My name is Liza. I have a knack for telling stories that compel audiences to sit up, take notice and even take action. In a world of message fatigue, clogged in-boxes and social media mania, I cannot offer you any quick fixes to make your story fly right. But this much I know: every story is a journey and every journey is a story. I am always looking forward to the next journey. Count on me for story support: firstname.lastname@example.org.
KWO5.2010_FINAL 6 for printHana solves a dialysis dilemma-RS2
Site undergoing reconstruction 08/19/15.
In the meantime, enjoy this clip of artivism,
July 18, 2015
Give My Son a Drum not a Gun,
— Poets & Writers (@poetswritersinc) July 27, 2015
Island views: 19 years of my storytelling filtered through my friends at Hana Hou, Hawaiian Airlines Magazine
Motu Football: Samoans go deep in the NFL
Liza Simon is a storyteller with a word processor—and sometimes, in the case of her recent forays into choreopoetry—(that’s spoken word art illuminated by dance), she is a storyteller with a live audience. She has deep experience in all types of journalism and commercial copywriting, having worked in the field for over 30 years. She has quite literally done it all, serving government agencies, non-profits and news outlets. Working both full-time and freelance, she has provided services to a variety of organizations—from Honolulu’s former NBC affiliate KHON TV2, where she wrote and produced documentaries on hot topics of the day to the Hawaii State Department of Health, where she spearheaded a federally sponsored pandemic awareness campaign-Share Aloha, Not Germs. She is perhaps best known for her vivid features,that appear in Hana Hou Magazine. Her Hana Hou contributions have netted a total of twelve awards from the Society of Professional Journalists. Her long list of accomplishments includes marketing and public outreach campaigns inclusive of traditional and social media. She has an extensive background in bringing journalistic coverage to projects aimed at improving social justice, strengthening indigenous identity, and bolstering the well-being of children through better services in health and education. Samples of her work can be found by going to the links provided above.
Give my son a drum not a gun
So he can make the sound of a million books
Sharper than pop music hooks.
So he will translate the wisdom of the Ages
Into unsung villages and undulating sages
So he will attune red soil, blue moon
Sunrise to the cries of bloodties
Move the line in the simmer of his graceful spine
Warming the lands of matching streams…
So everything he dreams
He will be….. he will be…someday
With a gift for roots medicine growing from his hands
As numerous and luminous
As sighs on timeless sands.
With his slaps and taps and the infinite beats
of a Drum… not a gun
Give my son a drum not a gun
Because what’s a gun but a gone-stale war game?
A fake soldier’s spit-shined shoes split home in shame
A heartless head—dried and dead on delivery
Ghoulish joke of long lost chivalry
K-Mart Bluelight special sale of hate
What’s a gun but the curdled state
Hard like nails, hard like hard time
Hardening humanity into a drought on sanity
Dried skeletal drives to erect more jails
Too hard to bear
My son, his sweetness, wanting to say
Hey’…”nothing happened at school today…
Can I play?”
This son facing a gun?
Hardens my hearing with fear.
Give my son a drum
He will move mountains of fear
Into streams of consciousness
Faster than any speeding bullet
He will be a Superman of boyhood wonder
And if you hear him pop a cap
Loud like thunder
He is triggering the sap of Spring,
The laughter of beasts into a magic ring
He will hold power in his palm
Pour it into a psalm
Carried here from Africa
By grace of the divine—a hollowed out tree—a loving sign
Not just by random chance, I can see
Give my son this drum, not a gun
To make our dance.