Waimanalo

One of those days when too hot to move I sat all day and wrote poetry. Something inside me was stirring, even when the weather was stifling. It seems that when I take to writing this way, I write about as many poems as there are hours in a day. What do I do, tidy them up and hurry them along on their way to Publishing Land, or sit awhile with them and further nurture them into a new and different sort of life? I will probably let them all go and move on with the flow of summer.

More light fog at dawn, skipping into the tree tops from the ocean. The Monterey Bay is warmer this year than ever before by any kept records. The buoy reports are showing temperatures around 63 degrees, and people are actually able to withstand time in the water without wetsuits, without the famous chill and ice-cream-cold headache for which this part of the world is famous. So many out-of-towners have been flocking to the water edge, as if in summer sojourn or pilgrimage, that there is no room for those who live close by and just want to come and pay their daily respects. The parking lots and empty street parking spots have vanished before my eyes, so I stay home on summer weekends and dream, and plan, instead, on where I might go to escape the madness of the crowds.

The plan for a trip to the north, to Vancouver Island, off the coast of British Columbia, is shaping up just now. A chance to explore some of the island’s pretty back country in one of the more accessible times of the year, when incessant rain-forest drizzle may be at a minimum. Some of the lakes, some of the coastal, mountainous fjord-type country, and a little island hopping on eager, sightseeing boats. A paper pad and pen, a camera with much chip space, and perhaps a few printed pages of new Hawaiian tunes for strumming my ukulele–I travel pretty light these days in my camper, without all the bulky sporting equipment I used to lug with me everywhere I go. There is much freedom from baggage and packaging that I learned about when I gave up windsurfing. My tiny travel uke isn’t much bigger than a shoebox, and all I need is some rhythm and lyric to make it bring about joy when out exploring the summer countryside.

This song, Waimanalo Blues, is going along with me on this excursion to the big northern island.The lyrics go something like this and capture the spirit of what I feel as I set out in a couple of weeks to lose myself from home and civilization:

Wind’s gonna blow, so I’m gonna go,  down on the road again
Starting where the mountains left me, I end up where I began
Where I will go, wind only knows, good times around the bend
Get in my car, going too far, never comin’ back again
Tired and worn I woke up this mornin’, found that I was confused
Spun right around and found I had lost the things that I couldn’t lose
The beaches they sell to build their hotels my father and I once knew
Birds on the lawn, sunlight at dawn, singing Waimanalo blues
Down on the road with mountains so old,  far on the countryside
Birds on the wing forgettin’ a while so I’m headed for the windward side
In all of my dreams, sometimes it just seems that I’m just along for the ride
Some they will cry because they have pride For someone who’s loved here died
The beaches they sell to build their hotels my father and I once knew
Birds on the lawn, sunlight at dawn,
singing Waimanalo blues

A 1960s singer-songwriter hero takes a crack at going Hawaiian:

Advertisements
This entry was posted in journal. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s