Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

My skin it burns and scorches
These twisted Seven Suns
It reeks, it's caustic
These curséd Seven Suns.

You loathsome orbs
My malice for you unbounded.
You wicked sons of Apollo
May the cities shun your name!

My hands they crack and sizzle
'neath these Seven Suns
These fruits they wilt and shrivel
'neath these Seven Suns.

The wisened ropes they wither
On harshly laboured waists
And ancient stones they crumble
Before masons lay to waste.

I beg the seasons of mercy
"Grant Icarus his revenge!"
Let them rain their naked blessings
And deliver me your end.

You'll scorch the earth that stays me
and clench the air I breathe
But come the fall of night
I'll dance upon your wreaths.

"You curséd sons,
You devlish pests,
No more, no more!"

I'll rejoice in your relief
Pay tribute to your demise
As the moonlight it embalms me
And the darkness clothes my eyes.

Now Nyx's reign commences
Her air so cool and pure
The slender fingers of night
Beckon nocturnal dawn.

Last night I opened the door to a fear I do not know,
a stranger from the street.
Its overwhelming silhouette now casting over my feet.

It greeted me like a neighbour,
tightly gripping at my hand,
a warmth not becoming of the spectre I did not understand.

For my life I've carried this scar.
A symbol of my mother's mercy,
A blessing of a life for which others have been thirsty.

I quietly parade it in defiance,
that slender crescent moon,
rising from my skin so as not to be forgotten.

Now I stand at the doorway of my conscience
and warily make acquaintance,
with the helpless fear that long feasted on my mother's patience.

I'll be dying soon.
Follow me in love.
You are made of love,
Follow me. We all are
made of love. Be one
with God. Become one
with God--no form, no
beginning, no end. God
is love, follow me in love.
Only enlightenment is all you'll know.
I'll be dying soon. We all will be
dying soon. Become one with
God. Become love infinitely.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

i’m tired of writing these poems
tired of chasing the right words
for a feeling that never wanted to be named

tired that nothing i write
comes close to the way it felt
to love you
and lose you
and still carry it all

no stanza, no line,
no late night whisper into the void
has ever been enough

the love i have for you
deserves more than language
and yet
language is all i have