When the white deadwoods of Hawaii are lying on the shores, dead
and the tides, waves and currents of Pacifica propel oceans swells ahead. . .
Remember then, Americans, Hawaiians. . . Mauna Loa, Mauna Kea. . . peaks with slopes of fire, spewn to raise up island slopes.
As new lands will form with eruptions, volcanoes of Hawaii will spread this island upward and downward. . .
with volcanoes evermore. . . inspiring, without measure, the wondrous web of Paradise, distantly seen.
Walk hand in hand, and together we’ll stand . . . on these Islands with our dreams.
As I was walking on a beach of Hawaii, my poetic muse struck. Sudden inspiration fell into the poetic framework of a recitation heard long ago. . . while listening to the Moody Blues, specifically the voice of Mike Pinder as he recited Graeme Edge’s “The Dream”, which presented the poetic architecture for my poem about Hawaii.