by Therese Halscheid
Old and awfully narrow —
it never seems like it will hold those who cross.
This is always the case. Cars almost graze each other,
everyone folds in their sideview mirrors, everyone moves slow
must endure the rattle of the steel grid, its open grated floor. Continue reading
by Topher Shields
At the headlands,
basalt hums—
a low warmth
held in stone.
Wind lifts
the koru of flax,
and the air tastes
of salt, of split ehu kai. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Jay Udall
My daughter is drawn to heights
that make me shake with terror.
When she was small, Ferris wheels
became my personal hell, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Gary Leising
The bartender snorted at the bearded man’s order,
then mixed a drink with sans rum, sans liqueur,
despite historical reservations. This evening,
his older colleague told him, stacking plates,
is about getting close, being near the real thing. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 