A stone stands tall, monolithic and ancient.
The mist rolls in, turning facet to silhouette.
Soon all is a milk of air,
Hands outstretched disappear before my very eyes.
The cliff could be anywhere, sudden and promising.
Time and place are lost in these moments.
The heart beat reverberates bones, dry and tired.
Silence is friend, wind a stir that gives voice:
To the many of mouthless, shrub and tree,
Land and memory.
All have their eyes, watching and knowing,
Long before time was time.
Just roots and spore, a stone stands tall,
Monolithic and ancient.
Watching the ellipsis of both sun and moon.

Call an echo,
Of past enjoyment today’s jubilation.
Through a long passage,
Dank with grit and bruise.
A gateway yawning,
Touch of the past here today.
Call an echo,
It calls back.

I used to walk aimlessly in the wild.
I used to sit and stare perpetually into the horizon.
I called it home to be alone,
Giant in solitude, peaceful without voices,
Present only breeze chill, a crest breaking.
Content like a stone frozen in time,
Waiting for nothing.

The ocean waves crash endlessly, eventually returning everything to the sea. The sound is sinking, digging toes into the sand, face covered, grains permanently-embedded on scalp. A lone figure waits, staring into the horizon waiting for answers to come. Nothing is spoken, just the relentless crashing of waves. High above clouds evolve in shape in slow-motion, eventually evaporating to the heat of the sun reaching its zenith. Thoughts repeat, feelings linger, sucking at the teat of stubborn longing. Far off away somewhere out there in the endless blue a volcano from depth of the ocean erupts, sending ash sky high and tidal waves for thousands of miles in each direction. Try not to remember, bury the feelings that are felt, breathe the air of today only to exhale the warmth of what is really going on.

There is death
Dancing on a cloud of oxygen,
Igniting in green, fading to magenta.
In awe I watch,
As ancestors past
Taken in mystery and story,
Of past fires, creation and calamity.
In the silence of a cold dark night,
Amongst the boreal,
An apparition stirs flame
With nocturnal eyes glowing of distant suns.

Of sleepless nights,
Bed sheets wrecked,
Haunted by a thought or thoughts,
That run the mind in cyclical patterns.
Neither of failure or fleeting,
But stone, stuck there and solid.
If there is a loner there are two,
A stone amongst a stone.
May time bring these two closer
Until neither lone nor loner,
Just one stone,
Passing time like a river carves a valley.

e hoa pili