Here on this island, summer never sleeps.
In the green valleys, smoke in cane-time drifts
With mist—frail tide that laps the chasmed deeps
Between the steep clean hills as the sea-tide
She speaks for those who cannot speak at all,
For those upon whom fate and chance have fed,
Yet whose mute hearts since the Couple’s fall
Have sought the golden apples, not the red.
The seeking mind’s not only quite uncouth,
But shamelessly subversive, so they say;
It wastes the enterprising years of youth
On heresies. But who are they
More than thirty years have come and gone.
Phony patriots still sell out America,
chop at the Constitution with Dark Age axes,
poison the air and water,
To the hills of Aiea, Kamehameha came,
Lord of his people on isles beyond his seeing.
Shading his eyes, the king stood cloaked in fame
And crowned by a curious crested feathered helm.
I wonder why your ships are painted green
While ours are gray? I’ve heard some sailors say
That swift ships, camouflaged, can move unseen
Against the sea. Strange, though, it’s always cold gray
Let us spare ourselves from even brief
Regrets when we remember our last night
Together; nor should we regret the grief
Our parting caused us. No one can say
Staten Island summer.
Lawns dry and bleached as sand,
leaves withering like wrinkled old men
while we sog and sweat
When I was a young esquire, O God,
as battle raged on every side of me,
I stood upon a hill of heads and limbs
and stared to see you grinning in the clouds,
Listen cousins, and daughters and sons,
This is the song of the exiled ones.
Run away to the mountain, go hide in the cave,