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I hear the whistle. I can taste
it. Calling out a start for some men, a change of
shift. The soil is a giving mother. The soil is my life,
Sugar is my Queen. She sweetens my existence. Many years has she sung to her
men, Men at home. Men in the field. I smile now
as I listen.
The fires in the fields have died. The land that was the
mother of the sugar in my tea, has been fenced in.
The stack above the boiler room is gone, but the whistle I
still hear. May times through the years I would her singing loud and clear from
town.
Now the voice that ruled a century, Ruled the lives of
families is gone.
The ash drifted down in silent flakes throughout town
as the fields were burned.
Trucks at all hours, day
and night. Mud on the road . No one complained. This was
life. Yes a good one.
We roamed where we wished then,
there were no fences. Some cut chains when mom went
away. Cages are difficult for a free man.
The pavement turned to gravel outside Hawi. A town just
outside of time. I pounded nails then, as now. Six bucks an hour.
The stack above the boiler room is gone. We loved Kohala and
could not imagine any change.
Few to no tall trees
were seen. No one moving in and closing the gate
behind them. We knew this land and no one complained of trespass. We ran
on steep, muddy cane roads. We looked around in the evenings and saw a panoramic
ocean view. Man the trees grow fast, fences sprang up
overnight it seemed.
Run off never entered our minds. We fished and feasted. We
climbed the lighthouse and surveyed the area. We broke nothing. We flew from
Upolu Airport to visit friends on Maui, Honolulu.
Do you remember the shark hunts at Upolu? 
Watch slide show of Kamehameha
day 2004, 2006 |
