Ka Wai Ola, Spring 2023

KA WAI OLA

Volume 77 Spring 2023

Editors’ Note

Ka Wai Ola is more than just a crisp little magazine distributed on the Dillingham folding tables. It’s an arrangement of talented artists and writers, putting their work out there for what may be the first time. It’s an assembly of involved students, discussing that work and learning its meaning together. And it’s also a team of editors, who work tirelessly to oversee these creative talents and thought-provoking discussions, and spin them into the issue you’re reading now. I have experienced Ka Wai Ola in all three of these stages, and each one has been meaningful. As an artist, I put my faith in the magazine’s process. As a member, I became a part of that process. As a leader, I used my experience to discuss and look for ways to improve the process. I hope Ka Wai Ola will endure, not just in the “survive-more-semesters” sense, but also continue to be a welcoming, meaningful process of artistic appreciation. I have great faith that the staffers and editors will ensure this.

On the other hand, not enough doctor Phil M&Ms. 6/10.

-Ian

It is times like these that I, ironically, find myself at a loss for words, so let me borrow upon the ones who have come before me.

James Baldwin once said that it is the lot of an American writer “to be a part of a people who have ears to hear and hear not, who have eyes to see and see not.”

And yet, I am inspired by the fact that we remain: still searching for that connection, that understanding. This issue of Ka Wai Ola is certainly a testament to that, and is the sort of reassurance one needs in the face of everything that has changed since KWO still met on the Bridge in Pauahi.

Art is what remains of us, what holds us to the world. Or, to borrow some more words: “They say a song can be a bridge, Ma. But I say it’s also the ground we stand on. And maybe we sing to keep ourselves from falling. Maybe we sing to keep ourselves.”

Keep singing.

- Nicole

Table of Contents

Long Drives

The Colors in Monochrome

Inferno Night

Floccinaucinihilipilification

the uber experience

To My Beloved

(Library Books)

Small Things Left Unsaid

Go Home, Princess.

Golden Hour

Words I’ll Never Say Home

Villanelle Time, or the Absence of It

Beyond Our Reach

Whalefall: Note to Self

9/28/22

Kalamata

This Time You Must Stay Dead

The Goodbye You Wanted

Table of Contents

Escape Untitled

In fact, they are both my first language

Snakebite

She Has Spilled

The Fox Bride

Spark

Ocean’s Bell

the skyline falls as i try to make sense of it all

Your Love Trees, and Life

Bento!

“Nothing to See Here, Folks”

In the Wings

Cooper’s Hawk

It Kinda Looks Like a Bird

Table of Contents

Art

The (Nuclear) Winter Solstice

Women, Life, Freedom

Fractured

It’s a Lifestyle

Veiled

1 to 3

When Will I Go Back?

Hasty Memories

Judgement Day

Cups With a Twist

My Internal Battle

Escape

Flowers, Fruits, and Such

‘Elepaio

i have the moon Window

Takoyaki

Window to the Soul

Serenely Ephemeral

“And It Doesn’t Get Easier, Kid” Sunrays

Acrylic Painting | Ava Pakravan ’24

In fact, they are both my first language

Long Drives

Kylie-Ann Smith ’23

My eardrums will surely bleed if they endure anymore of this.

“I want my mama!” He’s been repeating the same sentence ever since I pressed on the gas pedal. Each time it’s gone up in volume. I look into the rearview mirror and his face gradually ripens to a tomato red as the frustration boils over and his eyes fill to the brim with tears.

“I want my mama!” Anguish is all I hear from him as he sobs. The tears spill over and race down his face much like the raindrops on the windows of the car.

I didn’t have enough coffee or sleep to deal with this. It was supposed to be a relaxing day with him while my parents took a day to be together with their friends. So I took him out; took him to the beach where we built sandcastles fit for kings and heard the POP POP of the Portuguese man-of-war when he whacked them with a stick. I took him to the mall where he ran around on the playground and gorged on his Hot Dog on a Stick lunch, and then feasted on ice cream from Dairy Queen. And of course I bought him the toy car he whined for.

So why is he screaming his lungs out when we’re finally on our way home? His mind is no longer occupied in the boring bluegreen Ford C-Max. The car is littered with crumbs from yesterday, has clothes strewn around the backseat, and has donation items that haven’t moved for weeks in the trunk. The car hums and smells stale and wet at the same time, probably because of our damp, sand-filled beach things on the passenger seat. His mind has moved away from fun and instead has realized that Mom is not with us.

Instead of yelling at him, I attempt to reason with him. “There’s nothing I can do about that, Buddy. Do you remember where Mama told you she was going this morning?” Normally asking him questions helps him to process and understand the situation, but right now it only makes his screaming go up an octave and reverberate in this small car. It doesn’t help that the overall noise is increased by pelting rain and the squeak of the wipers in their futile attempts to clear the windshield.

I try to tune him out and bring peace and quiet in my mind. I focus on my hands on the steering wheel and the light resistance of the gas pedal as we accelerate up the mountain. After we get through the tunnel at the top of the mountain, there’s only a short way down and then we’ll be home. I only have to endure ten more minutes of ear-splitting screaming. Ten more minutes and we’ll be at home where I can lay him down to take a nap and I can take one myself.

The coast down the mountain drags on. The screaming slowly dwindles to a light sniffle and sharp intakes of breath.

Until we’re finally turning into our driveway.

She Has Spilled

The Colors in Monochrome

Flora Elham ’25

Morning amber hue

Across a mind of empty blue

Arrives when I’m with you

Just when I’m with you.

Listless walls of empty dreams

Entomb my rows of broken seams

I lay and wonder more, Am I worth fighting for?

But the sarcophagus shatters

No match for your intricate patterns

Paint a landscape with your charm

Where I’m free of any harm

I hide my canvas of dark tendrils

My desolate blues impersonate the sky

Your name, in my head, written with beautiful quills

Your name, in my head, that tells me not to cry

I reach for you, but I fear the distance

I reach for me, but I’m not there

I scream my hurt, and for an instance

My wildfires I can bear

But I lose my grip

I fall and trip

And their empty eyes begin to stare

At the mouse that scampers through its maze

The maze that saves it from despair

The maze that only fuels its craze

Tell me, why am I always here?

Why is it that when you come near The mouse climbs over the maze’s walls

And I breathe, and talk, and walk, not crawl?

You teach me, you’ve taught me, you’ll mentor me more You’ve given me chances to stand on the shore

So please, don’t loosen your hold on my hand Even when all I can be is bland

Please give me chances that I don’t deserve Please let me stand over here and observe The skies, the stars, the earth, the moon

Please let me watch them all with you

Allow me to send you my branch and my dove And cover our worlds in your peace and my love.

Yours,

The Fox Bride

Marker | Atropa Choi ’24

Krislyn Ishibashi ’26

The world was silent, but not for long.

Born from wind and earth, the tiniest red light slowly rose from the grass. The earth abandoned it, leaving it on its own to survive. But the wind fed it, pouring hatred, self-denial, and nightmares down its tiny throat. “Feel the pain, my child,” the wind rasped. “Feel the curse of pain, lost to time.” With each word, the light grew. Once it became flames, it washed over its mother, creating an identity that it was its own.

Excitement filled it. The flames had begun the world’s destruction. “I am the most powerful being alive! The world bows before my greatness!” the small fire bellowed to the sky. It roared in triumph, and roared until the flames grew higher than mountains. It swallowed trees, flowers, and animals alike, feeding on the fear that was embedded into life’s skin.

But the journey of the inferno was not over. As it moved through the woods, its booming laughter shook all who were nearby with terror. When the red light reached the end of the now barren landscape, it came to a blue pristine surface.

Its eyes were white, flickering with curiosity as it slowly drew closer. “What is this? What could possibly be this blue in a world of red light?” the fire asked itself. A pebble softly dropped into the clear surface from the wind’s gentle breath. The surface rippled, creating shimmering lines that went on forever. As the inferno paused destruction, the surface suddenly gasped, swelling the lines into a big wave. It fell over onto itself, exhaling deeply as the surface sparkled with new light. “Who are you?” the surface asked the fire. “I’m soon to be the only thing this world sees,” the fire said. “Who are you?” “I’m soon to be the only thing this world sees,” the ocean replied.

The flames ignored the game the sea was playing, and continued to destroy. The waves stopped. “How dare you insult the land, the air, and myself, the sea. Your destruction will kill everything you cherish,” it whispered in horror. “But there is nothing I cherish except myself. The world can be consumed by my power!” the fire said calmly. The ocean roared, shuddering again, but this time, the waves crashed onto the remaining rocks, specks of blue light flying everywhere.

When the blue light touched the flames’ skin, it stung more than anything the flames had ever felt before. It felt like the pain when the flames were a child, except that the pain was meant to destroy, not to bring personal gain. “This isn’t over,” the fire said while retreating from the ocean. “Oh no, it isn’t,” said the ocean mischievously. As the dangerous romance between the blue and red light began, and water and fire destroyed the land, the wind howled in protest. “My child has turned from an innocent being to a raging tyrant. It has become the only nightmare to the living world,” it boomed. The wind desperately cried to the heavens above. “To stop the lonely crying of the earth, I wish upon my child Death, and Death alone, so the world can be at peace once again.” The heavens answered, and in the form of blue lights, a powerful curse fell down from the gray skies.

It was like getting attacked by a hundred bullet ants, swarming over the fire until there was nothing left under the shell of water. The flames shrieked with terror, but there was no escape from the wind’s curse. As the inferno suddenly became small flames, and the flames sank down into the tiniest red light, the sea cried for its friend, stirring up the waves in rage. A flood of water crashed into the trees, but the rule of the world remained: the ocean could never, ever reach the sky. After a long time, the tiniest flickering light, after a million silvery droplets, sizzled and was gone from the world. The ocean crashed and boomed, but there was nothing to be done.

The world was silent once again.

Night

Krislyn Ishibashi ’26

At night the world grows quiet

Mysterious figures wave from the shadows

Silence drips from the edge of fingertips

Pain melts into darkness and flickering stars

At night the world is clear

Things that were hidden are not anymore

Haunting cries fill the air

Booming laughter shakes the ground

As the ghosts of the past wander

At night the world trembles in fear

Voices trapped in scattered dreams

Hope lingers in a gloomy corner

And is snatched away by terrors unknown

At night the world’s knowledge grows

The banes of the night send whispered warnings

About the world of sparkling sunlight

That is soon to arrive with the piercing sun

At day the world is crowded with hope

Things that were obscured stay hidden

Souls are ripped apart, cruel, tangy laughter fills the air

With the day’s bloody teeth bared in a grin

At night the world grows quiet

Relief is exhaled from every corner

As the sun goes down over the horizon

Floccinaucinihilipilification

Leah McEvoy ’23

I’ve been told I can talk my way out of anything I don’t know if that’s true

But I know words have always been my armor

If I call out my flaws, then others won’t Doing so would be redundant Then they can’t hurt me

If I speak with enough conviction, I can make them believe Even if I don’t myself

Because if they believe then I believe

If I coat my words in honey, I can stop my guilt

At the crime of self-defense

For their anger may be appeased

Words can be beautiful

But sometimes the armor turns to ammunition

Its integrity compromised with each atom hitting the barrel

I fire out statements and ideas and details of my life like I’ll die if I don’t

Like I must shoot or be shot

Any pacifism abandoned

Every now and then a bullet will land true

I’ll say something truly meaningful to someone who can make something of it

Those days, my accuracy is lethal

Sometimes I fire empty rounds

Loud and explosive, but pointless and safe to tune out

An excellent shot, perhaps, but ultimately white noise

I’ve convinced them I’m a paper tiger

All my rounds are empty, all my words insufferable

And when that one verbal bullet flies, it finds its mark

And I bleed out knowing my armor has failed me

the uber experience

Ari Fukumoto ’23

gas station sign with no prices a name that ends in two y’s abrupt silence, shaking in the car trying to catch the green light or trying to speed from the red light?

legs outstretched, now tight in the seat eyes getting tired, open 10 days a week exhausted, you want to tell the uber driver “i need to get out of the car, i feel sick, please?” but he is looking out the road into the moonlit street

he thinks aloud, “what is the self, if we only experience with our senses?”

he does not hear you say, “i’m sorry, pull over the car, please”

he drives over potholes, speeds into turns he drives like he wants to walk alone. you look out the glass, to ease your clenched stomach, but all you see is condensation he did not turn the heat on.

“how can you see? the glass is all tinted.”

“would i still be myself, say, if the world, an inch, shifted?”

“i’m getting worried” you want to get out.

“why should i ask? the world doesn’t need me?”

"please listen, i think i'm gonna start puking!" you want to start puking.

"i am only worth what i can contribute, so then why am i here?"

your eyes begin to water as you try to hold it in.

"to give service to the richer, to demean my own human?"

don't puke don't puke don't puke.

"no. that is not my self."

heeuh, hoo. heeuh, hoo.

"i must mean something bigger."

"your stop is here."

eyes wide, your body topples onto the cold, hard floor.

your eyes find the open window.

the uber driver gives you a wink. "i'll see you again at ten, then?"

Trees, and Life

Pen and Charcoal | Serene Kim ’24

To My Beloved (Library Books)

Crow Villanueva ’25

You smell like petrichor and paper, Deep and musky, Floral and rich.

Sometimes mixed with notes of antiquity. The oils and sauces stained on your skin, A grain of those who once held you. Reaching out from within.

I like to look at the records

Of those who embraced you before Dates marked in stamp, pen, and pencil. Some from eons ago.

On occasion I am the first to clasp you The first in your long list of names In such times, I hope that after me Someone will help you see the light of day again.

A few days of the year when I hold you, I see the scars of your past. The torn flesh, The tattered remains. How I wish I could ask who hurt you. Yet it would be in vain.

For even if you could hear me, You only ever sing one tune.

One, my dear, I will never grow tired of.

Bento! Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

Nothing to See Here, Folks

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

In the Wings

Digital Photography | Jovie Okamoto ’25

Cooper’s Hawk

Digital Photography | Colin Morita ’23

Small Things Left Unsaid

KG Pan’25

I tap you on the shoulder and you turn to face me.

I read your poem I say.

I liked it a lot I say.

You speak my language

I do not say.

I understand you. I feel understood

Rattles in my brain but never makes it past my throat.

Thanks

You say.

It is the end of our conversation.

Stems

Clay | Mika Hiroi ’24

It Kinda Looks Like a Bird

Glass | Kyler Saoit ’23

Go Home, Princess.

Iris Xu ’24

Perpetually perched on your pedestal of perspiration, You refuse to find peace.

Your pursuit of passion has always been fruitless. What falsehoods are you deceiving yourself with now? The party has been over for a while. Go home, princess.

Daydreams Clay | Mika Hiroi ’24

Golden Hour

Miranda Yap ’26

they ask me what i want to be when i grow up; the answer is this immortalized in a snapshot: young, blissful, and free who knows what i was thinking, smirking to myself and basking in the light the summer sun shines as it sets, bathing us in a golden glow careful, your heart might escape if you look for too long

they ask me what i want to be when i grow up; i respond with a grin and look away, smiling at my own secret joke i believe that i have all the time in the world even though the sun hovers over the horizon, and evening air kisses the breeze

i felt older than fifteen, dolled up in sunglasses and a vintage bag walking the newbury street as if the city were mine reveling in the glory of a girls’ evening out yet my white sneakers have become more of a gray and the soft fabric of my shirt is faded and worn

i feel so adult with a pile of artfully dressed arugula half eaten on the table

so far from a childhood where i abstained from salad of any sort nutty parmesan, tangy mozzarella, savory prosciutto, sugary cannoli

Sicily returns home on my tongue

a moment plucked from the rapids of time

“wait, do that pose again, you looked cute” freeing her phone from the confines of her pocket, my sister holds the power to stop time in her hands

a simple snapshot, so you don’t forget an instant, frozen in a snowglobe so that you might remember how adolescence was when life was more perfect than ever seemed possible

the colors are as vibrant as the memory the pea-green hedges drip with flowers of brilliant magenta my skin glows peach contrasting the umber cascade across my back

i’m sorry that i ate the last slice of pizza, the flavors were too perfect to give up

laughing and bonding as the summer sun sets vividly soaking in the last of it all in an evening so perfect that it tumbled from an alternate universe and into the cloth napkin on my lap

they ask me what I want to be when i grow up and i say, “golden hour”

The (Nuclear) Winter Solstice

Digital Art | Flora Elham ’25

Words I’ll Never Say Anonymous

I never knew what I wanted in life; That much was clear that day. Then I looked into your eyes, Saw how they’d light up with sights of summers that’d never actualize, And for the first time, I saw a future.

I was scared that someday I’d take you for granted–That I’d somehow find your image slanted. I found the thought egregiously absurd While my mind blurred beyond reason or rhyme, And with time, I realized I’m loyal to someone I never knew.

“Teach me how to love you, and love me how you can.” These are the words I’ll never say to you, And though I find myself still stuck in your haze, You snapped me out of my daze Because I elected to be rejected After bringing what we had to ruins.

And holding these words you’ll never find, I clutch them close amidst spring-September skies, And to no one’s surprise, days blend together as they rise For each one spent away from you is a lesson learned. My admiration for you gets lost in our silent stares, But who cares, right?

But one day, if life throws me into your arms again, I’d take your hand in mine, maybe even redefine our future when I know I’d cherish each moment with you like no other Since, for you, I’d break the sky asunder And face any blunder life throws our way.

I’d take each early winter morning With a side of staying in bed without warning, Relishing in the fact we’re not like how we were before, But what’s more, even if you’ll never again be mine, To me, you’ll always be the brightest star to shine.

But through each And every day, Again and again, I'd choose to stay.

Women, Life, Freedom

Mixed Media | Ava Pakravan ’24

Fractured Glass | Kyler Saoit ’23

1 to 3

Acrylic Painting | Ava Pakravan ’24

Home

Kyle Correa ’24

The sweltering sun would go around and around

As my friends dashed to and fro on the Kaimukī playground, And from the days when I’d lay in the arid Ewa Plains, To my time whirling through dewy Mānoa rains, I stand amidst a paradise picturesque in its ways.

Between the mundane matters of the daily grind, I still find the aerial views and oceanic blues of Kāne‘ohe Breathtaking beyond compare, coupled with Stretches of stars, forming arcs in the open Hale‘iwa air While that soft breeze breaks through all my cares.

Each late-night drive from Waipahu or Salt Lake, With music in my mind, never fails to take My attention as the city lights blur between The little hints of nature I can glean As East-West dusks fade with dawn

When Will I Go Back?

Acrylic on Canvas | Skyler Miranda ’23

Nicole Dao ’23

A lifetime is spent growing inside of a mother. Come, here is the world, with a cry and two fists; you’ll remember how much it hurt to leave her.

Step on her shoes, stand in front of a mirror; you do not yet realize her hand on your wrist, you’ll spend a life growing into a mother.

You will grow up and the pain in your liver will turn your bones hollow. When the world starts to list, you’ll remember how much it hurt to leave her.

You resist it, you think—believe—that you’re wiser when you are thirteen, and you tell her like this: “I’ve spent my life growing in spite of you, Mother.”

She says, “You are my inexplicable failure,” and someday you’ll know she’s asking forgiveness; you’ll remember how much it hurt to leave her.

And when the time comes you’ll hold your own daughter in both hands, like a blade, the world there to witness how you’ve spent a whole life only to become your mother. You’ll learn: it will always hurt to leave her.

Hasty Memories

Graphite | Ren Host ’23

Time, or the Absence of It

Caleb Lee ’25

It slows on a cold winter morning or sprints as a sambar in spring it runs like clockwork on the working class and whistles while pulling the strings

its train only boards once a lifetime but passengers clock on and off they slide down past the cars and into reservoirs filled with coal to the top of the trough

its minute’s a minute drop of melody in a song full of grandeur and gain it leaks out of the corners of conscience bubbling up from their crimson champagne and yet—

it melts the steel walls between exes step-by-stepping the wasteland of “why”s it gradually lets down the coffin lid and unlocks doors that are closed in disguise

it slows on a cold winter evening while I lie all alone in the grass floating down with the snow in my pit of sorrow to remind me that this too shall pass.

Judgement Day

Ink | Skyler Miranda ’23

Cups With a Twist

Glass | Kyler Saoit ’23

My Internal Battle

Charcoal | Ava Pakravan ’24

Beyond Our Reach

Michael Lockwood ’23

An atmosphere of black

With a chill like midnight

I’ve reached the dark side of the moon

With simply no way to turn back High on emotion

At the hands of my Atropos

Removed from its perpetual motion

What lies beyond in the great unknown

Behind the one-way door

Are dreams of valiance and splendor

Or who shall sit on the throne

Into the dark and cold I follow

As the moon bursts and spins

I follow the freezing moon

To my own mind’s eclipse

Flowers, Fruits, and Such

and Colored Pencil | Jenna Kazim ’23

Gouache

Whalefall: Note to Self

Nicole Dao ’23

It’s dead bird season with the wind and the rain so I wasn’t surprised when I saw one in the gutter bow legged and faceless

It reminded me of you and I don’t mean to call you lonesome but I was thinking about your dancing and how desperation gives way to creation

I’ve been meaning to tell you why I cried that night and about what I’ve learned of whale falls since then but when I look at you you already know Don’t let it hurt you I’m still right next door

All I ask of you now is that you pin yourself to the bmpshh bmpshh of our dumb heart murmuring away Let’s not mind the skipping please I promise though you don’t feel it yet we are at home in the syncopation

Leah McEvoy ’23

People speak of butterflies as beautiful things

Red and blue and yellow Landing on a flower with undue grace

Alighting in your stomach when your crush walks by

And they are Until they aren’t

Until your eyes begin to dart and your chest constricts and your breathing quickens and your fingers twitch and your hands shake and your nausea builds and those beautiful little butterflies won’t stop fluttering even when the fluttering turns to flailing and the room gets too big and you get too small and your mind sprints faster than your beautiful little wings can beat

Until you’re pinned in place and all thought stops

Almost all thought

Left a husk Stuck with one thing on repeat

A spike through your heart

“Beautiful”

Digital Collage | Ari Fukumoto ’23

Kalamata

Mika Hiroi ’24

Athena bore no child, but her fruit rolls gaily now in my hand, oblong like her bursting brains. It has lost its spritely green, and now glows black as the sheen of its mother’s wartime cry, the sword-edged razor curve of a raven’s beak. I’d like to slice it into rubber car tire kisses, spilling the deep hazel oil from its veins. But to split it would be to pluck the pit of its single unseeing eye, which stares at me now as the Gray Sisters’ did Perseus. Pinching its plump body, I lap like a cat at the brine-candied juices it spills on my skin. I’ve waited long enough, playing Tantalus’ game. Athena’s gift wears a shocked, clock-round face as I send it to death by way of acid.

Takoyaki Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

Window to the Soul

Acrylic Paint | Ava Mackie ’25

This Time You Must Stay Dead

Nicole Dao ’23

I am trying to forgive this fallow land, the way his body arcs across my eyelids like a lightning bolt.

I know what rain looks like. Not even the broody Ameraucana stayed, blue green eggs going cold.

What I desire is yesterday’s garden, where the rhubarb bed was pregnant with him lying in the damp mulchy dearth.

I know what I did.

Above the soil, the flowers lost their petals, abandoning the rustling seed husks.

The sky threatens failure. The sound of it collects then runs in sallow silt-filled rivulets.

Serenely Ephemeral

Digital Photography | Esther Chan ’24

“And It Doesn’t Get Easier, Kid”

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe

’23

The Goodbye You Wanted

Nicole Dao ’23

The setting sun pours itself out behind her head, a halo.

She is looking at you, or maybe through you. You can’t tell; her hazy silhouette is more ghost than girl. “I’m sorry. I was never any good at these things.”

She pivots to look down the hill when you do not answer right away, heels of her high tops spinning over the dry grass and growing things. Probably she is imagining the city chugging along without you. Probably the image comes to her mind easily. Probably not much changes, and the sky falls into a dusky purple, and the city lights stagnate, pressing up against the flatness of the coast.

“It’s just as well,” you say, smile, “we complemented each other like that.”

She makes a breath through her nose, and something tilts in you because you know that puff of air, that exhale—sharp and short—something which always sounded to you like a cross between a scoff and a laugh.

It used to make you nervous, because more often than not you’d mistake it for a laugh, and you’d laugh along before realizing the silence, and then you’d sit for a while and feel like a fool.

“I didn’t want to say it,” she starts. Then don’t, you think, but it comes anyway. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

You look at her, incredulous, but only for the show of it. A part of you knew this was inevitable. “After everything I worked for? You think I don’t want to go?”

She’s silent for a moment. “Everything you worked for or everything you killed yourself over?”

You give her a look.

Her hand waves through the air, in a noncommittal, itdoesn’t-bother-me-except-it-does sort of way. “Figure of speech, you know what I meant. But this—us—this was work too.”

“I know. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her expression is unreadable. “Me neither.”

Then there’s wind, like a sigh, like the earth is tired of the two of you, skirting around what you need to say. Goosebumps, even though the weatherman on Channel 6 said it was too far summer for any sort of spring chill.

“I’ll always be there,” you hear yourself say, “for you.”

She shakes her head, even though she promised she wouldn’t argue, even though she thinks you won’t understand. “No. You’ll be here. Now. We both will be.”

You’re silent for a moment. And then because you do understand—“Okay. Then we’ll be here. We’ll be here, and it’ll be fall, and we’ll keep standing here. Okay?”

She looks at you, squints like she’s going to tell you to stop repeating yourself, and you’re prepared to tell her that you aren’t, not really. But all she says is, “We were always prettiest in fall, weren’t we?”

“Mmhm.”

From a pocket, your phone chirps at you, and it sounds farther away than it really is.

The screen lights up your face. “August brought the car around. You ready?”

“Almost.” Her eyes are closed. You know this without looking at her. She has a way of talking that tells you exactly where she’s lost herself.

Probably the image comes to mind easily. Probably not much changes. Probably nothing at all.

“Hey.” You take her hand. “You’ve got to stop doing that to yourself.” Your tone is scolding, and she opens her eyes to find you looking at her. She smiles and your annoyance fades. Be more careful, you want to tell her. Be less forthcoming with your heart.

You can’t bring yourself to say it. The sun has faded enough that you can see her now, washed in periwinkle and indigo. Her eyes are clear. “We’ll be fine,” she says, definitive, like she’s seen the answer on the backs of her eyelids.

But you’ve been here with her long enough to know she means it as a question. “Yeah,” you say, “we will be.”

Flora Elham ’25, The Colors in Monochrome (16-17)

This poem is somewhat of a testament to all aspects of my life that help me through difficult times. I intentionally change the rhyme scheme throughout the poem to represent the unpredictable nature of my thought processes. I then sign off the poem, as if it were a letter of sorts. The name I sign off with is the Japanese word for mouse, or rat, which is a nod to the verse in my poem that includes the comparison of myself and a mouse in a maze. I do this to further personify the “mouse,” as will as draw more parallels between the animal and myself.

Krislyn Ishibashi ’26, Inferno (19-20)

I wrote this piece in the message that even the smallest can grow into something incredible, and however vast and powerful something may seem, everything has limits.

Krislyn Ishibashi ’26, Night (22)

I wrote this piece because it’s stereotypical that the night is full of tragedy and sorrow, but in reality both day and night are too complex for us to understand. I wrote this piece to convey that not everything is the way it seems.

Crow Villanueva ’25, To My Beloved (Library Books) (31)

Reading is a hobby of mine, and often the books I select come from our school’s library. I wrote this piece with my love for these books, which have guided me through many adventures and allowed me to get lost in literature.

Michael Lockwood ’23, Beyond Our Reach (65)

Taking inspiration from the Nordic lands, I wrote this poem to acknowledge in a way akin to a romanticist, the awe inspiring beauty of nature. Images of Norwegian forests and the midnight northern skies circled my head as I wrote this piece. I hope that this poem can capture even just a hint of that untamed beauty.

Nicole Dao ’23, Whalefall: Note to Self (68)

Heart murmurs are sounds — such as whooshing or swishing — made by rapid, choppy (turbulent) blood flow through the heart.

Nicole Dao ’23, This Time You Must Stay Dead (76)

A broody hen is a hen that wants her eggs to hatch. She will sit on her eggs for days as well as steal the eggs of others regardless of whether or not they are fertilized. At times she may pluck out her breast feathers in order to better warm the eggs, and there is the chance that she will starve herself to death in order to keep sitting on chick-less eggs.

Artists’ Statements

Chloe Liu ’26, She Has Spilled (14-15)

This was captured in the beginning of the year as I was doing my school work. Usually, the sunsets at my house are flushes of blues and oranges, but this time the sunset was painted like this. Though it rained the next day, the beauty of the hues from this sunset was perfectly captured in this photo. This photo expresses the beauty, happiness, and surprises that nature can bring.

Serene Kim ’24, Trees, and Life (30)

The two drawings are tree studies I did for my Nature project. I enjoyed the process of patiently tracing the outlines of the trees and the constantly-changing positions of the leaves—the patterns of the shadows kept shifting as well, and occasionally ants would climb the tree bark. I could not capture all of the “life” that was happening at the moment in my sketchbook, but the process of sketching was a meaningful experience.

Ian Watanabe ’23, Bento! (32)

This was my first piece where I stopped using dark line art entirely. Instead, I arranged colored shapes and gave them lighting, shading, and depth. It pushed me to use many different brushes on the digital art program, to get a variety of textures.

Ian Watanabe ’23, Nothing to See Here, Folks (33)

I started this piece by drawing the three characters: a uniformed officer, a suspicious looking young woman, and a surly child with a baseball bat. I then constructed and fleshed out a story around them using the background, side details, and objects. My stylistic inspiration for the (fictional) setting of the San Pepito Airport comes from the TV show Better Call Saul, as well as the video game Cyberpunk. Observations from real airports are also utilized. As with most of my pieces, the narrative itself can more or less be pieced together by observing the objects and details. As the viewer, I’ll let you decide what these two kids are doing, and just how much trouble they’re in.

Mika Hiroi ’24, Daydreams (43)

I find that in the past years, people have been relying on escapism more than ever. I find that my favorite way to steal away from life is through fantastical fairytales. With this rustic clay piece, I attempt to embody both escapism and the whimsy of fairytales by displaying a daydreaming fairy atop her flower.

Flora Elham ’25, The (Nuclear) Winter Solstice (48)

I wanted to create a piece that juxtaposed my usual art style, in which I would utilize a desaturated, desolate color palette rather than a warm and dynamic one. I’ve decided that the title matched this piece in terms of mood, encapsulating the tone of my drawing. I did not have a strict metaphor representing this artwork, so the meaning behind this piece is up for interpretation.

Skyler Miranda ’23, It’s a Lifestyle (53)

I felt like I was spending too much time on my computer to the point where I felt like my whole existence was sucked into a screen. The eye represents focus and the disconnect from my body is my disregard for my well being as my screen time went up. Whether it be for school or gaming, it’s hard to ignore how much technology takes over my life and many others.

Skyler Miranda ’23, When Will I Go Back? (58)

I painted this as an homage to a dim sum restaurant I used to go to with my Popo (Grandmother). To me, I painted this to represent my memory of my childhood, hence the loose brushstrokes and missing details in the frames. The table I’m sitting at is the one we constantly sat at. The fish was a staple of the restaurant because of how ugly it was. Now, I see this place as somewhere I moved past and grew away from. It’s framed with a polaroid-like border because of that memory aspect. I was inspired by Edward Hopper and the plainness of his paintings to exude loneliness.

Ren Host ’23, Hasty Memories (60)

In honor of my mom, who’s the strongest person that I know. During her ongoing battle with terminal cancer, she still remains bright and lively, which is something I admire.

Skyler Miranda ’23, Judgement Day (62)

The angel wings are represented through the elongated shoulder blades and the whiteness of bones to indicate purity and bareness from sin. The large eye is close to a biblically accurate angel, but I interpreted it to be more of a deity with multiple eyes and all-seeing. It sees over the six realms of existence, the six rings around the eye, being, from most inner to outer, heaven, human, nature, anger, greed, and hell.

Ava Mackie ’25, Window to the Soul (75)

Sometimes the eyes speak louder than the mouth.

Editorial Staff

Editors-in-Chief

Writing & Management

Nicole Dao ’23

Mika Hiroi ’24

Art & Administration

Ian Watanabe ’23

Ava Pakravan ’24

Layout Editor

Submission Editors

Advisors

Staffers

Grace H. Chang ’24

Mika Hiroi ’24

Ava Pakravan ’24

Jill Sprott

Mark Pangilinan

Perry Dye ’25

Pohaku Figueira ’26

Sophia Hurd ’24

Tyf Katsuda ’26

Greg Lippert ’26

Isabella Liu ‘26

Amber Nobriga ’23

Jovie Okamoto ’25

KG Pan ’25

Iris Sim ’23

Cooper Umeda ’26

Crow Villanueva ’25

Ben Watanabe ’26

Irene Zhong ’24

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.