KA WAI OLA Issue
editors’ note
Through the dark of night, a constellation of light shines. It is not the twinkle of stars, or the shimmer of galaxies, but the light of man, emerging in droves to set the metropolis of our minds aglow. In this edition of Ka Wai Ola, we highlight the vibrant artists of Punahou’s Academy, whose light we hope may touch the minds and hearts of our readers just as they have touched our own. In Volume 79 of this magazine, we spotlight the poetry, prose, photography, and paintings of our radiant community.
From stamped faces emerging in print, to gods cast in clay, to stories of green lights shining off the ends of piers, this edition focuses on exploring the self and its connection to wider society. It is our sincerest hope that Ka Wai Ola stands as a platform for artists to find the foundations upon which their skyscrapers are built—that is, to help them discover their truest selves and their space within the world. Thus, this edition is uniquely introspective, traversing the evolving intersections of identity, connection, and perception.
Just as many of this edition’s works explore change, so too does change touch our dear magazine. This year, Ka Wai Ola saw the blessings of new leadership in both our new advisor, Dr. Noerper, and three bright new Junior Editors. Dr. Noerper’s extensive experience in literary arts communities across America has guided us to see new directions in which we can take the magazine. With his aid, and with the fresh ideas of our Juniors, we have transitioned from two editions per year to one large, vibrant edition that encompasses student life through every step of their Punahou journey.
As dawn breaks on this edition of Ka Wai Ola, we would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to our contributors this year, from the students whose works illuminate our pages to those who stopped by on a Friday afternoon to review—we would not be a magazine without you. You are the ones who bring light and life into our little Pauahi classroom. We hope we may reflect even a fraction of your brilliance back onto you.
from the senior editors-in-chief
Hey kids,
Over the last four years, I can confidently say that Ka Wai Ola has been a source of growth for me, both in writing for the magazine and in navigating all the challenges associated with running a student publication as an Editor-in-Chief. I often joke that our members are my “kids,” and I think that’s because I’ve grown up through this club, and I want to create a space where others can feel safe to do the same.
Collaboration has been the name of the game since day one, and it’s been an amazing experience mixing and matching our roles in this club to find out how we can best complement each other. Because while I’ll never match KG’s infectious energy or Crow’s ethereal turn of phrase, growing up in this club, to me, means finding my own niche and becoming a rock for others in what I know I do best.
Crow and KG, thank you for being my rocks in what you do best. Ms. Sprott, Dr. Pangilinan, and Dr. Noerper, thank you for prolonging your work weeks to facilitate and mentor our meetings. And to our juniors, and to the rest of our community, thank you for having faith in me as a leader and continuing to support Ka Wai Ola.
Bravely onward!
Ash Bu
Dearest Mortals,
I thought it would be many moons before I would have to write this letter. Or, perhaps, more accurately, when I submitted my first poem to Ka Wai Ola and saw, months later, the confirmation of my acceptance come through during an Alg 1 class (a class whose actual contents I’ll never remember), I could never fathom having the immense privilege of helping to shape this magazine.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Over these past four years, I have been overjoyed to see the creativity of our community as both a participant and an Editor-in-Chief. Being a part of KWO has helped me come into my own as Crow the leader, writer, and person. My feathers will forever carry the warmth of the Fridays we’ve spent together.
I would like to explicitly extend my gratitude to Ms. Sprott, Dr. Pangilinan, and Dr. Noerper, for their mentorship and trust, Mika and Ava, for their wisdom, my peers Ash, Caleb, and KG, for their hard work and endurance, and our upcoming senior editors, Krislyn, Miranda, and Jaye, in whom I have the utmost faith in leading KWO into the future.
Fair winds, good health, and all my love, Crow M. Villanueva
Well, here we are.
This magazine has always been about growth, and it feels fitting, considering everything that’s changed—our new administration, new leadership, and the fact that I’m now a senior writing one of these letters instead of just sending in a submission and calling it a day.
These last four years have flown by. We started with masks and cohorts, and now I’m gearing up for college. It’s wild to think about how much has happened. I still remember walking into B102 for the first time with no idea what to expect—only to realize I’d found my people.
As an editor, I’ve been exposed to so many different forms of creative expression, and I’ve grown immensely as both an artist and a writer because of it. Our Friday meetings were always something to look forward to after a long week; knowing I could relax and enjoy some quality art and writing really kept me going. I want to thank everyone who reads and submits pieces to Ka Wai Ola for really making this thing work. We couldn’t do this without you.
Also, many huge thank you’s to Ms. Sprott, Dr. Pangilinan, Dr. Noerper, Crow, Ash, and Caleb for making the gears turn. And a special shout-out to Ava and Mika for being awesome. Miranda, Jaye, and Krislyn, good luck; you’ve got this.
— KG Pan
Table of Contents
Crow Villanueva ’25
KG Pan ’25
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26
Anonymous
Mia Kane ’28
Neal Sehgal ’27
Ilyas Hage ’27
Neal Sehgal ’27
Miranda Yap ’26
Kilia Lawrence
Gallagher ’26
Ash Bu ’25
Nikhil Wong ’27
Neal Sehgal ’27
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26
City Lights
Hamster Trouble
Paradise City
Emerging Lady
Lineup and Layers
Wings
Fish Fiesta!
A Million Pages, A Spark
Light Shower After Dark
秋分
敦煌 - Dun Huang
碧绿清澈
Unrivaled Glee
Serene Blue
Endless Story
Luna
The Victor
The Fleeting Koi
Nom Nom
Future Generation
heyyy
The Watchers and the
Ridden
Surfing Subways
Charles Ye ’26
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Steven Yang ’27
Annie Duchemin ’26
Artemis Ledbetter ’26
KG Pan ’25
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Ziyu Dong ’25
Anonymous Haohong Ren ’26
Haohong Ren ’26
Haohong Ren ’26
Ziyu Dong ’25
Kekoa
Ratchaworapong ’28
Nessa Michaud ’25
Ella Tanibe ’26
Nessa Michaud ’25
Kaelyn Imanaka ’25
Kenton Chan ’27
Brycen Lew ’26
Kenton Chan ’27
Artemis Ledbetter ’26
Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Team Smash Them On The
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Garland of the Deep Touch
Ramen Head
City Lights
Crowded
Nature’s Unwanted Ornament
Portrait of a Spirit
Scolopendra
The Atomic Bomb Dome
Hiroshima Prefectural
Industrial Promotion Hall
Chiaroscuro Dream
Kazuhira Miller
A Camera’s Vision
Creator
Blue
Other Side
knock knock
Sunset Models
Fishing on the Sunset
Kafka on the Shore
Hitting the Delta Waves
Ramen Head
B. Fox ’27
Olesya Noerper ’28
Annie Duchemin ’26
Charles Ye ’26
Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Sophia Chen ’27
Liz Chee ’26
Liz Chee ’26
Steven Yang ’27
Steven Yang ’27
Christian Haraguchi ’26
Jooyung Kang ’28
Christian Haraguchi ’26
KG Pan ’25
Jooyung Kang ’28
Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Christian
Haraguchi ’26
Sofia Sinnett ’26
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Annie Duchemin ’26
Hamster Troubles
Ink | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Sin Vergüenza
Crow Villanueva ’25
So this is how it will be
I confess I wished to reap the rewards Instead of sowing them. Nonetheless, we must prevail.
Verily it is true, Voracious, vivid, violence, Veers ever closer, Every erstwhile step Erased, desecrated, or so it seems.
Remember, remember Recall my friends Rome was not built in a day (nor did it burn in one)
Great people, proud people, my people Grant me this simple wish:
Unshackle yourselves from despair. Use your fears as fuel.
Enjoy that which you can. Endure that which you must.
Never let yourselves be consumed. Never forget who you are.
Zenith of pride. Zest of life.
A
soul deserving to be, Alive, Sin Vergüenza.
Paradise City
Photography | Steven Yang ’27
You Are KG Pan ’25
You are 10 years old. Your hair is short—shorter than it has ever been, because you cut it off. It feels right. It feels like you. You don’t know yet that feeling like you can get you into trouble.
You are 11 years old. It’s the first day of 5th grade, and your hair is still too short. You look like a boy. Your mom makes you wear a ruffled shirt so people will “know you’re a girl.” You fight her, but she wins. At school, you change the moment you walk through the doors.
You are 10 years old. You step off the plane after a six-hour flight. You had the window seat, and you need to pee. The airport is busy, but you find a bathroom tucked in a corner. As you move toward the door, a woman steps out and plants herself there, gripping the frame like it belongs to her.
“The men’s bathroom is over there,” she says, tilting her head toward the other door.
You stop, confused. You don’t yet realize how you look. You thank her and try to move past, but she says it again, louder this time: “The men’s bathroom is over there.”
Your mom is far enough away to hear the tone but not close enough to intervene. You don’t know much, but you know enough to know you don’t want to cause a scene. She comes over, her mouth opens to say something, but you shake your head, and your mom pauses. The woman stares you down. You don’t use the bathroom for another three hours, until you reach the apartment.
You are 11 years old. Your body is beginning to betray
you—breasts, hips, soft edges that make you foreign in your own skin. You’re at the pool, and there’s a boy your age. You ask if you can join his Marco Polo game. He shrugs, lets you play. You are just another boy, until you aren’t.
His voice turns sharp when he realizes. He shouts to his friends. You don’t see it coming—his hand reaching for your chest.
You don’t like swimming.
You are 13 years old. You’re in the public pool locker room, standing in the corner, waiting for your mom to finish changing. You can feel the stares. A woman approaches, anger spilling off her in waves.
“You need to leave,” she says. “My daughters are uncomfortable with you here.”
The words land like a slap. You slink out, ashamed.
You are 12 years old. The swimming unit is next in PE. For a week, anxiety coils around you, squeezing the sleep from your nights. The morning the unit is supposed to start, you have a panic attack. You’re crying, and the school calls your mom to take you home. You’ve caught the flu, and you’re out for a week. At least it means less swimming.
You are 16 years old. You’re cutting your own hair now. You don’t care that it looks crazy. Better a shitty haircut and a body like a prepubescent boy than she echoing in your ears.
You are 17 years old. You’re at the beach with friends. The group is a swirl of sunscreen and laughter, gossip and bikinis. But your friends are on edge. An older man sits nearby, phone camera pointed at your friends, bodies sprawled in
the sun.
Your friends are quiet, too afraid to say anything. But you— you look like a boy.
You stand. You walk over. “Sir, can you stop taking pictures?”
The man’s face twists. “You want me to hit you?”
You freeze. You do your best to talk him down and then walk away. He leaves after that. Your friends don’t thank you, but they exhale.
You are 15 years old. You’re in Castle. It’s 1:53 when you feel it—the need to pee.
You’re let out of class at 1:55. You hurry to Griffiths, the only bathroom you can use, six minutes away. By the time you’re washing your hands, it’s 2:05.
You make it to your next class at 2:07. Your teacher gives you a look. You apologize, but you know what it means: Late. Lazy. Irresponsible.
You sit down, ashamed for needing a bathroom.
You are 17 years old. You are with your best friend, two non-binary almost-adults. Your tire goes flat. A security guard assumes you are a heterosexual couple—a boy and a girl. He offers to help. You leave with him to get the tire pump.
On the drive back, you debrief. Your friend explains they were worried. “I thought he might hurt you,” they say.
You pause. You hadn’t even thought of that. You weren’t
afraid. You knew he saw you as a boy.
You wonder what it means that your safety feels borrowed.
You are 18 years old. You try to explain it to your cis male friend—what it feels like to be on edge. He doesn’t understand.
“I get uneasy sometimes, too,” he says.
No, you tell him. It’s not the same. You’re not afraid of one person. You’re wary of every person. You’re afraid of what they see when they look at you. Of what they’ll do when they find out. He doesn’t get it.
You don’t expect him to.
You are 18 years old. You’re in a hospital gown. Seven signatures. Nine months of jumping through hoops, justifying your story and your body to people who have never understood. But the moment is here. You ask them, half joking, if they will let you keep the tissue once they remove it. An IV pierces your arm. Someone explains the anesthesia, but all you hear is your heart pounding in your ears.
Something cold floods your veins. Saline washes up in the back of your throat. You feel yourself relax.
“Tell me how high I count before I fall asleep,” you say.
You’re rolled into the operating room. A mask slips over your mouth, and you count—
One.
You are 18 years old. You’re at Sandy’s, and it’s late at night. Your shirt is off, because you can do that now. You’re
walking with two friends, both guys. A woman’s voice calls out, and you walk over. There are two girls, 20 and 21, they say. They are clearly drunk. There are two men, clearly sober. They are older, much older. You ask how old, and they say old enough.
You flirt with one of the girls because she’s flirting with you, but the men don’t like it. You feel their eyes hard on you. Stay in your place. We got here first. This is our prize.
You leave, because you don’t know much but you know there is violence in their glare. You hate yourself for walking away. But you are too afraid to stay.
You are 18 years old. You are still learning when to fight. When to run. When to look like a boy. When to disappear. When it’s safe to exist at all.
You are still learning what it means to be you.
Emerging Lady
Print w/ Ink Stamps | Annie Duchemin ’26
Lineup and Layers
Film Photography | Artemis Ledbetter ’26
Wings Sculpture | KG Pan ’25
Fish Fiesta!
Screenprint | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
A Million Pages, A Spark Oil Pastels and Acrylic | Ziyu Dong ’25
Multitude
Krislyn
Ishibashi
You approach, your footsteps muffled by the heavy silence
Your world, your everything
A book, worn and bruised, slumped wearily in the hands of the universe
You cradle it gently, fingers tracing the ancient design etched into the cover
Images of people are engraved delicately, with facial expressions so real that you can almost hear their voices
Your people, their lives flowing like the tide, Thousands of chapters ebbed into the binding of the book
You frantically flip through the pages for Truth, but the words are just words
Lying heavy on top of each other
Stories that don’t belong to you
Stories that don’t define you
Still, you lust for a deeper understanding
On the last page, there is a girl
Her long black hair spills over the seams
Brown eyes wide with desperation,
A gaze that casts a chill through your body
Your hunger is mirrored by her expression
Her fear, her longing, your own
Frustrated, you claw into the book with your bare hand
It tears a gaping hole in the delicate white sheets, The book spits out ink like blood, but you are not finished
Who is this girl?
Your hysteria mounts as the book surrounds you
Layers and layers and layers of paper are torn back
You’re about to collapse
With a final effort, you rip off the spine of the book-
The girl has become a demonic, contorted creature
It has parchment-yellow skin stretched over hollow cheeks
Eyes full of animalistic hunger, long hair flashing
It smiles at you, stained teeth bared with blood
Reaching out to you with its claw, it beckons you to take one
step closer
You’re not good enough, the creature says
You slam the book shut, breathing heavily
You can’t see through your tears
The creature had ripped a hole into your foundation
Words and sentences flow out of you as you dissolve
Thousands of stories, wasted
Deserting you
Until you are nothing but empty paper
But all is not lost
The book lies alone, abandoned
You carefully dust it off, staring at the wreckage
The pain of what you’ve done feels unapproachable
But something stirs beneath you, and you hear a small voice from within the book
This is not the end, the girl’s voice says
You pick yourself up
Dry your tears
Hold yourself a little closer
And slowly sew the book back together again
And sure, it’s not perfect
The spine has holes
Pages fly out occasionally
Some are left blank
But as you open it once more, The girl waves back at you, and you see a smile form on her face
Her beauty, stunning but imperfect, shines through the page
You are a multitude, she says, her voice voicing your thoughts, Each story belongs to you. Each mistake, each blot in your story, they all paint a larger, beautiful picture.
You are meant to be here.
Light Shower After Dark
Digital Art | Anonymous
A car left running in the dark
Headlights swallowed up by trees
A golden bell, a spinning boy:
Two notes hanging there for me.
Scrawled into the bending bark
As a string without elope
Two notes hanging there for me—
One red thread, the other rope.
Four arrows of the clock swing loose
As the silver teacups chime
Branches bear the troubled mist
One more cotton smile in time.
Past the hill and into town
Two notes hanging there for me:
Straw beneath a velvet sky /
Red that sets the scarecrow free.
Two notes hanging there for me
Should they hold the shape of more?
Sailing far to climb the tree
I can see a moonless shore.
Stet Song Anonymous
Digital Art | Haohong Ren ’26
- Dun Huang
Digital Art | Haohong Ren ’26
Digital Art | Haohong Ren ’26
Unrivaled Glee
Serene Blue
Photography | Kekoa Ratchaworapong ’28
Luna Digital Art | Ella Tanibe ’26
The Victor
Photography | Nessa Michaud
’25
The Fleeting Koi
Digital Art | Kaelyn Imanaka
’25
Future Generation
Photography | Brycen Lew ’26
Three Little Birds
Mia Kane ’28
Sitting inside the lack lit coffee shop, you make an observation
Of the three birds sitting on the electric wire
They sit there huddled together in the cold wind as you look through the window
You can’t begin to explain but you feel a connection to these birds
Maybe they were your own children lost to time
Maybe they are the friends that promised to keep in touch
Maybe even they were the lines of lifes that you never saved
The sorrow that takes full control of you is almost unbearable
What the birds represent is everything to you now, you can’t just let them leave
You bound out of the coffee shop forgetting to take your jacket with you
The birds aren’t far, you can reach them if you just run fast enough
The hair whips against your face and the cold stings your bare legs but you don’t care
You’re almost there, just a few more steps
The birds fly away
And you remember why you came to the coffee shop in the first place
You turn around, walking back in a haze
To the shop, to your table, to your notebook and pen
And life returns to normal again
| Kenton Chan ’27
Photography
The Watchers and the Ridden
Film Photography | Artemis Ledbetter ’26
Surfing Subways
Digital Art | Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Team Smash Them On The Bottom
Digital Art | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Lily Riam
Neal Sehgal ’27
The bumpiness of your driveway reflects my heartbeat, as my contemporary White Ford strolls through the leaves. My trembling hands, trembling legs, trembling feelings, land on your doorstep, as I knock on your blue door. After it flings open, I see a goddess on earth. Your crystalline, sapphire eyes put me in a daze, as I can’t stop admiring your luscious black hair. You grab my hand, and I feel your soft touch, the kind after jumping into bed for sleep, cuddling the clean sheets. The feeling you give me. I want to feel it, absorb it.
Your room is as messy as it was yesterday. Piles of dirty laundry, papers swamping your desk, and the sweater you borrowed still resting on your bed, my scent encompassing your surroundings, almost as if I stayed the night. The night. How are you during the cold, everlasting nights?
Do your enchanted eyes shine brighter, illuminating the stars?
Do you yearn for someone as the frost gets forbidding, to hold you close?
Do we share the same feelings of love? The emotions that keep me alive, that make birds sing their soothing melodies that keep the incandescent sun glowing radiantly?
Each moment you speak, your lullaby enraptures my thoughts, but makes my fragile heart skip one or two beats. We speak, the sun’s set granting you a gorgeous light, as if the one you already have isn’t enough for this world.
For me.
“You know, your room is almost as big as my house!” After those words leave my mouth, her facial expression shifts.
The array of excitement that guided her emotions suddenly fades away, like the final ember of a dying candle in the night.
Your shoulders start to shiver, just like I assumed. “It’s getting late, huh…” you speak, even though the clock only reads 10:30. Your gaze flickers at the door, while you slowly shift your weight to stand.
I feel my heart race, as countless questions roam through my confused mind.
The uneasy presence of disappointment crawls through my body, as we hug, sharing a final embrace, a final touch of warmth as I captivate this feeling into my body.
Now, all I see is the blue door, a reflection looking back at me,
the barrier standing between me and my love, Lily Riam. That’s the only thing I feel.
Garland of the Deep
Digital Art | B. Fox ’27
My Love
Ilyas Hage ’27
My sweet, sweet love is Lily Riam
I close my eyes, and her’s I see ‘em
Those looking knives that pierce my soul
And turns it to a gaping hole
In life we live as links on chain
If she’s to snap I’ll feel her pain
So fettered and connected are we to each other
The very spirit of lies are all dead and smothered
It has gone away to die, my intense need to cry
Because with deft hands my cracked heart she has bandaged
And my stomach is filling
With the love I am drinking
From the gleaming glass in her hands
I love that the spirit of my love is free
A tern to frolic in her own endless sea
She flies over the waves of her life, of this world
And my hand, in her hand, and our hands our curled
Now she’s flown off to go see a friend
She said she’d be back before the day’s end
So I sit here and eat Wheaties
Drink tea-leaves until she leaves
Bereaved as I heave, and I sigh, and I wait
8:30 but she is two hours too late
Nonetheless, she returns and puts her eyes on my eyes
She insists that there is no need to apologize
No doubting thoughts give me a pause
And that is simply all because
Her lips oh so soft, feel like pillows of safety
With the grace of a feather falling in flight
She tickles and whispers sweet nothings to me
And asks for just a little money
And by the ground, air, grass, and trees
I’ll do anything to please
A few days passed and so happy was I! For when passing her house without stopping by I saw a White Ford, for which she’s paying rent I’m so happy my money was fruitfully spent
Photography | Olesya Noerper ’28
If Not for You
Neal Sehgal ’27
The incandescent sun wouldn’t rise, revealing our imperfect, yet beautiful world. The cacophony of bustling streets would retire the hidden tranquility of our advancing universe. The soothing lilts from robins, and refreshing strokes of cascades, would halt, turning into sad cries, and fiercely coated grounds, If not for you.
Every gloomy day that starts, and every enchanted night that passes, I am rooted by thy support, by words carved into me. That encourage me to escape my chrysalis. The moments that ascend above all else, that create my smiles, my tears.
From coarse, decrepit emotions thrown at each other, revealing a disgusting taste of anger left in my mouth. To the most ethereal experiences only possible because of the life I’ve been granted. It would cease to exist, If not for you.
If I were to awake one day and not hear the shaking of footsteps. If I were to not see the plate of golden, scrambled eggs sleeping on the table. If I were to not hear the irksome, busy singing that makes the sun shine, my life vibrant, the plethora of colors that paint my world would fade. Splotches of fulsome ink absorbing any life, any joy I have,
If not for you.
I could achieve everything I’ve ever dreamed of. The riches of reality resting lightly on the palm of my hands. But none of it would ever matter if we weren’t standing side by side.
Shoulder to shoulder, encapsulating my accomplishments, None of it would matter if I couldn’t at least, with every fiber of my being say, I love you.
Ramen Head
Mixed Media | Annie Duchemin ’26
Miranda
Yap ’26
night races before unwilling eyes, our souls spilled sticky blood over sheets containing figures ensnared only the stars in your eyes know how to decode the mess that rushes out of my pulsing chest one set of hands not enough to hold this ailing heart of mine
i grasp onto your heartbeat perhaps these steady drumbeats a tonic for delirium? but your skin is too warm for my feverish misery and far too soft to bring me back to life
memories unmade cling to my mind like these strands to tearstained cheeks i bite back the heart that crawls up my throat my vengeful, traitorous humanity gnawing at flesh there
midnight makes me feel so small intertwine your fingers with my hair behold my tears on your chest cradle me sweetly and hide me from the ghosts unknowing of my pains
City Lights
Photography | Charles Ye ’26
Crowded
Digital
Art | Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Nature’s Unwanted Ornament
Ink | Sophia Chen ’27
sightlines and crossroads perspective warped crying in her clothes smoke hidden doors my mind is endless your page overturned red ink secluded to that chapter of words your words bite my nails ra thinking is it over now are you done put down the pen the editor won written out for my sake
overturned
Kilia Lawrence Gallagher ’26
your loud mouth let me be hypocrisy smallest tongue loudest scream
Portrait of a Spirit
Digital Art | Liz Chee
’26
Scolopendra
Oil on Canvas | Liz Chee ’26
The Atomic Bomb Dome
Drawing | Steven Yang ’27
June 25th, 1950
Ash Bu ’25
Capitalism has failed us!
We’ll do whatever you say, sir
Remember that I have freed you, and that I have provided you with your salvation (Kim 1:1)
What about the people in the South? Should they be saved?
The ones we drive out
The landowners, the rich
The families who fled and betrayed our nation
The ones who follow those American Bastards like they’re deities
Who worship money and status and upward mobility ?
I understand, Dear Comrade.
Good.
You are the people
And you are the dynasty
And I serve you, relentlessly, tirelessly, forever
And I am to live for ten thousand years.
Deviled Eggs
Nikhil Wong ’27
Sunlight upon an empty house, as they lay there, pristine, bright red specks atop a cushion of gold surrounded by the eggshell white coating: deviled eggs. Good. Text my mother if it is okay to eat them whilst eating one. She says yes. Take a look at their unintentionally uneven edges, albumen jagged and crooked, yolks not gold but a softer yellow, one you’d see in preschool and sidewalk chalk, and the paprika is less vibrant in the spots of shade, and the everything bagel mix is maybe just a bit too much. We are not supposed to eat these at this hour, 4 in the afternoon, it is meant for hosting dinners or at lunches or with literally anyone else around but no. It is just me in the kitchen, in the house with wide sliding glass doors to let the outside in, kitchen, living room, dining room merged into a theater for the entertainer and an audience. But only I am here, by the counter, by the ordinary china plate that beholds the eggs. And they watch me as they sit there, and they as the spectators observe the feeling present on my face. Maybe I sigh a little.
It is the imperfect perfection that the upper middle class is given, it is the once newly renovated walk-in pantry in which the snacks are over a year old, parties that leave everything a mess, houses that are too big to call home but open enough to let the light shine through. It is not an unpleasant feeling, although not one you’d cozy up to when the windows are open, because your Dad says it’s a night too cold for AC when we have the money for it. It silently asks a question that reverberates the foundation of our abode and echoes long after its moment: how can we afford to afford this? They sit there on the plate, indifferent, yolks in egg whites, egg whites surrounding yolks, like it’s the most pointless question to be asked.
But it’s not.
Because it’s always a beautiful and sad story with melancholic oranges and reds written in between the margins and laced through the footnotes, even when they don’t make sense and contradict each other.
Because it’s home, and despite everything, good deviled eggs.
Chiaroscuro Dream
Photography | Christian Haraguchi ’26
Kazuhira Miller
Digital Art | Jooyung Kang ’28
A Camera’s Vision
Photography | Christian Haraguchi ’26
Sculpture
| KG Pan ’25
blue
Digital Art | Jooyung Kang ’28
Other Side
Digital
Never Enough
Neal Sehgal ’27
The sun’s glittering gold shines through the sapphire skies. My alarm clock plays a discord, and staring at the wall, my head spins, as I start to wonder…
Why do I feel like this?
Why do I feel ready to grab mountains, grab stars, but I can’t even reach the water on the top shelf, the thoughts that circulate through my body? Every crack in the ground is as deep as any abyss.
Why am I always falling?
Permeable through and through. Drifting and drifting, like a boat off its path. Drowning in the vast aqua, until the black hole draws out any color I have.
Why do I feel like every vision I have shatters, cracks, each piece of the glass crumbling? In each small shard I see my reflection. Wait, is that me?
In my mind lies a mosaic of questions, Is it my fault? Did I not try hard enough? Endless questions I endure throughout each season.
“This is my year,” everyone says. Everyone believes. I believed.
But, with a blink of an eye, the sun sets, and everything’s consumed. Black and white. All I see are the puddles of black ink drenching my dreams. And when I start fading, I ask…
Why do I never feel enough?
knock knock
Digital Art | Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Sunset Models
Digital Art | Tiffany Katsuda ’26
Fishing on the Sunset
Photography | Christian Haraguchi
’26
A Ghost’s Cold Finger
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26
My dreams were full of emeralds. Sharp like daggers, stars pierced my fluttering eyelids and rained upon the darkness in showers of crystalized tears. A lonely voice sang out through the shifting light, syrupy sweet like a poorly made cup of Earl Grey in the evening. Blue eyes flashed on the reflection of a golden lake, and a heartbeat wrapped in ribbons of glass and longings with no beginning to form the taste of a forgotten summer,
gold fell into these hands early on your heart was youthful, proud, and strong, my sweet bells of ireland, softly calls twisted ‘round Death’s finger, you only fall your touch is the only one that makes me linger but the living can’t dance with a ghost’s cold finger
I awoke the next morning, sleep groping temptingly at my tired body and as I resisted, my head bobbed with the movement of an imaginary sea. Sweat had already formed on my upper lip with the early dawn, and the sun carved its way through the window, heating the small house. The night before was a blurry haze, with distant memories of discomforting passion. Gatsby stood at the forefront of my mind, beckoning me to arise from my exhaustion.
The windows of the Gatsby mansion had their curtains drawn, and the owner himself rested on the large porch, his eyes blinking slowly at the blue skies above. A blanket of shadows had comfortably settled itself beneath his eyes. When he lifted his head towards the sound of my arrival, he seemed to sink further into himself.
“She never called, old sport,” Gatsby said heavily, “Her light stayed on all night, yet she never called.”
“Maybe she forgot?”
“Impossible.”
He let out a harsh sigh, and swayed his way into the entrance hall, gesturing with a hand for me to join him. He spotted a nearby settee, and Gatsby slouched back into flaming pink cushions and blankets, as if he was a young boy hiding from his mother. With the black suit he was wearing, Gatsby looked like a wolf in a pack of flamingos.
I strolled across the lustrous hall, chandeliers glittering overhead and my shoes screeching against the freshly mopped floor. A gust of morning air rushed in through the windows, dying for our attention, being extravagantly laced with orchid dew and a fairy’s recent tears. It was this fine morning that Gatsby told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody, “Jay Gatsby” becoming a see-through cloak with Tom’s malice lurking nearby. I would have believed anything he had told me then, but he always fell back to the subject of Daisy.
“You know, old sport, I met her when I was an officer at Camp Taylor, and she was the only nice girl I’ve ever met,” Gatsby muttered through his cigarette, black smoke hissing into the air as the tale began.
Daisy was desirable in that she was loved by all men. Gatsby had first gone to her house for a fine dinner party hosted by her family, and there he fell in love with the flowering curtains, the Southern drawl that rang through the hallways, the casual luxury in which the youngest hostess carried herself. Romance lingered in every corner, bright and cool and warm as Daisy herself. And Daisy herself was a masterpiece of a woman, dancing through the emotions of her suitors with a wink and a glass of champagne, and she lived with a vibrancy that Gatsby could never replicate.
He knew that he did not belong in the elegant Southern home, yet desperately desired Daisy and took what scraps of love he could get. Penniless and without a true name, Gatsby took Daisy one still October night, took her since he had no real right to marry her. He knew that he was despicable, a man whose heart rode out any conscience
that lay under his many personalities. Yet, he could not stop loving Daisy Fay, her shining black hair, her luxurious lips, the bright spark she brought to every room.
On the day they parted, Daisy wore a spring gown in spite of the icicles that dripped down the side of her roof, and when she kissed Gatsby the last time, her lips were soft and smelled of hyacinths and warm, faraway days.
Gatsby was an incredible captain in the war, and guided his troops well. When the war ended, he immediately rushed back to the South, only to be blocked by an unwanted scholarship to Oxford. He spent the next five months pining for Daisy, writing letters every second he got, but he knew that just like the Southern wind, Daisy was drifting away.
Her responses became less and less frequent, and Daisy Fay moved with the ebb and flow of Southern life, attending parties again, flirting with fifty men at a time, lighting up hearts and hiding the logician that underlaid that sickly sweet smile. She cried when she received any letter from Gatsby, her tears pleading for a decision, because Daisy needed to know whether it be love, money, practicality–what her life would turn out to be, immediately.
Tom Buchanan arrived in the spring, and he was the perfect distraction. Solid and a golden player, he was in every way what Daisy needed to fulfill her desires. However, her heart continued to long for Gatsby, despite these long five years of distance.
I found myself staring at the clock, whose hands spun in endless circles, never reaching an end. Gatsby began to speak again, but the phone rang, cutting off any words he had to say.
“I must tend to business,” he said sullenly, “I appreciate the company, old sport.”
Another ring of the phone signaled the end of our conversation, and Gatsby, still disheveled, dismissed me with a quick smile.
As I rested my head against the frigid glass, the
Valley of Ashes rose furiously on the horizon, train whistles howling and layers of sweat disguising the sane mind. The train rammed to a stop at a crossroads, and my seat stuck to my skin, swallowing me whole.
Dr. T. J. Eckleberg was barely visible through the plumes of smoke and morning exhaust, his eyes glaring down at Wilson’s garage. Two figures stood beneath the sign, one I recognized as Wilson himself, the other being Michaelis. Wilson was entrapped in a prison of hands, and he struggled to break free, curses flying out of his hinged jaw, gnawing and chewing and spitting out the taste of bitter freedoms into the sooty air.
Wilson abruptly slumped against Michaelis, who held the grimy face in his hands as if it was a diamond, and they slowly tramped back to the garage. A dog collar that had been clutched in Wilson’s hand broke free, dissolving into its own grave. Wilson muttered something to the heavens above, but he gagged on smoke before finishing his last word.
As the two men neared the garage, Wilson pointed at Eckleberg half-heartedly, and the doors brushed away his insignificant self as Dr. T. J. Eckleberg continues his morning peruse of the world, serving as a sun and a shield to the valley of all things lost and forgotten.
The day heaved along as money dissolved in the stoic buildings, molding itself to form shallow lights flickering above the solemn city. The clock began to tilt, its hands weighed down by impending despair, and finally collapsed on its side. The day was finally done.
The East Egg night was buzzing with ferocity as I stepped onto my lawn. The once neat bushes and swamps from Daisy’s visit had grown over themselves, swarming their dark green leaves to cover the beaten gravel path. I hesitated, and turned back to face Gatsby’s castle, which rose above the pink-red clouds. Its gleaming staircases and violent wealth was abandoned by its owner, who stood on the edge of a crusted dock.
Gatsby’s black suit gleamed underneath the vermillion sky, and his arms were crossed across his chest. His gaze led to the other side of the bay, where a lone green light flickered out into darkness.
With it, the dream that allowed a heart to beat, the dream that carried the sun into the sky and contorted it into the moon as the days lingered by, the dream that held the heavens up with a single scattering, glorious laugh, would never be dreamt again. Gatsby’s expression was contorted in a subtle, sickly pain as his eyes scavenged the heavens for what no longer existed. A man without his name is a man without anything, and he fell back onto the ground, his hands supporting the weak foundation of James Gatz that remained.
I already knew the answer when he whispered the monstrous truth, his hands trembling into the cool night air, “Daisy left.”
If he had cast a spell, silvery tears dripped down the magician’s face, years of pain and broken pictures and a treasure that was not meant to be found, falling to the ground to vanish forever. I wanted to comfort him, but invisible forces held me at a chokehold as I gently touched his shoulder with my hand.
He clung to me like I was a liferaft, only he was a man who had drowned years ago, his blood forming pools and pools of golden ichor as he choked on the dead dream.
Kafka on the Shore
Acrylic Painting | Sofia Sinnett ’26
Hitting the Delta Waves
Acrylic Painting | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Writers’ Statements
Crow Villanueva ’25, Sin Vergüenza
Sin Vergüenza is a Spanish phrase that translates as “shamelessly”. Usually you will it hear it muttered judgementally under one’s breath. In this poem, I use the term as a representation of my pride.
In the wake of this most recent election, I and many others have struggled with existential fears for our safety. In this loosely acrostic piece, I wish to uplift my queer (pun intended) perspective on the political situation and to provide a few words of encouragement. While it is certainly easier to say than to do, I hope to continue to live, in these next four years and beyond as I always have: without shame, with pride.
KG Pan ’25, You Are
This piece was inspired by Rankine’s Citizen, but it is very much my own voice and experiences. I took creative liberties with some of the vignettes, but they are all true. Every single event is something that I have been present for or experienced firsthand. I hope readers gain some understanding and empathy for what it’s like to be gender-nonconforming in this day and age.
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26, Multitude
You are meant to be here.
Mia Kane ’28, Three Little Birds
Just a day where something catches your eye and you decide to go after it.
Neal Sehgal ’27, Lily Riam
Part of a collection with My Love. This poem is meant to be about a man who is deeply in love with a woman, but she unfortunately does not like him back due to his lack of money. It’s meant to encapsulate the feelings of love that one may have, and how blind love can make a person, even when the signs are right in front of you. This poem takes place in the same story with another poem, and both are about two different guys who have a crush on the
same girl, but one has money and no character, while the other (guy in my poem) has character but no money.
Neal Sehgal ’27, If Not for You
This poem is dedicated to my parents, as I feel like sometimes I don’t say “I love you” enough to them, especially considering all they have done for me. They are the reason I am still happy, enjoying what I have been given, because they make every moment better for me :).
Miranda Yap ’26, mindsick
This piece is an attempt to decode the nauseating (and often terrifying) rush of sharing the deepest, ugliest parts of yourself with someone you love in a search for healing and acceptance. It’s unintuitive to admit your flaws to someone you wish would see only the best parts of yourself. Yet, by gifting them your tears, they can truly love all of you, and you step closer to wholeness.
Kilia
Lawrence Gallagher ’26, overturned this poem was written at a point of immense turmoil in my life. i write poetry for myself, not necessarily for people to see, however this warranted sharing because of the amount of interpretation it allows
Ash Bu ’25, June 25th, 1950
June 25th, 1950. North Korean troops cross the 38th parallel. A three year conflict ensues. When the fighting stops, the border is drawn in the same place where it started. On one side, slow healing and democracy. On the other, an authoritarian communist cult.
Nikhil Wong ’27, Deviled Eggs
I wrote this piece in the Summer of ’24, after a brief, seemingly mundane experience with deviled eggs. The more I thought about it, the more absurd the circumstances seemed to become, especially in relation to class. This piece of creative nonfiction served as an interrogation of the privileged life that I had grown accustomed to, and a reflection on my relationship to the pleasantries afforded to me.
Neal Sehgal ’27, Never Enough
This poem is my way of handling, and really thinking about the feelings that I sometimes experience in the only way I know, writing :). It’s for people to know that there are others who also feel like everything they do and don’t do is nothing in comparison to others. Al that matters is looking forward, and continuing to live life to the fullest!
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26, A Ghost’s Cold Finger
This piece is an excerpt from my synthesis project for the American Literature: Jazz Age class, reimagining Chapter 8 of The Great Gatsby. I was captivated by Fitzgerald’s vivid descriptions and intricate metaphors while reading the novel, and I sought to incorporate this style into my own writing. For the plot, I chose to emphasize the theme of the American Dream and its often unattainable nature, diverging from the original by having Gatsby lose the dream rather than clinging to it until the end.
Artists’ Statements
Gisella Lau Jong ’26, Hamster Troubles
An ode to the best subject and best study buddy ever (Jamal)! Special, GINORMOUS thanks to my three favorite chemists for always letting me pester you with questions! I ♥ chemistry!
Steven Yang ’27, Paradise City
I stumbled across this MVRDV project; a building (or more like an artwork) in Paradise City, during my six-hour layover in Seoul. I do not usually take photos, but I could not stop admiring the beauty of the building, and it resulted in what I thought was a picture worth sharing.
KG Pan ’25, Wings
This pair of wings is actually for a larger sculpture made of ceramics, but they’re a finished piece on their own. It has five layers in total, the three you can see in the photo, as well as two others on the back side. I kept it as anatomically correct as possible, with the coverts proportional to the primaries and secondaries.
Gisella Lau Jong ’26, Fish Fiesta!
This is a series of the various fishbowl prints I made over the summer at HOMA! Despite the simplicity of its appearance, screenprinting is probably more difficult than most mediums, as it combines stencil creation with real life layers and ink. Between each print, the screen must be flooded to not clog the screen while simultaneously placing fresh prints on the drying rack and mixing new ink colors. Additionally, each print must be registered just right or else the image won’t align. It’s quite the process for creating just some fishies having fun!
Ziyu Dong ’25, A Million Pages, A Spark
This was originally a three-day self-portrait art project for school, and I really loved the concept. So, I redrew it on a much bigger paper with triple the effort and care so it could be a presentable piece.
The colors of imagination can’t escape me as I utilize the knowledge that I have and the knowledge that I don’t know anything. The thought of the things yet to be learned lights a spark of fire a flash of inspiration. As pages of writing and sketches spill out, the shadows from the fire of creativity are multicolored and magical.
Ziyu Dong ’25, Unrivaled Glee
He spent the morning climbing up the ribs of a primordial sea beast, then leaping off, plunging head first into the fresh salty water below. I live for that moment of Unrivaled Glee, the radiance of pure happiness after hard work.
Kekoa Ratchaworapong ’28, Serene Blue
I am always on the lookout for good photo opportunities. While meandering near Kualoa Ranch I stumbled upon a log resting beside the sea so I captured it. I took many photos that day but this one looked like it had potential. I found the inverted depth of field intriguing so I made some adjustments on Lightroom and ended up with this photo.
Nessa Michaud ’25, Endless Story
When I was making this piece I decided to draw from the same mindset I am in when I doodle—pen to paper with no hesitation. This drawing encapsulates my creative process where meaning emerges after shapes come to life. When I look at the final entity, I can see the influence of coloring books from long ago and tattoo design. Stories reveal themselves naturally as I let my subconscious materialize on paper. This piece holds detail and a complexity that results in varied interpretation. To feature my understanding of it, the title reads “Endless Story.” How does this work make you feel?
Nessa Michaud ’25, The Victor
This photo depicts one of the many statues stationed in the Versailles Gardens. I was able to go a few summers ago and found that my phone lens was blurry. While it ruined most of the photos I took on that trip, when I attempted to capture the bright white of the marble contrasted by dark
green forestry, I found the figures in the garden more heavenly when blurred. This photo seems to capture the motion of the sculpted despite its stationary nature. This piece is titled “The Victor” to instill a story within the stone.
Brycen Lew ’26, Future Generation
I had the opportunity to attend Seafair in Seattle, Washington. My uncle had an extra ticket and invited me to fly out and enjoy Seattle with my cousin. Towards the beginning of the event, sort of close to the entrance, Boston Dynamics was showcasing its famous robot dog. I’ve seen videos of it but never actually seen it in person. And then this kid just comes up to it and wants to play with it. I just see the perfect photo of one future generation interacting with another. Robots and the younger generation will develop side by side.
Tiffany Katsuda ’26, Surfing Subways
I wanted to play around with foreshortening and replicating photos taken with wide angle lenses.
Gisella Lau Jong ’26, Team Smash Them On The Bottom Through its stench and questionable ceilings, there’s no place I’d rather be than in Castle Basement with the Air Rifle Team. This drawing is somewhat of a collage of all our most memorable moments to date! Infinite thanks to Taga and Shannon for taking a chance on me and being part of my high school journey since freshman year, as well as for allowing me to design our team merchandise. To the team: love you guys!
B. Fox ’27, Garland of the Deep
I designed this octopus tattoo for a family member with a focus on blending the unexpected with the natural world. I wanted to visualize the octopus as something more than just a sea creature, it’s a kind of quiet cultivator, using its eight arms to carefully arrange flowers like daisies and cosmos. The tentacles hold the blooms with a surprising elegance, their suckers acting as small supports for the flowers, suspended in space. This design is a play on the idea of nature’s odd beauty, where strength and delicacy coexist in
an unlikely balance. It’s a reflection of how the most unusual combinations can create something uniquely compelling.
Olesya Noerper ’28, Touch
I always find it incredible how different every person can be, and yet how they aren’t as different as they seem when they allow themselves to connect to others. This photo, taken during my days at Niu Valley Middle School, highlights the variety in hand markings, accessories, and nails. And still, at the core, they are all hands.
Tiffany Katsuda ’26, Crowded
Over the summer I went to the theaters with my mom, and from the parking lot to the theater door I couldn’t breath. People were smoking next to their cars, in front of doorways, in front of stairs, and it made me angry. I have asthma and I was upset that I couldn’t walk to a mall without coughing or holding my breath. I don’t know those people, and I don’t hate them for their choices, but each of them just made life harder for me. This piece is about that.
Sophia Chen ’27, Nature’s Unwanted Ornament
This ink drawing of a plastic bag stuck within a tree branch conveys the issue of littering and plastic pollution that our community faces. The title ‘Nature’s Unwanted Ornament’ illustrates how plastic does not belong in nature and serves no purpose, just like an ornament. Specifically, our community should be mindful of our contributions to nature’s plastic plight and resolve the harm we create to our environment. With the many trash cans around us, our community should maintain the responsibility of simply throwing away waste, picking up after ourselves, and practicing sustainability. Plastic does not belong in trees, waste does not belong in nature, and our community should keep it that way.
Steven Yang ’27, The Atomic Bomb Dome and Hiroshima
Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall
My drawings feature the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Dome, which was originally known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall, both before and after the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. The dome is “the only structure left
standing in the area where the first atomic bomb exploded on 6 August 1945” according to UNESCO. Through this artwork, I hope to remind the viewers of the devastation of atomic weapons and emphasize the importance of peace.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, Chiaroscuro Dream
When taking this photo for B&W Film, I wanted to emphasize the patterns/shadow that glass was able to make when a focused beam of light was shone onto it. This being the culmination of all my work.
Jooyung Kang ’28, Kazuhira Miller
I really like metal gear and specifically Kazuhira Miller and I just wanted to submit some of my fanart. It’s pretty simple.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, A Camera’s Vision
For this photo, I realized that a camera’s lens kind of reflects and splits up light into all these different shades, tints, and hues. So for this, I wanted to emphasize that and show a different perspective on how a camera would see the world, through this color.
KG Pan ’25, Creator
At first glance, this piece depicts a small, faceless figure creating something with care. It captures a moment of creativity—a “maker” in the act of creation. On a more personal level, this piece is a self-portrait, reflecting my action of creating something from nothing. Alternatively, it’s a representation of God, the original maker. As I’ve navigated my faith, I’ve had to reconcile my beliefs with the world around, and this piece is a response to that exploration.
Jooyung Kang ’28, blue
I wanted to draw something that portrayed how I feel and I felt like a fitting color was blue. Neon blue is a favorite color of mine to use and with the bright red, I added some contrast. I tried to make myself calm yet a bit tired and sad to portray a feeling of loneliness yet peacefulness at the same time.
Tiffany Katsuda ’26, Sunset Models
These are characters inspired off of Japanese yokai, and they’re all dressed in different Japanese street fashions! Each of the pieces were made separately but with similar styles, and they just happened to blend really well together in a way that showcased all of them really well!
Gisella Lau Jong ’26, Hitting the Delta Waves Honk shoo mimimi...
Flag Editors-in-Chief
Writing & Management,
Art & Administration
Layout Editor
Twine
Junior Editors
Ash Bu ’25
Crow Villanueva ’25
KG Pan ’25
Caleb Lee ’25
Isabella Liu ’26
Jaye Kanaprach ’26
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26
Miranda Yap ’26
Glue Advisor
Stephen Noerper
Ka Wai Ola seeks to showcase original visual and literary artwork from the Punahou community that displays knowledge of craft and impactful artistic intent. KWO celebrates the artistic gifts and talents of Punahou’s students, offering an authentic space for storytelling, expression, learning, and sharing beyond the classroom.
Would you like to see your art or writing published in the upcoming issue? Check out our website at kawaiola.punahou.edu for information on submitting.
