Tell me truly who you are,
not from afar, but to my ear.
Do not fear:  I shall not castigate,
excoriate. Dissemble not: No
equivocation, prevarication.
Tell me truly what's in your heart.
Is terror there, or guilt? Rage ablaze
from needs unmet? Do unhealed hurts
leave you reeling in a maelstrom of
doubt? Open up your heart
and let your agonies fly out.
In gentle ways let us discuss dark
places and shame, give name to
those moments when mistreated,
wanton cruelty misconstrued
with worth of self. Let light
penetrate hate, mollify madness,
assuage pain. Let your forthcoming,
my love for your realness,
heal us both.

A long time ago,
I used to lie on my bed
and look out my window
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.

And I used to watch the cars
as they traveled by,
some fast, some slow,
from right to left, and left to right,
and wonder where they were going to
and coming from.

Once from my window
I hit a bus with my BB gun.
I was scared,
because I knew I wasn't
supposed to shoot buses,
even though it was kind of fun.

And sometimes I used
to hide behind my curtains
and watch the pretty
girls walk by my house
coming back from
the pool in the park.

But mostly I used to lie
on my bed and think,
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

It will get dark soon.
The white, yellow, and pink
houses will turn grey,
then black. The cacophony
of car horns will turn into
the chorus of locusts.
Summer's night will lay
a sheet of tranquility over
a city harassed by exigent
matters that matter not.
Soporific silhouettes will
soften the cityscape,
allowing us to escape
the frazzle of the hot day,
exchanging the frenetic
for the peaceful, the welter
for a sense of the well being.
The susurrus of the evening
breeze blows the exhaust
of our polluted lives into
a distant day. Children play
in yards back and front and
laughter wafts through
neighborhoods like the sweet
smell of barbeque, not the
fetid odor of finance and
foreclosures. There is a
sense of closure to this day.
As the sun sets, our eyelids
close, and we pray for the
soft rain of forgiveness.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

We have mined our mountains,
we have fished our seas,
we have felled our forests,
we have gathered our grains,
but we have not yet embraced
the infinite energy of our souls,
which is love.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I write when the river's down,
when the ground's as hard as
a banker's disposition and as
cracked as an old woman's face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write
when horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always
high noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river's down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

Simone, Simone
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone
please come to me
and bear your breast
for me to rest
my weary head
and shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone

Tod Howard Hawks

There will come a time
when time doesn't matter,
when all minutes and
millennia are but moments
when I look into your eyes.
There will come a time
when clinging things
will fall like desiccated
leaves, leaving us with
but one another. There
will come a time when
the external becomes eternal,
when holding you is to
embrace the universe.
There will come a time
when to be will no longer
be infinitive, but infinity,
and you and I are one

TOD HOWARD HAWKS