For what is the most precious gem?
It is the blue diamond,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest wealth?
It is to own more than any other,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest honor?
It is to have all others bow at your feet,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest glory?
It is for one to be remembered by all forever,
but I shall hold love.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Perfidy and perfume,
Wars and well-being,
Caligula and Beethoven,
Buckenwald and the benign,
Slavery and Stars and Stripes,
Flags and fireworks and Jim Crow,
Lynchings and liberty,
MAGA and magnanimity,
Hate and love.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

We all are as free as the one who is still enslaved.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

The poem is not for a contest. It is for sharing.

The poem is the prize.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

In Sixth Grade, I discovered infinity, not the finite, was reality.

I took my ruler and placed it on the top of my desk. On a sheet of paper and with a pencil, I began dividing 12 by 2 and got 6. Then I divided 6 by 2 and got 3. Then I divided 3 by 2 and got 1 1/2, then 1 1/2 by 2 and got 3/4, then 3/4 by 2 and got 3/8, then 3/8 by 2 and got 3/16 by 2 and got 3/32, and so on. Then I realized I could go on forever.

Thus, infinity.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Love is the sky and the ocean,
smiles and laughter from all places,
revealing hope, diminishing despair,
children brown and black and yellow
and white playing with all others,
making friends, falling in love,
babies beloved, helping those who
need kindness, sharing with those
who do not have enough, extending
arms that become hugs, creating lives
of becoming real selves, no bullets or
bombs, no fighting but delighting in
both differences and same searches
always for peace and well-being,
Seeing and realizing we are one.

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.

Tod Howard Hawks