Road Trip

Written by William Kekaula |



The country, people, and the village,
All equal, as if, for the first time,
All of that gave a fresher image,
Nay, 'tis but a relative vantage.
Save fresh road, to its left bears a sign.

"A few more feet and we will be there."
Says my brother, older by a year.
We each sit on a small wooden chair.
Back of our red jeep of 'wear and tear'.
Gramps at the wheel, who shifts to high gear. 

Minds that share a past and a present.
Coughs, down windows that were turned briskly,
Choked fumes made from an exhaust current.
The quick fix makes exchanged smoke errant.
Road yields to old, that winds on freely.

The red jeep with pedals that brakes pace,
Find its way through a billowed wake's draft.
Drive made safe with a determined face,
Smiles fill time while odd hands wheel's embrace.
Of what we know, not whole, fair not half.

Greenery and earth has submitted,
To bigger eyes and matter in gray.
The ridge forms a field hand committed,
Stands to glance and waved arms transmitted,
Replies with odd hands, begs one to stray.

The story goes that one would come by,
Gramps's hands bear the mark of leprosy.
Meek has less, makes more for a good guy.
Back the wayward hand comes to deny,
An erring mind to chance, willingly.

The village comes closer than before.
As banging and rattling lingers on,
His feet play up and down on the floor.
Rounds a turn as we head south some more.
The village, unlike time, comes, not gone.

It is a village, though not smaller.
If it be, then it would be a toy.
The worn-down country road made meager.
There, it will become familiar.
Some annoyed, yet many do enjoy.

A dip and we sink, bump and we rise.
The road full of gravel with some grass.
The core grows like a line in disguise.
The small village, now nigh, swells in size.
Seaside with the beach edges a pass.

The village signature, Black Sand Beach.
Sun worshipers famous welcome mat.
Surfers alert when crested waves breach.
Tourists with their cameras in reach,
Wait, as surfers lulls mid-waves, now flat.

Round the turn as road hugs shoreline's brink.
A red jeep leans seaward as breaths hold,
All hearts skip, their eyes not strong to blink.
Back along the one-lane road, we shrink,
In makeshift seats, "Soon be there," being told.

Passing park of two ponds and a beach.
Mid-two naturals sit a built pond.
Hit with the families, "a real peach."
Beyond lays the village just in reach.
Though eyes on the park make hearts grow fond.

The built pond was a new addition.
Though not completely walled all around.
The seawater gave it tradition.
It's made for a pool-like condition.
The once sand dune gave the pool its ground.

Our thoughts reflect when swimming begin.
Playing with sand for something to build.
Or dig up holes so water flows in.
The sun and breeze wake bumps on our skin.
Parties all night make a day fulfilled.

Pavilions where people will putter.
Hot dogs and hamburgers all being grilled.
Gossips traded and jokes bring laughter.
Shallow or deep, choose both or either.
Towels warm wrapped bodies that are chilled.

Families and friends made their choices.
Dive the old wilds or swim the new tame.
'Junk in a PO' chooses some cases.
Waves swum or surfed are what one faces.
Ponds, new or old, choices all the same.

Last road bump signals the park's goodbye.
The old ponds where laundry be done soon.
Pa'hoe'hoe, (smooth rock), with folds top-side.
Clothes scrubbed on it like racks that they slide.
Ladies then sing a Hawaiian tune.

Rubbed clothes are cleaned on natural folds.
As tykes swim where chased tadpoles being caught.
They would swoosh and turn in lathered molds.
Water bubbled floats make new thresholds.
'Tis memory to find when being sought.

Now up a little rise and further.
The bend hangs to the right, going in.
Boarded store, marked for growing nature. 
Crossed a ditched school that leans in stature.
Sights bear upon us soon our last grin.

In view are two churches and a store.
It has not grown, yet, our village sprouts.
Few houses stand, bit further, stands more.
Basketball court, more ponds, and the shore.
Save the last, 'tis our home, thereabouts.

Copyright ©

Author: William Kekaula
I am a retiree of the hospitality industry, presently, residing in my birthplace town of Hilo, Island of Hawaii, a.k.a. Big Island, in the 50th State of Hawaii, USA, and as a writer, I have a passion for poetry, fictional and nonfictional short stories.


Please Login to Comment
No comments have been posted. Be the first.

Hire a Writer