The story is that Rachmaninov was depressed for three years from 1898 to 1901. Eventually he sought the help of Dr. Nikoli Dahl who saw Rachmaninov daily using hypnotherapy and psychotherapy. Rachmaninov responded favorably to these treatments. In 1902 he composed his Piano Concerto No, 2. There are, of course, many great and beautiful musical compositions, but Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2, along with Beethoven's 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th symphonies, together with Bach's Brandenburg Concertos and his Toccata and Fugue in G Minor stand at the pinnacle of the world's pyramid of great music. I have written poems since my early 20s. A poem is not a symphony, but it is a work of art. Do I ever feel the way Rachmaninov felt when he heard the deafening applause after No. 2 was performed for the first time? Sometimes.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.

This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.

And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.

a decent night's sleep,
my body to keep,
early light invades the
blinking eyesight, and
an indeterminate sky,
yet offers us an
either/or,
heads or tails,
success or fails,
what will the gods
offer us all humans,
to select, elect for this
anniversary of our
country's formation?

the slow rising sun
over the North Fork
will soon provide its
decision/incision for
our nation tumultuous,
turbulent, course direction

it appears that the silent
dawning will give us yet
another chance, a morning's
golden hour, with that irradiating
light that bathes us with visionary,
equality of light, light of equality,
but
last night's thunderstorms leave
us the detritus of savagery of
thunderous rains that came
with fury, reflecting our confusion
and the danger shoals that appear
with no warning, yet reminds us,
once more,
one more time,
even in troubling days,
of the blessings
of opportunity
that each day,
each unique sunrise
provides us choices,
and
skies have now spoken:
the early warming rays are
reminding hints that new days
are equal opportunities to
make our country beautiful
for spacious skies and
amber waves, of
water and light,
if we choose wisely, rightly...

July 4th
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
2025

When iam alone
I let myself believe
Just for a moment
That he misses me too
That maybe he thinks of me
When the sky turns soft
And the world slows down.

Bt it's not real
It's just me
Doing all the loving
In my thoughts.

Living
if  you call it living

vicariously
through  you

a passenger on  every
trip

where
you always drove

A new generation
or a carry-forward
of the past
what are we?

Have we just
put on new clothes
to be different
but grasped

by what went before?
is civilisation a mere mask?
If we're mere copies
how would our virtues last?

It will only be
a new generation
if the past were cast
to oblivion- in this alone we'll trust

i will always wonder why,
the moon don't look the same
i will always wonder why
i can't cope the pain
            -
why i can't be myself anymore,
i will always wonder why,
the things ended up the way they did
why the dreams shattered with grey skies

why the sun don't seem so bright
why there is no hope for life!

What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly, and I'm in classes!

A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.

My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.

Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”

I’d come out of the en-suite in my fluffy, Versace, terry towel but invariably, before I was even dry,  Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up
(he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.

This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
.
.
Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

You loved every inch -
My scars, marks, and bruises.
I carried a part of you, for a time...
And you held me as I bled out on the bed.
You told me I was beautiful.
You cradled my face, and kissed me when I cried.
Your hands made me feel I was worthy.
When you knelt before me, I was.

Simplicity
A simple smile to light up the face of a stranger.
A simple word that sparks off laughter.
A simple gesture to put someone at ease.
A simple move that brings joy to another.
A simple action with no driving force behind it.
A simple request that doesn't bring anger.
If simplicity could grab us, let us just remain simple.
Then the world will no longer be so complicated.
So let us just strive to be simple.
As simplicity brings us to our knees.

The morning after
we told my mother
she would become
a first-time grandmother,

she sat alone in the garden
relaxing in the early morning sun,
craned her neck up at the huge tree
and spied a feisty pair of magpies

flitting about in a figure 8 — they squawked
out their monastic chants with abandon,
guarded their muddied little nest
tucked away in the groove

of a high branch. She froze,
eyes wide in a bewildered trance
as she suddenly recalled her own
mother so long ago, behind her

braiding my mother's thick hair,
her gentle voice murmuring about
the songs of magpies symbolizing
good news when you need it the most

My mother's smile was tremulous as she sat
in her garden, shrouded by the sweet incense
of memory, palms pressed together to ponder
all the ways we press on towards the light

Me?
Are you asking about me now?
Well.
The well has been emptied.
Completely run dry.

There is nothing more.
Wastelands. Badlands.
That’s all that remains now.

Me? Where will I go now?
Wherever the wind blows me,
My friend.

Wherever the wind blows.

I watch with my son a slasher film and we become unknown at the same time in our revelation that the poor would time travel to the exact place of their exit might they be more creatively poor. I am furious still that attraction in Eden began to matter. My brother hates the human body for what a machine can do. I don’t think my angel knows I’ve died. Don’t think my brother.

I've been lately writing poetry!
Oh? What do I see?
A perfect poetry site waiting for me!
First poem, proud of it!
Oh? Someone in my messages?
This guy seems sweet
And he's hoping I don't get beat!
Pretty songs for me to listen to!
And a drunk man messaging me...?
“You're only making yourself a victim because you're cutting yourself"
Oh? Okay- thanks for the paragraph/drunk rant?

Shining lights on all of my latest poems?
Thank you! You're so sweet!
….oh…talking to me about pedophiles…got it…
Why are there so many sad songs?
WHY DOES THIS MAN HAVE SO ****** MUSIC TASTE AGGGHGDGFGCC

Oh? You wrote a poem about the 764 and absolutely humiliating them?
Great! Good job!
…But uhh… why and how did they make a virus only going after your followers that are minors? Not funny!
Why is this man warning me if they threaten me? Is he trying to make me scared on purpose?
Blaming the Japanese for this virus now, huh?
Oh? Now blaming someone else named Pax to be part of the 764? Crazy

…. going to another website? But you're so fun!
May as well click on the link you sent me so I can join you

Drunk rants with me? That's okay!
Giving me gold so I can freely make poems?
THANK YOU SM
Daily texting
2-10 hour sessions
Why are you drinking everyday?
You're making me concerned for your health
I told you to stop drinking, papa
You promised me you'd stop
All you did was keep on drinking

Commenting on every poem I made
Oh? So suddenly I'm a “nasty *****" when I have done nothing to you? ありがとう!
We have a suicide pact now?
I'm going off the bridge first?
Don't mind if I do

Oh? Another poetry site? Okay…
I really don't like the way this site works, can't we just message each other with email?
Yes? Yay!

People bullying you on the internet? That's not okay!
Why would they accuse you of being a *******?
Letting me join an uncensored group to back you up? Great!
Sending me to a Reddit page to back you up?
Alright!
….oh … they warned me and I didn't do anything….
******* this man is an actual *******…..
gotta go fast like Sonic
pack my bags and leave

Oh? I betrayed you? Crazy
We were just friends
Can you stop spitting my name everywhere?
It's like you're so obsessed with me
Stop trying to be the Eminem to my Mariah Carey
Made a poem about you and you HAD to take it down?
Never thought you'd want to hide your identity THAT hard
Oh? Betting on my suicide now, are we?
Sending me multiple emails, desperate for me to come back to him?
I'm not that ******* naive or gullible
It's crazy if you think that about me
…I did tell you to send those photos of your cut open arms but I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D TAKE IT SERIOUSLY AND DO IT

Being racist?
“Japshit”?
Why are you so obsessed with my Chinese genes?
“I thought I can use Kai because of her Chinise genes because the Chinise was known to be very good spies. ☝️🤓" へー! Didn't know that!
Also, that's not how you spell Chinese, my fellow kind sir
Threatening people to come to America with a Katana and slice us to pieces
So envious, I see
You're just mad because we have a little bit more freedom than your drunk *** does

Oh…. Talking to me about ****
Got it
Thanks
I didn't need to be taught about METART or some **** like that
I'm only 12 years old
You ***** *****

Well…this is the aftermath

When you say something
no one understands,
but someone in the room
quietly nods —
there I am.

When you think
you’re the first
to feel that way,
and the word already sounds
like it was there before you —
there I am.

I am the voice
you did not invent.
You only
borrowed it.

I am the song
that waited for you
before you began to write.

I am —
not new.
But already said,
only this time
with your breath.

My father had his own bedroom, mother hers. That should had told me something, which it did, but I was too young to understand. As I grew up, father remained emotionally distant from me. Through grade school, I made straight A's, but he never acknowledged it.  Only once did he play catch with me in the front yard. In junior high, I continued to make straight A's, was co-captain of both the football and basketball teams, and was president of the student council, but he never said a word. As a sophomore in high school. I was elected president of our class by over 800 classmates, but father remained silent. As a junior, I was admitted to Andover, the oldest and arguably the most prominent prep school in America, but all father could say to me was 'be of good cheer." I chose to attend Columbia instead of Yale and had a great four years, but father forgot to put film in the camera when he took photographs at graduation. When I dropped out of law school the first day of finals my first semester, my father was enraged, but again in silence. When I began to write poetry, he said, "Go buy a rental property." My father never congratulated me, never gave me a hug, never told me that he loved me. At times he would say mean, hurtful things to me, which still hurt today. I wrote a poem years ago in which I alluded to one of Shelley's most famous poems. My phrase was "farther away than Ozymandias." That was my father.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I remember that night
It was full of light
People laughed
And I smiled

You walk to me
A shining smile
Ear to ear
A face of tall tales

You took my hand
I looked into your eyes
I was drawn
But then I realized

Your charm, your grace
I was almost entranced
But I knew clearly
This wasn't right

You're too old
I'm too young
But you tried
To force down your tongue

I cried,
Yes I cried,
You leave me,
"You're not mine"

You were too strong
I was too weak
You dragged me
By my pant's seams

We were in bed
Your fingers on me
But oh Lord
I make my plea

She forced me
She told me
No one would care
No one would try

Besides, I'm a guy
She's a gal
If we were tried
They'll say:

"Why didn't you try?
She's just a woman,
You're a fool,
A disgrace"

I'm not her man
I'm not a man
Just some boy
With a broken wing

She was my Lord
She was the Queen
Me?  Well...
Just a pleb

So it didn't even matter
Cause why not?
She's reclaiming the power
Her people lost

January 5th,
I walk to my room
Breathing in the cold air
For it will be my last

A rope around my neck
Tears in my eyes
I told the truth,
But they said it was a lie

Now I call Death,
Oh beloved Death
To take me
As her lover

The pain was too much
The insults too many
I'm a man
They say in envy

I shall never fly
I shall never soar
She clipped my wings
My lust, my soul

I breathe my final breath
Lord forgive me,
But after her
I know hell

I am a Christian, what is wrong with that?
You make me look like some kind of rat
Why are you so hateful?
This time that I take to convince you isn't wasteful

I love Jesus, I love God
But some people think this is odd
I don't know why they act like this is new
When everything I preach is actually true

"Jesus loves me so
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak but He is strong"

happiness
to me
was her laugh
spilling into my lap
like sunlight --
warm.
and mine,
before i i knew
i needed it,
needed her.

Fable VI, Livre IV.


Or çà, mes amis, essayons
De vous redire en vers tout ce que la chandelle
Disait naguère en prose, en voyant ses rayons
Porter jusqu'à six pas la lumière autour d'elle.
« Ce n'est pas tout-à-fait la clarté du soleil,
Et je n'éclaire pas une sphère aussi grande.
À cela près, je le demande,
xxMon rôle au sien n'est-il pas tout pareil ?
À votre gré, monsieur, à votre goût, madame,
Écrivez, jouez ou lisez,
Tricotez, brodez ou cousez,
À qui veut en user je prodigue ma flamme.
Vous blâmez le soleil de trop tôt se coucher,
De se lever trop **** ; qu'il dorme en paix sous l'onde,
Et l'on ne saura pas s'il est nuit en ce monde,
Pour peu qu'on ait pris place à cette table ronde,
Et que l'on pense à me moucher. »
Cependant le soleil, averti par les heures,
Plus alerte et plus radieux,
Avait abandonné les humides demeures,
Et ses premiers rayons doraient déjà les cieux.
À mesure qu'il perce et dissipe les voiles
Par la nuit étendus sur le monde obscurci,
Voyez-vous pâlir les étoiles ?
Les étoiles, la lune, et la chandelle aussi !
Ainsi, dans mainte académie,
Passez-moi la comparaison,
Le faux esprit s'éclipse auprès de la raison ;
Le bel esprit s'éclipse à côté du génie.
« Mon enfant, » dit l'astre du jour,
En plaignant sa rivale à demi consumée
De perdre sa gloire en fumée,
« Veux-tu de ton triomphe assurer le retour :
Fais tout fermer, porte, fenêtre,
Volets surtout ; fais que la nuit
Règne à jamais dans ce réduit :
La nuit te fait briller ; je la fais disparaître. »

"Is it tough to say, 'Wait'?
I don't know when, but the strings are loosening.
Winter, summer, autumn – why can't I feel them?
Perhaps I'm just selfish to look up at the sky and say, 'Stop.
Don't get darker; just wait.'
I want to talk.
The words are just making their way, but time's urge is to stop them.
The stone-ground steps are holding me back.
I want to feel you, hug you.
Is it wrong to be desperate for love?
If the world stops, I want to share a few words.
Please, ask them to stop.
I want to talk.
Is it hard for you to 'wait'?"

Trying to tease out the pangram
from BLNFIOE
before I can begin my day

what could it be?

bellefino - an Italian sherry

lifebone - don't we all need a lifebone

fonebill - alternate spelling

bonefill - an archaelogical process

bonnelife - ancient Scots greeting

boonfile - archaic term for a will

nibbleoff - polite cake eating contest

lionbeef - forbidden meat

beefloin - see above

folbine - I got nothing

come on man
I don't have all day!
(are you sure about that)

grease the brain
cells with
coffee

and then it came to me
~~~~~~~~~
(no spoilers)

and some people say
I have too much
time
on my hands

Some years echo,
Golden songs of prosperity,
Others trickle through.
Black liquor seas,
There's blood on these bricks,
So much happened before 1776.

Some loves
you have to wear blinders
For everything that comes out of them
Is nothing but suffering,
I better float over this deep sea,
Than losing my soul diving in...
tic-tac-tic-tac
Deal with love with care...
💀🕷👅

i tried so hard
please forgive me mom
im sorry

im
so
so
sorry

Your favorite song
On repeat
For eternity
Will eventually be
Hell.

If only I had loved you less,
I would have talked about you more.

Its not a good day
if I havent ripped
a thumbnail on
some jagged metal
or stubbed a toe
Its not a good day
if I havent cut myself
on a kitchen knife
or had my heart broken
Its just the
empty space
between
injuries