I will be the next William Blake. In two hundres years, someone
will enter Oliver Wendell Holmes Library of Phillips Academy
and happen upon my self-pulished book of poems. aphorisms, and
essays titled I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN, which four
years ago the Head of School had told the acquisitions librarian
to order from me, because I had sent him a copy of it several months
before. And that person will sit down and start reading my poems,
aphorisms, and essays and say to herself, "This guy is a genius! I
have to show this book to my English professor. She'll love it." And
word will spread until my somewhat belated genius reputation will
have spread worldwide. I, of course, will not be nominated for the
Nobel Prize in Literature, because if you're dead, you're out of luck.
But Faber and Faber of London will nevertheless publish I WRITE
WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN and several of my poems eventually
will be studied by students at Andover, among other places.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

What if each one of us were free each day to do, to give to the rest of us ourselves and share our real selves with everyone who walked by us on their paths of living, of being, of realizing their hopes and wishes, their dreams, their needs for being genuine, foregoing the facades of existence, showing only honesty, no cosmetics of I hope they will like me, even love me, my heart so desperate to be touched by realness, not by pretensions and lies, but only by truth, our worlds at once different and the same, craving the clean air of authenticity, breathing deeply opennesss and this is who I truly am, perfectly imperfect, my self-acceptance my gift to you and to all and to the world.

Copyright Tod Howard Hawks

You said you wanted me, but when I
knocked on your door, there was no answer.
When I called you, the phone kept ringing.
When I used to hold you, I held you forever.
When we kissed, our lips melded. When I
caressed you, your moans were unending.
When we made love, there was no stopping.
Now my tears are like rain, my heart is a
storm, the sky is black. Where did you go?
What happened to us? My life is pitch dark.
Where did you go? My life is over.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Howard

This is my home. Earth is where I live. I have almost 8 billion friends. I just haven't met them all yet. I have renewable loans of kindness. My collateral is love. I am a rich man. The solar system is my neighborhood. We play interplanetary baseball games Sunday afternoons. Beyond Pluto is infinity. We take hikes out there. It's fun, but one can get tired. I am worried about my home. My friends often get into fights, often so bad they **** each other. Friends are not supposed to **** each other. Children, little kids, don't have enough to eat, so much so they starve to death. So many of my friends have no place to live. They have to lie on cardboard boxes folded in half that they put on hard, often cold, cement sidewalks when they try to sleep. So many of my friends don't know how to read or write. When they get sick, there is no doctor to see. The air is hard to breathe. The water tastes funny. Often they feel hopeless, so hopeless they **** themselves to end their misery. They are your friends, too, but they feel you have forgotten them. What an awful feeling, what an awful life.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

****/Criminal Trump is crumbling like the Berlin Wall in 1991, the most magnanimous gift of his life.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks.

Global could be noble.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

If I gaze long enough at a lilac bloom,
will it tell me why it smells so fragrant?
If I sit long enough with a loaf of bread
freshly baked, will it share with me why
it is so delicious? If I wander down a path
unknown, will it tell me where it will take
me? If I am before a crowd and speak
my truths, does it matter whether any
applaud? If I grow silent, will I find these
answers? If you are always your real self,
in silence you will hear what's true.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks