by Terra Oliveira
four & a half million people
visit the island of O`ahu
per year, watch the red sun
climb down into the Pacific,
escape into paradise, laugh
with the water
as petroleum from Red Hill
leaks under the island, Continue reading
Shut Down Red Hill
Filed under Poetry
All One Time
by Michael Copperman
When I saw uncle Robert out back of my Aunty Ruby’s house after mochi-making a few days before the New Year, I was in my early twenties and he seemed unchanged from my memories of childhood. His weathered koa skin was carved with deep smile-lines, and he still was spry, always the first to leap to help to lift a table or shoulder a bag of rice. It was the first time I’d been back to the islands since my grandpa’s funeral—probably seven years before—and Robert set his veiny brown hand on my shoulder and squeezed a greeting, then held out two plastic bags of pomelos the size of basketballs. “For you!” He sat down next to me on the cinder block beneath the eaves. “I know you Lynny boy, you always liked da kine jabon. You always ate ‘em till they were gone. Bet you still like peel ‘em to eat ‘em all one time, eh? I show you how.” Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
Variations on Summer
by Melissent Zumwalt
The prompt from writing class last week was, “Summertime—wishful thinking—the summers of youth and their unparalleled magic:” an exercise intended to be fun, upbeat. Good Lord! I’d thought, was I the only one without a fondness for their childhood summers? Certainly, summer couldn’t mean the same thing for all of us? Because the first image that came to me, strong and resonant, was a can of Campbell’s Chunky Soup, Sirloin Burger. The memory loomed so large, took up so much emotional space, there wasn’t any way to stop the mental film reel from re-playing: Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
Dahlias
by Donna Pucciani
Your favorite flower,
though I never knew why,
and you never could explain.
Their bright faces reflect the sun,
aflame in yellows and reds. They turn
from shadows, disrespect the dark.
They choose petaled light, fanning out
from a core of ochre, find the pink Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Kikiriki Live Poultry, Inc.
by Katrina Dahl Vogl
Cleo has let the Hiss get too loud again. It’s been two days now since she’s had any money, since she got high, and the Hiss is hissing. Saying, it’s time. So an hour ago she caved and called Louie King, and now he’s sprawled out on her bed with his boots still on, whining that Miro said he’d be home soon, right? Cleo doesn’t answer him. He knows just as well as she does that when a dope dealer says fifteen minutes they mean an hour, and when they say ‘soon’ they mean, this’ll take however long it takes. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 