The Ocean is tidy this morning.
the tide is half; the sun comes up
over the swells; Lanai and Molokai loom
across the choppy blue. Old Maui volcano sleeps,
cloudy and vast, heart of the island.
Come to the veranda; bright is the sky!
Always, from the breaking waves
where Pacific pelts this sun-kiss’d isle,
Listen! you hear the roaring power
of our planet that flings up watery wings
and pulls them down again on shifting sand.
Roar, and whisper, and roar again
with cyclical slumber to lose and win
a perpetual thrust of planetary din.
Poet Arnold felt it long ago
among the pebbles of Dover beach, summoning
the futile strands of faithlessness
and existential woe; I
find instead the inevitability of faith
called up to bloom upon this far-flung ocean isle.
The ocean of despair
so near and far in present past, to pound us down on human shores,
throws its tantrum of pointless angst, with cynic sand.
But now I only feel the wave of our resolve
upon a flagg’ed pole of hope,
advancing, in the sun-stirred air
of dawning day, o’er the bright edges of our vision,
as lilies of the field.
Ah, love, let us be true
to one another! for the world, which seems
to pound upon us like a surf of strife,
so relentless, so provocative, so hard,
has a terrible power all its own
that would dash our love and hope in forceful blight.
But we here on our sun-bathed isle,
caressed with waves of love and delight–
we subdue the heartless poundings of the night.