"twelth" poems
Take the dead Christ to my chamber,
The Christ I brought from Rome;
Over all the tossing ocean,
He has reached his western home;
Bear him as in procession,
And lay him solemnly
Where, through weary night and morning,
He shall bear me company.
The name I bear is other
Than that I bore by birth,
And I've given life to children
Who'll grow and dwell on earth;
But the time comes swiftly towards me
(Nor do I bid it stay),
When the dead Christ will be more to me
Than all I hold to-day.
Lay the dead Christ beside me,
Oh, press him on my heart,
I would hold him long and painfully
Till the weary tears should start;
Till the divine contagion
Heal me of self and sin,
And the cold weight press wholly down
The pulse that chokes within.
Reproof and frost, they fret me,
Towards the free, the sunny lands,
From the chaos of existence
I stretch these feeble hands;
And, penitential, kneeling,
Pray God would not be wroth,
Who gave not the strength of feeling,
And strength of labor both.
Thou'rt but a wooden carving,
Defaced of worms, and old;
Yet more to me thou couldst not be
Wert thou all wrapt in gold,
Like the gem-bedizened baby
Which, at the Twelth-day noon,
They show from the Ara Coeli's steps,
To a merry dancing tune.
I ask of thee no wonders,
No changing white or red;
I dream not thou art living,
I love and prize thee dead.
That salutary deadness
I seek, through want and pain,
From which God's own high power can bid
Our virtue rise again.
1.9k
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil
am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle
you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential
see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing
think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited
for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain
my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn
they, the residuals of a man’s *********** with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa
Who else?
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
today is the twelth
and i wonder if
that had any effect on you at all.
or if you even looked at calendar.
because you're all i've thought about.
at my cousin's wedding
i had to go in the restroom
to hide away my tears.
and i got a stuffed animal.
her name is sage.
but murphy is much softer.
and i miss him
almost as much as i miss you.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
He lit up a cigarette.
His worries and problems haunted him.
He could never forget.
His indescressions were eating him.
His smile ever present.
He tried his hardest to be polite.
There was a strange presence
In his apartment that Autumn night.
The cigarette burned;
It would be his last one he decided.
He felt like dirt,
The fault of the colleagues he hated.
He adjusted his tie,
Combed his thinning middle-aged hair,
Wiped his tired eyes
And headed up the flight of stairs.
The first step is the hardest;
The first cut is the deepest;
The last smoke is the foulest.
He stops on the twelth step
and looks around.
Every direction is a long
way down.
Blackness behind him;
Blackness in front.
Everywhere is dark when
you're hiding from hurt.
The night is cold and beautiful.
Peaceful.
He doesn't say a word.
He doesn't sob or sigh.
He just walks to the edge;
And falls.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
the first time a boy cheated on me
I felt the earth ripped out from underneath my feet
the second time a boy cheated on me
I cried into my pillow and couldn't for the life of me fall asleep
the third time a boy cheated on me
I let my mother hold me
which I never do
the fourth time a boy cheated on me
my friends all told me you should do it too
the fifth time a boy cheated on me
I slept curled in a ball for days and days
the sixth time a boy cheated on me
he promised emma, its just a phase
the seventh time a boy cheated on me
I heard the line boys will be boys
the eighth time a boy cheated on me
I punched my closet door until my sister yelled
whats that noise
the ninth time a boy cheated on me
I drank until I felt the ***** racing through my veins
the tenth time a boy cheated on me
I traced my wrists with razors
down like high way lanes
the eleventh time a boy cheated on me
he said at least she isn't fat
the twelth time a boy cheated on me
I said no
**** that
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:40 AM UTC
the first time he cheated on me
I felt the earth ripped out from underneath my feet
the second time he cheated on me
I cried into my pillow and couldn't for the life of me fall asleep
the third time he cheated on me
I let my mother hold me
which I never do
the fourth time he cheated on me
my friends told me you should do it too
the fifth time he cheated on me
I slept curled in a ball for days and days
the sixth time he cheated on me
he promised emma, its just a phase
the seventh time he cheated on me
I heard the line boys will be boys
the eighth time he cheated on me
I punched my closet door until my sister yelled
whats that noise
the ninth time he cheated on me
I drank until I felt the ***** racing through my veins
the tenth time he cheated on me
I traced my wrists with razors
down like high way lanes
the eleventh time he cheated on me
he said at least she isn't fat
the twelth time he cheated on me
I said no
**** that
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
Is it not ironic that millions and millions of American
heterosexual teenagers more than over a half century
ago fell in love under the spell of Johnny Mathis's
love songs? I was one of them, and today I begin each
day listening to him sing his magical songs on YouTube
while I drink two cups of coffee with milk (ratio: 1: 1)
to wake up. I, like most of you, have spent much of
my free time listening to enchanting love songs. Someone
once asked me if I had a hobby. I paused for a few
moments, then replied, ""Yes, I do have a hobby. My
hobby is collecting beauty--beautiful music, beautiful
memories, beautiful sunsets, and the like." I think the
best single singer of my lifetime, male or female, is
Johnny Mathis, who is still alive and performing as
I write this. Remember "Chances Are," "The Twelth
of Never," "Wonderful, Wonderful" among countless
others? The irony of which I spoke? Johnny is gay.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 1:00 PM UTC