Wounded Knee, you are to me
a sacred spot. A cavalry,
a Calvary, we ought not
forget the thousand screams,
the streams of blood that
flooded prairie grass.
Babi Yar, you're not so far
from Wounded Knee. I'd
have to be without eyes
or ears not to hear or see
the enormity:  the mangled
bodies, the twisted forms,
that speak, that wreck
of evil, and of seeing and
not saying no. My Lai,
our lie, women and children
dying, lying on our lies,
covering culpability, a quilt
of carnage, but where is guilt?
Cambodia, your killing fields
now flower with blood and
bones of beings fleeing tyranny,
thousands falling near you
and me as we sip our tea
and munch on sweet cakes of
propriety. El Playon, los
paisanos pobres know no
place but death. No dearth
of death squads here, no
fear of duplicity, my
country's complicity in
these atrocities--my country,
tis of thee, sweet land of
liberty--El Salvador no esta
aqui, porque, like Wounded Knee,
the savior is you and me.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

In that night
there was a deeper night,
in sorrow a deeper sorrow,
in your sorrowful eyes more
more sorrowful eyes I descried,
the deep night of your eyes
as I lay beside you, your head,
then your head lying on night's
pillow, deeper than a hollow hole
filled with tender tears, as you told me
of the night, the deeper night of your life,
your hair wet with deeper tears
on night's side of your visage,
when you had to leave your son
to save yourself and him, a hurt
that still hurts, a deeper night hurt
you shared with me through deep night
sobs, deeper sobs, wetting your cheeks
and neck and night hair, the hurts,
the deeper night hurts that robbed
you of yourself and him, of how you
had to go in order to return, the sinuous
path, convoluted and constrained,
to leave the night, to come back in
the day. You knew day followed night,
but your hollow heart howled at the
rending end that began a deeper night.
All I could do was hold you in the deep,
the deeper night, and let you sob and
shake, only to awake to that brighter day.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

They were like cut flowers,
arranged but deranged in some
basic way, which is to say, their
smiles were frozen, never chosen.
They did not cheer;  they mirrored
one another. They did not lead;
they followed. Their laughter was
hollow. Their problems stemmed
from being cut from their emotional
roots:  They'd root for the home
team, but it seemed they'd never
grow, never know the joy of letting
go, only the cant, the chanting
of school yells, a fool's hell
for not feeling. At best, their
beauty was pressed and dried;
Too bad they died, devoid of
themselves. We must put them
on our shelves to gather dust.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

We wonder where love comes from,
where it flies, through clouds and skies,
ferns and forests, where will it lie?
Curtains of sadness cloud our view,
grey hues we hope will turn to blue
and brightness. Angels and archangels
light on our hearts, evoking the lotion of
love that spreads through our beings,
bring blue hope to our spirits,
elevating our souls to zeniths of well-being
and sweet tonnes that assuage our many
hurts. Angels and archangels, beneficent
intercessors, ******* our sorrows,
peeling away the anguish that visits us in the
middle of morning or night, sweet music
that atones for our transgressions, a
progression of expiation that leaves us
higher than the clouds, closer to God.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

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