Summer’s officially done. The dogs and silvers are running in Union River, way back in the alders. Passing the football lazily back and forth in the upper pasture, Evers and I hear it, both at once, and pause to listen. The loud splashing is intense, periodic, and purposeful. “Salmon’re running.” “Seems too early.” “Late August.”…

It’s smoke It’s dope Can’t cope With this mentality Of high anxiety It’s friggin killing me. I’m pharming I’m pissing I’m looking What’s missing? The high potency Of crystallized THC. Bagman My connection To confection Resurrection From this affliction He’s here to set me free Did he hear my plea? Log on From the juggler…

Time was time was less important to me It seemed to stretch out slow and endlessly Affirming my dreams as distantly true A glorious bird soared to deep distance A heart ticked on its near to truest course A smile so lingering on lips so close I taste them although it is long since then…

Here are the rules and regulations for the September version of The Great Bamboo Ridge Year of the Monkey Writing Contest. Remember, you can write a prose piece (short story, essay, what have you), a poem, or even a short play. We’ll stay at 1000 words again this month. So you can write a haiku…

Congratulations to Writewords for “The First Day of School”; Jim Harstad for “Lahilahi, August 1966; and Doreen B. for “A Spot of Serendipity.” All have won 10 Bamboo Bucks to spend in the online store. Just mention you’re an August winner when you check out. Here’s to writing. Keep it going.

The bittersweet new beginnings are manifesting from the dusty ashes of fading old endings. Time is constantly changing, graciously creating a new adventure while sealing the past. Hopeful optimistic, respectful realistic or doubtful pessimistic; an absolute whirlwind of conjugating emotions swirl as the journey begins. Let the waves of worry, flames of fear, and boulders…

Ko’olau sunrise, Gold Palolo morning, Full moon fading wearily maka’i.

Called Cornet Beach for the variety store just across Farrington Highway, its tide pools sparkle clear in the near-cool morning on the school side, across the bay from Mauna Lahilahi. An animated cluster of brown young people: “Get um! Get um!” “Trow’m now. Now!” “You wen’ got’m! ” A broad net, weighted at the edge;…

She loves the look of her newly purchased composition book, blank lines inviting the scratch of her just-sharpened number two pencil. “See Spot Run,” she writes in careful print, mindful of the spacing between words. “Run Spot…” Frowning at the less-than-perfect fullness of the “o” in Spot, she scrubs vigorously with her eraser to make…

hum some number now for the dying of summer crumbling into fall