Pain That Stings Deep

Back then
He searched for God by daring waves
To toss him from his board
And crash him against the cliffs.
Into rocky foam alone in the North Shore surf
Of Laniākea, Immense Heaven of salvation.

Back then he thought his nightmares
Came because he was a sinner
And not from the jolts of war.
He had heard that some spiritual people
Held prayer vigils at the Sacred Falls.
In his Sunday best beach shorts
And half-buttoned shirt
He started down the road—
His surfboard left with a friend.

An afternoon rain fell as he walked
Through warm mud; not hard to do
For a Vietnam vet, ‘til he came to a circle of souls
Whose peace embraced him below
The roar of water seeking the ocean.
The roar of water that rushed down the cliffs
The roar that drowned out the pain of shrapnel
And memories of death embedded within his skin.

Back before then lingered a trauma
From deep in a jungle in Nam
Alone with the gun he refused to use
He met one from the other side.
Deep in a jungle in Nam; both frozen in fear,
Both paused to accept their end
When the other suddenly turned
And disappeared into the labyrinth of vines

He told me of being face to face
With the enemy, yet neither went for a gun
Face to face with the enemy who was someone’s son.
He told me that story many times,
I am still unsure if I heard it right,
Of him facing death in day’s dark night 

When Light took over his soul on that day
With spiritual people at Sacred Falls
And told him that the thief in the night
Had emerged in the Day.  The thief in the night
Emerged in the Day, to wash away all fears,
To wipe away all tears, including his. 

Surfboard, guitar, and daily meds curbed the pain.
He wrote songs of the Báb, Bahá’u’lláh, and Mulla Husayn.
With a sash of Gift of Prayers to share with anyone he might face:
Comrade souls searching for their Sacred Falls and redeeming grace,

In his Sunday best beach shorts and half-buttoned shirt
He searched for wounded souls along paths of mud
Comrades in pain with lives blurred by hurt
On the shores of Laniākea, Immense Heaven of the Best Beloved 

I still wonder if I heard him right
About facing a Viet Cong foe in a dark jungle in Nam
Each deciding to leave their guns unused.
Rather than allow the guilt of blood to abuse their souls.

There was a power in his songs that I liked,
If only he could have sung in tune.
I asked him for a notated copy of a song he wrote
Thinking I could find someone who could sing.
I still search for one to sing his song and strum along.

Remembering Charles Casimer Jess Jr. 
U.S. Marine Corps Vietnam War veteran awarded three Purple Hearts
 and member of the Bahá’í Faith, 
passed away on May 27, 2015, 69 years old.

-         C. S. Cholas
Honolulu, Feb 2006

 

 

Even the Birds

Again, muddled in clouds,
   The overcast sky darken 

      The promises I make.

Often, we wake eager to fulfill

   Only to madden ourselves;
      Our mortal minds sigh

Below the sun-sprayed sky
   That songbirds sing about.

-- C. S. Cholas, March 15, 1999 

      Hilo, Hawai'i

 

Overnight in a Strange Place

            I take years to fall asleep                                                                                                                                           Once in sleep the ages pass                                                                                                                       Until a dream of death awakens me.     

            I am far from my surroundings                                                                                                                              Though they close me in.                                                                                                                           I am the misplaced renegade                                                                                                                                    Seeking mercy from sin. 

            Here is the stranger in this world                                                                                                                         Who yearns for the secret Shrine.                                                                                                                Paths wind within                                                                                                                                                 As the Friend shines.

                        -- CS Cholas    15 July 1993, Fort Collins, Colorado

 

The Reflection

He had (every) reason to be angry

And yet no reason at all;

Betrayed by love, by friends,

By superiors, yet

Befriended by the poor and lowly

Of the town.

 

Told to take a Hard look at himself,

He went to a nearby pond

Stared at his face in the subtle ripples

The distorted bending of his features,

‘til he threw not a pebble,

But a sizeable rock in the middle

Of his watery reflection and watched

His face explode into numberless bits

Of light, color, and shadows on the surface.

 

It felt good to see his own form eventually

Come back together on the pond,

Gently wavering, slowly simmering

Into a clearer picture of who he was.

 

C. S. Cholas, undated

 

REMEMBRANCE

Passport to freedom, remembrance of Him.
Left in my desk under documents for men,
I, laden with baggage of anguish and rage,
Scramble to the corridor to the Curer's Store.

The burdens will not fit through the door.
I sit delirious among shrapnel, low jargon,
Bits of gossip and bungled memories--
My treasured bygones--these wounds
That make me feel human and alone.

Like a sleuth, I search through the mounds
Layered in the desk: the self-portrait with a twisted lip,
Chipped fetishes of adolescent adventures,
Lost chess pieces, fragments of fragrant letters,
Records of unpaid debts, the envelope that contains
Foreign stamps and a beaded necklace.

Under this I see the book of mystery
With cover worn and pages stained,
That conceals the elusive key.

Humbled and abashed,
I slowly turn the page
    and find His Remembrance.

                --  CS Cholas undated

 

 

 

 By the Sea of Galilee

Father, son, and daughter
Sit by water; the Sea of Galilee.
She strains her father's string of thought
With talk of agorot.

And though the dad gives him
His last shekel,
The son still wants to heckle.

Palms by the sea
Calm the sight with tranquility
As shadows cross the Golan heights.

Gulls escort the boat to shore.
For mere morsels
They show off for
Tourists who gladly give them more.

                        C.S. Cholas, March 17, 1996