Happy Valentine’s Day

 Shaun R. Pankoski  

 

 

By Shaun R. Pankoski

I have always written in bits and pieces, from little books I wrote and illustrated as a child to teenage and young adult journals and diaries to poetry classes, workshops, writing groups and postcard festivals over a span of years. But a combination of retirement, COVID and cancer made me get serious about writing.

Serendipitously, the writer, Molly Fisk, appeared to me on my Facebook feed in 2022. Thanks to her and a lovely community of poets (always kind, always supportive) I have managed to carve out a
a sustained practice that has allowed me to grow exponentially as a writer and to be brave enough to share my work. Molly presents a visual and a written prompt every day, every other month and the rest is up to you. Write, don't write. Share, don't share. "Be kind" is a mantra.

 It is amazing what comes out of this collective. I like the combination of structure, unwavering support AND freedom. The friends I've made. And the challenge of showing up, every day, with something. Besides this writing practice, I have also pulled things from the dregs of my memory and often take notes on observations when I travel. It was from such notes taken during a trip to Japan that I managed to assemble a chapbook manuscript, “Tipping the Maids in Chocolate, Observations of Japan,” which was the first finalist in the Lefty Blondie Press 2024 Chapbook Contest. I am still shopping my chapbook.

Here are my love poems from Hawaii.

 

Green Lake

When I first arrived, everything was magical. Of course, you helped make it so, taking me on adventures down this road or that. We'd wake to the same mourning doves, a mated pair, cooing outside the window. Jump in the car with no plan, yet we always landed in the most perfect spot. Ka Wai O Pele, it is said, was the first place Pele came to on the island of Hawaii. She bathed in the freshwater lake of the Pu'u Kapoho crater, diving deep into the green and cool water, surrounded by hanging vines and hibiscus. The day you took me there was hot and still. We parked the car at the gate, slogged through a pathless field of grass so tall it felt like the African bush. When I looked to my right, I saw in the distance, a clearing, the grass flattened into a circle, upon which two people sat. Everything felt holy in that moment. Quiet. They were so young, and beautiful, the way that wild animals are beautiful when they are unaware of being seen. They were holding an infant between them, reverentially. Time stopped. We moved on. I smelled water. The grass opened up. Magic. Green Lake is gone now. Kilauea boiled over, filled it in. Four hundred years gone in an instant. People here say it was Pele, deciding to return to where it all began. I think of the muscles in your back as you swung out on a thick vine, the water streaming from your hair when you emerged, laughing.


Butterflies in Love

Buckeye baby,
sidle on up
to this
purple coneflower
and sip
some nectar
with me.

It's been a while,
I know,
since those
caterpillar days.
And we sort of
lost touch
in the pupal stage.

But ooh-wee-
look at you now.
You've laid your eggs
all down the coast.
So let's
go winter
in Mexico.

I hate to rush this,
but at best,
we've got
twenty days.


I'm Ready

Pick me up at the curb.
I want to take myself
out of myself tonight.

The lights are green.
The night is blue.
Go fast. Go faster.

Houses close their eyes,
the road glows
with streetlight stars.

Leave the city.
I want to roll around
in a farmer's field. Laugh.

Laughter and crickets
and a cow
loosen my heart.

Boone's Farm, my lips,
your lips. Strawberry
and heavy dew.

Lay me in the wild mint.
Make snow angels
in the cool, wet grass.

Leave them behind
for the hood,
warm from the drive.

Jazz from a late night
radio station. The moon
sees us and tilts away.

But the stars keep watching.

Inventory

He's goofy-footed,
with an elephant knee
and a rash on his belly
from the board.

When he was young
and always in the sun,
he had ehu hair.
Now, it's just thinning.

There are tattoos,
some covered up
with other tattoos.
A woman's name, not mine.

Scars on his head
from his dad. Scars
from a dog, from surgeries.
Teeth missing.

The helix is flat
on the ear that still rings
from construction work
and his time in the Marines.

He says it runs
in his family. Along with
one chest hair,
freckles from his mom.

The Hawaiian grandma
claims he descended
from Kamehameha.
That's where he got those lips.

But I fell in love
with his feet.
The toes, so long,
so elegant.