Esoteric Bowl

At least a few times during the week, I make a habit out of going outside to sit underneath the stars. Sometimes it’s late at night, while other times it’s during the early morning hours. Such moments offer a kind of quiet that I look forward to.

I sit with my notebook and pen in hand, jotting down random thoughts. Sometimes these thoughts turn into a post shared here, other times the thoughts provide a line that will flow into a poem. Most times though, the thoughts are only thoughts, obscure observations turned into ink.

Sometimes a thought will come to mind that offers such clarity, and I will write it down and underline and circle it to ensure it wont be forgotten. And then later on I will return to it, only to find that it makes little sense at all. I sit and wonder, what was I thinking.

Listen
before speaking a word;
Allow
divinities voices to be heard;
Discover
quiet joys within the womb;
Nurture
gift seeds to further bloom.

Yesterday I watched game one of the American League Championship Series between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. As expected when these two bitter rivals meet, the game was filled with drama and excitement.

I love baseball. I’ve always loved the game, and I’m sure that I always will. Some of my oldest and most fondest memories are those with a baseball in my hand. When I was very young, Dad would play catch with my brothers and I in the backyard. I remember how Dad would pretend as if he were going to throw the ball real hard at me, and I would flinch every time. Everyone got a laugh out of it, but I didn’t mind, we were playing and having fun.

My first taste of organized baseball came when my brothers were on a local little league team called the Yankees. Being only four years old, I was too young to play. Oh how I wanted to play. I followed my brothers to their practices, and took my glove along just in case the coach was in need of an extra player.

Somehow good fortune shined on me, and I became the team’s official batboy. While I didn’t get to wear a real baseball uniform like my brothers, Mom designed a special shirt just for me. The shirt was bright yellow, and it had a big black “Y” across the front. I loved that shirt, and thinking about it now still brings a smile to my face.

How exciting it was for me to sit in the dugout on game day and be a part of the team. Being only four years old, I didn’t have much interest in the actual strategy of the game. Oftentimes my mind would wander to the scents of the concession stand, and sometimes I wondered if passing strangers maybe thought that I was a baseball player. Of course, there were duties required of a batboy, specifically to retrieve the bats during a game.

It’s still rather fuzzy after all these years, but while a game was in progress, I was in a moment where my thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly the coach called my name as I had forgotten to retrieve the bat. I jumped up from the bench and moved quickly to exit the dugout. The dugout gate swung inward, and the steel pole conked me on my forehead. When I came to, I was laying on the bench, surrounded by a group of people. My forehead was throbbing and it felt hot as a knot began to grow. In a roundabout sort of way, it was my first case of baseball fever.

Morning comes at an early hour
A cup of joe and then a quick shower
Out the door into another world
Into another world

Traffic flows into congestion
Morning roll is half digested
Office rules and the cubical game
Names change, but the faces stay the same
They all stay the same

Close and lock the door behind me
Innocence knows that they might find me
Stand in the kitchen with a bottle of blush
Listen to the music and feel the rush
O feel the rush

Scrub the day off in a hot shower
Darkness comes at an easy hour
Look into the mirror and I almost scream
Then I remember it’s all just a dream
It’s all just a dream.

The rain was coming down hard. I looked out the back door to see if maybe, just maybe, the rain might be letting up. Not a chance. On most any other day, I wouldn’t mind the rain. But this was no ordinary day, it was Halloween.

Throughout the day there had been a continuous rainfall. As the evening hour quickly approached, all Halloween hope was being washed away. Apparently there’s an unwritten rule that says kids can’t trick-or-treat in the rain. And there are no makeup dates for a rained out Halloween.

How disappointed my brothers and I were. We had been so excited about our Halloween costumes. To be cut down by rain in the prime of our trick-or-treat years was more than we could bear. Oh sure, there was plenty of candy at home for other trick-or-treaters, but that was beside the point. Every candy connoisseur knows that there is candy, and then there is candy that one has trick-or-treated for. The tastes between the two are enormous!

Once again I looked out the back door. The rain continued to fall and the evening hour had arrived. The sidewalks were empty, but it was small consolation to know that other kids in the neighborhood were not trick-or-treating. I slowly closed the door, as all hope was now lost.

Suddenly an angel appeared before me. Okay, it wasn’t really an angel-angel, it was Mom. But surely her idea was heaven sent. Always the one with the creative ideas, Mom suggested that my brothers and I dress up as firemen. We put on our bright yellow vinyl raincoats and our rubber boots, and wore the firemen hats that Mom and Dad had bought for us from the Texaco gas station.

That rainy Halloween, my brothers and I went trick-or-treating. Because of the rain, few homes in the neighborhood had trick-or-treaters. Many of those in the neighborhood marveled at the pure genius of our costumes, and they rewarded us mightily with candy. It turned out to be the best Halloween ever.

Magnificent mountain range
stands guard
over the Windward Coast
and far beyond the ocean
A distant flower blooms along the horizon
as calm bay waters
mirror the sky
soft pastels
of orange and blue

Morning trades
sweep clouds of white
one by one
scattered showers
wash the white sand
from my eyes
and satisfy every thirst.

I have lost every photograph of her, I fear;
Some things you can’t replace;
My memories are the only trace,
of a lady I held so dear;
She wore a plumeria behind her ear,
while dancing hula with flowing hands of grace;
Aloha always shined from her smiling face;
Why Kane’ohe was taken is still unclear,
like her own people, she too was overthrown;
Layer by layer she was ripped of her skin,
then gently in her grave she was laid;
While people stood laughing atop her tombstone,
a high school band sold benefit saimin;
Memories, like photographs, slowly fade.