Whatever its cause, it was stupendous.
Nonetheless, for me it is
Just one more mysterious occurrence
The sign and signification of which
I will never know or understand.   

What did the cardinals say?

Was it a cry of victory or a cry of fear?

 I can't say.

                   ************ 

                          III

The weathered Tibetan prayer flags

Sway between the branches of a tree near my camp,

Heavily-worn to their last threads by the elements.

They too symphonize, but soundlessly,

Their constant supplications 

Swaying the winds of karma-

The prayers tangling and untangling themselves

From the branches that together toss in the ocean breeze.

 

Each one is a spiral dorje',
A diamond lightning bolt of magical intention

Compassionately made to appease the karma

Of all sentient beings.

 

I have faith in the efficacy of each flag

Until they are completely in tatters.

1) The Puna district lies at south-easternmost tip of the Big Island of Hawaii. It's main town is Pāhoa. The district is long-known for its free-spirit and locals are known as "Punatics". It is also the main volcanic area in the state, with Mauna Loa and Kilauea nearby. Puna is "volcano country". 

2)  Cardinals are to be found everywhere in Hawaii. They are by far the most common bird on the Big Island.  

As a Wheel Turning of Itself

A highway in the distance sounds 
And resounds with the smooth whine 
Of wheels making time.

Shriek of metal and murmur of tires,

The piston's rage firing

The wheel's utterance  

Of a circular complaint 

About the long, convoluted effort it takes  

To move.

 

The caviling cry of countless vehicles 

Devoured by the serpent of highway,  

Its ceaseless hiss of loud warning

Twelve lanes wide, uncoiling  

The infinitude of landscape 

Across an incalculable distance 

Of wheel to pavement, 

That fundamental point of  

The serpent's mouth to the serpent's tail, 

Every vehicle swallowed whole 

By the constant space before it,

Leaving behind a slough 

Of serpentine miles in the blaring wind. 

I lay half awake, listening 

To the force of unseen wheels

Inside of wheels  

Unbend the miles 

In infinite revolutions spinning  

Upon an ambient river of  violet-blue asphalt 

As I lay in a trance 

Absorbed in the paradox of distance 

On top the warm, soft road melting into   

The entrance of dreams 

Where all is near and immediate.

And there... upon the endless surface of the mind,

Along its many roads,

I can almost hear it... 

 

The azimuth of a star

Intersecting with the celestial horizon

In a violet hue of both sound and color.

That point of great interest.
I can almost hear it-

 
The complex mathematics infusing space,

An orbital music

Inside a spiral of wheels  

Meshed inside a cog-works 

Of chakras and vehicles  

All connected to the heart.

Every millimeter of space
Intricately tuned to 
The flaming harmonics
Of a music playing here and in the immeasurable
Distance. 

From my bed 
Nothing has nor requires any direction. 
Perhaps nothing really moves.
And distance? 

All of these vehicles going to and fro

In infinite segments,

Second after geometric second,

Through an artificial arc of horizon. 

Closer and closer, 

Yet always halfway there. 

Driving onward, unmoving,

Over parabolas of overpasses that ascend

To a zenith then return

To start again

At their nadir.

 

Through 360 global degrees  

Spreading without boundaries, 

Every moving vehicle evinces 

The mystery of The Chariot.

This vast threefold embodiment 
Of the One Self in all time and place
Rolling down straightaways shimmering in exigence,
Merging onto transcendental highways 
From off the streets of immanence 
Transporting awareness through the mind
And mind through endless dimensions.