Eyes closing

beneath palms and plumerias,

I assure myself those who preach

have never heard from God

who’s never whispered to me

asleep on a lanai.


They repeat words written by prophets

who write down words they claim

God boomed from the sky.


How then do prophets differ

from a sun dried man

in a doo rag

jangling a can of coins

by a mixed plate stand

who swears

gods talk to him all the time?


As I doze today, I only hear

squawking grackles,

squabbling mynas,

the shriek of francolin hens,

tree fronds softly shaken

by sea breezes.


Rain from Kula carries down

the breath of flowers,

sprinkles my naked chest

with cold, wordless theology.


The roar of the surf makes no claims,

no claims at all.