The world is getting smaller
It's getting quicker too
But it's not getting any younger
A service is overdue

Larks don't need parks

They need ploughed fields and waving grain

If they are to remain

They soar and sing of joy unbound

But they are rarely found

Four men from the break of dawn
With axe, hacksaw and *****,
Back and forth swaying their head,
And with their mighty brawn
Were hacking down a giant factory
That took small space on earth
Nurtured by air, water, soil from its birth,
Finally it was razed with great victory.
It was a factory which produced oxygen
That could not be gauged by men.
It provided food and shelter
To many creatures without ever to falter.
Without asking for anyone's labour
To them it did unconditional favour.

After a few days came there many men
To build another giant factory again.
They with great vigour cleared the sod
Built a factory with bricks and iron rod.
It was a factory that took over large area,
Workers feared diseases in their trachea
For it ceaselessly vomited black smoke;
By its noise neighbours to their horror awoke.

Listen –

to my icy silence
ripening from blue to green

Live –

each careful second
with the seasons of
my transformation

Elate –

in my diversity
bright, awake, transparent

Warm -

my landscape with the gentle glow
of a lover’s touch

Stroke -

my convoluted stems
my thirsty roots
my fragile blooms
my weary soil


Do all this with bliss,
that I shall endure
and be made whole again,

All people live downstream.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

Fall train rolling through the landscape
While people dig the ground for gold
And weapons to poorest countries are sold
Ice water becoming scarce on Earth
We shroud pollution from our eyes to escape
The truth that nature is running out
We diligently put flowers and green in our hearths
To surround ourselves with virtual images of life
Hiding the truth that humans are running out

Yet money is made out of tree paper
And CPUS run thanks to extracted crystals
And sure Google has a plan if all else fails
Gas is waging wars but soon it'll be for water
If we go extinct nature will always prevail
There will always be higher oceans to sail
Grass with grow and outreach skyscrapers
Will your children ever see polar bears?

A pine tree of 42 years of age was cut down
What if your mother was exhibited 'fore town hall
To be decorated with garlands, lights and all?
Then ditched, naked without her verdoyant foliage
Once healthy, now dusty at 42 years of age?

If our universe was reduced to 14 seconds human time
We'd only represent 1 second, yet the hourglass
Is about empty, we don't have hearts of glass
Eternal we aren't, unlike a diamond or a lime
We are expected to not just make an impact
But save, recycle, protect, nurture and act!

Not anything too complicated
What a parent would do for their child
Humanity, now has come the time to be lucid
Otherwise, at the end, all that's left will be decrepitated!

November 9, 2019
Train to Lyon

At 28 years I have become more self-interested
than I have been for two decades.
I am exploring all the granite holds my mind can grip,
all the ways my heart can cleave,
what fits into my body, the feeling of entry and exit,
how invasion stings and where I build my walls,
what quiets my horses and what scatters them galloping.
I used to look outside all the time like a periscope,
but now my navel fascinates me.
For so long it didn’t really matter who I was.
I simply was. I did. I perceived. I acted. I reacted.
The world needed my discovery. I yearned to stomp
all over its trails recording my findings.
Now I am ecologist frantically cataloguing the behaviors,
daily rituals, feeding and mating practices
of the only one of my species. Now it feels paramount
to carve out the hollow where I shall nest,
to place a sign for others, and a pair of binoculars
and a guidebook: “The Wild Me.”

the clouds are not
something you can bully into a corner.
even though they appear
to flee from nothing
without cause or meaning,
they are huge coins
bellowed beneath space
cradling something
for earth's ***** organs
squeezing something
so precious and volatile
that even the breath of machines seem
valuable.
as i become lost under the eye of light,
i realize i can no longer distinguish my need
to track your scent
from your desire to be pet.

before we can blink
the earth has already spun into silk.
we hurl along through time and space,
stuck on the end of a stringed cat toy
as she swirls
magnificent clouds around her head
propelled in her rotation
and strung along endlessly
by the very bright beast
that has always been
slowly, slowly
swallowing her.
these thoughts are torrential as a hurricane
and as cruel as a tornado
poking into monstrous existence
treating earth like a sandbox.

Relax,
she calls through the roar.
You're in a classic trap.

That is only the quiet grasp of your mind,
the child of so much shouting,
recalling my story.
Your quiet mind, remembering
all at once
all the words which sounded
unwarranted or excessive.
Your quiet mind, leading you
to accept that it all was,
or could maybe have been,
necessary to say.
This is your acknowledgement of the jurassic times,
when diamonds and gold
still pierced my belly.
You must notice the dust settling
all around you for what seems to be the first
and final time:
just for today, when everything quakes
and rots
in a perfect rhythm.