What does it mean to suffer?
Is it better to buffer ourselves
from turmoil, or does the oil
of hate and hurt serve some purpose?
Are we animals in some circus,
parading like elephants inelegantly,
passing through wire hoops?
We tire;  we droop.
Are we poor men in soup lines,
hoping for salvation,
fed with propitiation?
Our faces show no elation:
They grow ashen.
Shall we cash in the bonds
our mothers never gave us?
Love's dearth has thus enslaved us.
Just put us in our graves and
let us live in Mother Earth.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Tell me why, oh butterfly,
do you fly so high?
Tell me why, oh butterfly,
high up in blue sky.

Tell me, pretty butterfly,
with your wings of gold,
are you as kind and gentle
as I'm always told?

Tell me, golden butterfly,
will you come to me
and light upon my shoulder
to keep me company?

And when night falls, my butterfly,
please let your golden wings
illuminate the darkness
until the bluebird sings.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

Is that not a dove coming through the clouds,
sweeping down to bless our crown with love,
gentle wings to caress our forehead, soft strokes
to remind us of our innate kindness, a blindness
no man has in his heart? Is that not a dove
coming through the clouds, its provenance
above the sun, though cool with the countenance
of caring, a daring feat of a celestial being?
Give thanks for this tender gift that reminds us
of our eternal tie to a sky that brushes different
facets of our face. Is that not a dove coming
through the clouds?

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

There are no people around,
only animals, popcorn on side-
walks, empty paper cups,
coke stains. The animals

are in their cages, where
they should be, not out and
about on the town. Clowns
are in the circus, the animals
in their place, and I am

alone at the Bronx Zoo,
kicking peanut shells, waiting for
Washington Irving to show up.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

There are reasons why
some men are shy
and women too,
when wearing silk,
lie on their beds
alone and cry.
No mother's milk
to satisfy
the cruel thirst
for love and touch.
The rule first
is to beware,
when wearing silk,
of men who stare
or fingers touch;
this much we know.

I see ibicies on alpine slopes,
large curved horns coming almost
full circle. I descry mountain
hawks on the wing that descry
more than I. Bears I do not
see, for they are lost in their
own sleep, not on slopes, but
in slumber;  the number of deer
is in actuality many, but I
have not earned the right to
discern more than few.
Vision is a funny thing:  we
tend to infer from the many
we can see reality, but this
is illusory. Our sight we feel
can be enhanced by glasses
microscopic or telescopic,
but sight is not insight;  seeing
is not knowing. The intellect
sees that all are different,
wisdom that all are one. The
ibex knows the mountain is
deeper than it is high.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

Speak in tears when you lie
next to me and your heart is
troubled so. Let sorrow pour
from your eyes and wet the
sheets. Meet your heart and
greet it openly, though it be
filled with sadness. Let your
body shake against mine, as
my love will absorb its blows;
I know what it is to hurt.
Let empathy soak up your
sorrow. Let your catharsis
become chrysanthemums.