I wept in the flames of my life,
Scratching at the rubble in vain.
The roof caved in. I smiled wildly,
Now nothing hid the stars from view.

Your paintings burnt quietly
As I framed the moon.

Time has fed a burning fire with dying embers.
A dwindling light in the winter wind, flickering
As the night sought to put it out but could not,
Resisted death and not once lost its light.

Still I pitied it. A candle hanging by a thread,
Waging quarrels with the wind, found no solace
In my cupped hands. The cold and bitter tears
Of these winter nights pelted its withering spirit.

These are burning clouds, silence reigns
Crowds with tranquil desires
Sky smells clove-pink of death.
Graveyard’s calling us.

She is the pony, a lone walker
Mystery lasts before dawn.
Sunlight was touching her neck hair
Moonlight wanted her to be its own,

Strolling in the wild orange meadow,
Walking on the grounds of heaven
Watching sunset on the line,
Wiggled a giant glass of wine

From the depth of lambent verdure
Whispered singing can be heard,
And these invisible stars of eternal life
Only shine at a paradise land.

Bing ban Bing boo, an eternal door opens to her,
Here is the happiness land, starry sky.
There hides a kiss, it’s the final kiss…
Bing ban Bing boo, time to her go back home,
Graveyard ‘s calling her,
And she rests in peace, an ancient stone

The Scottsboro Boys, no joy in this poem, only a
remembrance of another instance of Jim Crow injustice,
charges of ****, not agape, no sir, these ******* *****
two white women and should be lynched right now.
**** trials, get some ropes, no hope for these *******,
no sir. Yet, there was a stirring, even in the 1930s, for
justice even for black kids in Alabama, trials aplenty,
retrials too, a shoe could drop in the courtroom and
you couldn't hear it. ****, let's get on with it! Where's
the rope, you dope! You're white and can't fight your
way out of a paper bag. ****, you're KKK. You do
what you please, at ease with dark nights when we
burn them as they twist dead in the wind. Who got
the ropes, you *******? Why you wearing that white
sheet? ****! You don't know how to burn a dead
******? Take off that white sheet now and get the
hell out of here cause you doesn't deserve to be among
us. You gone--out of the KKK! Get in your pick-up
truck and leave now and don't never come back. We'll
burn this ****** forever!

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

Posthumously Famous.

That is definitely the name
Of my book.
If not that, a title for this poem.
No, the first line.
It’s untitled.
I won’t restrict myself.
I won’t be led astray.

Poets are just looking for an outlet.
Poets are in anguish.
Poets are on fire.

Let us burn.
Let us burn in agony.
Do not peek your head over,
Dear reader.
You have an obligation.
Work, kids, bills.
Don’t think of us.
We are burning in agony, in fire,
And we do not wither away.
We cannot escape that easily.