I am but waves of your voice, dreams of tomorrow. Weary Of existence, I move to precious lips. I am the vast field of sand, a desert in that blink. But what twilight will sway the wind, what peace is found in war? Whispers, divine in abyss. In lies I was born, in tears, a death. I am vast, unearthly, yet I breathe you in, such scent of purpose, and such gaze forgotten. I am sand, a cry from distance. Lean in, but lost in beauty’s smile, lost in a kiss. -RA

A collection of a voice’s battles, With each word she dazzled my soul.

This day, this night, until the Moon sings us away, My love, Angelic beauty, I dedicate this to you.

Ryan Swanson

Hawai‘i Nei,

my sweet song.

The Voice of Sand A Collection of Poems

Hawai‘i, 2015

By Ryan Swanson

 

1 The Moonlit Sand

To hold beauty's key.

To see all things from beauty's abstruse eye, that cosmic doodles cascade from life's hand.

Although eternity's death draws nigh, absurd to tarry, a canvas so grand.

Alone, thy wits conveyed by angels lips.

Spill thy politic ink with firm pressed palms; precious lore of thee, like gems of wrecked ships.

To be of divine par, worthy of alms.

Enchanted quill governed by holy dreams, thus shall renew a soft and crippled myth.

Oh, by sweet love's breathe; conjure many themes, in that, lust's arrow shall fall short forthwith.

Embark thyself upon thy muse's hymn;

alas, to limn fate's tale till stars grow dim.

Alone in this tide. Upon the sweeping blue and tears of yesterday, roars of internal voices at war with the morrow;

ensnared by foretold gales sits our castaway, the vessel but green from orienting sorrow.

Upon this black insidious serpent swell,

Where demons contemplate their existence; The divine chasm of lies and guilt do dwell, A soaking delusion as a light in the distance.

Upon the deadly waltz of the green sea,

Lightning bends with leaps in a jete of flame, Liberating courage with leaves from the lime tree,

His spirit at battle with Irit, yet worthy of proclaim.

Upon the sweeping blue and tears of fate, My heart paints yellow its sea and swell.

Lost in wind and pain, a tale alone does he prate, A frightened sob, his last farewell.

Upon thy ocean’s new found glory,

He sits and cries upon his dory.

RW

 

2 Be it dust of seconds' leap

Be it milk that I might taste such honey, or perhaps soft lies of reality's marrow...

Be it salt in the flesh wound of my forgotten dagger. Be it silence of a timid tongue, perhaps to stutter as did Moses,

and yet should I ask upon my brother Aaron...? A'ole I pule...to find me scent, of such a salt that birthed us all...

For I am of here, belonging to a people I don't belong to... ke aloha, my love, their love! I kēia manawa, maluhiluhi au...

but I love you, my lava that lays my foundation above the sea.

Creepy Crawling That fateful day they first appeared, seven-hundred thirty I counted once.

They crawl, they march on in then disappeared, to come again from loose lips, cob webs of Mr. Dunce.

Slither to a creepy crawl, hairy with fangs I feared. Ruthless beetles, cloaked in Spider's webs,

who laugh, then rip, heck even brought down Debs! These slimy, rather, rotten hellish things ,

a night, THAT night I felt a bite! My ear, my thigh and weary brain, I tossed, I turned, I bled this plight!

Awake? no dawn's dim light? my eyes they're red in fright. Shhh....shhh I said,

They speak, they chatter of beauty's love lies.. Shhhh...SHHH I SAID!

My soul, I hear my soul at war, her chaotic cries. Oh these precious bugs of mine,

we sing the days where life's dream dies. I shake, I shiver to let you know...they want you too, they wait in lieu.

They march, or crawl and ask of you...come, sip our rotten wine... and then you do.

-RA

 

3 A kiss, a pen.

Under moonlight, wind brings lore of war, rotten with grief and sorrow. Arise in external dreams’ love for tomorrow’s lie.

Desperation’s screams of dying men; beg, to trade, a life to borrow. In frightful howls of doom, a graceful kiss; comforting, then to die.

Recurring misery in pathetic ends for those of Pizarro.

Thus in shame, this cursed and generic age weeps to cry. Like this we bathe in blood upon foreign mats of yarrow;

swollen rivers’ current, already drunk in red. We bleed and wail like those of Achilles’ sigh,

in glorifying agony until the unreachable riverbed.

OH the fight, a belligerent and slow struggle, born from a tales’ tale.

In her presence, a scent of rose; clothed in beauty, storms of truth. Lending soft her seductive kiss, to which all men yield.

Swift does fear flee from such a lust; her remedy to youth, Then do memory flood those passionate hearts.

A kiss, a pen; in a continues instant their fate is sealed.

Thus is told the tale of all. Enter by light we walk, then meek;

By darkness we speak, then only crawl. By her graze, born in mystery and peace,

Return to light, from beast to child. But then, is not every kiss as such?

The Departed The melody comes to me from that place through the mist and past the clouds. It finds me in the dark, and draws me into the light; indeed the pounding of that rhythm moves me. From within the scared skin, the heart dances to its own symphony. When I cry, I see your face. When I scream, I hear your voice…telling me sweet things. You whisper from beyond the mist, from that blurry place, of the tone that provokes life. And when I am alone, and all seems dim, you bring the beat on a fire torch and urge me to dance to

the song of our triumphs. I still see you there beyond the mist, you sitting there watching me. I still see you there beyond the haze calm and peaceful. I still see you

there beyond the veil, resting a hand on my bed. Don’t worry, because I remember your voice, and your funny laugh. Hey, Don’t worry there! Because I still see you with every

blink. And to walk the shores of our poetry sands, and to scream at that river of pain…but you were my guide, and when I wrote, anoche yo soñé contigo…que estaba

yo, allá en tu Arena, I found myself. -RA The music comes from somewhere beyond the mist, and I am cold but it brings me warmth. I am sad, but it teaches me to smile. And I’m so blue, but you show me the

Tango. I miss you, every second and everyday, but you brought me the symphony, a symphony of science and of love.

 

4 A kiss of Sand

I remember that day in a kiss, a memory. Remember the pain, the madness of this eternity. And from this swollen, scared and weary heart…

You, my friend stole life. A vision by poison you took. I tremble, I shake, bloody tears of tomorrow.

Yet that day is your myth, and your myth is my death. But I sing only with tears. Remember kids, I sing only with tears!

They cut my tongue and taught me pain. In blood I choke, in blood you left.

Come back to me now, and be my lips; SPEAK to remind me of the sand in my veins

Sing; oh sing so that I might feel you…touch you…know you, Come home to us, comeback to me.

In a kiss, I remember the day they called me man,

Onward into wonderland, onward into the pathetic path; Your Path, your words, YOUR VERY THOUGHTS, bitter, deadly gunpowder, My owls carry sand…but, you bring only that sacred curse that came before you.

Your words are smoke of yesterday’s massacre and your soul is dressed in fake sulfur.

In a kiss I cry, and my tears are yours. I scream, but only the wind can hear.

And with wind and sand I sense your soul With sand and wind, a kiss is felt.

I beg of you to search my eyes, In the galaxy of the desert my heart beats to your song.

As I kiss my tears I eat your lips, but yet their caste

cannot fit; not ayer, nor tomorrow…no not ever. Your lost, I’m lost, but yet in sand.

With one true kiss of pain and sorrow… hold me, In sand you will know me, because I taste of truth.

You will love me because my soul is a desert.

Come but for a kiss, a sweet touch of my dry Lips, taste my story.

My pain as sweat…will you have me? Lean into the blue universe and lend me your skin,

Kiss me in abundance as you twirl…do you know me? In my kiss I am old, young, wise and dumb.

In my kiss the universe exist… Hence the divine painted you in my dream.

With blue kisses, I am eternal; Without your twirling love, I seek only the mist.

A passage of sand.

 

5 Fantasmas...bésenme!

As if pain could measure up to that grand morality of far off nations within each soul; nations, we gaze into eyes of reflectors, oh but we turn in disgust...of who we really are? As if pain can be measured, yes doc like a 1-10… now oh lord drop down a kiss from my

dear whore Morphine, and come take me away so that I might forget this: “journey, passion, struggle, might, courage…THIS? THIS…breath, life?! The puddle, oh some

milky eye sees that in you I am me... such tales of that mirror of eyes. As if pain can dance to the rhythm of love...and in your hurt, you have forgotten their

hurt…yes sir/ma’am!...Blind, sheep, no toads that sit and gaze into the fear of real love... in mud dim you worthy.

Mirror in you, this muddled soul I love so much…is not pain from which I am made aware, does not treasure awaken adventure, a struggle of tug-of-war. Shovel in hand dig deep, is love not found? Or does the Divine sit and type keys of words that slither out of

a never silver tongue, sheep that gather in fog, seeking destiny’s script to caress such fallen heads? You who run from pain, who congregate in darkness’ comfort, to never

know beauties bright. Let us spiral in a brilliant waltz to themes that glide above the depths below…you

gather, you who run from me…Gazelles, he comes for you in the brush, when night sings its deadly melody…as you sleep on, do lions eat before a fight, allowing prey to

enter into death? As if pain…I am pain…As if pain…I am love… As if, to you, blue yet green eyes in the mirror... has such a love become like torture? Has the map been torn

and rewritten by those who have failed in what they “deemed precious and thus correct”, or is love’s beauty already milky in their bearded gaze…forgotten struggle of the

oppressed …because of pain? The mirror, my eyes…your eyes? Sing within a righteous call, dream too with love’s ink…your song, my song…this mirror I seek.

IMUA! In work we are worthy, In action we are solid….love, and yes that “love” rest only in pain, sorrow, grief; yea, it’s just beyond that horizon of life. Swim on, fables of a true and righteous quest is there, yet toads already dead of life’s fire, IMUA while even words and whispers of “lies” and “advice” preach otherwise. The battle rages within us,

you and me, me and you…GREEN AND FUCKING BLUE. Caution: Love’s ego stands firm on altars proclaiming the lies of your false status, which trick all into an idea of worthy pain. My flower, my Kaua‘i, you were born divine and although an island in

their distance…you are precious, my touch is of your ua lani…blue in this greenish hell that lashes from mine eyes…

-----To hope and also forget…but to remind us all that anything of value must be fought for…Spin!, for in the struggle I see worthiness and beauty…or has Church

taught you different? In life, that Burger King lies about your way…cuz it ‘aint. The struggle for love is the only true quest…SO please, you Wise folks of molded dirt, read another tale and meet me in Neverland, my home where lava danced above the sea…

-RA “IN PAIN”

 

6 To remind myself the difference in war…(work in process) never finished

In the vast blue of milky tears and endless sobs sat the boy on top a grave, yes there, beyond the other hill, that is where I saw him last. He sat, he wept, a laugh I swear…yes

that hill over there. I was awakened you see, in that darkened night, to screams and howls I do say, indeed I might. Yes, oh yes I remember now! the stars, the moon and yes that owl. He laughed and spoke but with no one there…a scream, a howl...I see it now.

Yes he sat then stood to scream, a cry, then grunt or one deep growl oh yes, yes something very foul...a child, a man? I do not know…yet his laugh, his scream as if a

show. As if by murder, he caught his foe…a cry, a howl and then a crow. No, look up, a hill close from here! The willow tree, yes, yes over there…in dawn…or dusk…so close

you could hear. Those eyes, oh eyes of devil’s fear…a turn, a lunge, he grew so near…in pain, in tears I felt love's despair…Not he, but I, me standing here. Hey boy, Hey Man, Hey you there, don’t! Stop! I do yes care! In might I ran, the rain so rare, the mud and moon above in stare. Hey boy, no! stop you there!…I heard the tear…I ran, I ran with

all the dare…but boy, I swear I do, I care! I leaped, I flew, he but bare…but why? Here, I sprung, no over there!, I cried…yes in cold midair…Hey you, young boy with no

care….the rain, his tears.. and cries so clear. In the night, a night of scare, I found the boy over there…Now? Oh now? No not here, some hill, a place.. oh where oh where…they say, you see that mist just there, yes it's blue and yet so near?

-RA

Un sueño But yet I awake to her voice,

In the distance she walks, a smile and laugh upon her step,

just there beyond that cloud, that mist that guards like a vail.

the spores of death embark their journey, beyond that place of mist blur,

where moons dance and suns burn where elements waltz and quarks squirm...

this is where I lost, this is where ill find you. I miss you mom, and ill always love you!

Luella Mae Swanson que me duele...ya estás allá en tu Arena, cerca del nuestro rio...me encontrarás allá con el

peso del mundo! Te amo!

 

7 The Society

We found them in the garden by the sea cliff, like every other day. The smaller one was tending to his plants, he planted the fields so long ago and he loved them very much. He

would talk to them as if they could listen because to him, they were his true friends. Most days the smaller brother looked out at the sea horizon and he knew that he was blessed to have his plants. The bigger brother sat at his table eating the works of his

smaller brother, he was afraid of the dirt and only enjoyed the crops when placed on his table…for he knew his job was the most important…You see these twin brothers were

still connected, they had always been connected, ever since birth. Although they differed in looks, from the bigger brother remained the umbilical cord. The cord was lengthy and ran throughout the garden until it found the smaller brother hard at work caring

for his garden.

Day after day, the bigger brother would eat while the younger would work…that is how it has always been thought the bigger brother, “without me, my brother would die

because I feed him. It is from me that he gains his life.” The bigger brother always thought of his job as being superior, looking upon his brother as a child playing in the dirt. However the smaller brother never noticed how his brother’s hatred of him grew.

No, he was lost in his work, and he was happy with it.

We came the next day to the garden and we found the older brother at his table eating and thinking. He looked very angry. Therefore we asked him what he was

thinking…and from a scene much like a piranha frenzy, he spoke…never allowing two words out before returning to his eating frenzy…”It is I who has this terrible job of

taking care of my brother, it is from me that the nutrients flow, he only lives because of me!” At this moment he pounded his fist on the table with rage, and continued speaking, “If he was not around I would be stronger, I would have everything! He is a burden to

me, TO ME!”

The next day we came again to the garden near the sea cliffs. However, this day all we saw was murder of crows eating away at the crops. The table where the bigger brother

sat was on its side and the smaller brother was nowhere to be found. We asked the crows what had happened. When the crows heard us they smirked, but then told us

about the tragedy that took place here. The biggest bird begun the story,

“ We fly around these sea cliffs everyday, and everyday we see the two brothers; the fat brother always at his table eating while the smaller one in his garden. The smaller

brother always scares us away from his crops because of his love for them. However, it was at dusk last night when we came again, and we saw the fat brother screaming,

searching for his twin. The fat brother was irate and we only could see the greed of men in his eyes. When he found his brother he yelled at him and blamed him for doing

nothing but only receiving nutrients and for being a burden to him. The smaller brother wept and asked for forgiveness but the fat brother and his greed tossed the smaller brother off the edge of the cliff. The small brother fell to his death but the umbilical

cord that connected them dragged the fat brother to his death as well.”

 

8 At this moment the smallest of the crows, a mere simp spoke, “why did the smaller

brother never teach himself how to eat on his own?”

The Coyote's trail Ou kinoi Lono i ka lani, He ao loa, he ao poko, He ao kiei, he ao halo, He ao hoo-pua i ka lani;

Your bodies, O Lono, are in the heavens a long cloud, a short cloud a watchful cloud, an overlooking cloud- in the heavens

One day a Coyote walked the dry desert sand looking for water to quench his thirst. He walked for many days in search for his lost love, the 'I'iwi bird. She flew south one night

after the two of them had a fight of borrowed words. As he walked, his tears fell unto the dusty and dry sand, and his paws were bursting with thorns. The Coyote pushed on, and walked many miles under the unfriendly lā, at night he spoke with nā hoku, but yet,

he continued onward, chiefly because her sung could still be heard. Every night, the picturesque moon along with his nā hoku friends spoke of the music to the tired Coyote. A beautiful symphony composed of a collective yet blurry yeuehcauh, hoy, kēia mua iho,

and so his love of the 'I'iwi bird, which through its le‘ale‘a, was renewed in strength. However, after centuries her song became a song of the night, afraid of the transparent

universe of lā. Onward the Coyote hunted to his tune, until one day, a day like every other since they

came, he found himself hindered by a towering wall that traveled both east and west and past the horizon and into the mist. At first he tried jumping the wall, but gave up after

realizing it was too tall. Then he tried digging below the wall, but grew tired and hopeless. Frustrated, he even tried passing through tiny holes in the wall, but his fur caught. Alas, he gave up, his tears flowing heavily, until he let out a deep howl at the heavens. Coyote thought again of his friends the eagle and serpent, and why he could not fly over, or slither through as they could, if they ever so desired. But, here, in this

dry place, only ravens flew over; their minds erased by an internal crave for silver. Exhausted, and with the dancing sand in the wind as his blanket, the Coyote fell asleep. When he awoke, a man was sitting next to him. He had giant attentive eyes full of ahi,

was beardless and clothed in a white robe. The Coyote asked the man who he was. “I am Lono. I heard your cry and came to help you find your love. Ancient and weary

Coyote, you might think yourself alone, but in fact we hear the song, her song. You are as the sand, limitless, and yet we hear all howls and taste all tears. I will show you the

universe through the song of your love, the mele of the 'I'iwi bird.” The Coyote whispered the story of his travels in tears, explaining in howls of the

impenetrable wall ahead. Lono informed him about the sins of this wall. It is always silent, and made from the greed of men in order separate two realms of the same sand. Lono advised the Coyote not to worry, that he would give him a gift. The robed Lono summoned a howling wind from the west, and water from the ground. He mixed the

two elements and made a cloud. “This, I have made for you brave Coyote. It will fly over the wall and into the green jungle where you will find your love, the 'I'iwi bird. The

tune of the world will be your guide, and the sand your conscious. Young Coyote, follow the song, hume, hume na malo e Lono! Hai ke kaua, hailea, hailono e (Bind on, bind on the malo oh Lono! Declare war, declare it unquestionably, proclaim it by messengers),

which resonated the instant our Sun kissed our Moon, the song of the 'I'iwi.

 

9 The Coyote was overwhelmed with joy and leaped onto the cloud. And with a touch of

Lono’s hand the Coyote’s paws were healed. He asked, “Yeuehcauh, how can I ever thank you?” With a breath Lono replied, sending the cloud into the sky, “Remember you are as sand, and with my wind the oppressed orchestra of

the limitless will erode their silent walls.” The Coyote pup flew over the wall and into the jungle where the 'I'iwi bird was waiting.

She asked, “What took you so long my love?” He simply nodded, then spoke, “A thousand years I travelled through time following

your song. On my journey back to you, I witnessed the sons of two men, a Cook and one Cortez, combat the given harmony of yesterday and grow silent in golden lineage. I have endured their labyrinth of greed, their desire to destroy the song of Yeuehcauh,

and replace it by building hushed drums only to later destroy it. However, through my cloud’s passage we carried sand. For with our trail the numerous will hear again.”

A kona breeze begun to spread from the south with ferociousness and so it seemed the war had commenced, then within a veil of caressing sand, the 'I'iwi bird and Coyote

embraced each other with a long awaited kiss.

Sam Land -Rough draft- Where's my ink?

Umm, okay: Around here, we walk in draping heat created by our AC cement jails.

Here we buy ourselves slavery, the a great dream of Horatio Alger we run with our palms up high. Yet, While Kalani speaks with nā pōhaku to find his distant ancestors'

voice, Sam sits in the shadows of “city life".

Over here their are many voices to be heard, yet Sam speaks with ghost of some life he had once upon a fairy-tale

You see here in Sam land, culture is forgotten in the face of the not so mighty (anymore, sorry) dollar. Sam saw some lady named Liberty in a white banker conference sell her soul (metaphorically maybe) for a high she would lit with a torch. I don't know, Sam speaks to ghost and smells of man's achievement, why does it smell unnatural, like a

chemical high on paint thinner. In the wela sun Sam's shadowed corners are cold, "just like the winters back home" he

recounts to his invisible friends.

Hey around here in Kanaka land Sam and his ghosts wake at dusk, clink invisible boots towards the east. In unison they raise their Left Hand above a right heart, the other

hand is ice hot fumbling in making a snowman. And as the Sun beacons in Ahiahi Sam and his boys pledge allegiance to some old map maker.

to be completed- The Sand Kisser

-RA

 

10 Godfather

To worry, to seek selfless joy, to fall, to witness, To praise, to rebuke, to love unconditionally in blatant falsehoods,

To cry yet only to hope, to challenge their perceived world, To scold with righteousness, to turn a blind eye to foolishness, To imagine greatness in a smirk, to spin in anger, to drink in

Disappointment, yet to comfort the outrageous actions, To know the Divine in a baby's heartbeat, to dare yourself

Of tomorrow, to caress the sands of time yet know the impossibility, To see the future in their eyes, to be proud no matter what the outcome,

To work hard daily, encourage the uncountable, to kiss their lies, To hug their tears, to suffer at their suffering, to rejoice in their happiness,

To hold your tongue when a lesson must be learnt. To dive deep into the abyss So that they might reach the stars. To grow old and taste the fullness of life,

To see your children now cherish your path. To know of your legacy, yet in awe To witness their own grow with each path. To ponder, to worry, to love again And forever. To be a great husband, a relentless encouragement. To fight the Infinite stars and sand so that we might be heard. To a job well done. For you Who have tasted all this, to such a great father, more an awesome grandfather!

And although you have much more to ponder, know that you are one legend of a father andGrandfather!

Ke aloha! Mahalo ke Akua.

Where Lady beauty once walked Quiet are the alleyways where beauty once walked. The wind no longer carries her scent of mālie. Rather, in this mist of foreign dreams I breathe such stale -harsh air;

alone now absent of her angelic fragrance, which drew even the farthest star near. Here, far removed from their hopes, a memory is now a trap to snare, darkness now and death draws near and yes the moon herself has abandoned us. In this hell I weep in darkness, I ponder on the path that led my thoughts to seek war. These eyes know injustice and all I see is pain, dark and heavy clouds engulf me. Rain falls as my soul's tears escape me in their predestined duty, and yet, it was then that my ego danced to the journeyed motion of fire-blaze and my brothers declared war on each other. The stars spoke of our shame,

and they pitied my soul. Wars to end wars while white beards grew in those unheard shadows, void of universal justice with white clenched hands over stolen golden maps. Alone I hear the tales of human despair while he sits behind me in blackness’ shadow. I caught him sometime ago, a whisper I think it was that which caught my eye, a whisper from him cursed my clock and shook the air. His cloak rolls off him as smoke and fire—whispers of her curse, slithering tongue of cruel acid…he is she and she is her...so does

the possum play dead as she thinks thoughts…in the face of God her cloak of pride covers light, and thus she has become death. My words are borrowed yet they come:

This above all - "to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as night follows day, thou canst not then be false to any man*". Onward into that unknown place...for this place

has forgotten me.

* Shakespeare

 

11 Collections of a week- By RA

Defined in the tongue of the dragon, but baptized in the flame forgotten. I am but one of many, many of one. I am fire, death; order of a chaotic soul who's land floats and moves uncertain...the heavenly moon creeps onward in tides of sorrow...I am child of her, and

of her I hear the soaring dragons...One once spoke in an language of babbling doom, yet another spoke of endless hope of tired men...As if I, guacho, mounted in some ancient

fashion upon rough wings, which tore open my skin, and as my own blood gushed from my still beating heart, pooling into a moonlight reflection, I let go my smile and

released my soul. I became word, begun to preach fire.....I grew wings, and my flame engulfed even my own heart's desire...under the moon I forgot how to weep, as they had

forgotten of us...I now of gold tongue to this universal wisdom, became the darkest night of men's history...war!!! I screamed, vengeance now in filled empty eyes that

reflected only a dream of some bearded man....NOO.... I am death, I am the fire ablaze in thy soul..a fire upon libraries and thoughts of literature...I am flame, I seek to

destroy...or so the drunken tale went. If only to remember his name so that I could awaken from this foolish slumber of pompous us.

................................................................... An instant I was taught beauty in burnt hands of cupcakes. Through a life which by then forgotten, a witness to life's greatest despair. Tears and shame, as I battled the

sand in my own blood as if I, mortal, could explain the reflection of Gallo, of a life never to be the same, as my tears of struggle found no gain. The world of the Sun became the enemy, but below our mahina I saw you. An instant of burnt hands I found the divine in twirls of blue eyes. Though lost in my own arena, these thoughts of absurd notions in

the chaotic universe. My reflection, my past, my soul, was determined in an instant upon such beauty. Words of comfort at peace with my romantic burst of anger. But I

swear onto the endless stars that for your kiss, lips upon red-brick wall, I would die for you, fight and cry to but rest a knife in those who dare touch you. Ku'u ipo, Mapache

mía. In aloha I have become part of your soul and we are one until the approach of some cowardly death, robed in blackness, dare try to take us. We are immortal in one kiss. E

honi ia‘u and know our pages are infinite. ....................................................................

And if I spoke of death would you touch butterflies of tomorrow? If my song could live on as if parrots sing of life would you know my words? To kiss with passion and know the morrow would you still grant me a kiss of the moon? To be lost in dreams is to be found in love and thus in love life meets suffering. I who speak of endless thoughts and

yet fail. ....................................................................

E hele AKU!!!!!!!!!!!! I am a notion to prove that I might be a motion; tales don’t reach my true depth and to

know my story, you must taste the salt of the ocean. The sea so green, yet blue of mystery and yet from within itself you can taste a hint of my red-misery, as if sipping

bitter wine and grow weary, make it pa‘a that I am but theory. Approach with a kiss the vastness of sorrow, and blanketed within the wind meet souls of reflection in the ‘ole: i ke ala i ho'i 'ole mai. In the wind I find myself alone and teary, as shadows encompass

my soul in that pond of memories reflecting some foreign told history; blurry vision of echoes so eerie. I weep with my mother the rain, and in her I struggle, I blend into pain.

From the darkness I am now beast, monster of truth, universal bane, a cursed life

 

12 without reason, preached how to be haole, lashed and tied up my tongue but now I am

fire, breathe of flame, unable to tame. I am the friend of the mist and clouds above, resting in incomprehensible peace. Before my wind-torn and mud-crusted eyes, I realize my whisper is but sand and in the rumble of time, I am but a crease; of Kānaka, I am the least. Yet of infinite grains of grit, ka pueo, ku'u aumakua lifts me into ka ua lani. Taste

of ‘ike, I saw my home, no Kaua‘i mai au…and because of this game of sand, fate granted me peace in beauty. Ku’u ipo, Wahine muy u‘i que me ha dado, with a precious sigh, ‘o ka lehua kēia, my reflection which has melted into a new pound of future…and when this love of ours hardens, the soil will be forever rich of our pua! E hele mai; e honi ia’u…and these shadows will fade away as they transform into our own mele ipo!

................................................................. The darkness is where shadows like me dwell, where life holds truth, and love is not your fascist fairy tale...In my office there are no lights. I was stamped with equality

tattooed at birth upon my face. Originality in sun rays that burn my soul... I reach out with words to your natural and holy shade; your dawn and that dusk. You, delinquents of the narcissist Sun. Proper with a fork, yet your napkin has blood on it...your wine is full of tears and sweat...sweet yet sour...Oh, by the way, where is your knife? You sons

of Suns, worthy of dinning in the light, where is your knife? Conversations of great intellect on your white map. Yet let me remind you that I am darkness, laughter as evil shadows in your great delusional minds...Proper, Fuck proper, my elbows are firm on this table you rent(for now)...lets dance with skeletons upon the fact that your ideas were given to you by yesterday; words now drunken and by fallen heads of ancient skulls...so take your bloody, stained napkin and "hidden" knife to your own Manaʻo,

which by lacking pono you can have the sun, I'll kiss the moon in my "placed" position upon your fears.

 

13 Emotional dance

Of dreams within another's glance,

while slow to hide the heart and soul. In shadow's layer do pride and ego dance,

Mute and blind tis but love's toll.- Shall we remember beauty as a ray of dawn,

such a sun to caste down slumber for the west. Indeed, she whispers by ocean’s mirror;

drums as if warm caressing waves by night draw near. Green, she cuts the soul to not know rest, Oh in dreams, cliffs, my dear Kubla

Khan… Where rain sings below Mahina’s yawn, a song of purple mokihana’s nest. A love, my nānāhuki pass the sea… Beauty, ku‘u moku, Kaua‘i nei.

With eyes closed tight I walked the sand of that endless beach I call home. Light rays twinkled in and the vast ocean seemed to sway to my dance. I returned home for an

endless time, and I saw the great Pali explode from the coastline I remember. With my eyes closed I see the Nai'a soar in this soft makani...and to me this is mālie, this is my

home.

Pero esta diáspora mía No one will fix the signature of the enemy;

Por su nube engañosa, con la cual se escondan con sus máscaras robadas y nos dejan plantados.

!Una bandera por otra, bribones con su plata....!una gente por otra! E ho'i mai kākou i nā pō o Hawai'i nei; e nānā a'e ana au i nā hōkū lani...i nā mea Hawai'i.

Internal conflicts in a lifetime of such an identity crisis for the lacking of koko. No Kaua'i

mai au...e ho'i aku kāua i kahakai o Kaua'i...Ha'ole au...tsk: 'A'ole a'e kau i ka pūlima

Ma luna o ka pepa o ka 'ēnemi... 'A'ole mākou a'e minamina I ka pu'u kālā o ke aupuni

Ua lawa mākou i ka põhaku I ka 'ai kamaha'o o ka 'āina

Ku’u Mahina, amiga mía Ku'u mau pō, a'ohe mea ke kukui o ka lā: desde aquí, en la sombra de la vida, puedo ver

lo que vive en la oscura...late la noche, late la voz... y me duele tanto. Ku'u mau pō, a'ohe mea hoa...solo fantasmas que me cuentan cuentos de hadas...cuentos míos. E pilialoha ana au...akā...ka mo'olelo, 'aʻohe kanaka ʻeha ʻole i ke aloha...nā eha...eha loa au! Sin

amigos del corazón...'aʻohe mea hoa...nā pō, las noches...me ku'u mahina...ayudame! La luna, quien me da la luz, kekahi mele hoʻoipoipo...and I hear nā pahu, late mi sangre, y digo: Nohea nō 'oe!...e ho'i mai, e hele mai...for you are the light my pale skin needs....y

te amo!

 

14 Yesterday

And so they forgot about us. Left us alone in the dark; to write and to dream. They forgot about us. You, them, and yes me. HEY, if the sun is to gaze on the words of yesterday, then let us crawl to the moon and scream the song of those forgotten!

Remember us! Remember me! The bread is burnt, and the milk sour...your tale is late, and your fever gone. We're tired of yesterday, and i'm ready for summer. I'm sick of

mist, and of slimy truths...The story you tell is ancient already, delete it, be gone... I'm tired of it...just walk out that door but give me MY pen and with it, watch me kidnap

the world

The figure in the mirror I'm the beast in the night, the rumble of your thoughts. I feed off your lies and pretend like we live. I wake you in your dreams, I spit on your hopes. I find you a reproduction of them, worthless of self. Your idea is mine, for I spoke it before Christ. Washing

my hands of you, a stain of my existence. Lost in your heartbeat...I no longer know you...

RA

 

15 * Spanish Works *

Lo azul

Ya perdidos en lo azul de nuestra nube infinita. Debajo de esa luna nuestra con su

mirada tierna nos podéis encontrar....ese ritmo de la vida como cenizas olvidadas por el belde de

un respiro. Y si fuerais tan amables, bajad ya las flechas...os digo una cosa; en la búsqueda del dragón ya no sois los arqueros de mitos ilustrados. Entonces, atenuad ese

fuego de donde provienen tantas de vuestras mercedes. Discúlpenme, hay quienes se creen un Borges en Hawái, por vuestras grandeza que no es más que necedad. ¡Me

arrodillo de vuestra presencia, Señor y Rey o algún duque de lo pasado!...vomitando palabras que eran mías ¿comprendes mendes? Eres lo falso de lo flyte, palabras

grandilocuentes que de mentes han escapado! Quizás sepáis de letras latinas pero parecéis

sordos y vuestro enemigo la verdad...o mejor...vuestra identidad... si os cortarais esa lengua extranjera... un alma verdadero os daría el divino. ¡Callaros ya!...porque viene ese

ritmo...sí, lo oigo como voces de una danza, de los espíritus que bailan en vuestras tinieblas. Tembláis con su frialdad y ese beso de la muerte, pero en esta sombra suya, os encontráis en danza, sumidos en la tristeza...y desde nubes infinitas vienen cadáveres de una niebla azul...se mueven ya los muertos al ritmo de la vida. No os miento...no en esa nube, escuchad con un ojo solo y oiréis como lloran los cantos ya perdidos por el paso

del tiempo y su agradable putrefacción en ese viento eterno. Me dicen que en estos huesos

de los finados y su canción de llantos quedan secretos del baúl de vuestras tarascas del

coco. Dejadme zapatear, taconeo con la resonancia de los gritos de los espectros lóbregos.

Pero en la realidad…para que sea sano yo. Sos vos, mejor te hablaré de ti, una rama rota de

un jaúl, un gu ̈emul desorientado de sus propias calaveras...dejadme besar la luna sangrienta, libre ya de vuestras flechas, me arrastraré herido pero guida por esa miraba tierna...esa

nube infinita…. ya vosotros perdidos en lo azul. –RA

 

16 Pero te adoro.. ¿no me amas?

Pero yo sí te adoro ¿tú no me amas? Esos ojos egoístas de tu cara y esa boca tan mentirosa, lo opuesto de la lógica, enemiga

del amor. ¿Al enseñarte de mi ira? ¿Para que te enteres? ¿Cómo puedo hacerte entender?

Yo aún te amo.

¿Pero quien soy yo? Un perro callejero, sin dueño ni comida. Soy la broma del crepúsculo, queda poca antes de que yo desaparezca. ¡Inhálame y sabrás de lo divino! Ven y participa de mi verdad oscura, estos sentimientos míos. Y la vergu ̈enza está en unos labios prudentes. Lo ridículo está en los ojos de los de ayer, el agua de su fuente.

Con una probadita engañosa, me convierto en polvo olvidado…! No, ¡bébame! Me cansa el hecho de que tú no seas tú. De las mentiras del mundo y su cristo. Aún así

yo te amaré, pero tú no me amas ni jamás me amarás. Soy como la basura del pueblo. El

secreto de la noche. Me han dejado solo y contigo he probado el veneno de la vida, ahora lo sé. No me cuentes más de esas tonterías, cómo si alguien como tú, un ángel divino,

una mujer así Celestina mía... ¿Me amas…a mí? ¿Un diablo como yo? No, pero yo sí.

Soy el viento olvidado y ya me olvidaste. Me he quedado sin amigos verdaderos, ni familia fija, ya se fue por su camino, amigo de ese Baco. Esos besos ya lejanos, yo

viviendo por ese alma tuyo, ¡Dame tu cuerpo celestial! Espejo de un extraño, ese amor tuyo que se desvaneció ayer. Soy la broma del crepúsculo, la basura del pueblo, ese

secreto de la noche. ¡Dime que me amas! Porque yo te amo, te adoro, te quiero más que nada. Estoy cansado de ese mundo suyo, ¿y de ti? Te suplico, ¡ámame!

 

17 Las Olas de Pichilemu

Una niebla profunda rodaba esa tarde y con ella traía el frío de Chile. El sol parecía que estaba cansado de Santiago. Pero lejos en la distancia, abrazando el cerro, estaba la casa cuya historia era de arte. Oí que Pablo Neruda era un poco raro. Yo sabía que él era un

poeta de gran magnitud y un líder del Partido Comunista de Chile ... así que para mí, era un hombre que me hubiera encantado conocer.

Ese día, pensaba en las olas de Pichilemu. Por alguna razón el mundo me ha llevado hacia estas olas. Como si estar allá, me pudiera llevar a casa. Entonces me senté enfrente de La punta de lobo mirando hacia el oeste, buscando mi isla. Pero aquí, la sal en el aire era extranjera, la mar estaba demasiado fría, incluso las olas parecían como si estuvieran en guerra con la costa. A lo lejos, me acordé de Kalāheo; de mis colinas y pastos donde

jugamos hace mucho tiempo. “Algún día en cualquier parte, en cualquier lugar indefectiblemente te encontrarás a ti mismo, y ésa, sólo ésa, puede ser la más feliz o la

más amarga de tus horas”.* Me fui hacia la casa de las colinas, hacia el hombre que yo había llegado a amar, sólo

para oír sobre él. Iba a ver su casa, sus escritos y sus dificultades. Al mirar por la ventana del autobús, las calles sucias y edificios altos y feos, sólo pude ver un Chile que

podía ser algo más, un mundo que podía crecer. Así estaba allá, en la casa que se construyó antes de Pinochet y su régimen. Los jardines y escaleras conectaban una habitación a otra. El café empañó los vidrios de la ventana

desde donde miraba ese día tan sombrío, con las nubes borrachas de ira e ilesas por el sol cansado. Así que estaba allá, con los ojos cargados de lágrimas, y mi cuerpo enfermo en

el Chile que se había convertido en mi hogar.

 

18 Una Memoria

Me llamo Ryan Swanson pero mis amigos me llaman Swany y algunos pueden llamarme RW. Yo soy de Kalaheo, Kaua’i. Asistí a la Universidad de California Chico, y estuve un

año en España, estudiando en la Universidad de Granada. Desde que me fui de Kaua’i cuando tenía 17 años he vivido en muchos países.

Fue en el camino del viaje donde el español me encontró, o quizás fue en la casa de

Neruda donde me senté una vez… Sí es claro que el viaje me enseñó mucho, sin embargo también me robó mucho. Estos son mis recuerdos, y mi público es los que

están en su propio viaje.

Realejo, puedo oírte desde aquí, lleno de retumbos de Cante Flamenco. En mis sueños, yo camino las calles de mi querido Albaicín, los de Baeza(un dicho). Las cuevas del

Sacromonte donde lo vi a usted por primera vez bailando bajo la luna roja, de lágrimas y dolor, ah cante jondo! Ahora recuerdo cómo me sentía, y cómo usted me cogió. Me llevó mientras que el vino se derramaba y su alma me dejó tan solo en el Puerto del Suspiro del Moro. La Alhambra tan sola como yo, me contó su cuento de esperanza, pero las lágrimas me encontraron con el viento de su voz, “Llora como mujer lo que no has

sabido defender como un hombre”… Y con la gran vista delante de nosotros, Boabdil y yo nos sentamos. Entonces lloré, sabiendo que yo la había perdido a ella por esa ciudad. Desde mi tristeza, habló mi alma, “E hele mai ‘oe i ku’u hale…i ku’u moku…no Hawai’i

mai ‘oe…e hele mai ‘oe i ka ‘aina aloha!” Y por eso he vuelto…por eso estoy.

 

19 Iba a cambiar el mundo.

"La sabiduría es el arte de aceptar aquello que no puede ser cambiado, de cambiar aquello que puede ser cambiado y, sobre todo, de conocer la diferencia."

-Emperador Marco Aurelio. El nombre de mi abuela era María Rodríguez-González, hija del José Rodríguez. Mi bisabuelo era un teniente del Arma de Caballería, y después, el jefe de la policía de

Monterrey, o por lo menos eso es lo que me han dicho. Mi abuela era mexicana; una mestiza de los mexica y europeas, y el búho era su amigo. ¿Mi corazón late sangre

azteca también? ‘A‘ole au hawai‘i, akā ‘o ka pueo ku‘u 'aumakua…el búho es mi amigo, y esto me lo contó

por nuestra Kahuna ... ¿Soy mestizo también? He visto el mundo como una pintura que falta algo de color, como líneas borrosas que

no pueden maniobrar a través del espacio y el tiempo. En el caos de las vibraciones encontré mi pincel, y con el secuestraré el mundo.

-RA Ignorando las lágrimas de ella, me mudé a México. Yo ya había vivido un siglo, tal vez, miles de años. Vi la creación y la destrucción y probé lo bueno y lo malo. La verdad es que había vivido muchas vidas y yo sólo tenía dieciocho años. Yo estaba lleno de nada, pero a la vez, de todo ... o eso es lo que piensa el chico de dieciocho años. Fui a México

sin saber que me iba a cambiar para siempre. Por lo que sabía, el mundo no era perfecto, pero yo le debía todo a el.

-RA En una cárcel conocí a Luella. Ella me dio un libro y explicó cómo ella estaba sirviendo diez años por tráfico de cocaína en la carretera Panamericana. La policía la atrapó en el estado de Sinaloa, cerca de la ciudad de Mazatlán. Recuerdo que me mostraba el campo

de la prisión, y pensé qué estoy haciendo aquí. La prisión era grande, y aunque había pasado muchos puntos de control por la seguridad, aquí, dentro de los muros de

cemento que se cubren con alambre de púas, había pocos guardias. De hecho, esta prisión, como muchas otras en México, parecía estar dirigida por los prisioneros.

Mientras que yo seguía a Luella, me enseñó las tiendas, restaurantes, y el gimnasio. Era como una ciudad dentro de los muros de la cárcel. Luella estaba emocionada porque la

iban a liberar pronto, diez años ... un siglo. Él me habló de su casa en Hawaii, y la preocupación por su familia ... otra vez pensé qué estoy yo haciendo aquí.

Tengo un amigo en Tijuana que se llama Santo, pero hace mucho tiempo que lo he visto. Me convertí en un buen amigo de él. ¿Me pregunto cómo está? Era un huérfano, como muchos otros, sin embargo, cuando creció y fue mayor, trabajó para su orfanato. Un día me llevó a una prisión juvenil de Tijuana, y conocí a uno de sus amigos. Este criminal, un niño, estaba esposado a un poste como un castigo por ser un niño. No

recuerdo su nombre, pero él tenía trece o setecientos años, lo siento pero se me olvida. Fue este chico que me contó de la zona norte, o el barrio rojo. Luego, Santo me llevó por

allí. Era una calle llena de pasión, avivada por las drogas y donde la gente de Tijuana llegaba a gozar de una memoria de la vida que ya pasó, o sea, un lugar que yo odiaba.

Tengo novecientos cincuenta años, o quizás tengo veinticinco años. Soy un laberinto de historias, y crecí en todas partes. Yo sé todo, pero no sé nada. Sin embargo yo creo y mis

pensamientos son de José Rodríguez. Era un soldado que se perdió la Revolución Mexicana por haber nacido quince años tarde. Pero me pregunto ...¿Qué pensaría él de

 

20 mi México? ¿A dónde se fue la revolución? Me fui a cambiar el mundo, pero fue el

mundo que me corrompió. Mi visión de esperanza ahora reside en un libro o mejor en un blog. Pero recuerdo de las palabras de mi amigo Mandela, "La educación es el arma más poderosa que puedes usar para cambiar el mundo" ... y me pregunto, ¿está funcionando?

 

21

Crawl

 

22

Walk

 

23

Love

 

24

Rest.

R. ARENA 2015