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.