Rootlets


 

I’ve been digging for a while

A stubborn weed that won’t let go

fingers prying stones

nails packed with soil

subcutaneous levels of time

digging deep

tiny tendrils seeking dark

Purple, gold, red, black

And the transparency of white

Not knowing the strength of grief

Or the nakedness of light.

 

Have we grown strong, then?

Barefoot children,

Pressed clothes and slicked back hair,

“Just because we’re poor,

doesn’t mean we have to be dirty”

Cereal boxes and fish hooks,

rail road tracks, and chandelier gems

from a plastic factory across the tracks,

Pacific Islanders in a Mexican barrio

in a foreign land without “birthsands”.

 

Oh those young roots holding strong in desperation

A generation of mixed breeds pulled apart,

Separated, dispossessed from birthlands

What was there to hold onto then, But each other?

 

I cried in the dark, afraid,

Of being alone

Of being born

And dying

A bastard

Without a name

To my skin

But you were there. Then.

Clinging rootlets without soil.

Never letting go.

 

Are we not now resilient weeds digging deep

Ferns turning stones in an Ahu of our own creation

Distant lives in our own image, still holding on.

One Word


 

parting, and not knowing.

drowning in wanting, needing,

and not having.

in the 11th hour

one word

could keep you going

 

one word

 

heard whispering from internal workings

of the Universe,

in tongue, in social media,

threading the air like music

on a Sunday morn

from street

to corner grocery store,

unexpected movement,

speaking to be heard

through the least of these

mouths of the poor,

cardboard desolate,

pavement lonely;

 

thick calloused worker hands

tenderly counting out dollar bills,

each symbolizing time and hard labor

away from doe-eyed children

clinging to grocery carts

longing for big corporation candy,

wanting, and yet not having

this land of the free

does not diminish want and need.

 

did you find everything you were looking for

I find myself saying

to a white sleeveless preacher man

Soft-drawled, and crucifix tattoo’d

who beamed cherub-like and replied

“I am blessed with Jesus’ blood And more.”

His pensive wife, tired from worry by his side

 

to which an elder black man smiled

and chimed across the aisle

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I am?”

grinning with a glint in his eye

a plaid hat and walking stick

yet still walking out with buoyant stride,

thread-bare pockets and

a loaf of white bread cradled in his arms

and a pocketful of change to spare

throwing a word Into the air

for all to hear

 

“Blessed”

 

and I react with surprise

recognizing wisdom

whispered from universal wells

of wanting, and longing,

and knowing

that whatever I have is enough

and with a desperate nod,

breathe out

 

one word.

Yes.

 

Karen K.L. Espaniola               September 15, 2015

MO`O


No tink

I no know

What dat mo`o know

Da one who stay stuck

On da cah windo

Or inside one crack

Or on one doah

All green and secret Like

You know da one

Like da mo`o of ole times

Da one fo good luck

Who like ride inside Maui pocket

Riding da wind

Looking fo land, fo aina, fo one place

Fo come ashore Makai side

But da wind come too strong

Like da one come out your mout

Every day

All nice like

One perfec wave

Til da air come flat

And you jus one stink buggah

Who tink

I no

Know

But I know

like one mo`o

know

Riding da storm.

 

falling


dog crap dries in the sun

in this place

this spinning place

gathering uncertainty in my arms

arms of needing

and not having

of stumbling

and crying

in dry laundry

wondering if fall is coming

alone in its coolness

color falling from trees

and needing

to be numb

of her movement

falling from my chest

falling from my eyes

her sound of blue skies

and crisp air

and of kicking this dog crap

high and wide

and away

and falling.

 

 

Releasing Crow


Releasing Crow

Releasing Crow

Poetry

Copy Rights

© Karen K.L.Espaniola and hinarising.com. 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Karen K.L. Espaniola and hinarising.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.