Circular Saw
A ring around
Since Ash Wednesday I have written 24 haiku. My Lenten commitment was to write 40. So I’m on track, roughly. Many of them were inspired by our recent trip to Oahu, Hawaii. I’ll be sharing photos below and making observations about that trip, along with some of the poems.
If you are the type of reader that does not enjoy travelogues, or poems, or if you are just super jealous, or if you have been to Hawaii before and don’t want to be reminded of how splendid it is and thus awake a poignant and bitter longing to return, feel free to skip down to the Barton entry.
Next issue, I’ll make some NBA predictions and share my thoughts on the regular season as we prepare for the playoffs. I might even find some time to cook again!
DRIVING WITH ALOHA
For my lady fair,
Typed a haiku in the air,
She shared her earbuds.
We rode the bus all over Honolulu, visiting prosperous, tidy suburban neighborhoods, urban areas full of wild chickens and cats, and ancient volcanic craters and waterfalls. Oahu in general, and Honolulu especially, is a land of wild and anachronistic diversity. Banyan trees and mongoose from India, lonely monk seals stranded in the middle of the Pacific ocean, and a rich, royal tradition juxtaposed with colonial greed and cultural development. The first American missionaries helped develop Hawaii’s first written language. They also deforested massive areas of land and colluded to disenfranchise the native people. The lush, breathtaking scenery is teeming with beautiful flowers, vines, palms, and wildlife. Many are invasive species. The contradictions lend beauty and prosperity to the entire island, while also underscoring each smile with a tinge of complicit frown.
Oh you Philistines!
Eating at Denny’s instead,
Of local poke.
We visited friends while on the island, and put much thought into what it must be like to live on a relatively small island in the middle of the vast ocean. On one hand: stunning weather, amazing food, tide pools and beaches and mountains and utter loveliness. On the other: missing your family, a feeling of isolation and of confinement, the inability to drive more than a few hours in one direction before circling back on oneself. It’s also pretty expensive to live there. Would it be worth it? I don’t know the answer, but I know I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.
At the start of spring,
Moon rise tomorrow will be full,
Farewell Hawaii.
BARTON P.4
At first Barton thought not to intervene, to give the loud and violent men a wide berth and continue about his business. After all, his entire purpose in leaving the Square was to be free of such men, their noise and stink, their oppressive presence. But upon hearing the screams of fear and rage, of bitter helplessness on the wind, his course was set. The fingers of his left hand tightened on his bow, while instinctively the right reached down to collect a bolt, sharpened flint affixed by resin to a thick and solid shaft of oak.
He advanced along the ridge above the creek bed, reckoning by hearing his distance to the attackers. He heard the sounds of a generalized scuffle now, the grim mirth drained from the voices of the men as their quarry countered their attack. A volley of curses, rasps of pain and surprise, brought short by the audible crack of bone on bone, echoing across the bluff.
He cursed, and doubled his step, urging his feet to find silent purchase among the rocks. He knew he must be close, but he was not sure how close, and the newfound silence worried him. However just then he caught movement down and to his left, and realized he had almost overtaken the group in his haste. He was nearly on top of them now, only their intent focus on the prone figure below allowing him the chance to set his stance while simultaneously slotting a bolt and drawing down on the poor fools, still with their backs to him. It would be their final mistake.
Barton began to fire, striking the larger of the two through the base of his skull, his momentum carrying his suddenly boneless form forward to rest near the smaller fallen figure. Before the dead man’s companion could completely turn, Barton had slotted the next and ended up loosing three successive arrows as the man’s panicked lunges caused Barton to misjudge on the first and only wing the wretch. The next took him in the left temple, and as he fell to his knees, the third and final plunged neatly through the back of his ribs to rend his ventricles and stop his heart.
In the charged stillness that followed, Barton watched the slick, dark pools spread beneath the two bodies, beginning to mix with the languid, sanguine river tide. But the third body did not produce a pool of blood, which meant there was a chance they were still alive, and only in shock or unconscious. Barton hesitated then, something he had learned not to do over the long, lonely years. He knew that these men likely carried weapons, food, maybe gold or charge. But caring for a wounded survivor, a helpless stray in the middle of pit range? Slowing him down and making him care, involving him again in the schemes and inanity of it, his fellow humans, society as they called it?
Not worth the risk.
He turned and quickly headed back the way he came, anxious now to check his traps before the pits became active and caught the scent of blood from below. He did not want to be near when they arrived.