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  Oct 2017 John Hawkins
Kahlil Gibran
And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.
John Hawkins Oct 2017
You sit on that ***** bus seat,
all seraphic and glowing-
hovering above the filth.
The beauty your body possesses
makes my heart flutter
and my eyes avert-
unable to bear the spotless, striking
quality of your shining form.

But beneath That is what?
Under this gleaming exterior what is there:
If we were to peel back the skin of
your perfectly symmetrical face;
dislodge those glittering green eyes
to look within-

into your true essence;
that thing that,
although invisible,
exists inside your faultlessly proportioned
mass of tissue and bone.

Who are you?
Your name doesn't matter.
Jane, Justine, Charlotte;
**** all that.

what are you other than beauty-
other than a twitter handle,
or your favourite food;
Other than your preference of hot beverage.

I want to know you,

When you breathe,
what do you feel?

When you sit on this bus, gliding through streets
and past buildings,
are you over-whelmed by the magnitude of it all?

When you step from your little man-made cave in the morning
and above you,
instead of a closed off ceiling,
is the seeming boundlessness of space,
Do you wonder how the **** we can all just keep going on
and not loose our minds at the slightest
glimpse of this stark, partial reality?

Tell me all this,
tell me.

You can't.

You're just a ******* a bus,
and I'm just the guy who falls in love with possibilities.
John Hawkins Oct 2017
My motionless body on which you grind;
Torrid, primal and seemingly blind-
My thoughts my mind, both count for naught;
My mannerisms I was so flawlessly taught.

Your body wants mine but where's your mind?
Above the inner lizard to which we're all confined-
Up top in your frontal lobe,
Besides those fingers with which you probe;

What's there? Anything at all?
More than the name your mother called;
Under all the impulsive acts and symbols and sounds-
At the core of the mass of meat to which you're bound.

It's got to be there, quelled by your grunts;
Beneath your instinctive need for ****.
Just stop it now, and sit real still;
Humanity must now continue, uphill.
John Hawkins Jun 2017
An HTTP on which we release poetry,
supposed to capture our deep, inner 'me'.
And you can sense this fret with which it is met;
the desperate actions of some for adulation to get.

It kinda is sad, when you all try to grab;
hustle and bustle with meaningless blab.
Nothing it means, I don't see why you're so keen-
No matter your words, you will never be king.

He's richer than you, much higher up too;
from his birth he had you beat, ever since you were new-
There's levels to this game, you must have the fame;
lest every word you write from your soul become lame.

No joke you shout loud, with fervour and proud,
but unless you are lucky, to this life you are bound;
To the medial mess, and all its distress,
you'll never look good, no matter your dress.
John Hawkins Nov 2016
Immaculate sun,
Shine your radiance upon
Her battle-scarred soul.
John Hawkins Nov 2016
The leaves crunch below
the weight of her frail,
thin frame.
I have never seen such freedom;
an expression of which this seems the epitome of.
Goose pimples rising on my arms and neck
in acknowledgment of the fractal quality of beauty
within this finite reality.
  Nov 2016 John Hawkins
Cynthia Jean
"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."

John McCrae
During World War I, a Canadian Expeditionary gunner and medical officer, John McCrae, fought in the Second Battle of Ypres near Flanders, Belgium.

Describing the battle as a "nightmare," as the enemy made one of the first chlorine gas attacks, John McCrae wrote:

"For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds...

And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way."

Finding one of his friends killed, John McCrae helped bury him along with the other dead in a field.

Noticing the field covered with poppy flowers, he composed the famous Memorial Day poem, "In Flanders Fields":
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