2023

The flow of words, so many in 2023, I ask my higher self and my basic self to collaborate, on how to best organize this.

Jose Jeremiah Cotrina

It is one more loss the elder laments

this genocide of the indigenous who know the ancient ways

wounds that carry forward for generations

a reckoning

a healing

33 makahiki had he

the wounds too heavy says his wahine

he wasnʻt coping well

ʻohana conflict

fresh outta jail dah brudda

help him me

I give him work

back on streets momma

roaming the homeless camps she

sucker punch

a broken cheekbone

fentanyl, “just to help me sleep”

protect my little boy

and he is gone, too soon, too fast, too far

the one with the courage to go into the wilderness

and fast and pray and come back and tell his siblings

it is time for us to return to our indigenous ways

he learns this, sitting alone in the desert, with kona makuahine sitiing with him

in the flavor of the māmalu Peruvian

steeped down to kī

ka mahina, he, his sister, ka lā

this they are to one another with nightly calls

together they look for hawk, red tailed hawk

and touch the connection of elder brother and brother Michael

the self-professed kahuna that tended

the healing of the land

in his way

the way the gods that traverse here and there do

wrapped in reverence, awe, humility, wonder

he teaches this writer to return the pōhaku

taken from Waimea, back to Waimea

(no wonder that flight was so turbulent)

mālama ʻāina younger sister

mālama kou kino

with aloha

ʻAue, ʻAue, ʻAue

Fly in joy little ʻio, for this is who you truly are

with the guidance of the hānai hawk

red tailed hawk

gifted by the Chumash

of the rainbow bridge

of Mokupuni Limuw

knowing of our ʻohana genocide wounds

and caring for us

in those wilds of Goleta

as one keiki of the ʻāina

Fly in joy

The ancestral pahu beat

the pathway opens

the middle sister sits in the ancestral cave

smiling

inviting the elder sister to come sit, and be part of the teachings

of this transition

the songs of the ancestral bones

whistle and lament

with the coming of the mist

with the coming of the pink and gold of this dawn

the rainbow that announces

the flight of this little ʻio

Higher, and higher, sheddiing feathers, shedding skin, bone denied a burial

and given as an offering to the element of fire

This elder sees you, with the ancient ones

standing bright in your soul

draped in the colors of the mist

the colors of the rainbow

refusing to cross the bridge through the light

until we hear your message

we hear your message

through the seer in circle

because the elder that sees grief is to great

and another journeys on this elderʻs behalf

to help the ʻohana, the tending of the passing of spirits

Jose asks

how could you let this happen?

protect the children

a reverberation across the canyon

we see your passage

in our waking dreams

drawing those that remain into a circle

huddling, shoulder to shoulder

we learn once again to breath in this breathing

the Hawaiian way

for we are Hawaiians

we are Hawaiians

and the lie dissipates

one elder that remains dares to whisper

I am not an American

I am a Hawaiian

the indigenous genocide that

stole land

stole soul

implanted foreign religions, tongues, belief systems, values

it is all spat out

and Pele as a portent speaks

burn

and from the fresh burn

the lehua returns

free from this disease

fly little ʻio

fly little red tailed hawk

fly

to the level of heaven of your destiny

for you have given the Hawaiian people a great gift

by being aware of your ancestral pain

by setting the intention to raise you son

free from harm

to end the cycle of harm

to say no to the impact of indigenous genocide

rolling forward

expressing itself as

family conflict

addiction

incarceration

soul loss and wounding

psychosis

things labeled as “mental illness”

violence

early death

inability to work

inability to communicate

inability to resolve conflict

we sit in your ash

and weep in the comfort of ʻohana

it is the message sent from the kumu hula

who lives in the region where our ancestors live

that gives this writer the balm that soothes the most

“931 Kūpouli Kānehoa i ka hele a Kauka‘ōpua.

Kānehoa is darkened by the departure of Kauka‘ōpua.

Said of dark grief at the departure of a loved one.”

mai ka inoa piha o koʻu hānau ʻia, Annette Marie Puʻu

but still, I walk, in Aunty ʻAʻohe Ona Inoa, until I see tangible signs, of restitution for the people, my social/political/creative protest name

There is so much writing, so much, and it doesnʻt always end up here, so i am rethinking.