"hawkins" poems
When men were men, Mountain men, they would shout out a small greeting to those approaching, some were very discriptive...here is mine:
Born in a blizzard, back in a grizzly's cave,
drank wolf milk, use a knife to shave.
Can out spit, out run, out shoot any known
man alive.
Can fight two or more men just to keep it fair,
now get down from your horse and tell me
what the hell your doing here!
Man I tell you I was born in the wrong century.
Open land, cooking outside, trade my furs for a good woman.
Shoot guns, drink whiskey...hell it don't get any better then that.
Course I would change a few things, like..I would need my toilet paper,
that corn husk thing , well I'm not for all that.
I'd have to figure out how to put a heater and windshield on that horse of mine too.
I'd **** sure would get me a better rifle then that Hawkins( mind you it was the rifle of its time) just to even up the score when them city slickers start trying to sneak away my whiskey.
Ah, yes just rambling. Anyways back to the real world.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC
The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note.
The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship.
The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air.
Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins.
The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Spt 5-- domestic dispute inv alcohol + firearms Hawkins Terr. area-- Spt 7-- burglary purses stolen from 3 cars Wipple St-- night of Spt 18-19-- vandals untied shoes of large statue Center Park-- Spt 20-- mugging homeless suspect young woman cheeseburger Rt 8--
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
pencil-thin shoulders
mess of dyed blonde hair and fake
strawberry grins
lost in movie ticket stubs stuck
to crowded multi-coloured walls stuffed
bears hidden under bedsprings, pent-up
energy like carbonation in sugary soft drinks
unsteady hands on composed aged shoulders,
unsure feet find their way on moving
slabs cleaning out bright blue backpacks
filled with words forgotten on
pages dried up like pens or discarded acquaintances
discovering heart-shaped cardboard tokens of February
infatuation pure unlike clandestine Friday nights,
pounding nervous with blood in pink seashell ears
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
As I let my mind wander into time, and release these binds that have me confined, I began to feel a great energy, like the sun had been compressed and put into me, and as time tic tocs and unwinds into its trail of infinity. I realize a trinity mind body soul, they burn as a whole, for the mightiest of goals. and as time unwinds it'll leave you behind. unless you get your spot in, a line of legacys never to be forgotten
Confucius, Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King Jr, George Washington, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Nelson Mendala, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Steve Jobs, Stephen Hawkins, Leonardo Da Vinci, Wolfgang Amedeus Mozart, nikola tesla, Wael Ghonim, Jimi Hendrix, Joseph Stiglitz, Reed Hastings, François Rabelais, Archimedes, Sigmund Frued, Charles Darwin, Aryabhata, Bob Marley, Garrett Morgan, George Washington Carver, Aristotle, John Locke, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Plato, Galileo Galilei...and many many more...
Stand for something. Think outside the box. Evolve and express yourself. Make a difference #STEM #LegacyToIfinity
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
The crystal was perfectly aligned.
It exposed an image of the day I left seamlessly.
But it also echoed the future,
the design of tomorrow.
I wouldn’t follow my wildest dreams,
but I couldn’t say the misuse was improbable.
To the next phase in my elegant maneuver,
I gather the strength from my abysmal insides.
Wide open were the gates of hell.
I withheld.
Then continued,
as the outline of forever,
forever guided me.
Time was traveled.
And as passing eras bettered my intellectual design,
I redefined the reality of Sir Hawkins.
Time travel.
So true.
My speed was increasing,
as was my very corpus.
*And as it did,
so I transcended.*
Amended such as our legitimate antiquity
of the dickity desire.
The feeling of an outwordly choir
singing you to sleep while injecting you
with futuristic methyl-amphetamines.
I dreamt of better things,
but too late.
For I've descended into tomorrow,
and the decisions of the borrowed souls
will cease to follow.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
As the blue moon climbs over the Potomac River,
I lay my tired body down next to the planted field.
Momma tells me that I’ll turn 13 tomorrow; my birthday wish….to be free
Like brail, the scars on my back speak to the humility in my life.
My dog Jip lays beside me and with a warm tongue conveys everything will be fine.
It’s the early fall here at Georgetown University
My name is Cornelius, Cornelius Hawkins and I write these words so you know my plight.
Here with me are my father, mother and 2 yr old sister.
We toil the field from dawn to dusk…the salt herring and cornmeal give us strength.
And my hands are forever clinging to this rosary and I pray God will hear my prayers.
I can’t begin to tell how afraid I am each and every day.
I try not to dwell on our strife and struggles, but day dream of downright happiness.
My family and our ancestors before us have been confined to slavery for 200 years.
Momma always says “There is no slavery, just ignorance”.
I hold her words near and dear to my heart and I never give up hope for a better life.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
lil taffy two tugs would wake up to the dawn,leaping to his laptop searching sites for porn,thanking stephen hawkins, also mr gates,grateful of technology, while taffy masterbates.the boyo bashed his bishop, most of all his life,now pc world was better and cheaper than a wife,lubrication, change of hands, oil and vaseline,lesbians, fat fetishes, and threesomes on his screen,but poor ole taffy passed away, his family in disgrace,trousers round his ankles, a smile upon his face,but two tugs died so happy, while he had a vid on,undertaker done his nutt,,,,he could'nt get the lid on.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 12:37 PM UTC
Sadie must have been a lady
Who got tired of waiting and waiting
For a prince to come
Or really just anyone
To give her the time of day
And say hey
Wanna dance Saturday night?
You and I would make quite the sight
But, no, they tapped their chins and debated
So, Sadie's desire for a date was not abated
Instead she took matters into her control
And that's why girls ask boys to the Winter Formal
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:13 PM UTC
Veins, veins,
length and breadth,
intertwined
beats to freedom
or desolation;
a terminus
lost on a circular.
An ebbing destination,
unchartered targets,
Follow the signs.
We are a one way street,
follow the signs
on software maps.
Stumped
by sequential lights
and us, caught
in a dragnet
within steely fish,
gasping for air,
choking on smoke,
bilious coughs,
hacking sputum,
gobbing phlegm globs
in interval gaps
within gridlocks;
nose to **** to
nose to ****
The rage, the stares
the shouts, the finger,
the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s,
the honks, the blares,
the bumper to bumper
expletive shares.
The rolling down,
the alighting,
the threats,
the fighting.
The falling down,
the separation,
reseating,
the rolling,
the thunder,
the trudge,
the stops, the starts.
Follow the signs,
follow the signs.
Robotic conveyors
for humans,
mechanical
fossil fueled
chariots,
grumbling, grunting,
wheee-ing and
screeching,
and screaming
and spewing
and chuffing
and guffing
black plumes,
air tarred,
veins, veins
clogged and bogged,
viscous, molasses,
liquid black blob.
Road fogged,
numbers logged.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
slow crawl.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
follow the signs,
sprawl.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
He was in hospital
for a short op
a one day event
and then home
the nurse said
if you could undress
Mr Hawkins
and put on that gown
on the bed
and so he looked around
and got to the bed
and she drew
the green curtains
around him
and he stood there
and began to undress
and folded his clothes
and put them on a chair
and put on the blue gown
which did up
at the back
and stood there
wondering what
to do next
how long would
he have to wait?
he lay on the bed
and opened the book
he'd brought to read
his back ached
his hips too
how long would he be?
a nurse drew back
the curtains
and said
I need to take
your temperature?
can you tell me
your name please?
he looked at her
in her blue two piece
like a motor mechanic
rather than a nurse
what happened to those
neat uniforms?
he wondered
name?
she asked again
Mr Benedict Hawkins
he said
she ticked her list
date of birth?
he told her
how much
do you weigh?
she asked
he told her
she ticked her list again
she put a thermometer
in his mouth
and took his wrist
and looked
at her watch
he looked at her hand
her fingers
holding his wrist
the thin white fingers
the pink nails
he looked
at her ears
not too small
or large
no earrings
no small holes
where they might
have been
he studied her lips
wondered who
kissed them
if any
she took out
the thermometer
and shook it
with a lovely
wrist action
and gazed at it
then she put it
in her top pocket
just above
her left ***
or impression of such
and she looked at him
you're 3rd on the list
she said
OK
he said
and off she walked
her swaying behind
like some gay mechanic guy
going back
to the pits
no lovely
neat uniform
or black stockings
encasing cool legs
or black
sensible shoes
or tidy white
headdress
to set it all off
just a trained
nursing mechanic
in the blue two piece
nothing to inspire
another look
so he opened
the pages
of his child
psychology book.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
I wish I could say something beautiful.
But all of the words I dance with keep stepping on my toes,
like the boy I danced with in 8th grade that told me
he was surprised by how graceful I was for my size.
I've always carried other people's grief and anger around in my extra pounds,
storing their feelings like I was preparing for winter
and I've never been graceful about it.
I fall and I stumble and I slip but at least I didn't step on Brandon's feet when I was so nervous about my first kiss following the Sadie Hawkins dance.
I wish I could say something beautiful,
but all of the metaphors I try to grow never bloom.
Because I overwater them the way I overwater all of the loved ones in my garden and all of the wildflowers in my lungs.
I've been told my thumb is black, and not green, because I never know when to stop piling fertilizer upon seeds that will never sprout,
and when to stop piling unreciprocated love upon the people that I care about.
I wish I could say something beautiful.
But my voice is always silent like lightning or booming like thunder
and I've never learned how to make it fill a room like the sound of rain,
without being a natural disaster.
I wish I could say something beautiful.
But I still have a hard time looking into a mirror without picking myself apart,
like diagramming myself for autopsy before I've ever even pulled the trigger.
How could I ever produce something beautiful, when I can't understand the work of art that I am?
How could I say something beautiful, when I stand in my hallowed exhibition hall and refuse to paint my walls because I'm so afraid of making mistakes?
How could I say something beautiful, when I'm afraid to frame my best qualities because what if other people think that they're overrated? Overrated like seeing the Mona Lisa in person and still not understanding what the **** she's smiling about.
How could I say something beautiful when I've never been able to appreciate the different hues and shadows and brush strokes that fill my skin and my mind and my mouth?
I've never been able to appraise and value myself because I'm afraid I'll never sell and never find a home.
How could I say or create or become something beautiful when I'm so preoccupied with imitating others' paintings instead of allowing myself to be my own masterpiece?
I wish I could say something beautiful, but maybe the most beautiful thing I could say in this moment is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and kid you gotta be beholden to yourself instead of those critics in your art gallery.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
The moment
i reached over to you
and whispered in your ear
(over the hard piece separating us)
and I whispered
"Wish you were in town...."
"Why?" he asked turning from the stage..
"Well... because..
* because I love how you kneel at church
how you always seem to be around
how you perk up your eyebrows
how we talk about how God graced us
how you are so smart. In Anatomy and Psychology
how your eyes make my shoulders slump
(I think it's because my chest collapses, must be somethin' in there)
because you asked me to an opera
how you smile after I mess up
that you open up doors for me
I love your funny Dr. Fischer impressions
that you work in an italian restaurant
and play the guitar and go to church to praise God
how your lips seem so incredibly soft
and I lose myself in your eyes*....
-"I was wondering if you could go to the Sadie-Hawkins dance with me?"
-"I would love to Sophie!"
-"I just thought you would have already been asked!" red
-"No, I don't have that many women chasing after me" wink
-"Hah, yeah I couldn't imagine why." wink
.............................................................................................................Sigh
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Mumbling agreements
Or gentle dissents,
Some too ****** to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left hand side”).
One spills red wine onto white cloth
And they all laugh longer than necessary
About the irony of it all
Even though there was no irony
In the situation to begin with.
There are a small handful of male guests
That I feel I could get along with.
I give way in the doorway
For the hostess to deliver nibbles.
There are a handful of female guests
That I think I’d like to ****
(the hostess included),
But none of this allays the reluctance
To step through the threshold.
The hostess exits the room
As I pin myself to the hallway wall,
“It could be you”, I think,
And try to relay this through a raised eyebrow smile
That goes unnoticed.
I attempt my break in
Just as the conversation turns to
The importance of contemporary art
In modern society
And the relevance of Jim Morrison’s poetry
In the cerebral world of words.
I search audibly for a conversation
Centred around Adele’s latest album release…
And I NEVER, on a good day, want to talk about THAT.
In for a penny, I take the step with a fuzzy indifference
And am drawn to a hand extending the offer of a spliff,
And to the ***** of empty wine glass on full bottle,
And a “will you, won’t you?” expression,
And I trip and fall over a synthetic fur rug
Lying, recumbent, too scared to take my eyes
Off the pendulum light bulb that hovers above me
And all I can think is that the hallway
Was a much safer place to be.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if I'll find a love
That buys me roses every Monday
Even after fifty years,
Or walks across a thousand miles
To deliver a snowbound love letter,
Or drives six hours as a surprise
To attend a Sadie Hawkins dance --
And then I think I'll be content
With someone who calls every once in a while.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
Meeting my grandson Rex
what a gift to be a grandma again
There's no words to describe it
As I look in his eyes
I see the world
I see what my life
is worth
All the struggles
All the trials I've experienced
I know it was all worth it
It brought me to this moment.
I am grateful
Now I understand
This is the gift
The love the reward
To be a mom
now a grandma
There is no words
There is love
True love
Thanks for you
My grandsons
I am blessed !
Rex Emil Bear
Attitcus Hawkins
© Jennifer L Delong
1/7/2025
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 12:24 AM UTC
I'm waterproof positive:
This may be John Hawkins's ship
But I've no idea why that matters.
This is disease infested waters,
And piracy is highly contagious,
I should know.
I grew up on the same street as money,
But he migrated to Los Angeles,
Where there was greater curb appeal.
This life is a house of stairs,
And no one walks
The plank better than me.
But all too soon
This old vessel is firewood
And tread board.
It might be the new world,
But the pilgrims are covered
In Spanish moss,
Mixed warning signs on their hats.
We pirates are forgetful escapists,
Doing high wire acts at sea,
To harbor regret is to mutiny
In thy heart,
I should know.
But I don't.
Seems my mind has gone
And given me the slip,
Meet me for a pint
At the Crooked Wig
And we'll talk shop...
Maybe.
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 1:57 PM UTC
Singing Oh Happy Day!!
Sister Act Oh Happy Day HD
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zT8AyfsFmA
Oh Happy Day - The Edwin Hawkins Singers
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfGDvDGE7zk
Oh Happy Day
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cJJGgRlQi8
seeing since I am at the Hawaiian Brian's shop and there are um, no speakers to be found, lets just plaster a few and hope one sticks with some true grit and giddy *** my trigger girl.
Aretha Franklin: Oh Happy Day
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wb7D-W-QW-8
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
In my Country
there's an epidemic of poor posture
with no one teaching us
how to hold our guts
I traveled to faraway lands
to learn the secret
of ******* in my *****
its like walking in between
two closely parked cars
as a young lad
I stood alongside another boy
cream of the crop
slick hair blonde and mine black
one girl left for her choosing
between us side by side
Sadie Hawkins went with the other fella
and I heard the adults behind me wince
it taught me something about my pecking order
in the meat market
yet it turned out the prettiest girl at the dance
still had the last choice
and it was me
we held each other close for a time
and the music played on
white gloves and shuffling black leather, thick soles
Is our name a destiny?
Why did Caleb advise immediately take the Land?
for his faith a bounty
these knights and conquering heroes
conquistador cops
vice squads ICE raids
trade war kinderlagers
borders and the shame
of the human smell
unwashed, ***** tired
I'm not that good, I haven't washed many feet
even my own are ***** sometimes
because my floors collect dust and dirt from the porch
that wasn't swept before I came
but I'm glad to be here
a chess board on the floor
and a fern that might make it
tomorrow
we hope to be better
tomorrow
like a new morning
looking out a bright window
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
They ‘pressed me on His Majesty’s frigate
The H.M.S. Carew,
It only took me a day to find
I was lodged with the Devils’s crew,
The Captain, ‘Black Jack’ Hawkins
Was a gentleman by name,
But on the ship he used the whip
To his undying shame.
I slipped and fell from the foremast arm
When I caught my foot in a stay,
And though a net kept me safe from harm
That wasn’t the Captain’s way,
He said I’d swim for my mortal sin
Told the crew to rope me through,
Then dragged me over the side and said,
‘We’re going to keel-haul you.’
The barnacles on the Carew’s hull
Nearly tore my back to shreds,
My lungs were so close to bursting that
I thought that I was dead.
They hauled me over the side again
The deck was red from my back,
At least I knew I was safe again
From a sudden shark attack.
They rubbed raw salt in my many wounds
Till I thought I was in hell,
While some of the crew had mocked and jeered
The Devil’s own cartel,
They wore tattoos of the skull and bones
It was strange for a Royal crew,
But they themselves had been Impressed
So they hated Hawkins too.
He used to stand on the quarter-deck
Quite close to the starboard rail,
Where he could see any slacking off
While we were under sail,
He’d tie the men to the nearest mast
And would whip, before the crew,
Till every man was inflamed and raw
And would plot what they would do.
It fell to me to devise a plan
That everyone agreed,
We had to get rid of this Devil man
It became our only creed,
So I took a rope when I climbed the mast
That was fixed above his head,
Then swung and booted him over the rail
So we thought that he was dead.
The crew then dashed to the starboard side
And they all looked down and cursed,
For Hawkins floated upon the tide,'
It couldn’t be much worse,
He shouted up, ‘This is mutiny!
I’ll flay that man to the bone.’
But all he got were the jeers of the crew
As the Captain sank like a stone.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
CURRICULUM
Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack
Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity
Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb
For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking
You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
That lonesome,
Long distance
Kind of love.
Shared through
The microwaves,
Images he will treasure
In the darkness
Of his motel room.
They will be his only
Flicker of light
For the next 5 days,
His own solitary pleasure.
He will gaze into that full
Bright handheld moon
And imagine
Floating gently into
It’s haze, losing himself
Slowly, bit by bit,
Measure by measure
While she waits
Patiently on the other
Side of the world,
Assisting,
Offering,
Pleasing
At his leisure
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
Here’s the deal
Here’s the truth
Ladies, listen up
Take some advice from this guy
Be prepared, take a chance
Most of us are awful shy
We’re scared of rejection
Maybe just in awe
Can’t believe you’d go for us
I’m laying down the law
From now on it’s Sadie Hawkins Day
Ask that man to dance
Or for a cup of coffee
Because perchance
You might find Mr. Right
To make up for all those Mr. Wrongs
It’s easy, all you do is try
They’ll fall into your arms
So every day, if you meet someone
Who could float your boat
Give him the opportunity
Let him know there’s hope
That he could maybe fall in love
At least have a good time
Practice ‘til you get it right
You’ll be surprised how easy it is
Try with all your might
It will work out fine
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
~for Steve and Marshall~
“*And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray,
While the joys that are sweetest are passing away;
And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn
Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone,
While the drowsy world dreams on.*”
"The Drowsy World Dreams On" by Walter Everette Hawkins
<|>
my personal time ladder, nearer to the top step,
hungrily devour the photographs of time’s daily sweets,
every natural picture evokes gasping, wonderful wonder,
acutely aware and wary that this confirms my duality,
rejecting and welcoming the nearer end of my personal poem
the poems of many-a-day stored securely in the ever expanding
internet, for memory is the most untrustworthy partner, and who? will retrieve, reinspect them, clapping to their bright shining, who in teary wake, be commanded by my no more heart beat-throbbing, an irony unflattering, as my disposition ranking first among the
forever stillest
some few gleam and gone; in the wee hours, when I enter
the confessional, both priest and penitent, my sins gleam
for but a moment and the priest sadly informs, there is no prayer or poem that will forgive your multitude of poor paths taken, of love ungiven, craven cowardice of safety’s paths taken when choice was offered
these poems are merely
the residue of a life poorly lived,
poorly given, seeking no mercy,
for if I cannot forgive myself,
why should you?
10-18-21
11:39AM
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 11:29 PM UTC