Waianae Mountain High

A personal story of discovery in poem - to the tune of Rocky Mountain High - with apologies to John Denver.

He was born in the winter of his fifty-seventh year,

coming home to place he'd never been before.

He left gloomy days behind him, thought he'd never see the sun,

thought the Northwest rain would send him down for sure.

When he came upon the tropics his life now seemed fulfilled,

an endless summer, lasting through the year.

He hearkened back to daydreams: a childhood of yore;

with mountain-tops and beaches to hold dear.

The Makaha Valley, Waianae Mountain high,

he's seen its mists with rainbows in the sky,

reveled in the trade-wind breezes blowing like a sigh;

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu,

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu.

He settled in with sunshine and surf just down the lane,

a wonderland of Pacific seashore views.

Sapphires sparkle in the distance, an ocean-top ablaze,

crimson sunsets when the evening-time debuts.

In the valley textured hillsides, where rainfall-cascade plumes,

cause exotic storm-cloud visions time-to-time,

create chromatic sunset backdrops with buttresses aglow

ending days that always seem sublime.

The Makaha Valley, Waianae Mountain high,

he's seen its mists with rainbows in the sky,

reveled in the trade-wind breezes blowing like a sigh;

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu;

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu.

Now his life is nowhere over, but the end seems nearer with,

every page upon the calendar that's turned.

He'd like to think like summer here his season never ends,

but he knows that each existence has it's terms.

But, Makaha Valley, Waianae Mountain high,

he's seen its mists with rainbows in the sky,

reveled in the trade-wind breezes blowing like a sigh;

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu;

Waianae Mountain high, on Oahu.