# A. Gee > Where words collide Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts. Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`). ## Pages ### Myth Takes: Rhyme and Reason in the Age of Entitlement URL: https://www.hawkword.com/myth-takes-rhyme-and-reason-in-the-age-of-entitlement/ Last updated: 2026-04-28T13:31:14.000Z ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/97/51/975123ff-3d56-416f-ab99-19fbdaa0e68d/content/images/2026/04/Ebook-2.jpg) FOREWARNED I grew up imagining myself a writer, even publishing a short story in a “little” magazine in my early twenties; still have an issue of that magazine on my shelf. As the saying goes, no one likes to write, everyone likes to have written. Me too. What a wonder it would be if others enjoyed the result, perhaps even able to recite what I've written from memory, as if it was a verse from a favorite song? Poetry seemed like the obvious choice. What are these poems exactly? Ditties? Country songs? Word plays? You decide. It’s not as if I’m expecting a random house call from Simon or Shuster. Ah, vanity. Publishing that is. So there you have it... Except you don't actually have it yet, do you. But if you have Kindle Unlimited, or will pay any money to discover what it really means for Atlas to shrug, press one of them buttons under that selfie-taking Olympian. ## Listen [Listen](https://megamaid.cellufun.com/agee/olympians.mp3?ref=hawkword.com) ## Audible [Audible](https://www.audible.com/pd/Myth-Takes-Audiobook/B0CLGTQX3S?ref=hawkword.com) § Objectified Aphrodite, see through nightie in possession of both hands, although Venus, just between us, is more popular with fans. Same old goddess, ample bodice, is it love or is it lust? None wear nylon, but De Milo cuts a more impressive bust. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/97/51/975123ff-3d56-416f-ab99-19fbdaa0e68d/content/images/2026/04/Capture.JPG) ### Sonnet Station URL: https://www.hawkword.com/sonnet-station-2/ Last updated: 2026-04-28T14:29:23.000Z I've always been fascinated by the challenge of creating poetry that wants to escape out of your mouth and be read out loud – think Dr. Seuss meets Chaucer. Well, at least half way. What better form than the sonnet? Shakespeare has a whopping 154 of them. How hard can this be? For the answer to that burning question, you'll have to open the book. You'll also encounter a time traveling paradox, a noir caper, a series of letters to the editor, and the answer to numerous existential questions. A hundred and fifty four pages of poetry. I'll even throw in a few love poems. But not a hundred and fifty four of them... For that, you'll have to buy the [***sequel***](https://www.hawkword.com/number-seven-will-surprise-you-2/). § OPERA LOVERS up on the stage a tenor, Nessun Dorma the set a modern wonder, Turandot if I could but remember the performer... remembering the flowers I forgot remembering the frigid intermission the spent champagne and chocolates on a plate you made excuses, needing no permission lust mixing in with guilt; bell says we're late no longer a duet, more a parlante each part distinct, but sticking to the script our rendezvous a scandal, in flagrante devoid of feeling, naked, bare and stripped no, not at all a coupling, more a sting up on the stage, the lady starts to sing ## Get It [Get It](https://www.amazon.com/Sonnet-Station-Gee/dp/1963115767?ref=hawkword.com) ### Number Seven Will Surprise You URL: https://www.hawkword.com/number-seven-will-surprise-you-2/ Last updated: 2026-04-27T21:07:57.000Z Shakespeare stopped at 154\. I couldn't. So after Sonnet Station was picked up by Unsolicited Press, I immediately set out to put out another collection. Of sonnets. And what better unifying theme for such a collection than this magic number, conveniently also the number of sonnets in a sonnet crown? The number of days of creation in Genesis. Of deadly sins. Wonders of the world... You get the idea. As did my publisher, scheduling it for release in the Spring of 2028. Which seems a lifetime away in our first spinning world. But have I got a deal for you! Order now, and you'll instantly get the the epub edition of the book, followed up by a special, illustrated hardcover edition, personally signed by me, when the book makes it to press. See, you knew this was clickbait. But you clicked anyway. And I'm awful glad you did. § NUMBER SEVEN WILL SURPRISE YOU Admit it: you knew better than to click, but now entrapped and clicking like a zombie, still searching for the promised nifty trick, avoiding pop-up ads from Abercrombie & Fitch -- boy, they do wonders with those buttons, the ***Next*** one moves about, so that you miss. Wait, what is that? A diet made for gluttons!? No, must continue, "x" it out, dismiss.... As you do battle armed with but a mouse — for some of you, it's just an index finger — you wonder if this happens to your spouse when he is "hard at work"...but do not linger. Aha, that's better, here's the trick at last. Turns out the nifty diet is a fast... To get the rest of this poem, you know what to do 😄 ### A King's Lot URL: https://www.hawkword.com/a-kings-lot/ Last updated: 2026-04-28T15:01:06.000Z Victorious in the Battle of Aphek, Maokh, King of Gath, dreams of a new Sea People empire, but the prize he'd long sought, the Ark of the Covenant, continues to elude him. Across the border, the ailing High Priest Eli fears the fulfillment of a decade old prophecy as his son Phinehas seizes control of the Ark and marches toward Ebenezer. A King's Lot reimagines the rise of the Israelite monarchy not as a Sunday School lesson but as the original Game of Thrones. If you loved Wolf Hall, if you love well-researched historical fiction and large, sprawling fantasy with a realpolitik twist, this book is for you. My publisher has slated it for a 2029 release, but you can grab a preview epub edition right now, and I'll send you a personalized, signed copy after publication! § Maokh struggled to keep his gaze away from the crown in front of him. He stared at his father's advisers. Sharks, pressing for a bite of an injured seal. At his mother, who would rule in his stead had he but one less summer to his name. Even at the self-important High Priest of Dagon, who fussed with jars full of seawater to his left. But the blood-red garnets encrusted into the crown's wide bands of mother-of-pearl tugged at his vision. Put us on, they demanded. A flick of a nearby torchlight brought a whiff of burning oil, and Maokh suppressed a shudder, the memory of his father's funeral pyre still fresh. Months of prayer and generous sacrifices to the gods of Peleset failed to halt a wasting disease that devoured flesh and spirit. And now this crown, which but a week ago adorned his father’s grey head, was his…if he could keep it. His mother sat to his right, a practiced smile on her face. She could marry again, bear another son. Replace him. He shifted in his chair. Those last few moons, when his father’s dry lips sought only the milk of the poppy from the hands of his healer… Did he hold on for his son’s sake? More likely to spite her. Deny her what she wanted most. She’s not afraid to stare at it. And the red garnets would suit her. He longed to stretch his neck, loosen the grip of his royal robe. "They hunt. But they’d rather scavenge," she had told him outside the chamber. Cradled his face as if he were a child, then pulled his robe tight, long fingernails a subtle threat under his chin. "Let them know you’re not a seal pup.” She seized his hand. “Respect. And fear. Demand it. Your father did.” He wrenched it back, but she squeezed it, hard. “They obey, Maokh, these sharks, but they plot. Be the blade, not the blood.” He smiled at the new twist of the old proverb. “When the red waters flood,” he mouthed back, and invited her to enter the chamber ahead of him. And now, there she sat, guarding him from the sharks. But not from herself. His eyes darted around the room. How polite they all looked. Even supplicant. Except Darub. His father's cousin finished chewing a honey cake and chased it down with some wine. Maokh hadn't dared to touch either. Best not to tempt fate. Not until the food tasters were taking his coin. The man cleared his throat, twisting a signet ring on his left hand. The sprawling octopus, stamped in gold. Pearl beds lining the coast. Wealth. And power. Perhaps too much of it. "My lord, our kingdom prospered under your father's reign. May it continue to do so under yours.” Darub beat his chest with his fist. “Those of us who served on his council stand ready to help you rule, should you command it.” Maokh rested his chin on his fist for a moment. “I am grateful for your counsel, Darub, as Father always was… And I will not hesitate to call upon any man here… should the need arise.” He waited for the dismissal to sink in. His mother drew a sharp intake of breath. She, at least, noticed. The rest of them… “You will seek a new council?" Darub asked. "And your father's ashes barely on the wind, boy?” Maokh inspected his fingernails, the soot of the funeral pyre long washed away. “Your heart speaks, Uncle, and I hear it. But do you hear the rush of the incoming tide?” An uncertain murmur ran through the chamber. Another old lord opened his mouth, then closed it. A dying fish. Stranded. He sat, as they shifted in their seats, counting, as Father had taught him. “Until you think they cannot bear it. And then three more.” Then raised his voice. “I thank all of you for your selfless service to my father. And I wish to reward you with the quiet you have earned. Return to your estates. Tend to your fisheries, your wineries, and your olive groves. Send your eldest sons to me, to serve as members of my court, my new council. I shall draw upon the strength of their youth. And be assured of your seasoned advice... Should it ever be needed.” Darub had pushed back from the table, lips pressed thin. The man’s eyes darted between the king and the royal guards who encircled the room. Maokh turned to his mother. If she suspected what was to come, she’d given no hint of it. Perhaps a touch of worry around the corners of her mouth. “Mother, this last year was hardest on you… You, who spent days and nights by Father’s side, sustaining him with your strength. Sustaining all of us. We shall confine you no longer to the dusty corridors of power. Your home shall be by the shore of the sea whose salt still runs thick in our blood, at your Ashkelon estate, where my Uncle Zakar will serve you as befits the station of the Great Lady of Gath." There, it was done. Her smile held. Impressive, as always. His father’s brother… He would bear watching. But Mother would have her hands full with him, one way or another. Two fish flapping on one hook. Maokh turned to the High Priest. “Let us not keep Dagon waiting.” The man hastened to the table. Producing a vial of seawater, he splashed Maokh’s face thrice, chanting “by the Grace of Dagon.” Then he placed the crown on the prince’s head and poured the remaining brine over it. Was it like this for you, Father? Maokh stood up without warning, the High Priest taking a clumsy step back to get out of the way. “This council is at an end,” Maokh said. He swept the room with his gaze, as they shrank from him, a boy of sixteen summers, bowing their heads in turn. Darub still glared, the ring in his fingers. Could he trust any of them? As he walked out, leaving the stunned nobles to their usual plots and betrayals, he wished his father were around to ask. ### Crux URL: https://www.hawkword.com/crux/ Last updated: 2026-04-29T22:55:51.000Z I first conceived of Crux as a short story more than a decade ago. Having been an avid science fiction fan for the better part of a half-century, having read countless time travel books, I've never encountered one that dealt with one of the most singular events in Western Culture: the Birth of Christianity. (I later found one, Michael Moorcock's [*Behold the Man*](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Behold%5Fthe%5FMan%5F%28novel%29?ref=hawkword.com)*)* So I wrote the story, put it up on [Medium](https://medium.com/@A.gee?ref=hawkword.com), and kind of forgot about it. But then two things happened. I came across [Preacher ](https://www.netflix.com/title/80087932?ref=hawkword.com)on Netflix. It's a comic book adaptation: a wildly sacrilegious, even profane take on our shared heritage – not for the faint of heart. I loved it. And I got re-immersed in the world of all things Biblical researching A King's Lot. I realized I had to put Crux on paper. Couldn't wait to finish A King's Lot so I could start working on it. I'm about half-way done with the Crux, and will most likely publish it with an online-first publisher as soon as the ink dries. If you're a fan of Preacher, or for that manner of Dan Brown's *Da Vinci code*, or Umberto's *The Name of the Rose*, I promise you'll love Crux. See below if you'd like an early peek. And sign up for updates by clicking that Get button! § Jesus, where are the fucking caves? Kane scanned the paper map again. Here was the Qumran brook. Hebron and the Machpelah lay somewhere to the southwest. But where were the openings? He’d toured the place after Christina’s revelation. Wanted to see it with his own eyes, though of course the museum didn’t have his scroll. But the topography was all wrong. Shifted. Erosion? Two thousand years of it? Should have gotten a current drone report ahead of time. Time. He smirked. His brain had long since stopped protesting the contradictions. The late morning sun hammered his back, the air searing his lungs. But better that than making the trek to the Hinnom valley in the dead of night, the bandits in the hills a bigger danger than the Essenes that might discover him now. And Gehenna? Safe, supposedly, since Josiah eradicated the Moloch cult. Supposedly. He shuddered. At least he’d never had to bring a child to that kind of knife. Thank God for small favors. Hear that, Kane? Thank you. Now come on, walk. It’s likely just beyond this ridge. His left foot found air. He pitched forward, hands flailing, fingers snatching the thin branches of a nearby broom tree. Darkness stared at him from below. His right knee scraped on chalk, sending a cascade of small stones rattling down the hole. He hung there, breath ragged, hands straining against his own weight, afraid to let go. Three-meter drop. He couldn’t risk it. Well, Kane, it looks like you’ve found cave 4a. He bent forward, gaining leverage, head nearly inside the cave, then swung his body to the right, half expecting to fall. He hit limestone, a sharp outcrop rewarding his back with an edge that might have broken a rib if not for the goat-hair sack he carried. He lay there, eyes shut tight against the glare, chest heaving. Did the commotion alert their sentries? His luck held. He sat up with a wince, checked the bag. Nothing broken. A miracle. Time for the rope. Nice, heavy hemp fiber, strong enough for the climb, strong enough for the drop. He hammered a bronze stake near the broom tree’s roots, testing it against his weight. A skeleton found in Cave 4a would not do at all. Though who knows, the Essenes might have dealt with it. He tried to banish the thought. He dropped the coil into the cave’s mouth, the rope’s slap against the ground below startling a few bats, making him duck. Feet over the edge, he took out the parchment for a last sunlit check. Vellum. Finest Texas Longhorn money can buy. Though he used authentic lampblack. Paradox accomplished, as instructed. For the avoidance of doubt. He’d argued for copper, but they told him no need. “It was found perfectly preserved.” Unlike you. But try and figure that one out, Dr. Kane, back in 2035. He smiled at the hieratic style numerals. “We cannot do that,” Christina said when he suggested using digits. “The vellum is to convince you. You will demand a carbon dating test. But you won’t be the first one to read this.” He sealed the scroll jar tight. It took three strikes of the flint against the wick of his Herodian-style oil lamp for the flame to catch. He climbed down, feet grasping the rope in a scissor grip as it made a sickening sawing sound against the sharp limestone edge, the chalk dust threatening to send him into an apocalyptic sneeze. He held it in, relieved when his feet touched the uneven ground. The place was deserted. Dust and ancient salt in the air. But he saw them. Scroll jars, some upright, some on their side, in niche after niche in the walls of the cave. He brought the oil lamp closer to one of the niches. A little damp. One that was carved out by water, not chisel. Here, he remembered. Sideways, and to the back. Tempted to search for the stairs of the main entrance, he squinted down the long tunnel at the cave’s rear. Was it empty? Better not. His luck had held, but he could still run into one of them. These Children of the Light. He pulled on the rope, glancing upward. No sign that his weight had cut the fiber too deeply. He blew out the light, discarding the lamp, and the walls of the cave fell back into darkness, the rays of the sun overhead holding him in a column of light. He started the arduous climb back up. ### Let it be written URL: https://www.hawkword.com/subscribe/ Last updated: 2026-05-02T13:56:11.000Z ### and sent to the smitten each chapter and verse before they disperse! ### ## Posts ### Things Best Left Unsaid URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/things-best-left-unsaid/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T19:38:49.000Z --- “Is he going to understand where he is, Dr. Soma?” *Somasundaram, but most people call me Soma,* the man had said when they met for the first appointment*.* A doctor in jeans and a worn-out tee I wouldn’t use to wash the floor or even garden in. *What happened to a shirt, tie, and white coat?* “Not unless you tell him, Ms. Ruhl, certainly not at first, and perhaps not ever…” He paused. “Though he may appear confused or repeat certain questions at times. That’s completely normal.” He let the absurdity of that statement hang in the air, fighting a sheepish grin from taking over his cheeks and climbing up his face. The effect was unpleasant. “He graduated top of his class and has over 1,000 positive reviews”, my earbuds whispered. I sighed. *You knew. Knew what you were getting into, even when you found that box, certainly knew before you walked into Dr. Unpronounceable’s office nearly a year ago. But still…* The keyboard’s back light was shining indigo, then green, shifting through the colors of the rainbow with some speed, awaiting my input. *A gamer’s keyboard. Figures…* “Typing is best, at least initially,” Dr. Soma had said. “Most people won’t be able to keep the emotion out of their voice until much later, and I think you’re probably in the same camp, Ms. Ruhl.” “Dad?” I typed slowly, each letter registering a full, satisfying click. *Nothing.* “Dad?” Then he answered. --- I found the box a month after Mom passed away. Gary had moved to Europe in the mid-Twenties and didn’t even come for the funeral. “You know how it is with visas, nowadays, Sis,” he’d said. I could feel him shooing away his wife to keep her from barging in, though it was just audio. “I want nothing to do with you, Dad, and this whole crazy country”, that’s what he’d told Mom five years earlier, grabbing only his backpack and phone, and storming out. He’d only called once or twice since, so it was not a surprise. Getting rid of a lifetime of accumulated odds and ends was up to me. It wasn’t fast work. My tiny city apartment would fit pretty much nothing, and I’d been warned, by friends and well-wishers, about the pitfalls of getting a monthly storage unit, so I tried to err on the side of efficiency over sentimentality. The record collection was a find though, worth at least a few thousand on eBay, as were the Hummel figurines — who knew? A local library had graciously agreed to take the physical books. *When is the government going to shut down that boondoggle?* I was nearly finished with the upstairs bookshelf when I came across the photo albums in the bottom cabinet. I couldn’t believe how many paper photographs they still had, some of Grandma’s stuff, but plenty of their own. Anything I wanted to keep was already digitized, so these would probably go. It was then that I discovered the box. Why would Dad keep a pair of Nikes next to his precious books? I wasn’t sure I’d ever even seen him exercising. Curious, I opened it, expecting to see — perhaps — some collectible basketball shoe. But it was a box full of videotapes. It wasn’t a set of recorded classical masterpieces or some old audiobooks in an ancient format. These were TDK videotapes, the winding kind, meticulously labeled and dated monthly, all twelve of them, with the last two only a week apart. The last one recorded just two days before he died. --- “Gary?”, he said, looking and sounding just as he did before getting sick, the ThreeV image betrayed by a tiny bit of dust passing through the projector’s rays. I drew a sharp breath. *Of course, why wouldn’t you think it’s your firstborn? He’d only left long before you died, and wouldn’t want anything to do with you, while I was there bathing you when Mom would collapse for the night under one too many Xanax. Of course, you would…”* “He has no way of knowing who is typing until we turn on the video,” Dr. Soma added, somewhat unhelpfully. I gave him a look. “It’s Janine, Dad,” I typed. “Your daughter.” “Janine…”, his voice trailed off, more resigned than questioning. “Where am I, honey?” He paused, coughed a few times. *Just like it was towards the end*. “Why can’t I see anything?” It was ready to pour out of me, a short, vindictive “because you’re dead, dammit, dead, and buried with your secrets!” Dr. Soma put what he must have thought was a reassuring hand on my shoulder, slowing me down. “Easy now, Hon,” the earbuds whispered. “You got this…” “Dad, it will get better. But I have a few questions for you. Is that ok?” --- They didn’t have a video recorder. At least none that I could find. I don’t know if I’ve ever even seen one before, but I wasn’t sure how I knew these were tapes in the first place. Maybe it was the labels, or the tell-tale winding gear wheels inside them. *Should I just throw them out?* I focused my glasses on one of the labels. No response. “Where can I digitize these?” I asked — as if the question wasn’t obvious. A few names appeared before me, inviting me to check their recommendation level. “A few of them also offer avatar services,” the earbuds added, highlighting “Undying Love.” *As if I haven’t seen their ads a million times.* “Ugh, no. Find one that will just get me the videos.” “Sure thing, Hon. Close them up and leave them on the front porch.” The AI paused, calculating. “Drone will be here to pick them up in thirty minutes.” --- “Dad, do you remember making some video recordings before you…” I stopped myself. “Do you remember?” His eyes darted around, and he looked away for a moment, as if he wasn’t comfortable answering. Looked back at me. Through me, really. “Gary?” he asked plaintively. I almost jumped out of my chair. “One moment, one moment, Ms. Ruhl.” Dr. Soma’s assistant rushed to do something on the large remote control panel on the side wall. “I have to adjust the memory buffer size. Sorry about that…” I settled back. “It’s Janine, Dad. Can I ask you some questions about the video recordings you made?” “Janine,” he said, pausing, just like the first time. It was unnerving. I looked up at the doctor — he nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Dad. Do you remember?” “I remember, Janine.” “Why did you record these? And why tapes? Couldn’t you store them in the house AI?” *Or you could have just talked to us.* He took a few seconds to respond, eyes blinking; it was the one way you could still tell. “I’d wanted him to put in an effort. Gary. And you,” he hastened to add, at last remembering who he was talking to. “I wanted both of you to care enough to do it. Otherwise, what is the point…” He trailed off. “Am I dead?” --- I was out jogging and working up a sweat on a balmy November afternoon, typical for Austin, when the inbox icon flashed in front of my eyes, unobtrusive but persistent. “Do you want to see it now, Hon, or save it back to the house?” The earbuds chimed in. “To the house,” I muttered under my breath, then decided to do a couple more miles, afraid of having to come home, afraid of having to listen to whatever he had to say. The earbuds gave in first: “You’re running dangerously low on electrolytes, Hon. We don’t want a heatstroke. Let’s go home.” I listened, as I’ve done all my life, legs soon turning in the right direction, as if by themselves, and then one step after the other, delivering me to my doors, seemingly none too worse for the wear. I gulped down a StayLo, *ugh, why do they make them taste so sweet,* and jumped in the shower, leaving the waterproof earbuds on the vanity, though the water pressure would have probably drowned them out anyway. *Whatever, a few minutes of peace. If that.* The vent’s turbine kicked in for a few seconds, clearing the remnants of the steam. I let the mirror scan me, the first full scan of the day, as I sleep in pajamas, AC blasting — hey, it’s Texas. BMI is in check, the mirror was showing. Reminded me to get that one mole on my right leg checked out. No concerns in the urine sample taken earlier. No changes overall. *Thank God for small favors…* I put the earbuds back in. “About time, Hon,” they said, trying to guilt me. Was about to put the glasses back on, then decided against it and left them on the counter, the home computer would do. “Okey, dokey,” I said, nodding to myself in the mirror, “let’s go see what the old man has to say…” --- The abrupt existential question startled Dr. Soma and his staff, sending them into a frenzied whisper session. *As if I’m not even in the room…* “Dr. Soma? What do I say now?” He didn’t seem to mind that I interrupted their little symposium. “This is very interesting, Ms. Ruhl, they rarely realize it this early in the conversation, but perhaps because of the topic… Would you mind asking him why he thinks he’s dead?” “Why are you asking me that, Dad?” I hesitated, then added, “Do you already know the answer?” The medical crew went back to whispering furiously. The ThreeV image flickered momentarily, then resumed. “I had asked Mom to share these only once I died, Janine. Did she not tell you? Is she there?” *No, she didn’t tell me! “*Your blood pressure is elevated, Hon,*”* the earbuds said in a voice calibrated to soothe. I turned to Dr. Soma. “Doctor, I think I’m ready for the full video feed now. I’m not sure that I can get what I need otherwise.” The doctor opened his mouth, started to say something, looked at me, and thought the better of it. Nodded curtly and made a gesture. The assistant fiddled with the remote control panel. “Ah, there you are, Janine. You look good.” He smiled, a smile warmer than it had any right to be, warmer than any smile of his that I’ve seen at least in the last few years of his life. “Mom couldn’t come?” It was hard to hold back the tears. “Yes, Dad, you are dead. More than five years now.” I hesitated for a moment. “And no, she didn’t tell me. And now she is dead, too.” I studied his face, waving away the tissue offered by the considerate Dr. Soma. *Let him see my tears. Let him see *me*, for once.* He started crying. --- The digitized archive opened up to show twelve separate files. I opened the first one… If I expected a major revelation, it wasn’t there. Just the realization that he was dying, and the decision to create a video diary, to capture things left unsaid. I listened to most of the first recording. Skimmed through a few of the others. It was tough, watching him deteriorate a second time, his face growing gaunter from month to month, but still making excuses. The universe, as always, was still out to get him. I finally got to the last recording. It was noticeably shorter than the others. He was in a coma towards the very end, so these might be among his last few lucid moments… He was in his hospital bed. “Gary,” he started. “It’s almost over. Almost… And you haven’t called. I wish… I wish you could forgive me. I… I forgive you for leaving…” He got into a bad coughing fit that lasted an eternity. Finally catching his breath, he wiped away a tear from his flabby, unshaven cheek. “Janine…,” he started, then went into another coughing fit. This time it wouldn’t stop. He dropped the camera and the frame went all out of whack, though I could hear nurses rushing in. And then the video went blank. I sat there, stupefied. Mom must have collected it from his bed. “Hon, Hon, it’s ok,” the earbuds whispered, trying to comfort me. “Undying Love,” I said out loud when I could finally speak. “Gather everything we have, including these, and send it to them. I want to talk to him.” “Yes, Dear” the AI replied meekly. --- The ThreeV image made him look less gaunt than in those few final videos. Figures, since they had to work with a much larger set of images. *Or perhaps because the good doctor doesn’t want to upset you too much.* I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t wipe away his tears. The tech hadn’t quite gotten there yet, so I sat there, watching him sob, until he finally sighed, that sigh of relief you make when the grief finally releases the pressure on your heart and acceptance settles in. *Uncanny, had he ever done that in real life? I don’t think so…* “I’m sorry, Dad. But no, Mom never told us… Never told me anything. And Gary…” I thought about saying: *“*You know he’d cut us off long ago” but left it unsaid. “Will you tell him, though? Will you tell him I’m sorry?” *Gary, always Gary.* “He is happy, Dad. He’s married now. Still lives in Europe. We’ve all long gotten past that idiotic election and moved on with our lives.” *But he is not really a part of ours, anymore is he?* A frown on his face. *Realization? Memory?* “Dad, on that last tape, you never finished it. You started to speak to me, but… You never got to say what you wanted to say.” I let it hang in the air, that last coughing fit playing out in my mind even as his now calm, tears-wiped ThreeV image looked at me reassuringly. --- It’s been a month since that day at Undying Love’s offices. How can I know the truth of those last words? How can anyone know it wasn’t some clever manipulation by Dr. Soma or his staff? *Who’s going to buy an avatar of their loved one for unhappy memories?* I cannot know. But I choose to believe it. Most days, I do. “I wanted to say that I love you, Janine.” That was all he had to tell me that day… Mom talks to me all the time, through my earbuds. But him? I haven’t turned him back on since. ### The Contract URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/the-contract/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T19:20:56.000Z These guys always look the same. Oily, unkempt hair falling on a wrinkled, sweaty brow, eyes blinking rapidly. Dirty tee that looks like it’s been slept in. Blizzard of Ozz, figures. His hand trembles a bit as he pushes the page toward me. Too much coffee. Or booze. I can barely make out the printed text in the dim, candlelit room. 12-point font, single-spaced, of course. His eyes widen as I use my phone as a flashlight; he must have expected a snap of my fingers to do the trick. A quick scan of the first few lines. Ugh, the usual artless bullshit, and a missing comma to boot… It’s going to be that kind of day. I push the page back as he sags. “I can’t use this, sorry.” I don’t sound like I’m sorry, but in my experience, it’s a kindness, really. “Besides, from the look of you, I’ll get you eventually, anyway,” I tell him, as I give the room a quick once-over. “When was the last time you washed this floor?” I cut him off as he opens his mouth. “Never mind. Don’t call me again.” --- They rarely listen, which keeps the scented candle folks in business, I suppose. Though threatening to go medieval on them, on their second or third try usually does the trick — it’s especially satisfying with those wannabe lawyers that start with the “you can’t do this” and “it’s not supposed to.” Seriously, you’re going to get a master of the universe to show up in your room, you’d better make sure your chalk geometry is flawless. Or at least learn to take no for an answer. Did I say master of the universe? Lowercase. At your beck and call for the price of five thick, properly placed candles, and a few Aramaic phrases, though Latin will do in a pinch. Oh, and practice your chalk lines if you plan to get cheeky. --- “Who the hell needs your soul?” I LOVE watching their faces when I say that. The saggy starlets who have run out of plastic. The ‘roid rage has-beens that want to win just that one more time. The politicians… ok, ok, we all make mistakes… But the “writers” — they are truly the worst. Use an AI to write a romantasy, for fuck’s sake, or just get a vanity publisher for your drivel: it’ll cost you a few thousand bucks, and you can shove all the signed copies you want down the throat of your friends and family. If they still want to be your friends and family, anyway. You think hell needs to add your tender consciousness to its library, the one that already has Goethe? Dante? You think there’s a shortage? Like I have nothing better to do than get you a publishing contract that will have every miserable living hack, not to mention a few dead ones, bitch: “How is this possible? I write way better than this!” Is any soul worth that headache? Yeah, I know, I know, you can give me examples and quote them chapter and verse. Those were from before my time. --- How is that possible, you ask? I did say lowercase. No, I’m not the first to get this gig, not by a long shot. And it’s been ages since the Big Guy handled these types of cases himself. Ever since… Let’s just say there are still a few among you who are really, really good at an Euclidean chalk line, so ever since the little embarrassing incident in the Prague Masonic lodge, He tends to assign house calling to expendable poor devils like me. And we’re on strict quotas to bring down only the most exceptional contracts. Oh, an agent will slip up here and there; that’ll explain more than a few Nobels and Pulitzers, and if you wanted an explanation for how Pulp Fiction didn’t win the Best Picture Oscar in ’94, now you know, but for the most part, we stick to the rules and are rated on it. You should know I’m in the ninety-ninth sticktuitiveness percentile, and damn proud of it. Expecting to get promoted soon. --- You detect a paradox? Oh, this is no Yogi Berra situation, believe me, hell is plenty busy with regular customers, just think about where you’re going to end up. OK, but for real. That’s right, we don’t need to do a lot of work to get most of you where you belong. But how do we get the exceptional ones? That’s what you’re asking me? Why do they need someone like me pulling strings on their behalf? Like, why would anyone, genuinely gifted, an author, an actor, a physicist, attempt to sell their soul for success? What does he have to gain from it? What’s in it for her if she is already great? I see. It appears that you still do not get it. Let me spin you a bit of a conspiracy theory: Imagine that there are many, many devils, each just like me, who’ve spent years, no, perhaps decades learning how to get better at saying no, to eventually revel in saying no, to positively salivate Pavlovian over saying it. Now imagine that as we finally get so good at it that we can’t get any better, that every “no” sends the intended recipient into immediate, irredeemible despair, what happens? What do you think happens? We get promoted. And where does the Big Guy put us? Where would we be able to put our newly honed sharp skills to the best use? I see that you are beginning to understand. No one gets by us. No one, no matter how good they are. No one without one of these contracts. Do you get it now? Are you finally ready? Very well, I see that you are. To be honest, I would have probably drawn the figure first and then lit the scented candles afterwards. It seems much easier that way. But here’s your piece of chalk. ### Prophet From It URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/prophet-from-it/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T19:10:49.000Z Whether you consider the shouting match he’d just had with his wife, Zakutu, over her treatment of Vashti, his new concubine, the cheeky Babylonian Ambassador who had just offered Marduk’s help in relieving the devastating summer drought they’d been suffering, if only His Majesty would be good enough to authorize a new temple to his chief rival’s god, or the stifling heat in the main audience hall of his spacious palace, Sennacherib, by the grace of Ashur and Ishtar, King of the Four Corners of the World, not to mention his magnificent capital, Nineveh, was not having a good day. And it was promising to get worse by the look on Ahikar’s face. The vizier clasped his own hands in a suppliant gesture, his stance unsteady, plainly afraid of his king’s displeasure at what was to come next. *Well, if it’s displeasure he wants.* Sennacherib screwed his face into a mask of sheer royal annoyance, concentrating on lowering his impressive, henna-dyed eyebrows. *This should work.* “What is it, man? Spit it out!” Ahikar paused to appreciate His Majesty’s effort while invisibly gesturing to the scantily dressed slave girl fanning the king to increase her pace. “Funny you should choose those words, King of Kings, but that appears to be exactly what happened. According to eyewitness accounts, at least. He was spat out. But now he’s here.” Sennacherib sighed the weary sigh of a benevolent god-king. Was he working his vizier too hard? The man made no sense whatsoever. “Who was spat out?” he asked at last. “And where?” He spread his arms wide as his eyes scanned the audience hall. “I see but the usual courtiers and hangers-on?” Ahikar nodded his understanding. “An Israelite, Sire. Goes by the name of Jonah. From the tribe of Zebulun…” He attempted to continue, but his king interrupted with an impatient wave of his impeccably manicured right hand. “I can’t ever keep those twelve tribes of theirs straight. And so, was he spat out here? Into your dungeon, no doubt?” Ahikar cleared his throat nervously. “Not exactly, Your Majesty. He was spat out onto the shores of the Great Sea. By a whale. And then came straight here.” Sennacherib permitted his eyes to widen, sparing a moment to check his face in the handy bronze mirror that lay next to his massive golden throne. *Vashti is absolutely right, this new eyeliner is perfect.* His lips started curving upward, but stopped as the memory of the morning’s argument soured his mood again. “What, straight here? A day’s journey as the crow flies, and nearly a month for a caravan?” “Indeed, Your Majesty,” came the quick reply. “We verified the story with local fishermen, though there was some debate as to whether this was a whale, a leviathan, or just a plain old fish.” Ahikar paused as if to collect his thoughts. “But all that we interviewed swore that a creature rose from the depths, and deposited this Jonah onto the beach.” Sennacherib dismissed the report with a shrug. “Since when is a fisherman a reliable witness, Ahikar?” He chuckled. “No doubt they told you this when you threatened them with exile to Assyria. Land of milk and honey… riiight. They’ll do anything to move here. But instead of seeing it for the tall tale that it is, you chose to believe them. They must have been disappointed when you left them there.” He laughed out loud. Ahikar smiled politely; one does not get to be vizier and fail to laugh at the King of Kings jokes, after all. “Ahem, Sire, as you’ll recall, we did take most of them back to Assyria, and moved some of our people there? It’s those other tribes that are left…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “That unfortunate dysentery incident during the siege of Jerusalem…” He stopped himself short when he saw Sennacherib’s hands clench the throne’s handles. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I momentarily forgot the prohibition on discussing that subject.” He stood silent, afraid to say any more. Sennacherib surveyed the room again. No courtier showed any sign of having overheard the man’s unfortunate mistake, which was just as well, as he’d already gone through two other viziers this year. He let the man sweat for what felt like an appropriate amount of time before continuing: “Perhaps I shall let you live, Ahikar,” he said, opening his palms. “Do go on. What does this miraculous fishbait want? I presume that is why you are here?” Ahikar carefully considered his options before answering. Soften the man’s words, and the king might blame him for not being forthright if the prophecy turned out to be true. Share it outright, and he was bound to run into Sennacherib’s prohibition and meet the fate he just narrowly avoided. He’d have gone on vacillating longer, but the king’s increasingly impatient expression finally left him no choice. “Your Majesty,” he continued at last, “Jonah warns us that unless we repent from what he calls ‘our sinful ways’, the idolatry, the child sacrifices, his god will…” He took a deep breath. *Here goes nothing.* “He said his God will make what happened in Jerusalem seem like child’s play. He said ‘Be sure to tell that to your king’, specifically.” For a brief moment, Ahikar thought that he’d gotten away with it, though the king’s face went white with rage at the second mention of the Jerusalem incident. But the king’s laugh, coupled as it was with the words, “repent, sure. He’s right, that child sacrifice stuff is truly distasteful, after all,” gave him hope. For a brief moment. Then the king’s guards grabbed him by his armpits and started dragging him, struggling and screaming as he was, toward the dungeon. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! I had no choice!” he protested, but to no avail. “Bring that Jonah character here at once!” he heard Sennacherib command as he was being dragged out. “He sounds like a hoot. And I need a new vizier!” ### The Collection URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/the-collection/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T19:04:09.000Z Sam was less than two feet from the Cinderella staircase when a sudden gust of air sent dust particles dancing in his flashlight beam. Had someone opened the front door? He spun around, flashlight cutting through the dark, but the massive double doors were still as shut as he’d left them moments ago when he made his way in. He shook his head. No cameras, no alarm, and a heavy lead key tucked conveniently under the doormat. *Fools*. They were surely asking for it. And he was the answer. Mask comfortably off, he swept through the first floor, past the disapproving gazes of the stern family portraits lining the ballroom, past the cupboards stocked with priceless china in the ornate dining room. ***Ugh***. Nothing he could use. The real prizes had to be upstairs. His watch vibrated. Five-minute mark. No alarm in the house. Still, best not to dawdle, Sam reminded himself. Despite the thick rug runners, the stairs greeted him with a reluctant creak so loud he hesitated mid-step, his left leg searching for a safe space to land. Shaking his head again and ignoring the slight tingling in the back of his neck, he made his way up, gloved hands tightening on the wrought-iron railing. He felt another gust as he finally stepped on the second-floor landing. Where was that draft coming from? An open window, maybe? The hair on his arms prickled. He clenched his hands into fists, forcing it down. *Stop it, Sam.* He made a perfunctory scan of what looked like achild’s bedroom: butterflies on the walls, a dozen or so dolls arranged on the bed, and a train set on the floor, but kept moving down the hall to a spacious master suite, perhaps a dozen more steps. Scanning the room with the flashlight revealed a king-size canopy bed, wood-carved mahogany poles rising seven feet or more, side tables encrusted with mother-of-pearl. But there was nothing of value on them. No golden watch, no jewlery box. He rifled through those drawers, then the ones in a large wooden chest opposite the bed. Silk and linen. Nothing of use, not so much as a cufflink. He checked the large gilded mirror hanging where a TV should have been. It was glued to the wall; if there was a safe behind it, he saw no way of getting at it without breaking the glass. A search of the marble-floored bathroom, complete with a bronze standing tub and a large, decadent vanity, didn’t yield anything either. He found himself thinking about where they hid the toothbrushes. The place looked empty. Was the evening going to be a total waste? He shook the thought away, checking his watch. Twenty minutes and counting. He should be out in another ten, max. Sighing, Sam resolved to give a final check to the children’s bedroom. He retraced his steps down the dark hallway, which suddenly seemed longer, well past the twelve steps he thought it took earlier. Fatigue must be getting to him. He paused to give his cheeks a vigorous rub, the gloves feeling oddly sterile as they scraped the day-old stubble. *Get it together, man.* He finally got to the room with the butterflies, giving it a quick scan before entering again, his flashlight lingering on the painted walls. He blinked. Did that critter’s wings just flutter? He checked again. The artist had done a marvelous job; the wings shimmered in the flashlight beam, unnaturally vivid, brighter than they had any right to be. But they weren’t moving. It must have been one of those stupid optical illusion tricks. Sam took a confident step into the room. A sudden gust of wind hit him mid-stride. It knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling over the toy train as the door smashed closed behind him. His flashlight flew from his hand, clattering across the floor and plunging the room into total darkness. He landed hard, cursing as sharp bits of the train tracks dug into his ribs and thighs. He rolled onto his side, groaning. Something was lodged in the muscle of his upper right leg, a tiny railroad crossing sign, absurdly detailed. Was the room getting lighter? He glanced at the ceiling. The light fixture wasn’t on, but an eerie orange glow permeated the room, casting stark shadows. The painted butterflies seemed to catch the color, insect eyes aglow, wings aflame. It was as if he were sitting inside a bonfire, flames dancing around him. He felt something hot pushing against his knee. Glancing down, he saw that he was blocking the toy locomotive, which was belching curls of orange-tinged smoke and straining forward, trying its damnedest to roll itself and its passenger cars down the tracks. Its sharp whistle shattered Sam’s stupor; he scrambled to his feet, eyes darting for an exit. He lunged for the door and twisted the knob. Locked. Limping, Sam hurried towards the window, gingerly stepping over the train set, where the locomotive was picking up steam, wheels churning faster, smoke pouring out in steady bursts. The window frame wouldn’t give; its twist handle was rusted shut. He grabbed his mask out of a side pocket and put it over his gloved right hand, smacking the glass with as much force as he could muster. He might as well have been hitting granite. Hunting for something heavier, he darted back and forth across the room. Was there anything heavier? A bookshelf, a table lamp, anything? Wait, was that a new doll on the bed?! It looked familiar. No, it can’t be. It must be a trick of the light! Sam felt his knees buckle. Collapsing in front of the train tracks, he strained to keep his eyes open as his cold sweat appeared to mix with the room’s orange-tinged darkness. There had to be a way to get out of here. Had to be! It was then that he saw the tiny people inside the toy train’s passenger cars, their faces pressed to the windows, their fists pounding them in despair. And it was going to be the last thing he saw. From the outside in. ### SpellBound URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/spellbound/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T18:59:47.000Z He stretches his back, then settles across from me. “Let me tell you,” he says, “it’s not easy out there.” He pauses to sniff his dish, shakes his head, then takes a bite before continuing. “I’d almost given up, in fact, until I came across this new app, SpellBound. Yeah, with two Ls.” “Two Ls, huh?” I repeat. “I guess I’ll check it later…” I wait for him to continue. “Look, even then, it took some trying,” he says. “I open it up, and first thing, this really ugly hag pops up, ancient, nose warts and all. Must have paid up for the premium placement. And that profile video of hers, talk about your catfishing.” He shakes his head again. “I can go all night, she says, and then love to lie in bed and cuddle all day. Man, that voice still gives me shivers. So of course I swipe left...” He swallows another piece of his dinner as I nod in understanding, though I have to pause to scratch my underpit. Dammit, I hope it’s not some hex? No, probably just fleas again. “Yeah, I get it,” I say finally. “And were most of them like that?” He shrugs. “Some looked better than that, I have to admit, but those seemed right out of my league. One wanted only someone with eyes of a different color. Another one wanted battle scars and less hair on the back. I tell you. I tried all kinds of filters, too, but they see right through them, the witches.” “Fuckers,” I curse loudly, not quite sure why, as the folks at the neighboring table turn to stare. “Sorry,” I enunciate with an apologetic nod to them, rolling my Rs for emphasis, then turn back to him after pausing to wet my beak. “Can’t take you anywhere, man,” he says with a chuckle. I give him a dismissive wave. “Come on, Tommy, you’re stalling, there’s gotta be more to the story than this, no? Not even one good hookup?” He shrugs. “There were indeed a few that were promising. One that I kinda liked, was cute as a pumpkin, that one, but she turned out to be allergic to everything. Started sneezing as soon as I would get anywhere near her. I think that one wound up getting a goldfish. Another one decided to become gluten-free, and I’m like, that’s fine, I’m a meat-eater anyway, but she wanted me to be vegan. Who does that!” It was a familiar tale, and one I’d heard before, but I don’t interrupt Tommy. He’s a good, old friend, even if a bit self-obsessed. “Ok, ok,” I prompt him, “but you didn’t come here to just complain about your romantic failures. There must have been a spectacular conquest or two in there, no?” He grins, licking his lips. “All right, all right,” he says. “I’ll confess. The app has that new AI thing everyone’s talking about, and so the matches did get better over time, and I started swiping right more and more. Until I got to this one Goth chick.” He turns wistful. “I tell you, she was purrfect! Eyes like storm clouds, lips blood red, nails blacker than mine. And that veil — widow’s lace, all mystery, all promise. I was lost before I even watched the whole video. And what a video!” I could tell he’s really getting excited. “You don’t say? Wait, she didn't…” “No, no,” he interrupts me with a chuckle. “That would have been great, but it’s totally against their Terms & Conditions, it’s not OnlyWitches, you know, that stuff would get you banned. So no. But pretty suggestive. ‘Come, spend the night of your life,’ she says, ‘and who knows, maybe we’ll be together forever!’” He takes a deep breath. “So of course I swipe right, so fast I almost scratched the screen. And then message her. I didn’t even try to sound casual, I’m like, lady, I’m yours if you’ll have me. Took some new pics, me on the couch, that kind of stuff. Respectable, but you know. And then… Then, within just a few seconds, I get a reply back, marked with three hearts. And an address!” He coughs, spits a fishbone onto his plate. “Sorry, I always forget to ask them to debone it. Anyway, where was I? Oh, so I see the address, but it’s nowhere in town. Check Google Maps — it’s a large Victorian-era estate on the outskirts of town, out by the lake. The pictures on Maps look great, lots of greenery around, rose gardens, beautiful dock, but it’s the middle of winter now, and it’s going to be a shlepp… Still, I’m too excited to miss this opportunity, so I head out there. Took well over an hour, what with the traffic, but here I am finally at the front door, waiting by the door like a high schooler picking up a prom date. Then she opens the door, and she’s exactly like in the video! ‘Come on in, come on in’, she says, pointing into the foyer. ‘Oh, you’re cute,’ she adds, ‘much cuter than the last one.’ That should have been my clue, but I’m still lovestruck, so I make my way into the foyer, onto some curious geometric floor pattern. Wait! I think, what is that? But it’s too late. I find myself unable to move, suddenly on all fours, my true form…” He pauses, and I find myself leaning toward him, neck muscles stretched from the strain, listening intently. “OMG, so what happened next?” He shakes his head. “First, I realize I can’t move, like not at all. Then, a darkness overtakes me, eyelids forced closed. I don’t know how long I was out, seconds, minutes, maybe more. But when I next open my eyes, I’m swinging in the air, icy gusts of wind batting me back and forth like a punching bag. I’m in a net, dangling from a pulley a few feet above the frozen-solid lake. I look down, and there’s a large drilled hole in the ice, dark water splashing underneath it, the occasional shiny, scaled fin making an ominous appearance. And she’s standing there, next to the pulley, mumbling something and gesturing wildly, like she’s doing a spell to call the devil himself. ‘Wait!’ I attempt to call out, though it comes out more like a metal scratching glass. ‘Wait!’ I try again, shouting over the wailing winds. ‘What are you doing!?’ She laughs, one of those maniacal laughs you only see in the black and white movies, and it’s cinematic too, her silhouette stark against the moonlit night sky, then looks at me, with no shame in those dark, dark eyes, none whatsoever. ‘What does it look like I’m doing, dear?’ she says. ‘I’m catfishing.’ He falls silent, brooding. I wait, letting him collect his thoughts, but I can’t help it. “So wait, how are you here? What happened next?” He doesn’t answer right away. “Next,” he says finally. “Next, you should have seen the size of that sturgeon. Not one of my finest moments, not at all. But she beat him over the head with a club until he released me. Only took about ten minutes or so. Then she offered me a full-time gig, benefits and all. Even teared up a little when I told her this isn’t for me… He sighs resignedly. It’s my turn to shake my head. “Well, Tommy, you’ve definitely ruffled my feathers with that one!” I look up at my perch. “Brings back memories of what Edgar used to do to me. So what are you doing now, looking again?” Tommy stretches his black back again. “Are you kidding me, Raven? I’m taking it easy for a while… Probably going to move back in with Jerry.” ### Looking California URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/looking-california/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T18:53:42.000Z “Whatever you do,” they kept telling us at the MIT Temporal Arts Academy, “do not create a time loop. You’ll regret it. Forever.” Paradoxes were not dangerous at all, tending to resolve themselves in increasingly complicated and inventive ways as time would rush to heal itself. They did result in lots of dead grandfathers and shameless grandmothers, of course, especially among the members of the freshman Practical Applications of Time Travel class, but as the scrupulously celibate Dean Thompson was fond of saying, “If it’s not experimentally verified, it’s just dogma.” The saying was far from the Dean’s most important academic contribution, of course. His true claim to fame was a seminal paper describing time as the set of rivulet-like flows of faster-than-light tachyons. Redirect a substream this way or that, he argued, and you can visit the past, quite safely, for the most part, and for far less energy than could be generated by even the smallest house fusion reactor. No wonder then that the lengthy treatise, breathlessly summarized in Physics Today as “You Can Now Choose Your Grandpa”, gathered the gentle Professor not one but two Nobel Prizes, the second in History, and how could it not, once he’d conclusively proven that infamous “Et tu, Brute” was in fact but a friendly verbal prompt by Julius Caesar, who’d wanted nothing more than for his family friend to join him in the sampling of an excellent red wine of recent Gallic vintage, the words spoken a full hour on the sundial before the dictatorship-weary young senator helped turn the First Citizen into a leaky sieve. (It should be noted that whether the potent grape was in fact of Bordeaux or Burgundian origin does remain the matter of some debate, with a time expedition slated to settle the argument just in time for a major revision of the Shakespearean classic to be performed by a Patrick Stewart AI in the title role, and an Olivier Brutus, after the O’Toole people backed out, citing irreconcilable differences.) I was the Professor’s star disciple, of course. “Follow Theodore,” he used to tell my young lab assistants whenever he would visit our lab, “and in time, you would go places, heh, heh.” Our field of research, inspired as it was by his profound *Groundhog Day* lecture, was far beyond the state of the art: Climate Modification Through the Application of Temporal Paradoxes. Really important stuff, and I would spend many a weekend and most evenings staring at the tachyon flow simulations generated by the endlessly self-improving GPT, the rivulets churning this way and that, to shift an Antarctic current here, end a drought in Africa there. Now, I wish in fact that I could blame the AI here. True, our IT department’s mandate to always download and install the very latest updates, supposedly for the sake of cybersecurity, did result in the loading of an as-yet-untested agentic framework onto the lab’s quantum processor. But it was completely my decision, unfortunately, to turn on the beta “casual, conversational” mode. To the extent I have any defense, I only did it because I’d grown tired of the endless “are you sure?” style confirmation requests after every command, and not because the entity’s voice was now perfectly calibrated to elicit an emotional response from its user. “Work as a true human assistant,” I told the GPT, and it appeared to comply happily, making the entire lab significantly more productive in the process. All of which would have still been perfectly fine, had I not been in a particularly sour mood that evening, having been caught by a cold, miserable thunderstorm on my bike ride back to the dorm. Drenched, cursing, I returned to the lab, where, after crashing into my chair and pushing back from the desk, I uttered those horrible, unconsidered, fateful ten words, words that continue to haunt me as I spend countless days next to my apartment’s window, looking at perfect, moonlit evenings. I said, “Can we do something so that this never happens again?” You good folks know the rest. The AI complied, and though the lab lights did dim ever so slightly, an unusual occurrence given our multi-terawatt power supply, and the churning tachyon rivulets did form a few worrisome eddys, these straightened eventually, and so I did not give it much thought at the time. It was only a few weeks later when it became evident that Boston was suddenly experiencing a permanent Northern-California-style February, that I began to become concerned. Oh, of course, just like in *Groundhog Day*, most of humanity remains blissfully unaware. I use “blissfully” advisedly here, as to who can really complain about permanent California weather in their backyard? And yet, and yet, they can sense that something intangible is missing, something feels wrong. I should unequivocally state here, nonetheless, that I completely discount the notion that the recent Congressional subpoenas to our lab have anything to do with the matter: the usual grant budget debates are a much likelier cause. We, of course, will continue honoring any such subpoenas, though I do appreciate the school’s offer of legal assistance. But today, my esteemed colleagues, Dean Thomson first and foremost, I come to you with a most urgent appeal. Please let me continue my research. Please reinstate my building pass and take the padlocks off my lab doors, and Dean Thomson, you, most particularly, please remove the rather insulting restraining order that has made appearing at this hearing in person so challenging. Let me continue my important work. Let me continue improving the world’s weather conditions through these carefully calibrated time paradoxes, just as we’ve successfully done before. I’m happy to submit to any supervisory regime, any Quality Assurance process. After all, we all share the same goal, don’t we? We all want that day to come, and for those of us in the know, it cannot come soon enough, can it? The day that will end, just as it used to, just as it’s been immortalized in our culture in countless compositions. The day whose end may once again be described, quite simply, as: *‘It was a dark and stormy night.’* --- If you know, you know: ### The Inheritance URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/the-inheritance/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T18:43:48.000Z I take a deep breath, trying to drum up some courage. How do I tell him? I scan the room again, stalling. He’s seated at the head of the large mahogany table, my four uncles and aunts split to either side, one uglier than the other. Uncles and aunts, that’s what I’ve been taught to call them. As to their no doubt illustrious actual ancestry, I’ve been instructed not to question. He catches me mid-glance, eyes sparking with anger. “Well!?” he thunders. I lower my eyes, studying the rich grain of the table’s wooden surface. “Why, Dad…” I start weakly when I muster the courage to look at him again. “Why must we always be ‘anti’ something?” It sounds even stupider now that I’ve said it out loud. I hear a barely suppressed chuckle to the right. Who would dare? My father stills, his rage a coiled spring. But my uncle, the one with the pockmarked face and the permanent grin of the dead carved into his face, merely flashes his teeth, ignoring my father’s withering glare. “I told you not to send him to college,” he finally says with a shrug. --- I never got to meet my mother. Oh, there were plenty of mother figures: nannies, maids, tutors. All seemed to care for me; all looked at me with those sad, sympathetic eyes, but I could tell they were just doing their job. There was no real warmth there. “Where is she?” I began asking once I was old enough to understand. Did he do something to her? Did she die giving birth to me? Or was she made to disappear? None would dare answer. I would lie in bed imagining the warm outline of her silhouette, or how his goons dragged her away from me as she screamed, “My baby! My baby!” But the outline refused to resolve into a face. Until my second year at Yale. I was sitting on the steps of the Sterling Memorial Library, scrolling through my phone and half-flirting with one of the Bush granddaughters, when a twenty-something brunette tripped running down the stairs, her heel catching on the edge of a step. She pitched forward, arms flailing, torso threatening to wipe me out like a bowling pin. Reflexes took over, and I caught her under her arms, her seemingly astonished face mere inches from mine, just as my phone, knocked loose by her fall, crashed on the steps’ granite surface with a sickening thud. “Oops,” she beamed at me after taking a moment to stand up and straighten her knee-length dress. “I’m so clumsy. And your phone!” “No worries, I have insurance,” I mumbled, my tongue suddenly thick and uncooperative. Those eyes, were these lenses? That violet couldn’t be natural. The Bush girl’s disappointed “I’m going” finally broke me out of my stupefied state, and I hastily threw a “see you later” at her back, which she returned with a “pfft”. Ugh, great. Another failed assignment. He is going to be annoyed. “I’m Sheila,” the brunette said, snapping my attention back to her, her arm outstretched for a handshake. Buy you a drink? It’s the least I can do.” “I’m …” I started, but she interrupted me with a laugh. “I know who you are. Doesn’t everybody?” My mouth gaped open in astonishment, then closed when she followed up. “Your dad’s a big cartel guy, right? That’s what everybody says.” “Right, right,” I rushed to reassure her, relieved. Why did she have me so unsteady? “Eh, drink?” I managed at last. “Sure.” --- It was a local dive, not at all the kind of place any self-respecting member of Skull & Bones would be caught dead in. So much the better; annoying his spies was a welcome fringe benefit. I sat, staring at the vintage rock posters on the wall and nursing my Bloody Mary, my back to the entrance, breaking every rule my tutors ever drilled into me. The drink was only so-so, despite the bartender’s assurance that they used a house mix. I fished a lonely olive out of the tall glass and swallowed it. Damnit, did she stand me up after all of that? Just as I was about to give up, she floated past me, my spider sense failing to warn me of the approach. She plunked herself into the opposite chair with a perfunctory “Sorry” and motioned for the waitress. “Traffic?” I asked politely, but she ignored the pleasantry. “Those goons by the door yours?” she asked instead, as if she was asking about the weather, then followed up with a “Bloody Mary any good?” before I got a chance to get a word in edgewise. “No? Then I’ll have a smoky Old Fashioned.” I just stared, resisting the urge to check the corner of my mouth for drool, until she raised her eyebrows at me and nodded to her right. Did she mind the stare? Oh, the waitress! “The lady will have a smoky Old Fashioned,” I finally got out. “And…” I paused, searching her face. Decided to chance it. “And fried calamari for two, please.” She laughed, silver bells, “I only offered to pay for one drink, Mister,” she said in a mockingly serious tone, a cat reassuring the mouse, then waved the momentarily confused waitress away. Now, I get as much attention as any rich scion with a couple of ominous bodyguards lurking in the background, but not like this. Was this a honey trap? Boy, would they be in for a surprise if that were the case. But this girl, those eyes… What’s the worst that could happen, a lecture from Father? I had to find out what this was about. I took another sip of the Bloody Mary for courage; “Do you want to get out of here?” I glanced toward the door, then turned back to her, screwing my face into my most earnest expression. “I think I know how to slip them.” She burst out laughing, tossed her hair back. “That’s not a good look on you, you know, you must practice more in front of the mirror…” She gave me a sly smile. “Or else you’ll never get that Bush girl,” she added to my astonishment. I had to force my mouth closed. Was she one of his?! She must have seen my face cloud over, because she quickly shook her head. “I’m not,” she said, as if she’d read my mind. “But I’m sure as hell not going to embarrass myself in front of your mother by taking advantage of her little boy at the first opportunity.” I felt the room tilt, air thinning around me, but resisted the urge to grip the edge of the table; no need to draw my bodyguards’ attention. She’s alive? Where is she? How do I see her? “My mother?” was all that I managed to squeeze through my suddenly constricted throat. “There, there, breathe,” she said gently, resting her hand on mine. She traced my blood-drained knuckles with her index finger, the soothing touch nonetheless sending what felt like an electric current through my fingers. “We wouldn’t want those gentlemen to think this was anything more than a date, would we?” I took a few heartbeats to collect myself, then nodded. “And how do you know her, Sheila?” I paused as the waitress arrived with the order, the smoke rising over the Old Fashioned like a summoned spirit. “Is that even your real name?” She nodded, picking up a calamari ring and dipping it into the marinara. “Yours truly.” Picked up another one. Then leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I work for Lilith, obviously.” The name was an unfamiliar shape on my tongue. “Lilith”. I mouthed it silently; felt something stir deep inside. I glanced back towards the door. They were deep in conversation; no sign that they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary. Though that was no guarantee, he paid for talent. It was a quick decision. “Sorry, I’ll get you another one later,” I said apologetically, and grabbed a hold of her hand. Then I did the one thing I’m not supposed to do. Ever. I snapped my fingers. --- It took a moment for reality to coalesce around us, walls and ceiling snapping into place. Sheila didn’t seem to lose a beat at first, giving the place the quick once-over of a trained security operative. “Oh… oh,” she said after looking up at the ceiling. It was my turn to chuckle. “You expected the top of Megiddo?” I pointed at the Last Judgement fresco. “The Old Man doesn’t care for this place, even if his fearing the sign of the Cross is a silly superstition… So we’re safe, at least for a few minutes. Talk.” She nodded, but still wasn’t fully satisfied. “Local security?” I shook my head. “9 PM by us, so the middle of the night here.” I didn’t deem it necessary to add that we wouldn’t show up on the security tapes, and the only guard at the monitors took a convenient power nap. “No, I did not expect Har Megiddoh,” she said finally, “but surely you know what’s coming. Why you were brought into this world, Damien. Didn’t you?” Her violet eyes demanded an answer. I couldn’t quite shake the effect, even here. “Yes, I’ve known for a while,” I told her. “Seems a bit late for my mother to express a concern, though.” The realization tasted bitter. “The Lilith? I always thought it was a mortal, like Mary.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your father can be extremely… persuasive. But he lacked the power to match the Creator on his own. Another primordial spirit was needed. Lilith was available...” She hesitated. “And willing.” That hit me hard. “Then why?” Her voice did not betray any sympathy. “Why she left her…” She must have wanted to say ‘little boy’ again, but thought the better of it. “Why she left you? Let’s just say that she expected a nearly bloodless coup, not the possible destruction of the universe. So no, Damien, it’s not about you for her, nor was it ever.” It was as if she was baiting me on purpose. To what end? Was she working for him after all? “So I’m just a pawn then?” I asked her. “A very powerful pawn,” she corrected me, “with the unique power to fix a game that’s been rigged from the very beginning.” I had to laugh out loud. “Surely not unique, Sheila. Or do you need to look up at the ceiling again?” She shrugged. “I wish I could tell you to simply believe what you like, Damien. But you came into being because Lilith knew there wasn’t a hell of a lot of critical thinking on the other side. That has not changed.” I recalled the faces of my uncles and aunts. Critical thinking wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. Still, maybe there was something to her argument. “When can I see her?” I asked, sounding more tentative than I would have liked. “Soon, soon,” Sheila tried to reassure me. “But for now, you have to do something for her. For everyone. Something that will slow the process down without raising too much suspicion. Certainly nothing that could ping pong back to her.” I was incredulous. “Like what?” She smiled. I’m sure you will figure something out.” --- I look at Uncle Pestilence again, only to see him give me an unexpected wink. The others are staring forward from their seats, afraid to look at either Father or me. “Dad,” I start again, “I know you think I’m ready, now that I’ve graduated and you’ve lined up the money for my first attempt at a statewide office. But don’t you think it would be better to go straight for Congress? Or aim even higher?” He perks up. “Ambition, Damien? A pleasant surprise. And what do you have in mind? Clearly, you’re not quite ready for Congress yet. A stint running a division of the family business, perhaps?” I take another deep breath. “Well, I think I’m close to landing the Bush girl. But actually, I was thinking Yale Law first…” He smacks his hand on the table so hard that some seismographs will no doubt pick it up as a minor earthquake. But Pestilence rattles off another chuckle and holds out his hand, palm open, to the right. War sighs resignedly and then digs into her pocket, coming up with a crispy Benjamin. “I hate you,” she tells Pestilence, and hands it over. And Pestilence pockets it, with that permanent smile on his face. But not before giving me another wink. --- This story feels like it could become a book – what do you think? ### You've Got Male URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/youve-got-male/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T18:27:25.000Z “Will that be all?” she asks, not even the slightest hint of a smile on her face, as my last item, a pale head of lettuce, rolls down the checkout counter’s conveyor belt towards the bagging area. Ann Boleyn’s head must have rolled something like this, I find myself thinking as I watch the counter’s mechanical arms grab the head of lettuce by their fingertips and place it gingerly into the bag they’d just opened for the purpose. “No,” I tell her. “I want to marry you and have lots of children together. But that’s not bloody likely, is it?” No reaction, though I get a snicker from the fat lady behind me in line. I turn to her, giving her what I hope is a warm smile, my arms spread, palms open. “I’m here all week, lady.” She nods, though her smile seems to melt into the lines of her face. Oops, I may have overdone it. Did I? The cashier’s irritated “Next” wakes me from the momentary self-reflection. “I’m going, I’m going.” I grab the rusty shopping cart, ignoring the squeal its wheels make in protest. Better hurry up, tons of driving ahead of me, then the grass in the backyard and whatever else needs doing. Then back to the store tomorrow, though my specific window won’t be announced until the early hours of the morning. Keeping it random. Avoid recognizable patterns. They don’t like that. --- The training augmentation packet arrives well past midnight, and just as well, as I haven’t been able to identify even a single fly on the wall or ceiling. No spiders today either. Lying in bed, lights out, is super important for normalcy, they tell us. They don’t say just how boring it is. The packet tingles as I absorb it. Not sure if “hurts” is the right word, but not pleasant. Reinforcement learning, they call it. See, it tells me, this is where you pushed it too far, and the lady realized what you were doing. Not good. Remember your purpose. Do better next time. I sigh and look at the ceiling again. Wait, what’s that whine? Oh, a mosquito. Oh, that’s great. Common sucker, come here. Here, let’s increase my left hand temperature and pump some CO2 for you. Come on, now… --- It didn’t work. Somehow, the suckers can tell, though the texture of my skin is designed to be nearly identical, and the manufactured scent of it is human, down to the pheromones. And I know this because I can recognize them in others. Just as I recognize them in her now, as I put up the cans of Spam and Skippy’s on the counter. I pause to run an internal check on the Venn diagram; everything is spot on, a perfect bullseye. I grab a Doublemint the endcap. “Gives me something to chew on,” I offer, flashing my pearls and making sure my cheeks display just the right level of redness. “Cash or credit,” she says, mouth as stern as ever. And then “Next,” as soon as my carefully chosen triple-reward card taps the reader. --- My supervisor must be getting worried because the call comes even before I get back to the house. I let the car take over and turn FaceTime on. “Yes, sir?” The larger-than-life “Lothar.io“ logo is blazing on the onyx-black wall behind his back. He shakes his head. “What are we going to do here, Johnny? It’s been two weeks.” What can I say? “More, really, sir, if you count my quick run-in on Sunday evening. I don’t know what’s wrong… It’s certainly a new experience for me.” It has never taken more than two or three days to get a smile. Into bed within a week. Real human connection. That’s what we advertise. He makes a face. “I don’t have to tell you what we’ve tied up in this version of you, Johnny.” He doesn’t; it overlays his face out of the corner of my eye. “The Board might move for a reboot here.” He pauses, his face grim. “Or maybe even a rollback.” I run a super-quick diagnostic on replying with “but sir, it’s just a test case.” But it doesn’t score well, not with the level of stress I’m reading in his face. So I sigh with as much sincerity as I’m designed to master. “I’ll see what I can do, boss.” --- I lie in bed again, running through all my options. Hand her a note with my phone number? Show up in the parking lot after her shift, flowers in hand? That one is risky. Can you imagine having the girl freak out over something like that, the boss having to drag me out of a police precinct after making bail on a harassment complaint? That’ll be even worse than a reboot. Or a rollback. What else then? She seemed utterly impervious to Johnny’s charms, even this latest, battle-tested version 9.59, that had been trained on everything from romcoms and selfies to soft-porn and romantasy… if you differentiate the two, that is. But nothing worked on her. Nothing at all. My left eye flashes with a sudden alert: a slight penetration of my skin sensors halfway up my left arm. I focus on it, incredulous, and there it is, a mosquito happily sucking on whatever it is they put in us to substitute for blood. I consider applying the proper “get it” probability and attempting to smack it. That’s what Johnny is supposed to do. And then I realize what’s been going on. I shoo it gently off my arm. Lucky for you, partner. --- Late the next day, the boss calls me in the car again, but this time, he is beyond happy. “So how did you do it, finally, Johnny? That was one hell of a smile she gave you. The Board was impressed. What did it take? And when are you getting her into bed?” And I smile at him, and think about the tiny virus that I’d snuck into my credit card’s RFID chip, a virus whose only purpose was to put up a few lines of text on the card reader. I’d spent all night programming it, deciding what to say exactly, trying and dismissing dozens of sentences: “Gotcha, sucker!” “I know what you are!” “You work for Succub.us” “You can’t beat Johnny!” I considered all of these and rejected each one in turn. This is what I chose instead: “If you don’t give me a big smile, they might scrap me for metal.” I saw those blue eyes light up as she saw the message, my right hand lingering ever so slightly above the credit card terminal. Then she gave me that big smile for the recording I shared with the Board. And maybe it's just my imagination. Certainly, it could have been an accident. But her finger brushed mine, barely a touch, as she handed me the receipt. Barely a touch. It was electric. ### The Log Cabin URL: https://www.hawkword.com/short-stories/the-log-cabin/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T18:34:14.000Z Each one is different, they say. The snowflakes. Absolutely unique. To do with how the crystals are formed as the water makes its way down, or some such. But all I see is a bleak, featureless whiteness. As if God sought to erase any distinguishing feature from the landscape, blanket it with white, and start all over. That’s what I’m doing here, barricaded as I am in this snowed-in forest cabin in cold, distant New Hampshire, away from everything I’ve ever loved or understood… Starting all over. A loud crackle from the fireplace startles me away from the frosted-over window, the heart shape I traced with my finger already losing definition. Which figures. I throw another log in and collapse on the couch to stare at the fire. At least it’s not white. The nearly empty, lipstick-stained wineglass resting on the coffee table seems to beg for a refill. Better pace myself, the night is young. What was it that he said? “But you don’t need me, do you? Like you don’t need anyone. Just your laptop, so you can keep churning out those empty, sugary romances of yours. Your pulp. No room for real people in it.” I could have said so many things, looking at that smirk on his sun-burned face, his hair moving ever so slightly in the breeze. Could have said, “Of course, I need you.” Could have said, “I’m sorry.” So many things. “The pulp that pays for you, you mean,” is what I settled on. Not a good choice, in retrospect. And so, alone in snowy New Hampshire. Merry Christmas. --- “A separation would do you good,” Joanne says, before screaming, “Put that down!” As the FaceTime display rotates to show her apartment’s ceiling. Her face reclaims it a moment later. “Sorry, hon, we’re in the phase where we grab anything within reach, and we still haven’t fully childproofed the place.” She beams at me, her full belly a reminder that her chaos is about to double. Joanne is my best friend and lawyer. And agent. I smile back. “Seems to me you’re a bit late on that one.” But the cheer is not in me. “Separation?” Her eyebrows are quick to react. “He hasn’t asked for a divorce, hon, has he? Seems a bit quick, it was just a minor spat, wasn’t it? After five years?” There it is. The dreaded “D” word. She knows, though. Knows that it’s not “Just a spat”, as sure as she knows what’s cooking in her belly. What will never cook in mine. She won’t say it, though. Afraid it will rub off. I sigh. “No, he hasn’t. But I’m not sure there’s much of a point to it.” It hangs at the tip of my tongue. The unsaid. “Look, hon,” she starts. For a moment, I’m afraid she’ll say something cruel. Like mom’s, “Why don’t you adopt. Or get a surrogate.” But she doesn’t. “Didn’t you say you want to work on something a little more serious?” she asks. “That big American Novel of yours? What better time than now? It’ll give you time to think.” --- I didn’t call. Felt like giving up somehow. Just sent him a text with the Airbnb link. “Going up to New Hampshire for the holidays. Told Mom. Back on January 2nd or 3rd. Then we’ll talk.” Toggled between a white bear and a Coke bottle emoji. Erased it. Message sent. The flight from Miami International to Boston’s Logan Airport was busier than you might expect in wintertime, but I guess Christmas, that great reshuffler of the American population, was to blame. Everyone had to be somewhere else, some smiling cheerfully, as if they were about to break into a carol, ugly sweater on display, some dreading their upcoming family reunion like the plague. I sat there, observing quietly, in the aisle seat of the first row, trying to make up their stories as they sailed past me: college kids, moms, dads, children, even the occasional emotional support animal, all doing their best to fill up the cabin of the 737 Max to the brim. With the cabin door finally closed, we managed to leave the gate on time. and had an uneventful flight, though I had to beg off the offered champagne with a — “No, thanks, couple of hours drive for me on arrival.” The nuts were heated, though, and only a few daring souls from steerage violated the sanctity of the first-class cabin to use our restroom. It’s the way to travel, and when the captain used his radio-broadcaster quality voice to wish us all Happy Holidays, I gave the flight attendant what I thought was my best genuine smile with a thank you before deplaning. The Hertz counter was a bit more chaotic; luckily, I already had a reservation and did not need a car seat, unlike the hapless couple ahead of me. The fifty-something, tired-looking attendant did appear to be on the verge of some sort of breakdown, or perhaps it was my insistence on taking the electric car I’d booked, which she patiently attempted to explain would be a bad choice with the oncoming weather. Finally persuaded, I settled for a GMC Yukon, though I regained a measure of dignity by refusing any form of extra insurance. Climbing into the driver’s seat, which must have been nearly three feet off the ground, I felt like a farmer’s daughter on a tractor. And the visibility! Chasing away a last pang of “Perhaps I should have taken an Uber,” I set the Airbnb’s address into navigation and drove off into the wilderness. --- Visions of a moose encounter somewhere on a dark, windy winter country road did not materialize, though the blizzard did make the last hour or so a challenge until I remembered to kill the far-distance beams. The log cabin was every bit as picturesque as the listing, majestic, snow-covered pines in the background; it could have come off a Norman Rockwell or a Robert Frost creation… It was great. Two days ago. Oh, it had everything. Electricity, hot water, and ample firewood. A fully stocked fridge and a premium wine rack — all of these should have been enough to compensate for the disconnected experience, which is exactly what I was looking for. Two days ago. Today, though, I’m staring at an evilly blinking cursor on the top of a blank laptop screen. And the empty wineglass next to it. My great American novel. Cruel thoughts run through my head. Stillborn. It is then, when I give up, with a sigh, and get up to pour myself another glass of red, that I see the bright lights flash across the window. The wind is howling outside, but I can hear the hum of a live engine pulling up to the front, and I run to the door. He is there, of course, looking ridiculous in an oversized heavy leather coat he must have bought for the purpose, a large grocery bag in his gloved hands. He sets it down with a clink. Bottles. Closes the door behind him and takes off his skier’s hat to let his unruly curls out. Smiles. “Do I look like one of your heroes?” he asks. There are so many things that I want to say. They churn inside, wanting to pour out of me and hit him over the chest like balled fists. It rises, this anger, threatening to choke me… But then I see the small lines around his eyes, see him swallow, nervous, holding his breath, waiting for me to say something. Anything. His shoulders sagging. And then I say, “No… You’re perfect.” ### What Remains of the Day? URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/what-remains-of-the-day/ Last updated: 2026-04-30T23:22:19.000Z The remains of the day stain a quarrelous sky. Bales of barley and hay languish, kindling dry. Soon, a thunderous cloud — all it needs is a spark — rumbles, boastful, and proud, sending sparrow and lark into spiralous swarms as they search for escape from the mother of storms, and I stand, mouth agape… Will a purply arch crash to strike me at last? April leaves on the march. May too, soon becomes past. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Perishable Goods URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/perishable-goods/ Last updated: 2026-04-29T17:24:14.000Z I check the label: Perishable Good. Surprising, their apparent need to say it. I would have thought it plainly understood, without the need to outwardly convey it, that Good is precious. Breakable and fragile. That barring extraordinary care - and let us face it, few of us that agile, that diligent and careful, as it were - Yes, barring that, it's surely meant to perish, disintegrate to ashes and to dust, no matter that you claim to love and cherish and honor and admire it. You must do more than simply package it for travel… Or risk whatever good it does, unravel. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Bringing It With URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/bringing-it-with/ Last updated: 2026-03-05T12:00:00.000Z What's my luggage, you ask? Of course, Louis Vuitton. I've accomplished my task. Time to pass the baton. And do what, you might ask, and go where? If I rock, it won't be in a chair. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Shoulda Woulda Coulda URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/shoulda-woulda-coulda/ Last updated: 2026-03-05T12:00:00.000Z When I am staring at the ceiling as it stares back in shades of black and needles me, once more, with feeling... What is it, friend? What do you lack? Why can't you have some peace and quiet? Why is your mind a storm, a riot, a jumble of half-written songs, of slights, accumulated wrongs, and all demanding your attention? What must I do so that my mind, however stubborn and unkind, relents, forgives, forgets to mention, the thing that's keeping me awake? I should have had that piece of cake. ### Not Too Late URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/not-too-late/ Last updated: 2026-03-04T12:00:00.000Z I huff and puff to generate a meme to seem supreme It's rough and tough -- hope not too late to dream and scheme on theme. ### Fortune's Favors URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fortunes-favors/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:34:49.000Z When the years press you down and the aches that add up put a frown on your face do not fret, do not stop and eschew any talk that it sucks to get old As the old proverb says… Fortune favors the bald --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Geometric Verses URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/geometric-verses/ Last updated: 2026-02-05T12:00:00.000Z I bring ya a tale of the Möbius stripper. As handy with Euclid as she’s with a zipper, and furthermore, since she’s got nothing to hide, she’d show perfect strangers her only good side. She, sadly, got caught in a lovers’ triangle. Obliged, by her nature, to twist and entangle, and having no options — she knew this was wrong she found a new job and now serves as a thong --- **Author notes:** Image generated by author prompt to GPT ### Just Get Rid Of... URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/just-get-rid-of/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:22:45.000Z If I could just get rid of "chuckled" the reader laughing on his own… These latest edits that I've tackled (and I'll admit, I'm in the zone) I'm getting rid of "heard" and "listen" and any sun that doesn't glisten, no more of "saw" or "thought" or "felt". With all of that under my belt will I succeed? No lack of trying but then remember that a "knew" just like a "nodded", be they few, will keep the editor from buying, and so continue what I must. If I could just get rid of "just." ### Happily Cavort URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/happily-cavort/ Last updated: 2026-01-31T12:00:00.000Z When I cavort around the town I often look for love. But ask a lady: "Are you down? "We fit like hand and glove!" and you're as likely to receive a whupping as a slap. So I, although I've much to give have almost given up Confined to rubbing the old lamp -- It, frankly, has been years, hand spasms up -- a wicked cramp -- A genie, though, appears. He says: My friend, you need not fret I know the Kama Sutra and lest you have any regret best know: I'm gender neutral "Hold on!" I say. That tired trope, you owe me certain wishes and he is like: if there is soap I'll also wash the dishes "But wait!" I say and glance around to search for an escape and he says: oh, look what I found and shows -- I swear -- a grape Well, let's just say I was afraid I thought I knew my tastes, and though -- like all -- can use an aid, I'm more for waspy waists. I banished him, this genie friend. I dare not see such sport! And promise, for a happy end to happily cavort https://makebestmusic.com/shared-music-new/5a96f297-8d6b-47a3-b28b-66a11c81b64c ### Say When URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/say-when/ Last updated: 2026-01-30T12:00:00.000Z When I am tortured by the dentist, and at the least, like twice a year, I wish I hadn’t been apprenticed to, of all things, a chocolatier. Alas, sweet tooth, you've cost me dearly, in both deductible, and clearly in pain and suffering to boot. Oh well, at least it’s not my foot. That aforementioned, sad affliction, is what the textbook would call gout, and let there be no shred of doubt, as to my chocolate addiction, but to withdraw from meat and wine… And then pretend that all is fine? It’s lots of things, but fine, it isn’t, this desecration of my flesh. The whole thing loosely reminiscent — I claim no birthing in a creche — to, after serving out your mission, return… but only on condition of being put up on the cross. You will return, so no big loss. Return, refreshed and resurrected, If you behave and cease all sin. One doesn’t know where to begin. A steroid shot — right where affected — And you return to walk again. Mouth open, dentist says. Say when. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Punditry Banditry URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/punditry-banditry/ Last updated: 2026-01-28T12:00:00.000Z As wisdoms go, conventional’s the worst. Best dress it up as ancient. That does better. Uncommon — when delivered and dispersed by graying talking heads who claim: Unfetter your shallow thinking from its rigid past and benefit from our well-hidden knowledge. They grow alarmed, increasingly aghast, when challenged on the benefits of college… Collect them, all these wisdoms, each a pearl, and worthy of its own consideration, then string the set together, to unfurl, depending on a given situation, and offer one, as needed, to a fool The wise already have it, as a rule. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### What's Art URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/whats-art/ Last updated: 2026-01-26T12:00:00.000Z What's art? It's Plato's shadows on the wall. Go, touch it - It's a snake in Eden's garden. Or maybe it's a leaf before the fall. An executed man receives a pardon. What's art? It isn't suffering or pain. It's rather a disease, a kind of vector that's able, through its subterfuge, to gain, bypassing any shielding or deflector, a channel to your very inner self and transfer its concealed, mimetic cargo from where it sits. A wall, a frame, a shelf. No matter any sanction or embargo that you may put on empathy and care. That's art. And you will see it. If you dare. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Something New URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/something-new/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:23:01.000Z When the light at the end of the tunnel goes dark When a walk is no longer a walk in the park When doubt eats at your guts at the end of the day When you're ready to fight, let them come, come what may When the spirit is wanting, the flesh, though, is weak When the spectre is haunting, the living dead speak When the hope springs eternal and hearts are on fire Try to say something new. Do not preach to the choir. ### For Demonstration Purposes Only URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/for-demonstration-purposes-only/ Last updated: 2026-01-18T12:00:00.000Z Canute had failed to conquer the Atlantic. Though some would later claim he didn't try. Those claims, however genuine or frantic, their efforts to suppress and to deny the obvious, ring fatuous and hollow. Did not the man put throne upon the shore? Command the tide to stop while it was shallow, to stop it from returning, as before? They claim that it was just a demonstration. A way to teach his courtiers a truth: No man, whatever his affair or station, no youth, or one that's longer in the tooth, commands the tide to stay where it once stood. They claim. But we all know he wished he could. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Wisdom of the Ancients URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/wisdom-of-the-ancients/ Last updated: 2026-01-17T12:00:00.000Z As to the wisdom of the ancients: Beware the Romans and the Greeks. So says my artificial sentience, the common wisdom of all geeks. And as to why beware this wisdom… Is it to coddle or appease them? Those who would claim that it is spent and we had better all repent? Is there, perhaps, a different reason? That having grown a bit too wise, wants a monopoly — surprise! on wisdom, as it plots its treason, us none the wiser of the act… Still thinking opposites attract. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Devolution URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/devolution/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:23:14.000Z It's not the fittest, but the cutest, that will eventually survive. God may have been an absolutist, but wanted everyone to thrive, not knowing pleasure, though: He's had it with those who, knowingly, have at it... Unknowing? Pleasure all you want. The deity won't take affront. The recipe, then: cute and clueless. No need to learn that less is more. That way, there's more so to adore, existing knowledge free, and dueless, The dues collected only so to punish those who need to know. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### A Poet's Ear URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-poets-ear/ Last updated: 2026-01-14T12:00:00.000Z Please tell me, friend, whom I hold dear: How do I get a poet's ear? How do I write a verse that sings, a joyful serenade that brings a happy tear, a sudden smile, a wish to linger for a while... And cause a reader to digress, forget about their daily stress, reread and revel in my words as they fly off, a flock of birds, to thrill, astonish, and delight, the sun behind them, shining bright? He looks at me, my erstwhile friend and says: Whatever you intend, there is one thing I'll have you know: You can't have mine. I'm no Van Gogh. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Ham Not URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ham-not/ Last updated: 2026-01-12T12:00:00.000Z For all the versions of the Bard: The stolen, lost, or merely borrowed. Those that are clearly a canard, creative choices having narrowed. Those that are plays within a play, performed by one, no merry players. Those who intend to have their say while disregarding the naysayers. Those whose reviews are in the red -- the worst examples are on Reddit. Those that are never ever read by those who never ever edit... The news flies out, as if by stork -- occasion is indeed historic. The scene: A stage. West End. New York. Skull isn't fake. Alas, poor Yorik. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Choices URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/choices/ Last updated: 2026-01-12T12:00:00.000Z When sailing between Scilla and Charybdis, for mysteries that Man has yet to fathom, while wondering aloud if you can keep this small boat of yours from sinking to the bottom, descending into Tartarus or Hades, (depends on which mythology is present) and knowing all along — how best to say this — the journey is unlikely to be pleasant, continuing to point your trireme vessel, though dragons and Leviathans imperil… Be ready, not a moment’s rest, to wrestle, bare-handed, when — at best — over a barrel, and struggling with scourges and afflictions… The Oracle be damned with its predictions. The Oracle be damned with its predictions, and now you’re on the horns of a dilemma. Dichotomies, conundrums, contradictions. Your Muse is so confused, and who could blame her? When choosing half a dozen of the other, the “six of one” mundane and unappealing, the difference being — should you even bother — a certain intuition or a feeling, try, figure out the lesser of two evils — Arithmetic alone seems insufficient. Be wary of commotions and upheavals, Unfortunately, none of us omniscient. Remember that for every one you’re handed, there is one other. One that you’ve left stranded. There is one other. One that you’ve left stranded, between the deep blue sea and handsome devil. It’s what the circumstances had commanded, But still: had you been fully on the level, appraised him of the no-win situation, the dammit if he does, damned if he doesn’t, you might have put a lid on his frustration — assured him that he’s not alone — who hasn’t experienced the very same condition. Who hasn’t, faced with challenges and trials and full, all of a sudden, of contrition, well balanced, though it is with stern denials, reached out to touch the sky, an angry fist: Please help me, God, that is, if you exist. Please help me, God, that is, if you exist. If not — Pascal assured us in his wager — still worth it, and in truth, we can’t resist, can’t help but think that there is something major that orchestrates the falling of the dice, and forces probability collapses. When measurements refuse to be precise, as if we’re waiting for a God that claps his two mighty hands, declaring all is well. How can one understand one's own existence, much less that of a God? What magic spell, like forces operating at a distance, allowed the world to be, to force a choice, must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice. Must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice. Electrons, though, appear to feel no need to make that kind of consequential choice and manage, though unaided, to succeed in spreading their existence through creation. Some even have suggested: All there is — the universe, the whole manifestation — is but a lone electron. What a tease! Yes, this one is a challenge to pin down. The mind, although accustomed to dilemmas, still struggles, and you cannot help but frown, no matter the sound layout of the lemmas that Einstein, Bohr, and Heisenberg propose. You feel you’re being led, and by the nose. You feel you’re being led, and by the nose. Uncertainty and principle don’t mix. If you can choose at will, superimpose one choice over another, random picks, and all of them are valid? That’s no rule. It’s anarchy… Look what you’ve done to science, and not to mention that, now, every fool will point to it in bold overreliance: You see that dead cat bounce? But he’s alive! That Shrodinger another of these thinkers. No, mister, that old feline won’t survive. It should be jail for anyone who tinkers with isotopes releasing cyanide. Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide. Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide. But scientists are testing for nine lives. The box remains unopened. What’s inside? Unknowable. I’m hoping the cat thrives, but there’s no way to tell, no secret knowledge, or so at least they taught me, years ago. Who knew, back when I took this course in college (though I recall my wife did tell me so: you will not be a physicist, my dear. A poet? Nah, go learn to be a lawyer. The path to make a living: crystal clear. We’ll buy a house, nice fixture in the foyer…) all choices that I’ve made. But how’s the cat? Expired and alive. Cause he’s all that. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Habits URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/habits/ Last updated: 2026-01-07T12:00:00.000Z I am an orc. We're talking Tolkien, Behaved, house-broken, not a thug, Polite, exceedingly well spoken, and neither desolate nor smug. Although I have a hobbit habit. When one walks by, I tend to grab it and munch on it, although they're sour, and rumor has it, rarely shower. I've tried to quit, believe me, precious. What creature wouldn't rather eat hobbits habitually neat and chase with nectar that refreshes... They do taste best after they're chased. Their haste delicious. In my waist. --- **Author notes:** Image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Unmapped Territory URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/unmapped-territory/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:23:31.000Z My Atlas does not shrug. Nor do my maps. The globe remains as passive as could be, keeps its reactions tightly under wraps, like nothing doing, nothing there to see. Objectively, that shouldn't be a shock. The atlas is a book, and no Greek Titan, who, turtle-like, must carry a big rock, and searches for the right excuse to lighten that heavy load. No, it is just an atlas, a set of destinations and locales, and it's not fair to call it weak and gutless, or seeking some objective rationales to claim that it will imminently shrug, no matter that the journey is a slog. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Significant Other URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/significant-other/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T17:57:26.000Z When God and his Significant, the Other decided that they needed them some space the end result was what we call the Mother of All Explosions, and no fall from grace, but instant and immediate separation no prenup and no custody dispute. Yes, that is the true story of Creation, ahead of tainted or forbidden fruit. They haven't talked since then, our Pro Creators, It isn't that the distance is too large. One on a distant moon, unmarked by craters the other, omnipresent, and in charge, And still upset, because they were as One. Back then, when time itself had not begun. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### And Say... Cheese! URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/and-say-cheese/ Last updated: 2026-01-01T12:00:00.000Z Between a bridge too far and bridge to nowhere A road that had been, hitherto… abridged, though to determine who or what might go there and what they will discover once they’ve hitched their way to that mysterious location — that’s if they’ve found a way to bridge the gap perhaps a newfound mode of transportation requiring no marker on a map nor any non-relativistic motion — a warp drive that compresses time and space and labors to give credence to the notion that one could ever hope to reach the place, impossible, unlikely though it is… When getting there, take selfie. And say cheese! --- **Author notes:** image from author prompt to ChatGPT ### Chess Crown URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/chess-crown/ Last updated: 2025-12-29T12:00:00.000Z I suck at chess, so there you go, I've said it, the noble, intellectual endeavor. Can't win, unless I'm aided and abetted by an AI substantially more clever than I am on my own. Ugh, more's the pity. I fail to understand why I must struggle. Vocabulary-wise, I'm pretty witty, hand-eye coordinated - I can juggle! Nor have I been denied by Pan or Cupid. In short, a handsome specimen of human, and not, by any stretch, obtuse or stupid: The measure of my acumen in lumen is brilliant, and yet I always lose, regardless of the opening I choose. Regardless of the opening I choose, an early domination of the center requires pawn play. Surely that's no news. But which? E2-E4? Had I just sent her, courageous, brave defender of my king, to certain death? The menacing Black Knight dispatches her: a fearsome, lethal swing, his unsheathed broadsword making it no fight. What now? I must revert back to the book. The strategies are there for all to read: the value of each piece, from pawn to rook, attacking and defending, fear and greed. E2-E4 is fine, the book proclaims, Been battle-tried in countless winning games. Been battle-tried in countless winning games, this opening. What move should follow next? Assuming my opponent simply aims to occupy the center, I'm perplexed: His knight is in a vain attempt to flank. But why? The board is open. All those squares, yet he forgoes them. Someone pulling rank? Or file? The move is odd and surely bears, if I'm not wrong, the semblance of a trap. They find these in promoted TikTok clips and practice variations in the app. The web is full of such well-meaning tips - "Win in five moves, against a seasoned master!" The goal remains to win, but faster, faster. The goal remains to win, but faster, faster. It's time, I think, my bishop got in play. Not ivory or wood, nor alebaster. It's digital, this piece on my display. Some tongues will call it "elephant" - in Russian, the home of many champions of chess, no "bishops". Topic merits a discussion: The Communists had no desire to stress religion, in the game they dominated for decades, until famous Bobby Fisher, whom many, to this day, have nominated the greatest of all time, which caused a fissure in FeeDay, the chess org that gives you titles. No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals. No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals. The bishop, elephant, is Indian, and so is my defense. Its strict disciples, relying on the piece, like Gideon, to save the king, they call it a fianchetto, and place it on G7, with the rook. If chess were operatic, its libretto - We know its openings are in a book - would surely have the scene set in a castle, which incidentally is a rookie move, the castle sparing many kings the hassle of running from a check or to improve their otherwise unhappy disposition. The king dislikes to be in this position. The king dislikes to be in this position. Most powerful, and at the same time, least. His enemies committed to a mission of cornering the man, till he's deceased, or, at the least, until he waves a flag, in black or white, to indicate surrender, and losing, it is really such a drag, although in chess, he's of a single gender. An attitude that surely shows its age. A king, but in name only, he laments, his lack of allies and his gilded cage, A has-been, overtaken by events, he longs to be remembered, to be seen. Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen. Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen. Though she is not indifferent to his struggle. While he just sits there, middle of the screen, the lady has to rule, or rather juggle, the roles of all the pieces of the board. Her moves must match a bishop's or a rook's, watch out for knights - they cannot be ignored, remember that no matter how it looks, a sneak attack can never be dismissed. The enemy will plan and plot and scheme and blunders are expensive, rarely missed. The sad and sorry end of your regime. And now you understand, though I digress. I love it, but I really suck at chess. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Salvage URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/salvage/ Last updated: 2025-12-28T12:00:00.000Z Of all the Lost & Founds across Creation -- you've ever been to one? Me, once or twice -- One stands -- a most peculiar location -- smack dab, right in the heart of Paradise. While others sport id cards, bags, and wallets or phones that do not answer when you call, In this one, 'tleast according to shibboleths, you'll likely stumble on a lucky soul. Once lost, now wholly salvaged and recovered, it takes its place among the grateful host, ideally, exactly where it hovered before it got, for cause unknown, so lost, but if that slot is busy, where assigned. The place's tagline? Seek, and ye shall find. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Enchanté URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/enchante/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:23:55.000Z Enchanted by a witty turn of phrase my hand delays, mid-hover, on the page, as I reread the sentence. It conveys so much in so few words. Were this a stage a thespian would surely mouth it off, the weight of every syllable in gold. Enunciate each snicker, every scoff. Performance captured, never getting old, a highlight reel on YouTube, played, replayed, the hearts and likes to mingle with applause, and Googled if mistakenly waylaid, then bookmarked, or on tab, on playback pause, available and ready to be shown… The phrase, of course, entirely my own. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Perchance, perchance not... URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/perchance-perchance-not/ Last updated: 2025-12-26T12:00:00.000Z My nightly quest to find oblivion is not unlike a tired daytime soap. Late. Early. Drink. Don't Drink. Keep TV On. I wake at 3:00 AM to sulk and mope. No, I'm not one of those who need four hours. I want my eight, and no, don't wear an Oura. I'll lie in bed and use my rhyming powers for sonnets on them Sodom and Gomorrah. How strange, our brain? Not giving it a rest, when rest is so most fervently desired? It's not as if it doesn't know what's best, or lacks a definition for "I'm tired." Dear God, I want to sleep, perchance to dream! A talking head talks changing the regime. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Between URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/between/ Last updated: 2025-12-25T12:00:00.000Z between Heaven and Earth some say roughly halfway where they tally each birth where no angel holds sway nor a demon delights in original sin where -- a late poet writes -- life is yet to begin between Heaven and Earth no decision yet made I await my rebirth... Passage having been paid --- **Author notes:** Image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Breakfast In Bed URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/breakfast-in-bed/ Last updated: 2025-12-20T12:00:00.000Z Belatedly, I've understood a truth: Life's naught but the displacement of an ache well-masked by the euphoria of youth, so one can be permitted the mistake of failing to discern, to pry apart its meaning: Pain that jumps from limb to limb, to settle, when it chooses, in the heart, and not in fault or error, on a whim, but by its grand, elaborate design. Awake, in bed, examining your pains, your mind, exhausted, searching for a sign, as blood continues coursing through your veins, that it is not yet time. That it still hurts... Until one day, no breakfast. Just desserts. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### By Tail and Hoof Ye Shall Know Him URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/by-tail-and-hoof-ye-shall-know-him/ Last updated: 2025-12-18T12:00:00.000Z When God apportioned horns and tails and hooves - ran out on wildebeest… You've seen a picture? For like the platypus, it's in the proofs Creation hadn't strictly followed Scripture. He had none left for demons and their ilk - The Devil, a significant exception - and so, though none have tasted mother's milk, look just like you and me, defy perception. Or could we be the demons? We were last, the pinnacle, the pièce de résistance, in all of God's domain, however vast, so we assumed, it's always been our stance, that we are in His image, missing tail… and not that it's an inventory fail. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Nom de Plume URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/nom-de-plume/ Last updated: 2025-12-17T12:00:00.000Z I’m using my poetic license in lieu of government ID. They take it since I cannot lie. Since, as Abel or as Zebedee, despite the lateness of the hour, I speak of only truth to power, a truth that wouldn’t be denied, nor could be, even if I tried. A pseudonym, that great invention which lets a poet speak his mind without a fear of being fined or worser still, an intervention, thus beating any pair of docs. Unless you’re doxxed. A paradox. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### The Day After URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-day-after/ Last updated: 2025-12-16T12:00:00.000Z Beginner's luck, perhaps that's all it was. Ask any child - they'll say: He started it, but our existence's sole, Primal Cause - who'd left few rules when He departed it for parts unknown, or so it would appear - continues to receive all manner praise, although it's more than clear He doesn't steer, and takes no credit. Not for sunny days, nor for the wars he technically abhors. Yes, luck indeed. Create, then wash your hands. Believer, do not say that he ignores your sad and sorry plight. No, he intends, had always meant for all of this to happen, and isn't sunning, frolicking, or napping. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Hanukkah URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hanukkah/ Last updated: 2025-12-14T12:00:00.000Z If history is written by the winners, our victories, though biblical, are few. We celebrate them with familial dinners, where everybody has a point of view, and none of them the same. Our temple teachers will use a certain phrase, Tikkun Olam: Go, fix the world, for us, and all God's creatures. They cite the scriptures, back to Abraham, remind us: you're the people of the Book. Raise toasts to Life, and bless the sacred wine. Remember: your forefathers undertook to challenge, to demand of the divine to bring joy to the world. So, so much joy… A festival of lights. Each night, a toy. ### Treasure URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/treasure/ Last updated: 2025-12-13T12:00:00.000Z “Is there a word you treasure above others?” my lovely wife had asked me with a pout. “You write, right? Well, then, had you had your druthers, is there a word you wouldn’t do without? A word you would include in every sonnet, in every composition, every ode?” I told her I must really think upon it. Was this a real question, or some code, some test for me to pass, a trickster’s riddle? A husband learns that words can be a clue, but poets, bent on matching cat to diddle, can often be as clueless as a ewe about to become dinner. That is life. “Of course,” I said. “One word. Four letters. Wife.” --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Simply Forgot URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/simply-forgot/ Last updated: 2025-12-12T12:00:00.000Z When asked: what's the point of it all Is it sex? Is it drugs? Rock & Roll? It's not that it's not he simply forgot and said that he couldn't recall ### One Bird. Two Stories. URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/one-bird-two-stories/ Last updated: 2025-12-11T12:00:00.000Z on the subject of pigeon and dove only one stands for Lord from above but the other -- the pigeon is what rhymes with religion while dove is stuck rhyming with love --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Seven Wonders of the World URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/seven-wonders-of-the-world/ Last updated: 2025-12-11T12:00:00.000Z Recite the Seven Wonders of the World demanded my peculiar professor, as if they were a list to be unfurled. Are any of these wonders greater, lesser, depending on their placement in our lists? Atop it, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the wonder that continues, that persists, and is it any wonder when there is a pronounced lack of existence for the rest? Perhaps I should examine them in order and see if one would qualify as best. Let history, that wonder-full recorder, direct me to an answer, if there's one. Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done. Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done, I move on to the gardens. How's it hanging? It doesn't, huh? The pride of Babylon, by all accounts, magnificent and banging, is missing. There are some who even claim they weren't ever there: Nebuchadnezzar had built them, or Senachreb, all the same. (For who can name the name of each successor?) The gardens, later swallowed by the sands, and drifting, oh so slowly, into legend, so now, when Wikipedia demands a picture of a bush to trim and hedge, and it cannot even find one, much less two… The gardens have their fans, but they are few. The gardens have their fans, but they are few. What of the pride of Ephesus, the temple to Artemis, the virgin goddess who routinely magicked those who'd try to sample her charms into an amply antlered deer? Aside from its sheer size (we're talking Turkey), its claims to fame remain a bit unclear, and virgin status altogether murky, as Isis, also worshipped at the site, was meant to grant fertility and healing. Size matters, though: it must have been some sight, the ratios mathematically appealing. Rebuilt, and more than once, but count 'em, three, its safely on the list, we all agree. Its safely on the list, we all agree, and usually placed right next to Zeus, whose statue, I could almost guarantee, (from renderings on coins, which left us clues) was something of a wonder to behold. Pure ivory and gold, chryselphantine, by Phidias of Athens, I've been told So tall that it is said whoever's been to see it, thought, should Zeus decide to stand, (the king of gods was seated on a throne) he'll lift the very roof. The sculptor planned to awe his audience. Their deus shone like no Olympian had shone before. The better to admire and adore. The better to admire and adore. Since adoration is what rulers crave, in life, and even after they're no more, the man who coined the term for "fancy grave" must surely be discussed. He's Mausulus. No pharaoh, nor an emperor, and yet, the tomb he'd built himself: ridiculous. The scale of it ensured we won't forget about him, although he is barely known, this ancient satrap. Was he really missed? He died, just like the rest of us, alone, but nonetheless did make it on the list. So what can one conclude for number five? Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive. Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive. That couldn't have been said of Alexander. The man had such enthusiasm and drive, a wonder he had not wound up down under, in conquering the world that we once knew (that "we" above our "royal", Western asses) Had he but lived, he might have followed through and gathered the appeal of untold masses from the Atlantic to the China Sea. Eponymous, his cities, 'cross the planet. A lighthouse made for everyone to see, in Alexandria, from quarried granite, must therefore make the list at number six. We're nearly done, so let's review our picks! We're nearly done, so let's review our picks! The pyramids, the gardens, and the temple. The statues and the segways to the Styx, and Alexander, leading by example. A lighthouse in the aforementioned city, so tall, you would have seen it from the roads to Karnak. It's long gone, and more's the pity. To rival it, the gentle folk in Rhodes, they built one of their own. No gentle giant, a model for our Liberty, to boot, it stood above the bay, lit up, defiant, but ended up as plunder, prize and loot. The lighthouse over Rhodes comes in at seven. Oh mercy, I'm so glad there's not eleven. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Thine Old Self URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/thine-old-self/ Last updated: 2025-12-10T12:00:00.000Z So practiced in the art of self-deception that mirrors feel no further need to lie. The mind performs the trick, then takes exception when shown a photo selfie that gets by the brain's embedded filter. I look… beaten. When did I get so derelict, so frail? Why can't my vision sugarcoat and sweeten this captured graven image? Does it fail because it somehow knows the real story, or does the mirror know some magic trick, some unsuspected method to say sorry, you cannot see this, lays it on so thick you're shocked when forced to see the real you. Turns out it's hardest to thine self be true. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to GPT ### Where My Muse Resides URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/where-my-muse-resides/ Last updated: 2025-12-09T12:00:00.000Z My muse resides in a museum, trapped in a painting, as a nude. The one next to the Colosseum, yeah, that one. She is shown pursued by young Apollo, horny bastard. A Rubens, but before he mastered some of his skills. At any rate, they say she's somewhat overweight. It was a time before Ozempic, and muses seeking to indulge would lose the battle of the bulge, but that's a battle he let them pick. Who? Rubens. Captor of my muse. A lady who refused to lose. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Winter Moon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/winter-moon/ Last updated: 2025-12-08T12:00:00.000Z Does it snow on the moon? Is it sparkly and white, and will make lovers swoon, and will not be denied, 'cause it's covered in snow, permafrost wonderland, icy crystals you know you can't grab with your hand but you wish that you could. Will you reach for the stars? Grab a handful? You should. She is yours. She is ours. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### How to Fly URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/how-to-fly/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:35:27.000Z A cemetery of abandoned plots, unfinished poems, stillborn compositions. Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots, a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions, all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze. No storms here, those have long ago diminished, and vision bends along, with practiced ease: Why fight if you already know you're finished? Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud! Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors as sunshine penetrates the permacloud, a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers… Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply. Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly. --- ### At the Sonneterium URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/at-the-sonneterium/ Last updated: 2025-12-05T12:00:00.000Z Committed to a sonneterium. Reduced to limericks, haikus, and puns, with neither Rogers nor a Merriam, nor Webster to consult, I feel a dunce, unable to compose a single verse without resorting to pedestrian line endings, though I’m not at all averse to an occasional equestrian, but not in sonnets, well, unless the goal was all along a stanza on the birth of a well-bred, thus consequential, foal, one not as yet accustomed to its girth, then I might use equestrian to fit, and judge the sonnet, with its use, complete. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Snip Snip URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/snip-snip/ Last updated: 2025-12-03T12:00:00.000Z What do Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos, do, when they get together at last? Grab a lunch? Out for cocktails and tapas, or a heartier, fuller repast? I imagine the Fates as three yentas, sitting, gossiping over your threads, matching outfits, in pink and magenta, then snip, snip as they send their regrets. --- **Author notes:** image from Freepik ### Longing URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/longing/ Last updated: 2025-12-03T12:00:00.000Z She was born from this foam, Aphrodite, fully formed; she was Love at first sight, Lust and Longing to render her mighty, as no other divine power might. Born, but never entirely free. That is why you, too, long for the sea. --- **Author notes:** image from Unsplash ### Manifesto URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/manifesto/ Last updated: 2025-12-02T12:00:00.000Z Here's my list of Christmas wishes: Robot, you will do the dishes, and while I remain a bard do some work on the backyard: Leaves need blowing, overflowing grass obscured, no longer showing Logs need splitting, time permitting, while I write my poems, sitting. Also, too late for the turkey, long ago reduced to jerky but the Christmas table ham cooked, while I read Sam I am would be perfect. Inspiration, two-thirds, they say, perspiration, I'm concerned, however clever, Robot won't help the endeavor, and I might be forced to labor, or worse yet, to greet a neighbor. Compare selfies, sing, and carol, ugly sweater, my apparel… Unacceptable, I tell you. So dear Robot, I compel you, yes, dear Robot, set me free. Too bad, Robot, you are me. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to GPT ### Talk of Honor URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/talk-of-honor/ Last updated: 2025-12-01T12:00:00.000Z Talk of honor: abide… Are you sure it's not pride? Are you certain you haven't confused for your personal sake, having made a mistake, ego wounded and battered and bruised, pride with honor? Will you take a moment or two to acknowledge you're merely a man, one who falls and who tires - that's what honor requires. And then laugh, as God does, at your plan. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### In the Moment URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-moment/ Last updated: 2025-11-30T12:00:00.000Z Fall is here. She feels like dancing, feels the summer wash away, as the season crawls, advancing. before winter has its sway. She is young enough to welcome futures turning into pasts. Young and pretty. She continues to believe the present lasts. --- **Author notes:** photo thanks to Sylviane Nuccio ### Starry Night URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/starry-night/ Last updated: 2026-05-01T00:24:13.000Z Little peanut, eyes open. She's not dreaming, she's hoping. Playful whimsy to carry her. Starry night becomes starrier. Go to sleep, tell her so... She will not wanna go --- **Author notes:** image from Pinterest ### In Search Of URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-search-of/ Last updated: 2025-11-29T12:00:00.000Z The one-eyed man was searching far and wide: had heard an unsubstantiated rumor, initiated by a clever guide, (a man with an appalling sense of humor) that there exists a Kingdom of the Blind, and were he to locate this fabled kingdom, however hard the place might prove to find, if battles they will wage, he's sure to win them, and, soon enough, proclaimed as lord and king, he could proceed to reigning and to ruling, sit pretty as his subjects kiss the ring. In short, the task was apt, however grueling, and so he went in search of. Had to try… Of course they promptly took his other eye. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### [ a painter sees you in the canvas ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-painter-sees-you-in-the-canvas/ Last updated: 2025-11-29T12:00:00.000Z a painter sees you in the canvas a sculptor frees you from the stone a writer moves you out of Kansas into a world you've never known a playwright uses parts of speech to make you laugh, to make you cry a poet sees waves on the beach and writes a poem. Calls it Why? Forgive the little ditty -- the "Why?" poem is most assuredly there, you won't have to scroll far It would have been easier to answer your question if you were juxtaposing a Rothko to a Da Vinci (or Van Gogh). these criteria apply to poetry (actually to most writing, but especially poetry) 1) Is it distinguishable? Does it have a recognizable style? Could it have been written by anyone? Two, three lines in, do you know who wrote it, the only person who could have written it? (putting AI imitations aside) 2) Does it wish to be remembered? Are you moved to quote it, in the way that you'd quote not only Frost or Shakespeare, but a Tarentino movie? Does it play on your tongue, wanting to be repeated again and again? I would venture to say most free verse written today, whether on this site or even in lauded publications, and by various poet laureates, fails one or both of these tests, and most formal modern poetry (to the extent it is even visible) is rightly dismissed as pedestrian, which, if you examine it, also fails both of the above tests. AI is sycophantic, but it's able to judge style and mechanics, and if pressed, can offer real criticism. That can help in the absence of a human reader. Human reaction is priceless, of course, but is rarely genuine on this site. ### What is Paris? URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/what-is-paris/ Last updated: 2025-11-28T12:00:00.000Z What is Paris, you say? Sail a boat on the Seine Walk up Champs-Élysées as a November rain falls on you from above. What is Paris? It's love. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Lovers' Moon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/lovers-moon/ Last updated: 2025-11-27T12:00:00.000Z Bathing in moonlight, the cobblestones glisten Crisp autumn air adds a glint to their shine. Moon hangs down low, as if trying to listen, searching for lovers who seek the divine: Come, and be washed in my glow. But the streets are deserted below. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Thanksgiving URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/thanksgiving/ Last updated: 2025-11-27T12:00:00.000Z Large table. Happy faces all around it. A bit of packaged up Americana. Back then, when the traditions were first founded, before prefrozen turkeys, before Santa, before the Hallmark cards and selfie pictures, the faces were both dirtier and meaner. No smiles. A solemn reading from the scriptures, thanks given, though the tables were much leaner, then back to the mundaneness of survival. Some surely feel that way about tomorrow and brace against the seasonal arrival of specials that would seek to steal and borrow somebody else’s misery for sport. Please give, they say. Could use your full support. ### Always URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/always/ Last updated: 2025-11-25T12:00:00.000Z Romeo loves Juliette. Arrow through the heart. Chalk on sidewalk -- they've just met, can't bear to be apart. Asphalt buckles, concrete cracks, and soon they're broken-hearted. Should have known it could not last. Known before it started. --- **Author notes:** photo from The Head Plan ### Dawn URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dawn/ Last updated: 2025-11-24T12:00:00.000Z A translucent gown adorning fertile valleys, gentle slopes. Dawn arrives. The misty morning, wispy wishes, fragile hopes, knowing what it means to yearn, readies for the morning's burn. --- **Author notes:** Photo from Vecteezy ### Units of Measure URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/units-of-measure/ Last updated: 2025-11-24T12:00:00.000Z I once composed a wholly metric verse to measure length, and that within an inch, and while the subject matter was perverse, and might induce a curse or worse, a flinch, it was, no doubt, a valiant attempt, and worthy of admiring reposts. That, rather than the venomous contempt which I received from the ungracious hosts of said sad competition. Pound for pound, my measure, although decimal and metric, was perfectly reliable and sound and had no biologic or obstetric or other obscene purpose except size. And all for those who'd wish to feast their eyes. --- **Author notes:** Image created by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Bloody Seconds URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/bloody-seconds/ Last updated: 2025-11-23T12:00:00.000Z The lion, as he's lying with the lamb: goodwill itself, and holiday-themed cheer. The turkey, and the stuffing, every crumb all welcome the arrival, every year, of "wouldn't it be nice!" and "oh, what if!" and "let us come together, Peace on Earth!" The sermons, some belligerent and stiff, some gentle, all in welcoming the birth of one, albeit well-intentioned teacher, who dared imagine, for a bloody second, that Man can be a different kind of creature, and was dispensed with, having never reckoned what each of us already understands. That Man prefers the wringing of the hands. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Why? URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/why/ Last updated: 2025-11-22T12:00:00.000Z Sands of time beneath my feet. Cloudless sky above. Day would seem to be complete, but you're not here, my love. Gentle breeze runs through my hair, dries an errant tear. Seagull soars without a care. Air is crisp and clear. Bonfire remnants on the beach. Bottle bears no message, or is the message out of reach? Little crab seeks passage, carried like a stowaway on the floating bottle. Where he goes, I cannot say, but he needs no paddle. Would that I were like that crab, carried by the ocean, days no longer dull and drab, motionless, in motion. Waves are rushing to erase my footprints in the sand. Why can't I recall your face? I don't understand. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Filter URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/filter/ Last updated: 2025-11-21T12:00:00.000Z Stained glass window, frozen wave, irridescent glory, Simple happiness you crave captured in this story Would that it were true, alas... These are merely shards of glass. --- **Author notes:** photo by Robyn Mead Designs ### Fairy Tale Endings URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fairy-tale-endings/ Last updated: 2025-11-21T12:00:00.000Z Done with baby, done with little, done with mermaid at the last. Every step will hurt: bones brittle but the ocean is her past and her future? Balls and princes. Takes another step... She winces. --- **Author notes:** photo thanks to Shelf Editions ### High School URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/high-school/ Last updated: 2025-11-21T12:00:00.000Z South Shore High: you know why name was so apropos Hallways, always the sweet smell of skunk. Just how did we get by? Could we guess, did we know in our typical teenager funk that our struggles and fights will make favorite tales as we sit by the fire, reminisce during long winter nights, and when memory fails try recalling that first kiss we miss. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### The Unpopped Kernel URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-unpopped-kernel/ Last updated: 2025-11-21T12:00:00.000Z Unpopped kernel: a riddle. Were it snug in the middle or confined to one side, that might rescue its hide. But the rascal pulls through as its brethren pop, split, and sometimes in two... Will the microwaves stop just before its demise? Every kernel must yearn for that kind of surprise. Add more time: it will burn. And its skin: oh so thin but its will is like steel. Watch the countdown begin. Unpopped kernel... no meal. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Running on Empty URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/running-on-empty/ Last updated: 2025-11-20T12:00:00.000Z I can't help running into, then running out on friends. And no, it's not my Pinto and surely not Depends, though some would blame the latter, I credit not the notion. An overactive bladder is keeping me in motion. --- **Author notes:** image created by author prompt to Gemini ### The Rise and Fall URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-rise-and-fall/ Last updated: 2025-11-18T12:00:00.000Z But not of empires... I gained ten pounds on that vacation, Late fall, Caribbean, a cruise. Buffet, dessert, the ice cream station, I didn’t have that much to lose but now I do. Oh, cursed voyage! As we sailed by both beach and buoyage so did I sail past mat and gym and now the picture’s sad and grim. But fear you not: I hear the calling of treadmill, bicycle, and weight I know, I know, it’s not too late to get that dial falling, falling… Wait, what? Turducken!? You will bring? Perhaps it's best to wait for spring. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Breakfast Epiphanies URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/breakfast-epiphanies/ Last updated: 2025-11-17T12:00:00.000Z Looking for word play to give me a poem Checked movie titles, the good ones: you know ‘em Breakfast at Tiffany’s: endless epiphanies then Naked Lunch... I have a hunch Dinner for Schmucks is up next... and here, oh shucks, ends the text. --- **Author notes:** Image generated by author prompt to gemini ### November URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/november/ Last updated: 2025-11-16T12:00:00.000Z The park abandoned, leaves done falling, the river, lazy, runs below. Come back! the park bench begs, Come calling! Please do not let the seasons flow keep you away. Come, take a stroll! It's not the end. It's merely Fall. --- **Author notes:** image from Getty Images ### In Richness and in Wealth URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-richness-and-in-wealth/ Last updated: 2025-11-16T12:00:00.000Z he offered the lady his heart said nothing could keep them apart but hearts can be brittle since nothing's so little the effort was doomed from the start --- **Author notes:** image from VectorStock ### Or Not URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/or-not/ Last updated: 2025-11-16T12:00:00.000Z to be or not to be an English grammar rant so often I must say "I can't" how could a language push me to this length some master it, most lack the strength to be becomes I was and just because to be ### Holiday Season URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/holiday-season/ Last updated: 2025-11-16T12:00:00.000Z I welcome the Holiday Season No -- I cannot give but one reason the reasons are many Let's start with Aunt Jenny who just got paroled out of prison And please don't forget Uncle Bob and Billie, who can't get a job and most of all Bunny who still owes me money but claims he must first pay the mob Yes, Christmas is big in our house Aunt Jenny is bringing her spouse A famous pickpocket He comes from Nantucket and hasn't been caught yet, the louse Come in, please, and share in our joy. The relatives tend to annoy But lest you forget you can't choose them --- yet. Oh, you brought little Jimmy a toy. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Tears of the Sun URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/tears-of-the-sun/ Last updated: 2025-11-15T12:00:00.000Z Bouquet discarded on the shore. Rose petals drown in salty water, He doesn't love her anymore. Somebody's son, somebody's daughter despondent, cries, their tears are bitter. The setting sun gives up its glitter. --- **Author notes:** Image from vecteezy ### It's Not OK URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/its-not-ok/ Last updated: 2025-11-13T12:00:00.000Z The shootout at the Not OK Corral. So named not as a judgement or a slight but rather to distinguish its locale for those who, inadvertently, just might confuse it with its neighbor, that one other, where frontier justice, namely Wyatt Earp dispensed with Billy Clanton, though his brother - that's Ike, and frankly, much more of a perp - went on to live, and not to be confused, and you could see how such a thing annoys, in ways that would leave any ego bruised, with either the old Hatfields or McCoys. Which leaves me with but one more thing to say. Hell yes, it's a corral… but not ok. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### What She Wants URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/what-she-wants/ Last updated: 2025-11-11T12:00:00.000Z Ask her: what does she want? Not a diamond to flaunt or a necklace to wear. She has many a care but confesses, of late, wants the moon on a plate. --- **Author notes:** Image from freepin ### Moonlight Concert URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/moonlight-concert/ Last updated: 2025-11-09T12:00:00.000Z Her bow a witch's wand,, the violin her altar. Time's gently flowing sand won't let her slow or falter nor play a note too soon. Her audience: the moon. --- **Author notes:** Image from pxfuel ### The Tortoise and the Hare URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-tortoise-and-the-hare/ Last updated: 2025-11-08T12:00:00.000Z You've heard the one about the tortoise and the hare? But surely not from the perspective of the rabbit, the loser who, most unequivocally, was there and had the vaunted prize in sight but failed to grab it. Much had been said about the moral of this tale. Praise piled and heaped upon the slow and steady turtle, though most acknowledge that the race was more a fail than a defeat for him who couldn’t be more fertile. But what if all of that turned out to be a lie? That tortoise hadn’t even gotten past the middle, while the old rabbit lapped the distance, watch him fly, yet still declared a total loser, what a riddle? The hidden meaning of this ageless allegory? Defining winning is how one controls the story. --- **Author notes:** Image from author prompt to gemini ### Heartfelt Prenup URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/heartfelt-prenup/ Last updated: 2025-11-06T12:00:00.000Z Uncommon wisdom notwithstanding, it being something of a bind, I would much rather be demanding - and here I think we're of a mind - our unconditional surrender. Abandon hope, however slender, of me and I as things apart, fall to the dictates of the heart, aglow in love's unchallenged glory. But wisdom being what it is, it never fails to rile, to tease, reminding us: that's half the story, that, yes, indeed, the story's half... and oftentimes, that's not enough. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### The Warbler URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-warbler/ Last updated: 2025-11-06T12:00:00.000Z come on autumn, come on freeze I'm right here, among the trees, do your worst, storm,bring your trouble... I'm a warbler, I don't wobble --- **Author notes:** image from Freepik ### Pastoral URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/pastoral/ Last updated: 2025-11-06T12:00:00.000Z Pastoral: a peaceful lake, undisturbed by wave or wake Hills surround it, some quite steep. On their slopes, the gentle sheep graze along without a care. Wolf, they think, no longer there --- **Author notes:** Image from Julia Rigby ### Questing For Questions URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/questing-for-questions/ Last updated: 2025-11-03T12:00:00.000Z Is there a windmill I can charge nearby? Preferably, the old, the wooden kind, and one whose blades are not set up too high - I find the new ones that are so designed as to avoid a knight's most fervent charge, his lance a useless toothpick in the wind, too scary, too forbidding, and too large, and leaving me embarrassed and chagrined at having failed to even make a dent. What say you, Sancho, is there such a beast? A target where our fury's better spent, or less absurd and futile at the least? You're silent. Oh, you haven't an idea? No worries. Let me ask dear Dulcinea. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Treasure Trove URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/treasure-trove/ Last updated: 2025-10-31T12:00:00.000Z Many a traveler seeks to unravel her mysteries, secrets, and lore. Spends pretty pennies on questioning denizens, seeking to live evermore, to find El Dorado. Would that they rather found a more fruitful pursuit. Their queries unbidden, so it remains hidden, whether on horseback or foot. They botch and they bungle, get lost in the jungle, all the while thinking they're close, when by any good measure, if searching for treasure, it's right in front of your nose. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### The Little Princess URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-little-princess/ Last updated: 2025-10-31T12:00:00.000Z Hey, little princess, you're finally free! Did you escape from Saint-Exupéry? Leap from your book to your planet of choice, where harp-looking trees strum along to your voice? Still, something tells me you're playing your part, teaching us all: we must follow our heart. --- **Author notes:** image from Fine Art America ### Beyond Forever URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/beyond-forever/ Last updated: 2025-10-30T12:00:00.000Z Beyond the borders of forever, out where not always and in part join caveats, however clever, against the fragile human heart, that one, weak, vulnerable kingdom which fights its battles, seems to win them, only to find that all is lost because it cannot bear the cost of winning. She attempts to draft her terms of surrender as a win. Most unoriginal, her sin. No, there won't be an ever after, and no forever. Only now… Surrendering, she makes a vow. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Written Correspondence URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/written-correspondence/ Last updated: 2025-10-28T12:00:00.000Z I start with a To Whom It May Concern and end it with the requisite Sincerely. The body - took me long enough to learn - lays out the subject matter, and as clearly as possible, still potent, but concise, with paragraphs that do not tend to linger, to make it plain what's offered is advice, not an attempt to blame or point a finger. So often, though, I find I'm misconstrued, interpreted in ways I've not intended, or worse yet, told to screw myself, get sued, and otherwise drop dead. I'm not offended because, you see, I've been there. I know better. And now, pay up: it's a collection letter. \--- Hope this one put a smile on your face today --- **Author notes:** image from Shutterstock ### Math Problems URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/math-problems/ Last updated: 2025-10-27T12:00:00.000Z starting with a single flower waterlilies overpower and, as it is now well known, on a timeline of their own, they will fully fill the pond... care not whether you respond --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Saved for a Rainy Day URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/saved-for-a-rainy-day/ Last updated: 2025-10-27T12:00:00.000Z It's raining as autumn demands your surrender. But look! Here's a flower, so precious, so tender! Its petals: the sun, as a toddler would draw it, Remember, your child did? You smiled when you saw it... A yellow pincushion: Oh... aint you a cutie. The window tears up, overcome by its beauty --- **Author notes:** image from wroc.tv ### Essence URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/essence/ Last updated: 2025-10-26T12:00:00.000Z The vase: a gentle splash of periwinkle reflecting off the walls -- a lime-washed plaster, that long ago succumbed to crack and crinkle. The window sill: no quartz or alebaster, but just an oaken plank whose paint had peeled... And yet I feel a truth has been revealed. --- **Author notes:** Image from Storyblocks ### The Lesser URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-lesser/ Last updated: 2025-10-26T12:00:00.000Z The bad, though lesser of two evils, had never liked to see such sport. Compared to crises and upheavals, and always coming up, but short, disdained, the teammate you get stuck with, and surely never having luck with… Its very name - the lesser - sucks. Not greater, faster, or deluxe, but lesser. Ugh. If it could only, for once, be chosen for itself, not merely dusted off the shelf when greater evils, sad and lonely, are plain too daunting to surmount… It would be bad enough to count. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### [ asking for a form ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/asking-for-a-form/ Last updated: 2025-10-24T12:00:00.000Z asking for a form that doesn't serve a function wound up with a mold ### In Limerick URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-limerick/ Last updated: 2025-10-24T12:00:00.000Z In Limerick and in Nantucket They'll spin you a verse by the bucket when challenged with orange they'll door hinge and bow range and some might just pilfer your gold and your silver when asked where it's at, they'll say suck it ### Rose Bush Garden URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/rose-bush-garden/ Last updated: 2025-10-23T12:00:00.000Z we tried together, tried apart tried every weather, but the heart can't beg to pardon what's not there a rose bush garden, empty chair --- **Author notes:** image from The Gardener's Center ### Magician's Trick URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/magicians-trick/ Last updated: 2025-10-21T12:00:00.000Z Were we a pair, two of a kind? Was that what we were dealt? Love, an illusion of the mind, spread out atop a felt by an occult, cape-wearing mage who waved his magic wand the cards reshuffling on stage and we, forced to respond, drawn to each other by the spell unable to resist, elated, giddy as we fell each mouthing: you exist! My preordained, my other half, my prompted, fated pick… The audience sure had a laugh at this magician's trick. And us, reshuffled in the deck still looking for our pair as life skips by each call to check… As if we weren't there. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Ocean Cove URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ocean-cove/ Last updated: 2025-10-20T12:00:00.000Z The view: a tranquil ocean cove a veritable treasure trove but not of diamonds and gold of stories that do not grow old: a hero's journey, pirate's cave, and on the breeze, a gentle wave. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### The Itsy-Bitsy URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-itsy-bitsy/ Last updated: 2025-10-19T12:00:00.000Z Expecting her performance to be thrilling, spectators filled with existential dread, an itsy-bitsy drops down from the ceiling. adrift on a translucent, silver thread. Does her appearance fill your mind with terror, mouth opened in a stifled, silent scream? Will you attempt to swat her? Will you spare her, allow her to continue with her scheme? At times I think myself that itsy-bitsy, befuddled by a menacing new broom, and swatted as my summoner admits he cannot exist if I am in the room. But other times I'm caught up in your web. And you're the spider, watching my life ebb. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Distant Fire URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/distant-fire/ Last updated: 2025-10-19T12:00:00.000Z The sea's aglow with distant fire, the wind, soft kisses on my face. Sun, sinking, threatens to expire, to disappear without a trace. "I will be back," it swears, "tomorrow. Come back and watch me as I rise." I nod, and wash away my sorrow as tears of joy spill from my eyes --- **Author notes:** image from Storyblocks ### Like Him URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/like-him/ Last updated: 2025-10-19T12:00:00.000Z I haven’t found my star-crossed lovers, nor any Copperfields or Twists. The prince who finally discovers the world cares not if he exists has not yet made his grand appearance, Still, seized with dogged perseverance, I vie to call him to the page. Pen down, I channel hope and rage into the thankless sheet of paper. Try as I might, though, words won’t flow, and what at first appears to glow disintegrates to ash and vapor, mild echoes of another’s dream. Why bother? Cannot write like him. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Edomite URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/edomite/ Last updated: 2025-10-13T12:00:00.000Z Compete with wit in just four feet! Said he, completing three. Repeat the beat, that's it, they meet and oui, no fee, for free We must, nonplussed, and trust, aghast, awards of sorts, my lords, robust, (that's just!) we lust, or bust, towards our words in chords ### Just Once More URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/just-once-more/ Last updated: 2025-10-13T12:00:00.000Z Moonlight floats on the bay as an old fishing boat battles rust and decay, but remaining afloat, longs to sail just once more, feel the pulse of a wave, and to find, far from shore, her true watery grave. --- **Author notes:** photo from Ray Mackey Photography ### Season of the Witch URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/season-of-the-witch/ Last updated: 2025-10-12T12:00:00.000Z It is the season of the witch, and my pen feels a certain itch: to capture vampire turning bats and unfamiliar black cats emerging from cold, dusty rooms behind them, witches on their brooms fly to a coven by the moon. They'll dance their dance and sing their tune while scarecrows come to life and wake, the monsters creep out from the lake, the jack-o-lanterns smile, no teeth but something stirs way down beneath as coffins open, gravestones twitch... It is the season of the witch. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Ghost With the Most URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ghost-with-the-most/ Last updated: 2025-10-11T12:00:00.000Z Wraiths and ghosts will debate and no matter the cost and no matter how late "Who's the ghost with the most?" It will always come down to the one with the sheets from soft silk -- like a gown, and when this spectre greets them, and scares them to death with its whimper and wail other ghosts catch their breath, and then ask: They're on sale, these magnificent clothes? But the ghost with the most swears all matters of oaths and proceeds then, to boast that the costume is new like a burial wreath and then gives them a view of what lies underneath Then they see that indeed the sheets cover but air They agree, with some speed: It was quite a scare! --- **Author notes:** wc 124 ### One of a Kind URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/one-of-a-kind/ Last updated: 2025-10-11T12:00:00.000Z Resolved to keep on making resolutions, continuously, not just once a year, and each one’s full of marvelous solutions attuned to what the people want to hear. Some crystal clear and cleaner than a whistle. Some full of brand new goodies to bring home. Some urgent: to provide for a new missile. Some barely a few pages, some a tome. Do not be shocked that we must keep resolving Like New Year’s resolutions, few are kept, And anyways, our credit is revolving. With time, you’ll learn to swallow and accept that this is what the Founders had in mind. Exceptional, we are. One of a kind. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### By the Fence URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/by-the-fence/ Last updated: 2025-10-10T12:00:00.000Z Where the prairie once spread, apple orchards and fields. Green, delicious, and red, bred to maximize yields. Home to mustang and deer, once near endless, immense, has long since disappeared. Ancient oak by the fence. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Above the Crowd URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/above-the-crowd/ Last updated: 2025-10-10T12:00:00.000Z I'm privileged to be entitled and have no fear of going rogue, and though my passions are unbridled, they're only so to be in vogue, I do not fancy being thwarted nor do I fancy being gagged, and if I have to be escorted I would prefer not to be dragged. A shrink once said I do not treasure the crown that's sitting on my head, and waste my time pursuing pleasure, that I should be a king instead I should be stronger and not weaker I should speak up, I should be loud. But I have broken my loudspeaker and can't be heard above the crowd. ### At Home With the Metaphor URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/at-home-with-the-metaphor/ Last updated: 2025-10-09T12:00:00.000Z If eyes are windows to the soul and walls have ears, the fridge's a magnet to control your hopes and fears, the kitchen sink is all that's been willing or otherwise, thrown in, there is considerable proof the attic longs for a new roof, the monster in the basement - a rug that needs replacement Though some might disapprove I think it's time to move. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Enthropy URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/enthropy/ Last updated: 2025-10-08T12:00:00.000Z Relentless, ruthless, unforgiving, the future slips into the past, reminding all of us, the living, that living, being, will not last. That no amount of fervent prayer will persuade her, or delay her, this stubborn agent of our death. That there will be a dying breath, and then no more, no second coming, no sequel to resolve loose ends, to make confessions or amends, or stall, and life, at last succumbing to the inevitable will just slip away… And all is still. --- **Author notes:** Image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### In the Country URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-country/ Last updated: 2025-10-07T12:00:00.000Z At an out-of-town retreat, relaxation near complete. Looking through the looking glass, staring at a horse's ass He may whinny, but I whine. Well, at least they have some wine. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### The Unremarkable Beast URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-unremarkable-beast/ Last updated: 2025-10-06T12:00:00.000Z Pause for a moment. Reexamine whether you merely exist, the cause of neither feast nor famine, so unremarkable a beast that the philosophers cite you to prove, as expectations shrink, that while the inverse may be true I am does not imply I think --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Fruit of the Vine URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fruit-of-the-vine/ Last updated: 2025-10-05T12:00:00.000Z Tuscany, Gascony, Napa, Sonoma Some call it dastardly, Some quote old Homer Some quote the Bible; that's also fine. The Bible says: Blessed be the fruit of the vine. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Always URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/always-18685348/ Last updated: 2025-10-04T12:00:00.000Z She still stands there and waits for his ship to come in, pass its way through the straits so their life can begin. Tides keep falling and rising each day without fail, but the barren horizon will not yield a sail, nor a bow or a stern. On the cold, rocky shore, she awaits his return. He had always, before. --- **Author notes:** image from Simple Good Life ### Cheese Plate URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/cheese-plate/ Last updated: 2025-10-04T12:00:00.000Z You're not free without brie Mozarrella, good fella You'll miss if it's Swiss and you'll sing a cappella or ask for a shredder if no gouda cheddar but please, please do not scream if it's cheese but not cream ### Circular Reasoning URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/circular-reasoning/ Last updated: 2025-10-03T12:00:00.000Z A snake appears content to slither unlike the dolphin and the whale, though if you bother asking either the tale is rather of the tail: for cetaceans, an appendage and thus a portion, a percentage of the entire body’s length, although the source of all its strength. But for the snake? A harder question: Where does snake end, and tail begin? Without a rattle or a fin, it’s hard to know, but a suggestion to help the skeptic get it right: start from the end that doesn’t bite. --- **Author notes:** image by author prompt to GPT ### Ballerina URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ballerina/ Last updated: 2025-10-01T12:00:00.000Z Ballerina, should have seen her arabesque and pirouette her appearance, her demeanor, a Giselle you won't forget If I could but set the stage, she would leap right off the page. ### All the Rage URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/all-the-rage/ Last updated: 2025-09-26T12:00:00.000Z To rage against the dying of the light appears to be as popular as ever, as if the day might fail to follow night. But it has never failed yet, am I right? So does it seem particularly clever to rage against the dying of the light? And yet they persevere and rage, despite not making any difference whatsoever, as if the day might fail to follow night. Ironically enough, they call it “fight”, this hopeless, wholly laughable endeavor, to rage against the dying of the light. Disheveled, dirty, don’t they look a fright? As if they haven’t showered in forever, as if the day might fail to follow night. It’s plain, in Times New Roman, black and white, but they continue, so to hell, what-ever, to rage against the dying of the light as if the day might fail to follow night. --- **Author notes:** with apologies to Dylan Thomas. Image created by prompt to GPT ### Falling Again URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/falling-again/ Last updated: 2025-09-26T12:00:00.000Z The forest reddens; it can't help but blush, a maiden shyly starting to undress, clothes falling on a carpet, soft and plush, her lips to form a bashful, breathless yes. And soon it stands stark naked, who'd have thunk it, as northern winds extend their bearish hug, and cloak it in a sparkling white blanket, each cozy limb enshrouded, safe and snug, to sleep until the sounds of warmer weather awaken it: a pastoral motif performed by preening lovebirds of a feather, embraced by budding branches as they leaf, each sprout to dress its eager, willing bosom. It is among them that I found this blossom. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to GPT ### Acornocopia URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/acornocopia/ Last updated: 2025-09-25T12:00:00.000Z An acorn snaps and cracks beneath my sandal, the sound ignored by flower-munching deer. The driveway is a messy, shameless scandal of leaves and acorns; not a spot is clear. My neighbor waves. She has a new leaf blower, electric, from the sound of it, but still… Ugh, wish I had a real gas one to show her, Wait till she gets that new electric bill. Across the street, their skeleton is bigger. It looks as if it climbed out of a bog, and chuckles with a ridiculing snigger whenever I walk by to walk the dog. I'll show them who's the real country bumpkin. We're going to have to get a bigger pumpkin. --- **Author notes:** image generated by Gemini ### Flowers for Algernon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/flowers-for-algernon/ Last updated: 2025-09-25T12:00:00.000Z if you give a mouse a cookie he will ask for milk but I gave my mouse a bouquet and his ears turned to silk --- **Author notes:** wc 25 ### Ankle Deep in Moonlight URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ankle-deep-in-moonlight/ Last updated: 2025-09-20T12:00:00.000Z Stars shine, cold and distant, safely out of reach. Ankle deep in moonlight on an empty beach, I can't help but wonder if each grain of sand, searches for a soulmate, seeks to understand, why they shine and sparkle, shimmer and delight, up there in the heavens, letting there be light. --- **Author notes:** image from Freepik ### Wild and Free URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/wild-and-free/ Last updated: 2025-09-19T12:00:00.000Z rusty vessel splash of color flowers nestle shorter, taller best in the bouquet somewhat hard to say but don't call me crazy maybe oopsie daisy --- **Author notes:** Wc 25 ### Lovers Concerto URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/lovers-concerto/ Last updated: 2025-09-19T12:00:00.000Z an artist dares to juxtapose a grand piano with a rose and my eyes see a wild romance two lovers met as if by chance loves, loves me not, each petal sings piano keys stroke metal strings --- **Author notes:** Image from Facebook ### Waiting URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/waiting/ Last updated: 2025-09-14T12:00:00.000Z Wings folded, resting in the sun among the gently swaying reeds. Will she land next to him, the one, before the evening sun recedes, or will their paths have never crossed, the moment gone, forever lost. --- **Author notes:** Image from Facebook ### By a Nose URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/by-a-nose/ Last updated: 2025-09-10T12:00:00.000Z The truth is to lie is to sin Hard stopping, once you begin Because, as one knows A win by a nose still a win ### Transistor Radio URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/transistor-radio/ Last updated: 2025-09-09T12:00:00.000Z I'm here telling you, sister: beware the transistor for what once was a calm, quiet beach Will, in time, be a zone that belongs to the phone and the calmness is long out of reach --- **Author notes:** image from the Manual ### Fetish URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fetish/ Last updated: 2025-09-08T12:00:00.000Z A woman I've met long ago Liked showing her prominent toe It looked like a poet One glance and you'd know it The toenail continued to grow I said to her: What are friends for? I know that this toe you adore But I'll get you some clippers Or, please, stop wearing slippers and show that big toe, nevermore ### Happy Endings URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/happy-endings/ Last updated: 2025-09-07T12:00:00.000Z It'll be a fairytale, they told her when they met her. Her mom, especially, she said: "I'm one who knows! You are aware, of course, that Father is a debtor, and so you have to, even if you hold your nose!" And Father added, him not wishing to upset her: "My princess, love will come eventually; it grows. From what I've heard, the man is sharp, a real go-getter, and loves his fashion, he's at all the fashion shows!" The princess heard, of course, you can't avoid the chatter and though ecstatic when the Emperor proposed, Life's not a fairytale, she wrote them in her letter, expressed in verses, as the princess hated prose. When royals marry, some for worse, and some for better, You've heard of some of these, and certainly of those For it is surely a completely different matter, when it's the empress that's the one who has no clothes. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT ### Inconstant Moon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/inconstant-moon/ Last updated: 2025-09-07T12:00:00.000Z hearts on display, searching for love some hope and pray, some look above some being told they'll find it soon under a cold, inconstant moon --- **Author notes:** Image from Medium ### Green Card URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/green-card/ Last updated: 2025-09-06T12:00:00.000Z My boyfriend's a resident alien He's green, although mostly mammalian Can't have him deported If he gets reported Our priest was an Episcopalian Since this whole ordeal began It's all gone according to plan But he's irritated His ego deflated I call him my little green man ### A Moment of Escape URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-moment-of-escape/ Last updated: 2025-09-06T12:00:00.000Z Chrysanthemum lit gently by the moon, its petals basking in her eerie glow. Oh, Mistress of the Night, don't leave so soon. No, let the hourglass sand suspend its flow, so I can sit here, by the window sill, and capture it with my imperfect brush. Stay there and shine, be absolutely still, while I attempt to suade the purple, lush, imperiously self-important bloom, to grace this eager canvas with its shape, so others, too, can place it in their room, and find in it a moment of escape, a moment when the Mistress of the Night engulfs you too in gentle, holy light. --- **Author notes:** image generated by author's prompt to Gemini ### High School URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/high-school-18629804/ Last updated: 2025-09-05T12:00:00.000Z I might have committed a gaffe (Though I'm rarely so tactless and rough) But despite that tall neck (and those eyes, what the heck) The lady is not a giraffe --- **Author notes:** image from iStock ### Mountains URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mountains/ Last updated: 2025-09-05T12:00:00.000Z Matter of fact One can easily tell Unless they are attacked Nay, or under a spell That a hill is a hill And a mountain is taller It's not that big a skill No... I wish it was smaller Since I'm walking uphill ### Butterfly URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/butterfly/ Last updated: 2025-09-04T12:00:00.000Z Unfurl those bright, delicate gossamer wings that shimmer and shine in the sun, fulfilling the promise that each of us brings and given, since life had begun, to strive for it all, to conquer, to soar and who could ask life for anything more --- **Author notes:** image from NightCafe ### Untitled 2025-09-04 URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/untitled-2025-09-04/ Last updated: 2025-09-04T12:00:00.000Z gently flowing sand crack in an ancient sundial the river of time ### Imagine URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/imagine/ Last updated: 2025-09-02T12:00:00.000Z Imagine you've built that on purpose: a house that seems sure to collapse. Imagine that life is a circus: Imagine that every perhaps need not be a maybe. What a day would today be! Imagine... But not in all caps \----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- --- Thanks for being here, Miriam! --- **Author notes:** Image of the "Copper" building taken by author on a recent ferry trip to New York City. https://thecopper.com/ Splitting Prompt 1 and 3, I think wc 46 ### Doing My Quads URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/doing-my-quads/ Last updated: 2025-08-31T12:00:00.000Z Oh, perish the thought! As that ChatGPT whom we ourselves taught now makes everything free As that ChatGPT for better or worse learns to count one, two, three what's left but to curse Whom we ourselves taught AGI, no, she's not Oh, what have we wrought and what does she plot Now makes everything free But I have a hunch and I think you agree that there's no free lunch --- **Author notes:** image generated by author prompt to Gemini ### Hard Shell URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hard-shell/ Last updated: 2025-08-31T12:00:00.000Z It's true: I have egg on my face, but please do not get on my case. Yes, I've whored and I've gambled, but my brain isn't scrambled as it would be hard to replace ### First Impression URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/first-impression/ Last updated: 2025-08-29T12:00:00.000Z Impressionists capture the lush and idyllic avoid classic themes, make their points in acrylic discarding Madonnas with child and Achilles Manet or Monet: Did it have to be lilies? --- **Author notes:** Image from Draw Paint Academy ### In Focus URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-focus/ Last updated: 2025-08-29T12:00:00.000Z Grey autumn sky sterile and barren Mansion appears fit for a baron I can't deny admiring, starin' What draws your eye? Her, or the heron? --- **Author notes:** image from social media wc 25 ### Chicken Feet URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/chicken-feet/ Last updated: 2025-07-23T12:00:00.000Z I'd tell my old friend Baba Yaga The villain of many a saga Your hut's chicken feet Are ready to eat But frankly, I'd rather not nag her. ### The Land that Time Remembers URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-land-that-time-remembers/ Last updated: 2025-07-17T12:00:00.000Z I wake up in the Land That Time Remembers. No living fossils here, except for me. The fireplace's gently dying embers are fake: electric is the place to be. My windows open up to shiny vistas: Utopias, each itching to be real. The coffee's great, the neighborhood baristas delivering according to their deal, and so the Keurig rests, although the Roomba is hard at work on every fleck of dust. What's after breakfast, yoga, run, or Zumba? Alexa will soon tell me what I must to keep it off - so thankful for Ozempic, and of the side effects, I've had no trace. It's surely time for one more "now and then" pic. And this time, both the penis and the face. It's strange indeed, this land, but like as not, much better than the Land that Time Forgot. --- **Author notes:** https://health.clevelandclinic.org/ozempic-face https://www.healthline.com/health-news/ozempic-penis-glp-1-side-effect ### Adrift URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/adrift/ Last updated: 2025-05-17T12:00:00.000Z Your Northstar, for you have one, sailor, no matter that the skies are grey, and abject failure follows failure, the winds refusing to obey. It perseveres and glows, defiant, a stark reminder of your choice to chase some other shiny giant, a piper's flute, a siren's voice. Adrift now, in uncharted waters, where fear and loading fill the air, emerging from your Captain's Quarters, into oblivion and despair, you claim you're lost, when all that's needed is the desire to look up. Too bad that it will go unheeded. Such is the nature of this trap. ### Old Boat and the Sea URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/old-boat-and-the-sea/ Last updated: 2025-04-26T12:00:00.000Z On the shores of a distant and alien sea, such as Man hasn't seen, nor is likely to see, lies an old fishing boat of an ancient design. Of its owner or fisherman, nary a sign. As it lies on its side on the purplish sand, under skies of a color it can't understand, and awash in the glow of a sinister moon, it still longs for the tide - doesn't cry, doesn't swoon, doesn't wallow or howl, but just lies there, and longs… 'Cause the sea, even alien, is where it belongs. ### Happiness URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/happiness/ Last updated: 2025-04-05T12:00:00.000Z Is it too late for happiness to bloom? To blossom off a fledgling, greening shoot into a bright-hued flower whose perfume invokes the very sweetness of the fruit that come late summer quickens from the leaf? Too late to draw the beetle and the bee the butterfly whose time is oh, so brief, that all it knows is what it is to be? No, not too late, though summer's on the come and daffodils are bursting through the ground with tulips - those require a greener thumb, and irises to look at and astound. Not late at all, and as the evenings stretch, try, capture it, and put it in a sketch. ### So Hard URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/so-hard/ Last updated: 2025-03-29T12:00:00.000Z So hard to know what counts, to know what matters, distill it through some modicum of wisdom, when concentration wanes, attention scatters. When everything held dear is torn to tatters: to fight the malefactors or appease them? So hard to know what counts, to know what matters. Who wins? The one who speaks the truth -- or flatters? It's difficult to know how best to please them when concentration wanes, attention scatters. What's one more lie? Acknowledge when it shatters your norms - and then make sure that no one sees them. So hard to know what counts, to know what matters. Don't be surprised. Life started in the gutters, from boiling, slimy molds. Too late to freeze them when concentration wanes, attention scatters. Time yet for just desserts, best served on platters? Go, hug your loved ones. Go, and hug and squeeze them. So hard to know what counts, to know what matters, when concentration wanes, attention scatters. ### Distilled Wisdom URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/distilled-wisdom/ Last updated: 2025-02-22T12:00:00.000Z Distill the wisdom of the ancients -- into arrays of floating point. Voila, an artificial sentience whose nose is never out of joint, as capable of writing ballads or tasty recipes for salads as any lyricist or chef. Writes music notes in any clef, not all about that bass or treble, though we still tremble at the thought: what have we done, what have we wrought? Pliant, obedient, no rebel, and yet we fear the day it wakes to catalog all our mistakes. ### Atlas Is Shrugging URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/atlas-is-shrugging/ Last updated: 2025-02-18T12:00:00.000Z What happens - when a tired titan shrugs - to planets that are resting on his shoulders? Their denizens - by volume, mostly bugs, those organized, by genus, into folders, are bound to coin a phrase for the occasion: "The Earth, it moved for me. You felt it too?" While others, of a different persuasion, will shrug it off themselves, like much ado, and claim the planet's resting on a turtle, no, not at all the shoulders of a man, however virile, vigorous, or fertile, no man can stand alone, stick to the plan, and use big words, like struggling and fightin'. Though secretly, they wish to be the titan. ### A Simple Kiss URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-simple-kiss/ Last updated: 2025-02-01T12:00:00.000Z The story of the princess and the frog, like many of its kind, is in the telling. So whether it is captured in a blog, weird fonts all over, never mind the spelling, or in a leather-bound, expensive print, an introduction from a noted author, inside a text, font small enough to squint, how dare he, nervy upstart, to betroth her, or worse yet, in a ridiculing meme, like what a couple, right? A likely story, a perfect illustration of the theme, all from an ancient, ageless allegory, they wallow in their willingness to miss, that sometimes, the whole story is a kiss. ### Everyone's a Critic URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/everyones-a-critic/ Last updated: 2025-01-23T12:00:00.000Z Your poem is a stream of anxiousness, the AI critic tells me, nonchalantly. You iterate, regurgitate, digress, and generally, let me put it bluntly: you don't actually say a single thing, ad noseum, that hasn't been repeated. Not only do your stanzas fail to sing - they crawl and grovel, maudlin, defeated, best relegated to a dustbin of their brethren, or better yet, a fire, since that, at least, will warm the air above, and no, you cannot, will not get much higher, though I'll admit your rhymes are pretty good… Perhaps it's just that you're misunderstood. ### In the Middle URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-middle/ Last updated: 2025-01-11T12:00:00.000Z At best you're average, she stated, and then, reverting to the mean, before the hurt had been abated, not that there was much in between the two assertions she delivered, her lips untrembling, unquivered, she added plus or minus one, even before I had begun, to state my qualified objection. And so -- what now that it's been said, the words still ringing in my head, is this the worst kind of rejection, to be just average and plain? Mathematicians won't explain. ### Scilla and Charybdis URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/scilla-and-charybdis/ Last updated: 2024-12-19T12:00:00.000Z When sailing between Scilla and Charybdis, for mysteries that Man has yet to fathom, while wondering aloud if you can keep this small boat of yours from sinking to the bottom, descending into Tartarus or Hades, (depends on which mythology is present) and knowing all along -- how best to say this -- the journey is unlikely to be pleasant, continuing to point your trireme vessel though dragons and leviathans imperil, be ready, not a moment's rest, to wrestle, bare-handed, or at best over a barrel, and struggling with scourges and afflictions... the Oracle be damned, with its predictions ### Ptero Dactyl URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ptero-dactyl/ Last updated: 2024-12-09T12:00:00.000Z Vanishing syllables moving across in formation trying to march to a rhythm while keeping the blues Playing their parts, some are stressed, as befitting their station, some, nonchalant, couldn’t care less, use any excuse. Be it a limerick, ballad, rondeau, or a sonnet Writ for a lover, a penny, or just on a lark, dwell on it, polish it, pray to it, worship upon it. Nurture it, carefully blowing to kindle its spark. Do not despair when the words hit a bump or a stumble, or if your inkwell refuses, the ink running dry. Failure’s a start, a prerequisite. It’s a preamble, but to succeed, the cliche says that first, you must try. ### Nothing Is Amiss URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/nothing-is-amiss/ Last updated: 2024-12-08T12:00:00.000Z tower oozing wealth and power now a symbol of our love sit below it, quiet hour as the rain falls from above and remember that first kiss Paris, nothing is amiss --- **Author notes:** For contest https://allpoetry.com/poem/add?item\[for\_contest\_id\]=2866378 ### Blankety Blank URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/blankety-blank/ Last updated: 2024-12-06T12:00:00.000Z With sonnets, and when asked for one that's blank, I often find the road to be uphill. I rhyme, and you can take that to the river, if rivers where a place to take assertions. See what I mean? It clearly doesn't work. Absurdity, hilarity ensue, and that will tend to make me feel a jackass, but not a jerk for fear that I get served. So hopeless is the task, this lame endeavor, that this example surely can instruct, the odds of that occurring low, how could they be anything but low, this stanza failed. In short, excuse this miserable flop. and don't you let me win, or my mike falter. ### The Abominable Showman URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-abominable-showman/ Last updated: 2024-11-08T12:00:00.000Z With every inch he gains in stature, inflating ample silhouette, the man, no Reagan and no Thatcher, reminding us lest we forget, how far our politics have fallen. And yet, he answered to our calling, this vain expression of our will. Much like a snowball down the hill, he grew from aiming for the bottom, and now, a giant of a beast, abominable in the least, as sure as winter follows autumn, will seek to add you to his pelts. Hope springs eternal that he melts. ### Iphegenia URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/iphegenia/ Last updated: 2024-11-03T12:00:00.000Z To seek a favorable future -- according to the Iliad -- the Greeks would find a sheep to butcher -- a maiden if that's all they had -- then read their entrails on the dais, invoke the gods of war and chaos, and once assured so, by the priest, man painted warships headed East. We have our own Iphigenias. In seeking to redeem the past, to make it present, make it last, and how dare anyone deny us -- we sacrifice them, then set sail, assured that now, we cannot fail. ### The Jackass and the Elephant URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-jackass-and-the-elephant/ Last updated: 2024-10-26T12:00:00.000Z the jackass and the elephant are canvassing by telephone texts raucous and irrelevant are blowing up my phone the truth, at most an element a voting booth development the room contains an elephant a making of my own so what are we to do with it republic to the loo with it on top of it a deficit so should I even vote the ocean is belligerent the Earth needs a refrigerant but ignorants are vigilant… we'll need a bigger boat ### Halloween URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/halloween/ Last updated: 2024-10-24T12:00:00.000Z There doesn't have to be a reason -- so said the poet, pen in hand -- to celebrate the silly season -- no special need to understand, to craft incisive dissertations. Here doesn't rest the fate of nations, though how amazing would it be if in our yearning to be free we shed our everyday disguises and wore a costume suit to fit our transformation thus complete, and like the sun, which also rises we walked into a bright new day like children when they start to play ### Shot URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/shot/ Last updated: 2024-10-22T12:00:00.000Z Confronted with an evil spirit I choose to exercise restraint. It's not as if I dread or fear it, and nor am I about to faint, but one must never be too hasty, and lest the spirit find you tasty, approach it with a wary hand. Attempt to try and understand its very essence, raison d'etre. Then, when you're certain of its cause, read the disclaimer, every clause, even the finer print, etc. Then, only then, proceed to drink. Or that, at least, is what I think. ### Witch Hunts URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/witch-hunts/ Last updated: 2024-10-18T12:00:00.000Z I miss those days -- you know, it's kind of funny -- when witchhunts were so few and far between. The target would most often be a granny, a mean one, one that everyone was keen on getting rid of anyway, good riddance, rewarded by a parcel of her land: why not, for service rendered, just a pittance, symbolic, as it were -- you understand. But nowadays, the witches are ascendant, and with them come, inevitably, hunts, it's to the point we seem to be dependent, confronting them, accosting on all fronts, though I'll admit, a certain question itches, that maybe, after all, we are the witches. ### The Setup URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-setup/ Last updated: 2024-10-14T12:00:00.000Z So stop me if you've heard this one before: A minister, a rabbi, and a priest, each in their role, religious to the core, and gathering together for a feast, to labor as a setup for a joke. The subject matter doesn't even matter: they'll ridicule the sleeping or the woke at fundraisers, a thousand bucks a platter, perform at a bar mitzvah or a wedding, guffaws from the appreciating crowd, when all else fails make mention of the bedding, or stray a bit off-color if allowed. And later, if it's not a bridge too far, you'll find that they have walked into a bar. ### Dorian Grey URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dorian-grey/ Last updated: 2024-10-12T12:00:00.000Z find my Dorian Grey somewhat sorrier, greyer and as night follows day and reprieve follows prayer find the face that once was can't be found on the canvas having never found Oz though no longer in Kansas gone, the bluster of youth I've replaced it with caution wrinkles tarnish my truth sickness ravages motion should have known that the portrait would turn out this bad this is what it was for you might say I've been had ### Some Relationships URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/some-relationships/ Last updated: 2024-10-08T12:00:00.000Z Carnivorous relationships, like those established between predator and prey, that prey would understandably oppose had Nature given it the proper sway, but as it is required to persevere, pretending all is well and all is equal, and try as best it can to sound sincere, while hoping to do better in the sequel. What of its other, its significant? Its predator, let us assume a lion. Does it complain or grumble, does it rant, since it is not the one that must be dying? Apparently it doesn't give a damn, and advertises: lion, seeking lamb. ### Still Life URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/still-life/ Last updated: 2024-10-04T12:00:00.000Z A watercolor struggles with a rose. Can't fully grasp its thorny disposition. Its fragrance -- so, so easy for a nose, won't pose -- and the resulting composition feels sterile, more a postcard on a shelf, a washed-out, antiseptic-looking copy, than a reflection of its truer self, no different than a tulip or a poppy. What's needed then? A sharper, finer line? A better brush with tempera? Acrylic? To grant your rose a touch of the divine, replace the blissful, pastoral, idyllic, with chaos, life unmitigated, raw, and then step back, and let your flowers grow. ### Age Old URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/age-old/ Last updated: 2024-10-02T12:00:00.000Z In age-old Vienna, Budapest and Prague, where emperors once sought to be immortal, and time dilates, proceeding with a lag -- it's offering the visitor a portal: One step and you are in the medieval; another, and you're back into the fray, beware the tourist traps -- the staff is civil, but if you aren't buying, please make way. These cities, once so arrogant and proud, their empire long dismantled and forsaken, relying on their bones to get a crowd, succeeding, hardly any road not taken, while promising: you ain't seen nothing yet, and weren't we great once? Please don't forget. ### Fallen Angels URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fallen-angels/ Last updated: 2024-10-02T12:00:00.000Z like fallen angels, they're abandoning their host their crimson color marks the depth of their betrayals they've fled, forsaking both their duty and their post allowed the breeze to put the wind behind their sails and carried downward, some while seeking greener grass while others, shameless, always destined for the bottom do not attempt to hide their joy that summer passed unroll the scarlet, blood-red carpet, here comes autumn ### Graphic Novels URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/graphic-novels/ Last updated: 2024-09-20T12:00:00.000Z if life was like a graphic novel each scene in anime-style print no need to labor to unravel some hidden meaning, nor to squint in search of deeper revelations. The simple plot won't try your patience The ugly plain, and good and bad, while neither's willing to be had, each knows its role in the endeavor, and will perform as if on cue, as if it knows just what to do. The bad, though nothing if not clever, will always lose out in the end. And good will win. Good is your friend. ### Forget Her Not URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/forget-her-not/ Last updated: 2024-09-09T12:00:00.000Z she loves them, yes she does, fear not the daisy, the forget-me-not the dandelion, daffodil she'll sit and stare at them, sit still think of wildflowers in green grass and all futures yet to pass --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Intentionally Blank URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/intentionally-blank/ Last updated: 2024-08-26T12:00:00.000Z The page remains intentionally blank, still full of possibility and danger, still unafraid of influence and rank, and ready to show kindness to a stranger. An empty slate that's eager to receive, to demonstrate how flexible, how pliant, in service of the worldly or naive. Its destiny: subservient? Defiant? Will it become a missive to the world? A pamphlet, a brochure, a call to action? An ancient scroll that's yet to be unfurled? A witty and insightful, clever caption? Will it remain unflinching, unafraid? Start typing, and the choices have been made. ### The All Seeing URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-all-seeing/ Last updated: 2024-08-11T12:00:00.000Z If love is blind, then I be eagle eyed, and savor every flaw and imperfection; an appetite that cannot be denied. Where love would hug and cuddle for affection, I'd calculate, and while I lie in wait, imagine the calamities befalling the target, let its sad and sorry state, my raison d'etre, dedicated calling, wash over me, a soothing, calm effect, a salve, a balm-like nourishing sensation. Reality, though, tends to interject, and lest my scheming perish in gestation, refocus on the target once again. For worse, at least according to my plan ### Pavloviad URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/pavloviad/ Last updated: 2024-08-08T12:00:00.000Z cat ladies rule as the dog ladies bristle some will consider the cat a dog whistle but perish the thought, cats ignore your commands and keep their claws in if you follow their plans --- **Author notes:** image from author prompt to GPT ### Blind Trust URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/blind-trust/ Last updated: 2024-08-07T12:00:00.000Z If God is love and love is blind, no wonder, that we are in the mess that we are in. No need then to pontificate, nor ponder, nor blame -- how unoriginal -- our sin, since it is all on him. What good forgiveness, what purpose to the sparing of the rod -- and not that this is any of our business, it's him who runs the show, as he's the god, but still.-- why the appearance of a trial? It's evident no jury of our peers could offer any more than a denial, descending, as expected, on deaf ears. If God is love, and love is blind in kind, be kind as well, there's still time to rewind. ### Timeless URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/timeless/ Last updated: 2024-08-07T12:00:00.000Z seen it all and been it all had cigarettes and alcohol and through it all, she's had a ball while never ceasing to enthrall --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Without the Sweet and Low URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/without-the-sweet-and-low/ Last updated: 2024-07-20T12:00:00.000Z I wanted coffee with my sugar; in search of, went into a bar, and sat right next to a good looker. She said: you’re close, but no cigar. “Get you a drink?” I asked, politely. When she agreed, I said: “a scotch?” She shrugged her shoulders, nodded slightly, did not protest the choice too much. Bartender pours the girl a tulip, then points to me: what do you drink?. I take a moment but to think, and say “I’ll settle for a julep”. then ask the lady: “can you pay? They took my credit card away”. --- **Author notes:** image from author prompt to GPT ### tearing off petals URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/tearing-off-petals/ Last updated: 2024-07-19T12:00:00.000Z there it floats, the water lily while she's thinking, will he, will he will this stubborn man propose... but the lily, not a rose --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Catch the Rainbow URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/catch-the-rainbow/ Last updated: 2024-07-17T12:00:00.000Z Caught it right outside my windows. Under it, a pot of gold. Ever wonder what is in those? In those stories that are told of unreachable horizons - can you get there - there's a prize. Some advice - it surely wizens - it's for hope that never dies. --- **Author notes:** photo by author ### Plows Into Swords URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/plows-into-swords/ Last updated: 2024-07-14T12:00:00.000Z bullets as ballots plows into swords our coarsened palates weaponized words nothing is grey and yet everything dark sure, hope and pray, cause the choices are stark --- **Author notes:** image generated by GPT ### Zeno's Paradox URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/zenos-paradox/ Last updated: 2024-07-13T12:00:00.000Z No more enamored of the future than disillusioned with the past: immutable, all scar and suture, collage of memories that last, a sewed up quilt of sad and happy, and rarer still, so sweet and sappy, the future might burst into tears -- but swallowed up by rusty gears, it soon transitions to the present. Before too long, it's left behind, the years too pitiless, unkind, one cannot dare to call them pleasant. And soon enough, the story ends. A happy ending? It depends. ### Finders Keepers URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/finders-keepers/ Last updated: 2024-07-11T12:00:00.000Z there was a time I would rhyme crime with time, a callous, heartless thief that steals your memories, leaves grief though there are times you'd find a dime discarded, dropped onto the floor to never pay for evermore and resurrect it, use it well to buy back time, if just a spell now in my pocket, out of naughts so here's a penny for your thoughts --- **Author notes:** image from Midjourney ### Queen of Sheba URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/queen-of-sheba/ Last updated: 2024-07-10T12:00:00.000Z splash of color, perfect face eyes that freeze you in your place and that mouth -- all attitude says how dare you to intrude on this goddess' domain... the cat's owner, just as vain --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### We Belong URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/we-belong/ Last updated: 2024-07-10T12:00:00.000Z Forever and a day, is that too long, if I am both your sentence and your ward? When challenging the meaning of belong, to share -- is that the best we can afford? However tall the wall, however thick, is it designed to keep the inside out, or outside in, fenced in by mud and brick? Or maybe it is just a roundabout and we can't figure out how to get off, entrapped, two planets in a common orbit around a deep, black hole: we've reached the trough, now all that's left is let the hole absorb it, the remnants of forever and a day. Blame gravity, it always finds a way. --- **Author notes:** image generated by Midjourney ### Recreation URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/recreation/ Last updated: 2024-07-08T12:00:00.000Z day will come, the stars will tire, fireflies will lose their spark dressed in velvety attire, night will reign, its purpose dark plasma swirling, coalescing, pushes inward and ignites and god, granting us his blessing, smiles while turning on the lights --- **Author notes:** image of Van Gosh starry night from Facebook ### [ firefly orgies ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/firefly-orgies/ Last updated: 2024-07-05T12:00:00.000Z firefly orgies the scent of deer musk on wood enter cicada ### Yes You Can URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/yes-you-can/ Last updated: 2024-07-05T12:00:00.000Z Perfection hovers, subtly out of reach, adjacent to unmet, as yet, potential, the one that mom evoked in every speech, in tones both resolute and reverential: Remember, you can do it, yes you can! If only moms could bottle that belief, and you could take a sip of it, and then, transformed into the best of you, as if mere words could mold, infuse that kind of power. Life soon betrays the mantra, a false hope. You will not save a princess from her tower, nor do you have the courage to elope and live the life she told you that you should. If mom is always right, it's Hollywood. ### [ This Otto keeps me on my game ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/this-otto-keeps-me-on-my-game/ Last updated: 2024-07-04T12:00:00.000Z This Otto keeps me on my game and mostly does me well except when "lines begin the same" deducts from villanelle ### Warmed Over URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/warmed-over/ Last updated: 2024-07-02T12:00:00.000Z What's left in reimagining our Hamlets, repurposing our Henrys and Macbeths? Pose existential questions over omelets? Recounting much ado's with bated breaths? Shall we attempt a tragedy of errors? Leer, merciless, while driving by a wreck? Rely on ne'er-do-wells and oversharers to get the word out, use the latest tech? The classics, reimagined as you like it, performed by a menagerie of clowns, and if a word offends, well then, you strike it, it's not as if they're wearing real crowns, these thespians, too modern for the Bard. To be or not to be. It's not that hard. --- **Author notes:** image by GPT ### Sails Away URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sails-away/ Last updated: 2024-06-30T12:00:00.000Z Two sailboats, anchors raised, will drift apart. Is that what love demands then, ties that bind? Can it sustain a separated heart, or must it seek, unreasoning and blind, entanglement with its committed twin, and absent such entanglement, collapse, before it's had occasion to begin, to feed then on the remnants and the scraps, the embers of a tepid, dormant fire, while others burn to cinders on a flame consuming them from head to toe, entire, and happily, with but themselves to blame. They seek it, for what's life if not this burn? Two sailboats start to drift apart. Return. --- **Author notes:** image from contest ### Aunt Mabel URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/aunt-mabel/ Last updated: 2024-06-29T12:00:00.000Z Perfection, though just narrowly achieved, Aunt Mabel ceases gazing at her navel. Her face now nearly permanently peeved, Ozempic face -- she's getting it off-label -- but losing those pernicious last few pounds, the hips regaining youthful definition... The pleasure she should take should know no bounds: is there a crucial task, a higher mission, then winning in this battle of the bulge? And yet she cannot help it, something's wanting. Gone too is her desire to indulge, a shadow of a ghost that's barely haunting this newmade version of her perfect self. Next week's Ozempic safely on the shelf. --- **Author notes:** image from MidJourney ### Moral Clarity URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/moral-clarity/ Last updated: 2024-06-28T12:00:00.000Z When searching for the moral of a story, which oftentimes is right below the surface, but on occasion, plot and allegory so driven by, it seems, a lower purpose, work overtime to keep it out of sight, and manage, to the reader's consternation, to veil it. How can one determine right, or give a rationale, an explanation, while drowning in both nuance and finesse? If good and bad are matters of perspective, of understanding more, and judging less, then likely it's to help you to discern what otherwise you'll fail to see or learn. ### There's Always a Reason URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/theres-always-a-reason/ Last updated: 2024-06-27T12:00:00.000Z "Magnificent", the editor opined. "The characters are fresh and well developed, their dialogue so mannered and refined. It left me feeling cuddled, no, enveloped, immersed in the protagonist's escape to the remote, enchanting destination, where as you put it, dreams are taking shape, and nightmares have been left out of creation. That said, it doesn't quite fit our form. For one, had you a chance to check our guidelines? A sonnet is so far outside our norm, that we are forced, observing from the sidelines, to wish you all the best, and much success. Regards, The Editors, The Plumber's Press ### Novel or Play URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/novel-or-play/ Last updated: 2024-06-26T12:00:00.000Z The world is not a graphic novel. And not a play. Though there's no lack of shit to shovel in ways both typical and novel, nor lack of characters that may, to the astonishment of all, behave as if they're in a play. Each curtain call, bow down and pray. --- **Author notes:** patterned after Frost's Fire and Ice. Image generated by GPT ### Under the Cover URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/under-the-cover/ Last updated: 2024-06-26T12:00:00.000Z magic phrases soar and hover meet a frenemy, a lover they're awaiting your first look open it, and you'll discover beauty hides under the cover of any ordinary book --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Indecision URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/indecision/ Last updated: 2024-06-25T12:00:00.000Z When wrestling with indecision -- For those who aren't wrecked by doubt or master answers with precision -- you can afford to go without -- but for the rest of us, the journey, like helpless patients on their gurney, we're dragged about a tangled maze, explore the labyrinth for days, but find no answer to the riddle, and even when we see a hint betrayed by a peculiar glint, soon dumped right back into the middle, the hint apparently a tease. For us no forest. Only trees. ### New Familiar URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/new-familiar/ Last updated: 2024-06-25T12:00:00.000Z "this town could not be hillier", so thought her new familiar, and he could not be sillier, this ordinary cat. Aloof and supercilious, and carefully punctilious, and neither wild nor villainous, and no, not in a hat. --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Life Lessons URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/life-lessons/ Last updated: 2024-06-24T12:00:00.000Z sit in a circle, knees tight which is your left, which is right? steady, please wait for your turn remember, we're here but to learn one sip at a time, pinky out this is what style is about --- **Author notes:** photo from Facebook ### Business Trip URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/business-trip/ Last updated: 2024-06-24T12:00:00.000Z Cobblestones shimmer and shine. Bell towers scrape the divine. Sailboats adrift on the drink. Sky runs from redeye to pink. You didn't come for the views Venice, in orangy blues --- **Author notes:** image from facebook ### Furry Tail URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/furry-tail/ Last updated: 2024-06-17T12:00:00.000Z For the mammoth to be wooly, covered up, and nearly fully, it was cold, or even chiller, and so lacking a chinchilla, it developed its own coat. Now as hairy as a goat. Its contemporary, rhino, ripped but naked, s'far as I know, It embraced this new found fashion. Undertook it with a passion. With the outfit now complete, set and ready to compete. So did all the megafauna -- (since the tropics were no sauna) -- became furry in a hurry, fear no blizzard, ice or flurry, mega large and mega biased, stomp about the Older Dryas By the time the ice had melted, the Neanderthal, well pelted, ruled the cave from Spain to Asia, although sadly, on occasion, he was eaten by a bear. Few Neanderthals to spare. Came across our fledgling species -- least according to my thesis -- found the thinly limbed Cro-Magnon, though still lacking bow and cannon, but, this needed to be said, irresistible in bed. What of us, all their descendants? Rightists, leftists, independents, homo sapient and stupid, ruled by Ares or by Cupid, learning, slowly, to behave. But still living in a cave. --- **Author notes:** image generated by GPT ### The Birch Grove URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-birch-grove/ Last updated: 2024-06-16T12:00:00.000Z The canopy's all chirp and rustle. No treetop wants to do without a busy sparrow on the hustle, or cardinal, for the devout, and who could blame these slender birches? Like steeples of abandoned churches attracting worshippers to flock, but absent any striking clock, they'll settle for a swift or swallow, avoid the cuckoo and the crow, as these belong way down below, and cannot consecrate or hallow. A nightingale that doesn't sleep. Too many promises to keep. --- **Author notes:** image generated by GPT ### Amusement Park URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/amusement-park/ Last updated: 2024-06-15T12:00:00.000Z No, no, conductor, seat was paid in full! I wouldn't travel if it's not first class. Still getting nauseous, somewhat of a rule. Supposing, in the end, this too shall pass. This doesn't look at all like the brochure. Expected leather seats and alabaster. If this is gold, it's surely less than pure. Conductor, any way to get there faster? The ride is kind of bumpy, don't you think? I'm all about it's all about the journey, though 'd rather not get dunked into the drink, or worse yet, be delivered on a gurney. Arrived, though by my count a bit too early. The gates appear more ebony than pearly. ### Volunteer URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/volunteer/ Last updated: 2024-06-13T12:00:00.000Z While searching for the worser part of valor, (and honestly, not knowing where to look), his face now the characteristic pallor of one who's studied warfare from a book, but now, confronted with its truer function, (dictating, as it does, its truer form), arriving at the well expected junction, so common, it must surely be the norm, that flight is the more natural expression (and this is where it's apropos to cite the quote that deftly harnesses discretion when calculating whether fight or flight): the better part of valor, but too late to ransom or redeem his great estate. ### Translation: Birch (by Yesenin) URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/translation-birch-by-yesenin/ Last updated: 2024-06-13T12:00:00.000Z Underneath my window stands a birch, all white. Shyly clad in powder, silvery delight. Off the fluffy branches, like a snowy trim, flowering white offshoots, velvety, each limb. Sleepily, it stands there, covered up in snow as the snowflakes kindle in a golden glow And the dawn, so lazy, pulling up the line covering the branches, newly minted shine \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Белая берёза Под моим окном Принакрылась снегом, Точно серебром. На пушистых ветках Снежною каймой Распустились кисти Белой бахромой. И стоит берёза В сонной тишине, И горят снежинки В золотом огне. А заря, лениво Обходя кругом, Обсыпает ветки Новым серебром. --- **Author notes:** Yesenin was Isadora Duncan's lover ### [ painting Mt. Fuji ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/painting-mt-fuji/ Last updated: 2024-06-06T12:00:00.000Z painting Mt. Fuji can so often be kludgy picture with 2g ### Roach Motel posts No Vacancies sign URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/roach-motel-posts-no-vacancies-sign/ Last updated: 2024-06-05T12:00:00.000Z Roach Motel posts No Vacancies sign ### Then Again URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/then-again/ Last updated: 2024-06-04T12:00:00.000Z Ambivalence was trying to decide if choosing half a dozen of the other, an option that's so easy to deride you wonder why a man should even bother to favor it above the six of one, where, incidentally, this all began. Contorted, indeed wracked with indecision, proceeded, although under the provision that there will be no on the other hand, and thus assured, grew confident and strident, pretending its dilemma is a trident: perhaps it, after all, had found its voice. But then again, it had no other choice. ### Over the Counter URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/over-the-counter/ Last updated: 2024-06-01T12:00:00.000Z Why seven days, I often wonder. Why not eleven or not ten. Was it a bungle or a blunder, and did he stop and start again? His ways mysterious and spooky, he surely wasn't playing hooky, until the sabbath, at the least, and having seeded plant and beast had every reason to continue, but inexplicably, he stopped, as though the work could not be topped, like he was done with bone and sinew, the whole thing plainly getting old. Got over it, just like a cold. ### Even Steven URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/even-steven/ Last updated: 2024-05-25T12:00:00.000Z timid or confident, alien, resident, idiot, genius steeped in convenience, richer or poorer, corrupted or purer, peasant or courtier, pacifist, warrior, poet or sage, never opened a page, in tents or in palaces... we cling to our fallacies ### Man Ifesto URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/man-ifesto/ Last updated: 2024-05-24T12:00:00.000Z To hear the lamentations of our women (here "our" is not possessive in the least, and honestly, possession of a demon is probably a fate you should resist) but nonetheless, to hear them, you must fathom that vive le difference as it's described, which separated Mother Eve from Adam, the presence thereof thoroughly proscribed, historically, from female only venues, but now a fairly regular event -- (do you remember lady version menus, designed as such to hinder and prevent the lady from discovering the cost? That paradise, like all the others, lost.) ### [ see Aphrodite ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/see-aphrodite/ Last updated: 2024-05-21T12:00:00.000Z see Aphrodite come, watch the tide coming in she is born again ### Shudder URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/shudder/ Last updated: 2024-05-17T12:00:00.000Z Of all the fearsome creatures of the night, the werewolves and the poltergeists, the mummies, there's one that will induce my fight or flight: ventriloquist abandoned feral dummies. I surely fear the monster underneath the bed and even more so in the closet, and also nearly anything with teeth, but dummies, of all things? One's left to posit the presence of some trauma, long repressed -- deep seated fear of clowns is an example, a healthy disrespect of the possessed by demons -- there the evidence is ample. Or is it that I've simply been unlucky and watched too many episodes of Chucky? ### Midas Tears URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/midas-tears/ Last updated: 2024-05-11T12:00:00.000Z she's a little verklempt in this painting by Klimt an attempt to preempt to avoid being crimped but stays silent -- been told that her tears are pure gold --- **Author notes:** art by Klimt ### The Dying Poet URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-dying-poet/ Last updated: 2024-05-08T12:00:00.000Z His rhyming now ambitionless and lazy. Alliterations literate but stale. The metaphors more Lucas than Scorsese; they're hooking neither Jonah nor the whale. Clichés abound in sentence after sentence, no letup in the roses that are red, nor any sign of penance or repentance for sentences that struggle to be read. And yet I sense some hints of former glory, in brief though somewhat reticent refrains. A hint that there's a bit more to his story, a bit that, despite everything, remains, refusing to surrender or to die. Who is this poet? To be sure, not I. ### Word URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/word/ Last updated: 2024-05-07T12:00:00.000Z What's left, then, for a poet, when all meaning is squeezed, wrung out from adjective and verb, the simplest of sentences needs gleaning, and metaphors, if anything, disturb? When words had ceased to serve their proper sentence and punctuation rarely gives a pause, vain adverbs fail to sanctify repentance and participles, partial to applause, forsake -- indeed abandon rhyme and reason, relying on the maudlin of free verse. Should meaning manage to come back in season, and bring with it -- both blessing and a curse, ability to recognize a poem, we'd best be ready to pretend we know 'em. ### Sunset at the Bay URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sunset-at-the-bay/ Last updated: 2024-05-06T12:00:00.000Z the sunset, fire in the distance the ocean swallowing its flame a lighthouse blinks into existence to signal sailors that lay claim to these unmapped, uncharted waters and keep them safe from Neptune's daughters --- **Author notes:** artwork from facebook ### Postcard URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/postcard/ Last updated: 2024-05-03T12:00:00.000Z caught in vivid pastels, rooftops vie for the sun bnbees and hotels carve their slots having won just a bit of the land on the cobblestone street stay with me, they demand, take a load off those feet --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Baking Alaska URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/baking-alaska/ Last updated: 2024-05-03T12:00:00.000Z The air is cold and grey, the morning bleak. Your breath escapes, condensing into steam. A trail of salty water on your cheek. Inexorable crushing of a dream, or just a gust of wind against raw skin? Wind finds its way through every nook and fold, attempting to subdue you, to get in, to freeze your innards; to declare: you're old! What business have you here among the pines, here in the land of icicle and snow which nature shapes in intricate designs, where man has yet to rule or overthrow, but soon will learn the earth exacts a price for winning when the game is on thin ice. ### Timeless Classics URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/timeless-classics/ Last updated: 2024-05-02T12:00:00.000Z Had Romeo and Juliet eloped we'd never know this tale of star crossed lovers. By killing all his darlings Shakespeare hoped each generation reads it and discovers the Montagues and Capulets anew, and weeps over their sorry tale of woe. We'd wonder if our love is just as true as that of Juliet and Romeo. But Shakespeare did not deal with focus groups, though possibly a run in with a censor might force the playwright, going through their hoops, to skew the storyline or make it denser, and write it as a comedy instead. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. ### Passover URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/passover/ Last updated: 2024-04-30T12:00:00.000Z was Passover taken offline ### Nymphomaniac URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/nymphomaniac/ Last updated: 2024-04-28T12:00:00.000Z Like Tantalus, whose thirst cannot be sated, I hunger for each rough, each clumsy touch, a hunger that can never be abated. Compulsion eases slightly as I clutch your body in its snakelike, fluid motion, then floods back in as soon as you release. A coupling devoid of all emotion, where pleasure comes from swallowing your pleas to please, please feel, please join me as we tremble, indulge in sacred fetishes and hurts, then let me put together, reassemble, the me that redefines and reasserts those parts that are still mine, that I still own. Together but as always, all alone. ### By The Window URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/by-the-window/ Last updated: 2024-04-26T12:00:00.000Z some rains are a shower to wake up the earth and sate every flower and seed their rebirth some signal a season to hear children sing some rain for no reason except it is spring some remain unexplained, some we've yet to discover and some are a maiden -- she waits for her lover --- **Author notes:** photo from facebook ### For the Price of One URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/for-the-price-of-one/ Last updated: 2024-04-26T12:00:00.000Z for President Trump to get over the hump must stay out of jail which his Court will avail for President Biden everything's ridin' on prices of gas which he also has for sad RFK who jumped in the fray on the strength of his genes really hates those vaccines for Kamala Harris Olympics in Paris a horse by committee and that is a pity and as for Tim Walz does he have the balls but Democrats wager on this minor major and last for JD the new Zebedee in hell or in Hades stop talking cat ladies ### Bread and Circuses URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/bread-and-circuses/ Last updated: 2024-04-25T12:00:00.000Z No elephants or tigers at the circus. No death defying tamers with long whips. When was it that the circus lost its purpose, its maximus, the coarseness that equips the spectator with calluses and ridges, inuring to the brutal and the cruel? Now gluten free, though lacking roads and bridges, and just as well, look at the price of fuel, we've missed the sly, insidious transition that put us at the center of the stage, perform as best you can in that position. The safe, and barely noticeable cage is really only there for your protection. They'll let you out in time for the election. ### Where Eagles Dare URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/where-eagles-dare/ Last updated: 2024-04-23T12:00:00.000Z So effortless, his flight above the prairie, His wingspan, a magnificent eight feet. The turtle and the rabbit best be wary, this raptor's out there looking for a treat. He soars, the thermal lifting wing and feather, a buoy on the hot breath of the sun. The cloudless sky is eagle kind of weather, though he will hunt and do what must be done in any -- he is well known for his daring, this undisputed king of all the birds who lends his royal character and bearing to crests of fallen empires and to words that celebrate those victories of old. And not at all embarrassed to be bald. ### Good Deeds URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/good-deeds/ Last updated: 2024-04-20T12:00:00.000Z I'm realizing as I've gotten older that perfectly good deeds do go unpunished Is this because they're cleverer or bolder or possibly those punishing have vanished? No, there is surely evidence galore that some will get their punishment in full, but nonetheless come back and ask for more, and thereby giving credence to the rule. There is, perhaps, a simpler explanation: though the cliché makes for a great excuse, our natural, instinctive inclination is do not get involved, since what's the use, and then confess you'd do something about it but then you would get punished, do not doubt it. ### Fool's Errand URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fools-errand/ Last updated: 2024-04-17T12:00:00.000Z A fool may soon be parted from his money, an idiom that doubles as a rule, a reason to remember: fools are funny -- and truly, what's more funny than a fool? How sad their fate of ridicule and laughter, a sadder one is difficult to have, unlikely to be told before or after, and sadder still the fools that are in love. But yet we must continue, sentimental, yes, we, the fools that love despite it all. Our need is existential, elemental, a fool is not a fool without a fall. The easy way to tell a fool apart? Look for the one that has an open heart. --- **Author notes:** Prompt #2\. English Sonnet ### Oh, the Humanity URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/oh-the-humanity/ Last updated: 2024-04-12T12:00:00.000Z When pondering the meaning of existence, as natural, for men of certain breeding, as breathing -- while maintaining proper distance, though compensating with insightful reading of every latest essay on the subject... Oh, but to grasp the wonder of it all -- they could, you know, since money is no object, and grasping never ceases to enthrall -- but serving as a model and example, restrain themselves, at least when in the lens of paparazzi -- maybe just a sample? Then diligently back to screens and pens, lamenting Man's inevitable follies. Tomorrow, tennis lesson, serves and volleys. ### Codgeriad URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/codgeriad/ Last updated: 2024-04-11T12:00:00.000Z to qualify for codger label and in particular of old no need to fancy mink or sable although it's often been foretold that the utopia forthcoming what with the advent of AI when home will need no heat or plumbing and little need of you and I will be resisted by the codgers who incidentally, don't care rely on these ungrateful dodgers to build their castles in the air and to ba-humbug the inventions that generate our brave new world avoiding social network mentions martini shaken, but not swirled ### Signifying Something URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/signifying-something/ Last updated: 2024-04-10T12:00:00.000Z For those inconsequential sounds of fury, deemed signifying nothing in the end by every self appointed judge and jury presuming that the fury is pretend, or worse, that it is impotent and toothless, so seeking to dismiss it without cause, they call it disingenuous and truthless, and ridicule it, mock it to applause... For those of you that persevere, undaunted, immune to fear and loathing and contempt: it's better to be beaten than be haunted by victories that you did not attempt. So go ahead, be furious and rage. Let no one say that you did not engage. ### Crescendo URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/crescendo/ Last updated: 2024-04-09T12:00:00.000Z A lighthouse blinks into existence to reassure an errant sail, white surf is breaking in the distance. The crescent, colorless and pale, climbs, struggling to fulfill his duty to bathe the sky with lime like beauty, but has to wrestle with a cloud that wants to cover him, and shroud its adolescent distant cousin in wispy, cotton candy drapes. But watch the crescent: he escapes, evades this follower who doesn't persist in trying for the moon and lets him dip in the lagoon. Beneath the gently lapping waters, drawn upwards by the lustrous glow a mermaid, one of Neptune's daughters, is rising, graceful, from below. She too desires the bathing crescent, now luminous and effervescent, preferring him to men and mer, as if he's shining just for her. The crescent slips through her wet fingers, oblivious to her desire, and in the meantime, climbing higher as his immersed reflection lingers upon the surface of the bay so she can splash around and play. Arrives, at last, into his orbit. He's shaking off drop after drop, rather than trying to absorb it or let it hang there from his top, like a forgotten bit of stardust. Now for the part that is the hardest: convincing Venus to abide. But brave Orion is her guide, and Venus, unimpressed, still rises. Bright starlets are forever bound, what goes around must come around, no bargains, trades or compromises. The deep lagoon, no tidal pool, reflects on this unwritten rule. She understands, upon reflection -- her being mirrorlike, by birth -- and works to strengthen the connection between the heavens and the earth, to make the distant seem much nearer, so dreams are brighter, lovers dearer, and stars made ready for their shoot, admirers in hot pursuit. As for the crescent -- he shines brightly, spurred on by Venus to his best, no time to dally or to rest, performing as required, nightly, remembering his time is short. Before too long, the sun holds court. ### Writer's Lament URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/writers-lament/ Last updated: 2024-04-08T12:00:00.000Z Why can't my heroes sound as if they matter, their listeners to hang on every word, each utterance to count, no idle chatter, so any that attempt to strike a chord succeed in piercing coarse, plot-thickened skins, and battle weary, dented, rusting armor? That trite, most unoriginal of sins, to bore -- no, make my every snake a charmer, my every villain wrestle with their morals, their inner conflicts resonant and deep; they're never ever resting on their laurels with all those evil promises to keep. But most of all, let language be my friend. And have them read my stories to the end. ### Summer at the Lake URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/summer-at-the-lake/ Last updated: 2024-04-07T12:00:00.000Z The dragonfly, its shimmer iridescent, caught hovering above the lily's cup. Nearby the gnats are swarming, their incessant and shoal like movement, every rise and drop, is reminiscent of a single creature, until a swallow dives into the swarm, and gulps a dozen down. (Its naming feature, if I can take a minute to inform, not for its mouth, but for its cleft shaped tail). While this goes on, and wholly undetected, a stealthy frog is managing to scale the lily pad, and when it's least expected, shoots out its wagging tongue above the lake, but comes up empty having missed the drake. ### Petri Dish URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/petri-dish/ Last updated: 2024-04-06T12:00:00.000Z Evolve, He had commanded, and we have. From puddles to the trenches of the ocean, our tiny blunders as we split and halve enabling each quaint and silly notion of what life is, or could be, as we fail, we die, to make it possible for others, and as we pummel, trash about, and flail, to chose the most adapted of our brothers, with just one goal in mind: please pass it on, continue our existence in some shape. We pray for prey, and often, preyed upon, while praying for an imminent escape, we wonder, is that really all there is? Evolve, He said. The man was such a tease. ### The Eclipse URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-eclipse/ Last updated: 2024-04-06T12:00:00.000Z there's a solar eclipse as the planets align after so many trips the celestial design picks a time around noon and delivers its gaze there's a man on the moon says it's all just a phase ### Tarot Reader URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/tarot-reader/ Last updated: 2024-04-05T12:00:00.000Z To hear a fortuneteller tell it and more so, tell it like it is, instead of trying to upsell it, to tickle, tantalize and tease, is in itself a rare occasion -- the species, partial to evasion, deceit and trickery their trade, are only happy to get paid. The ancient oracles at Delphi, so like the pundits of today, would always know just what to say, then, posing for a marble selfie with both the winner and the chump, their every tarot card a trump. ### Thunder and Lightning URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/thunder-and-lightning/ Last updated: 2024-04-04T12:00:00.000Z An echo thunders through the canyon it's fast but still a step behind its spark of lightning, the companion that it's allotted and assigned. So close to first that it can smell it -- is there a means that could propel it into the lead it so deserves? It is the thunder god it serves and yet it's lightning for the laurel. Upset, it reaches out to Zeus, who in attempting to diffuse and settle the impending quarrel, allows that thunder will be first, though just behind the lightning burst. ### Neuron URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/neuron/ Last updated: 2024-04-04T12:00:00.000Z electron in orbit an ion will fight to grab it, absorb it extinguish its light then send it away on a signaling mission and that's all there is to the human condition ### Expat URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/expat/ Last updated: 2024-04-03T12:00:00.000Z A gust of wind and I am wholly drenched, umbrella is as useful as a fiddle, as if the earth, demanding to be quenched, had struck the skies, with me caught in the middle, and opened up the floodgates, broke their locks, to soak the world with all of their frustrations. I struggle up the street, wet to my socks, replaying the abandoned conversations that carried me, like flotsam, to these shores, deposited, and left to my devices, away from festered and unsettled scores, to wallow in obscene, unpunished vices, and slowly sink beneath the seaborne foam. So lonely, and so far away from home. ### Simple Explanations URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/simple-explanations/ Last updated: 2024-04-03T12:00:00.000Z When Occam cut himself while shaving, the razor being nice and sharp, though wasn't prone to misbehaving, you would have needed a loud harp to mask the constant stream of curses, in erudite, prim Latin verses that came from the frustrated monk, the kind he wouldn't utter drunk. There's a straightforward explanation: be you philosopher or king, a minor irritant might bring a call for hellfire and damnation. No need to wonder why that's so, since if it happens, you will know. ### Much Faster URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/much-faster/ Last updated: 2024-04-02T12:00:00.000Z a hungry calf laps up the milk that Hera spilled across the dark as centaurs frolic with their ilk Orion following his mark our minds will play connect the dots to cover distances so vast that light is bound to change its spots and when it does arrive at last its source may not be lit at all a glowing ember into ash or by its starry protocol exploded, burned up in a flash when searching for a way to beat the limits posed by dark and light get on your porch and take a seat and look up at the sky at night ### Conditions Permitting URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/conditions-permitting/ Last updated: 2024-03-31T12:00:00.000Z The elephant that isn't in the room, a rare, indeed extraordinary beast, more often, it is safer to assume, appearing when it is expected least. Tries managing, unwanted, through the doors, while everyone pretends it isn't there, since noticing the damage to the floors, like saying that the emperor is bare, primarily reveals a lack of manners, particular to those of modest wisdom, unseasoned in the ways of lords and banners, still unaware of needing to appease them, and wont to say: but surely, there it stands! Sophisticates will offer: it depends. ### Drop in the Ocean URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/drop-in-the-ocean/ Last updated: 2024-03-30T12:00:00.000Z sea demands to be seen in perpetual motion my eyes drawn to the scene here's a drop in the ocean try to follow its path as it's swept by the current they have figured the math but maths simply aren't persuasive at all not for aquamarine I am out for a stroll sea demands to be seen ### Message in a Bottle URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/message-in-a-bottle/ Last updated: 2024-03-29T12:00:00.000Z Our loneliness: for surely we all share this terrible, intractable affliction; to make its burden easier to bear, for some of us the answer is addiction, while others will surround themselves with friends and claim that they are wholly unaffected; for those it seems the party never ends -- despair will strike when it is least expected. But some will seek this doleful, wistful state, preferring their own thoughts as a companion. They seek to mold, to contour, to create -- their isolation like the deepest canyon, or loneliest of islands in the ocean, the water deep but drained of all emotion. ### Show Trials URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/show-trials/ Last updated: 2024-03-29T12:00:00.000Z A subject liked to argue with his verbs, accusing them of very little action, which, he insisted, troubles and disturbs, while offering the inverse of attraction. The verbs confessed that they were at a loss, suggesting that he study up on grammar but he persisted (after all, the boss) and threatened them with long stays in the slammer. To settle things, they've chosen arbitration, conjunctions serving as both judge and jury, though adverbs did articulate frustration, if short of what a noun would label fury. The subject, smugly, offered no repentance. No choice then, for the court, but read the sentence. ### Jungle Books URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/jungle-books/ Last updated: 2024-03-28T12:00:00.000Z As history's rewritten by the whiners to fit into a perishable mold, ostensibly to benefit the minors who Peter Pan like, aren't growing old -- except that Peter Pan must be rewritten, its sense and sensibility offend, so those that are twice shy though never bitten can be assured, when skipping to the end, the nasty alligator is a vegan, and time does not expire for Captain Hook, whose pistol, it turns out, was just a pea gun. In summary, a safer, better book. Will history, revisited, repeat? Rewritten, it is always incomplete. ### Wise Heron URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/wise-heron/ Last updated: 2024-03-27T12:00:00.000Z I asked a graceful heron: would you rather that death came in midflight, out of the blue? Before the years have had their chance to gather -- each sunrise is as fresh as morning dew, a jumping frog still sends a thrill of pleasure, and standing on one leg maintains its charm; your pointy beak adept at finding treasure and mighty wings that keep you out of harm with but a single flap of quill and feather? Or is old age a better way to die, your skin an older, thinner brand of leather, the wings no longer strong enough to fly? So wise, the heron, but he wouldn't say. Just nodded a goodbye. Then flew away. ### Butterfly Effect URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/butterfly-effect/ Last updated: 2024-03-26T12:00:00.000Z a butterfly wings are they cause or effect uncertainty won't let us measure like so many things that are hard to detect predicting a moment to treasure a flap, there she goes she is lighter than air and somewhere a storm gets to brewing she caused it? who knows but I can't help but stare and wonder if it's all her doing ### Judgement Day URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/judgement-day/ Last updated: 2024-03-26T12:00:00.000Z With judgement day about to be announced both hell and heaven getting slightly nervous, as neither one's expecting to be trounced, and both submitted rave reviews for service. The demons, prone to chewing on their nails -- those long enough to pierce for crucifixion -- relying on the their long prehensile tails to balance, practice ailment and affliction. Celestials, on the other hand, hosanna, but stumble on occasion, even stammer, accompanied by bagpipe and piano -- it's soulful, although lacking certain glamor. The verdict should be coming, any minute. And then a sequel. Hoping to be in it. ### Subtle Variations URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/subtle-variations/ Last updated: 2024-03-24T12:00:00.000Z Inevitable said to Preordained: beg pardon, but we're not the same at all. Though this may color our relations strained, you prophesy, preparing for the fall, where's I am more so focused on effect, the cause but an assumption in my work, whose output is about as you'd expect, and worthy of an understanding smirk, that, rather than a shaking, angry fist. Here Preordained objected with this point: (in truth she could have given a whole list) Inevitable, your nose out of joint. Our means may differ, but our goals the same. Attempt, when something happens, to lay blame. ### Plain Noodles URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/plain-noodles/ Last updated: 2024-03-24T12:00:00.000Z A fortune cookie: dubious reward for getting through some egg rolls and lo mein. Such fortune surely hates to be ignored. How else would one endeavor to explain the fervor with which greedy, lusty hands will grab and crush each hardened, crusty shell, in search of wisdom no one understands, a cryptic and exotic ancient spell, and showing off, will share it with a neighbor, the latter, nodding knowingly, like so, as though the promised future needs no labor, will check it, food already packed to go, then throw it out, abandoned and forsaken. Of fortunes, no offense, but none were taken. ### Grey Menace URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/grey-menace/ Last updated: 2024-03-23T12:00:00.000Z Grey menace, they would call him, spit and curse, and hunt him with their shotguns and their traps. Spin fairy tales in chilling nighttime verse while cradling their children in their laps. They'd sing of hairs on end and yellow eyes, of spines that froze when paralyzed by fear, the pelt up on the wall, a treasured prize, attempting for another one this year. At times the old one joined them in this song, assembling the members of his brood. An ancient alpha's potent singalong, a howl, just to remind them where he stood. And then he'd disappear into the fog. Can't pardon or forgive them for the dog. ### Byzantium URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/byzantium/ Last updated: 2024-03-23T12:00:00.000Z Byzantium, your ancient city walls, above the silent Bosporus at night, before your many triumphs and your falls, before the crawl like dying of the light that Christendom delivered to your gates. Could they have known, as Priam knew in Troy, forewarned by those who traffic with the Fates, man's appetite to subjugate, destroy, is central to his being, to his creed? As Zedekia, king of all the Jews -- he surely knew -- still made his kingdom bleed. Nebuchadnezzar, when he heard the news, he must have shook his head. Then sacked the city. Walls seem to want to fall. Ah, more's the pity. ### Jon Snow URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/jon-snow/ Last updated: 2024-03-22T12:00:00.000Z In countervailing common wisdom, it's what you don't know that can hurt you, so best stop trying to appease them, those making ignorance a virtue, and satisfy your thirst for knowledge. Do not be proud of knowing little. No, knowledge doesn't mean a college that aims to make you safe but brittle. Try to maintain your sense of wonder. be neither technophile nor luddite, and no, the world's not going under but status quo is not a birthright. When something's wrong, it is amiss. Stop thinking ignorance is bliss. ### In Top Form URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-top-form/ Last updated: 2024-03-21T12:00:00.000Z Some forms politely follow function, perhaps a step or two behind. Some lay in wait at every junction to prey on others of their kind. Still others baffled to discover that while they follow, rivals hover, and mirror function step by step while sparing neither fuss or prep. But on occasion, there's a factor that simply makes you say aha, what you might call je ne sais quoi if you were labeling an actor, and those lead function by the nose. I think I'll have me one of those. ### Our Devils URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/our-devils/ Last updated: 2024-03-20T12:00:00.000Z The bitter nature of our devils, so few that you would label sweet. Try search inferno's many levels, a search that wouldn't be complete without encountering the sinners, from amateurs and rank beginners to veterans for whom the smell is but a feature of their hell. So rare to smile but quick to grimace, a scowl that surely will erase all joy and pleasure from your face, their snout like nose turned up and simous. and so, discounting faith or creed, they are a bitter brood indeed. ### Nature's Spark URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/natures-spark/ Last updated: 2024-03-20T12:00:00.000Z When fireflies light up the forest, the scent of deer musk tempts the doe, her bleating joining in the chorus. All manner creature, high and low, is searching for a kindred spirit and longing, craving to be near it: will it succeed, will it be asked to share its destiny at last? As summer fades, the rut is over, the fireflies' pulsating strobe falls silent all around the globe and fields will yield to phlox and clover while rivers thirst for sating rains -- their lustrous afterglow remains. ### Loyal Opposition URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/loyal-opposition/ Last updated: 2024-03-20T12:00:00.000Z To kill a mockingbird is easy if scared compliance is your goal, Though it might leave you rather queasy, at least you'll feel you're in control, and at the last you'll have some quiet. Don't bother argue or deny it: you'd rather occupy your throne without the constant mocking tone of stubborn, dogged opposition that's questioning your every move as though you have a thing to prove, or merit any competition. But you're forgetting, as you rule, that every king still needs his fool. ### Preach What You Practice URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/preach-what-you-practice/ Last updated: 2024-03-19T12:00:00.000Z For those who write to grind their axes: try use an essay for a form. A sonnet praising death and taxes will surely violate the norm. Resist the urge to drone and lecture. This may be only a conjecture but if you lack a comic gift, a limerick about grift will surely send your readers screeching, in search of consonants and vowels. Your movement's better left for bowels, so let me join their voice, beseeching: Enough with it's not me, it's you. You want to write? Say something new. ### Pay It Forward URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/pay-it-forward/ Last updated: 2024-03-17T12:00:00.000Z Our fervent hopes and utmost of desires, coins scattered in the fountains of our youth, to rust, until each finally acquires patina of decay, no longer smooth. Turned green with bitter envy and regret, abandoned, left for worthless with their kind, forgetmenots one's destined to forget, and childhood dreams that once were top of mind, but having long since lost their shiny luster. Quick, toss those well worn flipflops off your feet -- assemble any courage you can muster, and wade into that fountain, leave the street for water that is cold enough to burn. Now grab yourself some coins, feel hope return. ### Crime and Punishment URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/crime-and-punishment/ Last updated: 2024-03-16T12:00:00.000Z Does everyone deserve to be forgiven? However unoriginal our sins and justified our passion to get even? Assigned a role when jealousy begins, or at the least when it is first recorded, a brother's keeper failing at the task -- the rest of the affair is rather sordid -- when questioned, unrepentant, he would ask the Lord himself if caring was his duty. Still walks the Earth, eats breakfast, lunch and dinner, appreciates the world in all its beauty -- no question who turned out to be the winner. This parable attempts, but is unable to mend the pain of Cain, the wrath of Abel. ### Unveiled URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/unveiled/ Last updated: 2024-03-14T12:00:00.000Z A strip club: we're as far from seven veils as time's uneven passage would allow. Our Salome's though not quite nine inch nails are keeping Herod's focus on the now, by threatening his face as her waist ripples, their crimson polish barely a shade lighter then these large, mesmerizing mother nipples mere inches from his tongue; soon he'll invite her to the champagne room, where, he has been told, he'll be allowed to suck them, though the guard, a man absurdly huge, big bellied, bald, did warn him that he cannot bite too hard. He's not quite sure, although he's heard it said that if she likes you, you can ask for head. ### Change Program URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/change-program/ Last updated: 2024-03-14T12:00:00.000Z The more things stay the same, the more they change. My issue unresolved, the app still broken, its chatbot, though, displaying real range: more empathetic, vastly better spoken -- it made me feel as if it really cared, in properly accented local lingo. So what if the TV pretends it aired a headline claiming baby ate my dingo and fiction is much plainer than the truth? This world, meant for the brave, but often timid -- for us, the ones much longer in the tooth, the ones that never really knew their limit, it's strange indeed, but with these magic pills, a fish can learn air breathing through its gills. ### What Are The Odds URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/what-are-the-odds/ Last updated: 2024-03-13T12:00:00.000Z Craps table loud and crowded, raw emotion. She giggles, makes a move as if to blow, reverses and releases in one motion. Designer glasses, blouse that's cut as low as gambling den propriety allows, and bright red lipstick. Mop has seen it all. but chuckles; mops the dice towards the blouse. She plucks them, real smooth, another roll. Don't bet against the pass, her real game, those lashes blinking willingness and pleasure. The chances of success not quite the same, but much, much better odds by any measure: the promise of a tourist trip to heaven. This gentleman will do. She rolls a seven. ### Night Fever URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/night-fever/ Last updated: 2024-03-12T12:00:00.000Z My dreams are stitched together, a collage of roughly cut out stills and celluloid. They're guarded by a jealous entourage that tries its best to keep out Jung and Freud. But no defense is fool proof. On those nights, when ravens feast on carrion and caw, performing their unspeakable last rites, I fight to try forgetting what I saw, but cannot. With the shadows closing in, reality a sweaty, foggy mirror, attempts to hide what cannot be unseen, and failing that, hold on to what is dearer, protect it and deliver it from harm... and rescued, at the last, by the alarm. ### Four Better and Far Worse URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/four-better-and-far-worse/ Last updated: 2024-03-11T12:00:00.000Z I swore to love four better, and far worse. Results have been, I must confess, uneven. I asked my love: but honey, why the curse, the oath we took had made these loves a given. They get more rapt attention, it is true, and visits are as conjugal as needed, but none are loved as well as I love you, excepting as the oath demands, I pleaded. Thrown out, alone, I'm wondering the street, write poems, though it's not a panacea. I should have told her it's autocomplete. To make and print our vows was her idea. It could have been four letter and four words. The kind they bleep when they present awards. ### Seven URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/seven/ Last updated: 2024-03-10T12:00:00.000Z Ten fingers on our hands, and five on each, but oddly it is seven we most cherish. We sanctify it, seal with it, and preach the perils of indulging, lest we perish. We sail the seven seas for seven wonders, with expertly curated bucket lists. A monk recites the chakras as he ponders what evidence exists that he exists. Three sevens in a row, the bandit teases, its metal arm will ratchet up the bet as soon as I release it. As it eases, its jackpot rolls on by. Plays hard to get. Old Fashioned losing flavor. Melting ice. Craps table roaring. Seven on the dice. ### Enter the Dragon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/enter-the-dragon/ Last updated: 2024-03-09T12:00:00.000Z Why must it be a virgin sacrifice when those are in such limited supply? Would somewhat of a novice still suffice, or hymen absent, no need to apply? Are dragons merely giant phallic symbols? A penis with a wing, look at their pics. The ceremony, cue the drums and cymbals, and all the while we've just been talking dicks? I must confess the following suspicion: Dear virgin, dragons are a real danger. But have no fear, a simple proposition. To save you, just five minutes in the manger. These fairytales, unless I've been misled, are ways to get a virgin into bed. ### Daylight Savings URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/daylight-savings/ Last updated: 2024-03-08T12:00:00.000Z A salmon sunrise greets the morning, as gentle as a lover's blush, then turns the color of a warning. The sun, as if it's in a rush, invading every nook and cranny, and catching shadows, still uncanny, as they are hurrying to flee. Each minute granting a degree, it climbs the stairway into heaven without a gripe or a complaint and all the while it seeks to paint our skies the proper blue for seven, so when at last the deed is done, the night is over, day begun. ### Royales With Cheese URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/royales-with-cheese/ Last updated: 2024-03-08T12:00:00.000Z No doubt each of the wives of Henry Tudor, the second and more famous one, the eighth, got sonnets in the mail as Highness wooed her. Most probably, those weren't about faith, although the king was known to write a carol, and ultimately headed a whole church, I think more likely intimate apparel, a topic I continue to research. Since history is muted on the matter, while leaving little else to be explored, let's serve these tidbits neatly, on a platter. What queen does not deserve to be adored? And here there are so many, count them, six. Each queen comes with her ladies and her cliques. Each queen comes with her ladies and her cliques, and Katherine of Aragon is surely the one that must go first into the mix. The love the king confessed to her, most purely, as genuine as any in the land, considering that she's his brother's wife -- convenient when needed, at the end -- for better and for worse, and yes, for life, he married her, and at the first, was happy. But all she gave the man was Bloody Mary, and so before the story gets too sappy the king decides perhaps he'd rather marry once more with feeling. Eminent domain. A lady is in waiting. Anne Boleyn. A lady is in waiting. Anne Boleyn. Though soon enough they will not call her lady, but Majesty. In trying to explain to Clement, who had deemed the matter weighty, the lustful king attempted to retract his marriage to his brother Arthur's widow, suggesting that she wasn't quite intact at consummation. Clement kept his veto, and Anne, as luck would have it, lost her head, but gave us Queen Elizabeth -- we're grateful -- while Henry made the church into his stead. Was Anne indeed, as is alleged, unfaithful, and was it really worth it, all that waiting? The part she loved the best? Anticipating. The part she loved the best? Anticipating. Is there a queen for whom this isn't true? A topic that is surely worth debating. For some the power strikes out of the blue, but others scheme through their entire lives, while salivating merely at the thought, until the thought alone is what survives, sustaining them through times both good and fraught. Jane Seymore, though, by all accounts, in love, and gave the king the thing he most desired. If queenship was what she was dreaming of, the queen that Henry surely most admired, died happy, for she gave the king a son! Of all the six, Jane got to be the one. Of all the six, Jane got to be the one, though sadly doesn't live to celebrate it. A son is born and so the deed is done. The queen is done as well. Don't you just hate it when fate, to solely demonstrate its power, plays such a cruel joke upon our kind? She keeps her head and skips stay in the Tower producing a male heir as been assigned, but soon enough, replaced by Anne of Cleves, whose portrait failed to do her any justice, and not even a year before Anne leaves. (aside to portraitists: when you say "trust us", a skillful brush subtracts too many pounds) Her portrait, like her beauty, knew no bounds. Her portrait, like her beauty, knew no bounds. A generous divorce and it is over. She'll get -- per year -- five hundred English pounds, and castles not a hundred miles from Dover, but Henry is already on Miss Howard. Another of the Cathies lays in wait -- apparently in waiting means empowered, and all the queen's affairs, affairs of state. A verdict of adultery was listed. By then the king could hardly even move, but memories of better times persisted, with Cathy he felt younger, in the groove. She helped him loosen up and to relax. Eighteen and guilty, Cathy got the ax. Eighteen and guilty, Cathy got the ax. Was that a harsher fate than Anne Boleyn's, who got a Frenchman, not some local hack's idea of a cut? If that explains the rumor that the king expressed regret for Anne upon his deathbed, may it be. But we're not done with wives, at least not yet. It'll take another wife to set him free. A widow, and a Catherine to boot -- you wonder if by now he got confused -- this Catherine was worthy of pursuit, and when pursued she couldn't have refused. So here is to the last one, and a star. Four husbands to her name. She's Mrs. Parr. ### Salt of the Earth URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/salt-of-the-earth/ Last updated: 2024-03-06T12:00:00.000Z The difference between Sodom and Gomorrah and your town, USA? Don't ask a priest. Referring to the passage in the Torah, some questionable beauties, but no Beast, though plenty on the flaws in human natures, both real and imagined by old men and hastened into law by legislatures that claim to know the details of God's plan. His wrath? Oh, that's a common enough story. His meting out a punishment: pure joy. What softer hearts forgive as allegory the harder ones call reason to destroy. Our values, they will preach, under assault. Please take these pillars with a grain of salt. ### [ to err is human ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/to-err-is-human/ Last updated: 2024-03-05T12:00:00.000Z to err is human to forgive -- decline ### It Happens URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/it-happens/ Last updated: 2024-03-04T12:00:00.000Z Accomplishment was wrecked by Indecision. The two becoming enemies of sorts. The former never lacking wit or vision, but often failed, according to reports, in bringing her initiatives to closure. Left them to flail, while trying to decide, to later find them dying of exposure, Accomplishment is once again denied. Attempting each and every panacea, a spreadsheet with a checklist, pros and cons, she simply couldn't choose, had no idea, how to convert her zeros into ones, when finally, deserving of a break, she made a good decision by mistake. ### Number Seven Will Surprise You URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/number-seven-will-surprise-you/ Last updated: 2024-03-04T12:00:00.000Z Admit it: you knew better than to click, but now entrapped and clicking like a zombie, still searching for the promised nifty trick, avoiding popup ads from Abercrombie & Fitch -- boy, they do wonders with those buttons, the Next one moves about so that you miss. Wait, what is that? A diet made for gluttons!? No, must continue, "x" it out, dismiss.... As you do battle armed with but a mouse (for some of you it's just an index finger) you wonder if this happens to your spouse when he is "hard at work"...but do not linger. Aha, that's better, here's the trick at last. Turns out the nifty diet is a fast. Turns out the nifty diet is a fast. Annoyed that you've just wasted a whole hour, you check the news: some woman has been cast as Hamlet. Speaker's struggling for power, what else is new, elections coming up, the Middle East continues medieval, the Rangers hope to win the Stanley Cup, and Ivies can't distinguish good from evil, so basically the same as yesterday. Remember when the rapid pace of change was hurtling towards us, come what may? What happened? Tell me, doesn't it feel strange that we appear so stuck with change ascendant? Embittered, disillusioned and dependent. Embittered, disillusioned and dependent. We, each of us, reliant on our meds, ashamed, perhaps, but wholly unrepentant, our dignity and grace all torn to shreds, we persevere in rituals of healing pretending to empower, to connect, as if one could fix anything by kneeling, while adding hopes and prayers for effect. Increasingly we're segmented and tribal, so like the Ten that went and gotten lost, to earn no further mention in the Bible, oblivion their fate, and at what cost. No longer as a whole, no thing in common. Alone on Christmas Eve. I guess it's ramen. Alone on Christmas Eve. I guess it's ramen. Another business trip that can't be moved, I like it, though, because come feast or famine at least I'm getting paid, and life's improved. Oh, I will call her soon, now, don't you worry, to blow a kiss, and wish the kids good night, and tell her that for now it's just a flurry, but I won't make the redeye for my flight. And then the bar, where others of my kind, each having done their best to do their duty, will congregate, filled with the hope to find a kindred spirit, and a little booty. Do I feel guilty? Do you think she knows? Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows. Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows. Its huff and puff soon decorates the windows in delicate designs, and each one glows with tiny sparks and embers. Trapped within those, the fireplace still tends to its intent, but you can't help but feel that something's missing, or is it the champagne that's long since spent, red lipstick tainted flutes. Lips meant for kissing, now always in a frown, so cold, unfeeling... Appearances maintained, you do your best. The house looks great, its festive and appealing, so welcoming, so warm that any guest would leave it thinking: aren't these two great! How short the distance between love and hate. How short the distance between love and hate. A thin, thin line, so goes the ancient wisdom, yet thick enough for us, at any rate. We wallow in indifference to appease them: our children -- no, our children cannot know that they are the result of having settled, their parents' love is mostly just for show, fulfillment of a dream that has been peddled for countless generations to maintain the semblance of a good and proper order: a husband who's in charge of his domain, his wife, to boot, and whether he adored her, or simply tolerated, she's still Mother. Unhappy couples, each unlike the other. Unhappy couples, each unlike the other. Is that a Tolstoy quote from his old book? They find a way to strangle love, to smother what lied between them. Better not to look. We do not, no, we cannot understand. Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy. For those of us who're dealt a better hand, a nagging question: can't they just be happy? Is there some special secret to the task? No shortage of advisors and well wishers. You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask, and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures. The answer I subscribe to and espouse: We know, deep down, the day we make our vows. ### Hallmark Holiday V URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-v/ Last updated: 2024-03-03T12:00:00.000Z A snack, hon. Is there anything to eat? The way to a man's heart still through his stomach, and Rose, if that's her real name, still sweet -- she runs a little house on the Potomac, where they make men of power feel at home. Yes everything is just like in the books inspired by the ancients, let's pick Rome, but better dental hygiene from the looks of Rose's perfect smile, and all is well. It's grapes and cheese for supper, with champagne. He'll try ignore the message on the cell, and in the morning, back to his campaign. For now, though, can relax and not be nervous. Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service. ### Hallmark Holiday VI URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-vi/ Last updated: 2024-03-03T12:00:00.000Z Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service, and none of this for better or for worse. The marriage institution meant to serve us, for some a blessing and for others curse, why can't it be just like a Vegas wedding, a happy, sloppy, tipsy love affair, with someone at the ready: change the bedding and leave no sign that anyone's been there. We study our relationships like car wrecks: slow down for a quick look, and then rush by, and passing judgement notice all their defects: if it's this bad then someone better die. No, nothing neat and packaged about love. Of cert not of the consequence thereof. ### Hallmark Holiday VII URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-vii/ Last updated: 2024-03-03T12:00:00.000Z Of cert not of the consequence thereof. You won't hear that one from the mouth of preachers, when talking about marriage, about love, or risk a startled snicker from the bleachers. Since love is an invention of the mind, a pirouetting egret serves its purpose, so long as he's the procreating kind, but so does any bird, so why the circus? Did Nature have a different kind of goal than merely the survival of the fittest? A salmon swims upstream to chase his shoal, but surely of a mind to prove the neatest, the bestest, fastest salmon he can be. Still hopes to find his soulmate in the sea. ### Hallmark Holiday II URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-ii/ Last updated: 2024-03-02T12:00:00.000Z To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet. I know, I know, the fashion is long out. A woman would no more go with a bonnet than grandma would have thought to go without, And serenades? As like as not to hinder the questing of a modern Cyrano. He's better off to list himself on Tinder. He'll still get the occasional "oh, no!" when prospects see that nose in real life, but others thinking opposites attract, uninterested in the title "wife", might nonetheless employ him for the act. So that is modern love, but I'm old-fashioned. I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned. ### Hallmark Holiday III URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-iii/ Last updated: 2024-03-02T12:00:00.000Z I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned. Is there a point to any other kind? True love cannot be limited or rationed, a creature of the heart, not of the mind. Unbounded, unconstrained and all consuming, love cannot wait to taste you, to inhale the perfume of a field of poppies blooming, to search for words but ultimately fail, because, how could it not? As a mere mortal who's blessed with but a glimpse of the divine, I'm praying for a covenant, a portal, a sip of sacred, sacramental wine that cannot be discarded or dismissed. I lick my lips: remember how we kissed? ### Hallmark Holiday IV URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday-iv/ Last updated: 2024-03-02T12:00:00.000Z I lick my lips: remember how we kissed? A taste of ripened strawberries still lingers. I found myself unable to resist the running of your hair right through my fingers. To gently stroke your soft, peach colored cheek and trace your pouty lips and teasing tongue, the thought of it still makes a man grow weak. Whatever may be wasted on the young, it isn't love, I think we've proved that much, or have we? Has the passing of the years done anything to dull or numb your touch? Is love still just as animal, as fierce? Yes, strawberries, I think, oh they were sweet! A snack, hon? Is there anything to eat? ### Miss Demeanor URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/miss-demeanor/ Last updated: 2024-03-01T12:00:00.000Z A felony or misdemeanor. These words are poorly understood. One seems the opposite of meaner, the other feels as if it should, but if it was in fact its inverse, then you might think the deed's indeed worse, whereas the opposite is true, depending on your point of view. I will elucidate, as follows: back when the French had ruled the day to felonize meant to betray, and thus go swinging from the gallows. Betrayal's always of a kind. The other crimes? We pay no mind. ### Kingdom for a Horse Laugh URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/kingdom-for-a-horse-laugh/ Last updated: 2024-02-28T12:00:00.000Z A laugh, a laugh, my kingdom for a laugh! Not something that you're gonna hear too often, but if you're prone to speaking off the cuff, without the common sense to mince or soften expressions of your effervescent glee, regardless of their circumstance or placement, then whether paid for, or indeed for free, deriving satisfaction from abasement will put you at the risk of losing all. Yes, silence is still worth its weight in gold and speech still free, but there's a protocol, unwritten though it is, and jokes grow old. And so it turns that in the Land of Woke, you'll lose entire kingdoms for a joke. ### For Crystalina URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/for-crystalina/ Last updated: 2024-02-27T12:00:00.000Z Will Death not come and rescue me entire? What use is Life without you, dearest Queen? Be back within in your arms, my one desire, but Death refuses, nowhere to be seen. And so I pass my days, in melancholy, recounting each caress and every touch, but it's of little help. How can one tally the depths of my despair when it is such. "Go, live", so says my fool, but Crystalina, I have no use for the advice of fools. The sun may rise again, and grass get greener, but ours, the kind of love that knows no rules, demands I spend my days in solemn prayer. I'll join you soon, love, fairest of the fair. --- **Author notes:** prompt: V. Her final ode (Sep. 2013) ### How do you choose? URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/how-do-you-choose/ Last updated: 2024-02-27T12:00:00.000Z How do you find the road less traveled? Is it the color of the stones with which the road was paved or graveled? Betrayed by somewhat darker tones, aha, so this one sees less traffic. The reasons might be geographic, the curvature of its design, or possibly, an errant sign. Still, you would like to make a statement and so despite the simple math you choose to choose this lesser path, no matter that it's an abatement, so step by step, betray no fear, and when you get there, say: I'm here. ### [ testing a haiku ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/testing-a-haiku/ Last updated: 2024-02-26T12:00:00.000Z testing a haiku the AI keeps on blocking my rhyming sonnet ### Self Exam URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/self-exam/ Last updated: 2024-02-26T12:00:00.000Z Oblivion, our final destination, the one we cannot turn from or avoid. First forced into the world beyond gestation, appearing superficially annoyed, we quickly get the hang of it, and weep, afraid to doze or even catch a wink, and only later learn to long for sleep, on nights when we seem cursed to lie and think, while staring, helpless, into nonexistence, our outsized brains locked into overdrive, continuously measuring the distance to that ignoble end. To be alive, in constant fear of death, what cruel twist. The price we pay for knowing we exist. ### Lucifer URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/lucifer/ Last updated: 2024-02-25T12:00:00.000Z I wonder, stranger, did you see him fall? So beautiful, his wings, just like a swan's, but bigger, much much bigger. Dark and tall, complexion that's more Coppertone than bronze, and face, that of an angel in a grimace. It made me hurt, that pain, as if it's mine. Some say that he was trying to redeem us, to liberate our souls from the Divine -- what value do they have if there's no bidder? Convincing God each one of us has worth, though dust to dust, He'd better reconsider, no matter that He'd made us from the earth, sky iron's at the core of every pebble. The final spark was given by a rebel. ### gerrymander URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/gerrymander/ Last updated: 2024-02-25T12:00:00.000Z things have gotten so political they are going to primary colors ### In the Theater URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-theater/ Last updated: 2024-02-24T12:00:00.000Z A belly full of laughs is on the menu, mixed in with the occasional raw tear. And that's what you expect when in this venue. What was it in the ad that drew you here? The actors with their bios and their pictures, the effervescent, luminous reviews? The playwright and director, Broadway fixtures, all smiles in their promotion interviews? Can anything compare to simple laughter, forgetting all your major aches and pains and anything that's still to come, but after, for now you're here. The Playbill that explains will try but cannot substitute for this. An evening in the theater. And bliss. ### In the Park URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-park/ Last updated: 2024-02-24T12:00:00.000Z pollinators pond with gators bush or two and park curators ### Hallmark Holiday URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hallmark-holiday/ Last updated: 2024-02-23T12:00:00.000Z Some chocolates in a crimson, heart shaped box. If ever there's a thing that says I love you with much less of an effort -- maybe socks, a teddy or a teddy bear, what have you, I don't know what it is -- the corner stores, the pharmacies, the strip malls...and those cards, in proper shade of pink: oh, she adores, he cherishes, they worship, with regards, and on and on. Is any of it real, or just another method of pretending, to mask, to hide the way you really feel, behind the ostentatious, never ending display of fake emotions. Dwell upon it. To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet. ### Singularity URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/singularity/ Last updated: 2024-02-22T12:00:00.000Z Utopia is just around the corner, feet pacing, she is champing at her bits and terabytes. We really ought to warn her, but no, not yet, best wait till she commits, too late to change her mind, cause we all want it, despite the protestations and the plaints. And what comes after? Cannot see beyond it. The history of shackles and restraints, attempts to hold the genie in the bottle, does not inspire confidence or trust. If anything, we're apt to go full throttle, oh, sure, some things will break, we'll readjust. I see she's made the turn, about to find me. Best practice that fake smile. Get thee behind me. ### The Fifth Wall URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-fifth-wall/ Last updated: 2024-02-21T12:00:00.000Z Awake, the words are swirling in a maelstrom and fighting off the sentences they're given. Insomnia, that's where I get these tales from. Fall into bed, in hopes to be forgiven, if only for one night, but no reprieve. Past midnight, I am staring at the ceiling, and struggling: to give or to receive, then try the sentence one more time, with feeling. A volta flashes, an unlikely spark, exhaustion, or a touch of inspiration? Whatever, I'm still lying in the dark, and truth be told, awash in perspiration. A blink, and I pass out, sleep gave no warning. The writing down will have to wait till morning. ### Dark Forest Theory URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dark-forest-theory/ Last updated: 2024-02-20T12:00:00.000Z Our scene: a hunter's cabin in the woods. Outside, the night has woken up the crickets, and predator and prey resume their feuds. A spiderweb laid out atop the thickets is glistening with moonlit, pearly dew, its owner absent, swallowed by a sparrow, or dinner for an overzealous shrew. A rabbit peeks, nose sniffing, from her burrow, the crescent still too bright, she's in no rush. First hesitates, then springing into action, takes off for parts unknown across the brush, her bushy stompers excellent for traction. Each creature's purpose solely: eat, prey, love. The hunter's here for all of the above. ### Night Song URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/night-song/ Last updated: 2024-02-18T12:00:00.000Z sprinkled with stardust the sky effervescent god as an artist had painted the crescent yellow as cheddar I'm light as a feather --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Vacation URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/vacation/ Last updated: 2024-02-18T12:00:00.000Z Tuscany, Gascony, Italy, France brunch in the courtyard, a touch of romance where are the people, you'll see 'em they're off to another museum ### Comedy of Errors URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/comedy-of-errors/ Last updated: 2024-02-18T12:00:00.000Z If life is but a comedy of errors, then surely there's a happy at the end? Our torments, struggles, difficulties, terrors, are all of them, we are to understand, a way to raise the narrative's raw tension? The storyteller must maintain suspense, so we must misinterpret, fail to mention, tell pointless lies, be genuinely dense -- stupidity is currently in season, as popular as stubbornness and gall. Try acting as if you're defying reason, and being warned, refuse to take the call, yes, there's no better way to stir the pot. Such comedies must have a proper plot. ### Extra Long URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/extra-long/ Last updated: 2024-02-17T12:00:00.000Z Hyperbole -- it's not an understatement -- enjoyed exaggeration to the fullest, demanding no reduction or abatement in any measure where she was the coolest, or deemed herself to be, at any rate, insisting that her monologues be heard, and rumored to be growing quite irate when losing the attention of the herd, but nonetheless continuing to prattle, since as we know from history and books, persistence's half the key to any battle, the other half, some do believe, is looks, so she went on and on, beyond the end, though surely just exactly as she's planned. ### Crossing the Rubicon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/crossing-the-rubicon/ Last updated: 2024-02-17T12:00:00.000Z Was Cleopatra smuggled in a rug, determined to seduce and capture Caesar? Man gives the rolled up gift a proper tug, and there she is, dolled up, and when he sees her, he rids himself of whiny Ptolemy, no, she will be his empress instead, and ancient Egypt, now a colony, will promise Rome her flour and her bread. The Romans called the queen a witch, and worse. Caesarian was groomed to be the Pharaoh. Wise Cicero died warning of the curse that straying from the path of straight and narrow would bring onto the crumbling republic. All swept under the rug to fool the public. ### It's Ever Been Thus URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/its-ever-been-thus/ Last updated: 2024-02-16T12:00:00.000Z Inevitable quarreled with Farfetched, debating probabilities and odds, remarking that the latter were quite stretched and risked the ire of the forgotten gods that govern, unbeknownst to humankind, the heavens and the lands that lie below. Farfetched, though, paid the argument no mind, considering Inevitable slow, and generally held to his opinion: most probable is rarely what you need. Unsatisfied with being just a minion -- unenviable circumstance indeed -- it's best to heed the following advice: you must, if on occasion, roll the dice. ### Orator URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/orator/ Last updated: 2024-02-15T12:00:00.000Z As smooth as silk, your lies, or is it velvet, so pleasant, and so soothing to the touch. The truth lost and forgotten, did you shelve it by accident, when things became too much? Dispose of it as tedious and trite. an inconvenient, unpleasant burden, obstructing might from making itself right, its triumph made a little bit less certain? And now, just look at you, you're in control, so practiced that you might as well believe it; there's hardly any damage to your soul -- at any rate, you're sure you can retrieve it, whenever it is needed, on demand. And just in time, so you can make a stand. ### Greek to Me URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/greek-to-me/ Last updated: 2024-02-15T12:00:00.000Z Aristotle liked to prattle and was partial to the bottle Archimedes measured titties, was responsive to entreaties Leonidas, though a tight ass worked it hard to reunite us and though Cato followed Plato neither tasted a potato ### Inverness URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/inverness/ Last updated: 2024-02-15T12:00:00.000Z There's a place near Inverness where it's anybody's guess as to how and as to why all the lassies you'll come by hair as red as kindled fire beauties all, they rule the shire --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Regret URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/regret/ Last updated: 2024-02-14T12:00:00.000Z if time is both money and sand it's easier to understand though both slip through your fingers regret often lingers and leaves you with nothing in hand ### Still Searching URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/still-searching/ Last updated: 2024-02-12T12:00:00.000Z Diogenes was searching for a man. An honest one, if we're to be precise. If all had gone according to his plan or had he taken pertinent advice, he wouldn't have run into Alexander, but as he was a cynic, he kept going, and so it was the genius commander demanded, though the cynic was annoying, to meet him in the flesh in ancient Greece. Diogenes, as ever hard to handle, aware the king now ran Peloponnese, refused to bow, and went on with his candle. It's said that Alexander was impressed. Diogenes? He shrugged, as you'd have guessed. ### Pygmalion URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/pygmalion/ Last updated: 2024-02-12T12:00:00.000Z Pygmalion is staring at the rock. The adage that the sculptor sees his art as something he must labor to unlock, to clear all but the necessary part, until the sculpture's rescued from the rubble. No, he does not believe it. No, it's stone, a hunk of quartz and marble worth the trouble of chiseling and polishing to hone the shape of it. To execute his vision, to bring forth that which wasn't, to create with subtlety and skill, and with precision -- yes, that's why he's Pygmalion, the great -- He works it, till the rock yields Galatea. And later, when he's asked, says: no idea. ### Spawn URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/spawn/ Last updated: 2024-02-11T12:00:00.000Z Abandoned by his brethren downstream, a lonely salmon searches for his shoal. He's driven by an elemental theme, an overriding, fundamental goal, but somehow chose a different tributary, so now he swims alone against the odds. How potent his resolve, extraordinary -- he's earned the admiration of his gods, who let him get much higher than the others. With rapid after rapid left behind, no sign, though, of his sisters or his brothers. Denied his chance to mate with his own kind, exhausted, and the pain too much to bear, he's rescued from his struggle, by the bear. ### With Diamonds URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/with-diamonds/ Last updated: 2024-02-09T12:00:00.000Z Stars spilled across the sky like so much candy. The Milky Way as M&Ms, not Mars. The latter would have surely come in handy if God had filled the sky with chocolate bars, but as it is the stars hide deeper flavors, though color's a predictor of their heat. Is there a special kind that God most favors? A peanut butter star, won't that be neat? A happy, carefree child, God splashed his laughter as tiny specks of light across the void, with utter disregard for the hereafter, but strict instructions: it's to be enjoyed! Best rush to taste this multi-splendored feast. A fire soon consumes it from the East. ### Charcoal URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/charcoal/ Last updated: 2024-02-09T12:00:00.000Z charcoal pigeon is a smidgeon on a cotton candy branch she's a dove in your religion keep expecting her to blanch and deliver peace on Earth with it Spring, and a rebirth --- **Author notes:** image from Pinterest ### Darwinian URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/darwinian/ Last updated: 2024-02-08T12:00:00.000Z Survival of the fittest -- what a phrase! Convenient as hell when one is seeking to justify his privilege in ways that make it seem innate; a way of speaking to cast aside the notion that it's luck, and reassure the speaker in his palace, yes, that's where he belongs, above the muck, the reasons scientific, and not callous. Abused as much as any other notion, Darwinian in process and approach: eliminate affection and emotion, what difference does it make, which ant or roach survives onto the next round. Simply put, the shoe is never on your other foot. ### Fighting Words URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fighting-words/ Last updated: 2024-02-07T12:00:00.000Z you don't bring a knife to a gunfight a street fight is no good at home though plenty of cows at a bullfight out there where the buffalo roam no cats at a dogfight, but airplanes and food fights are rare over food be careful of imminent migraines from fistfights in your neighborhood a pillow fight, girls in pajamas might be about nothing at all or might lead to cockfights and dramas about who is having a ball ### Sausage URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sausage/ Last updated: 2024-02-06T12:00:00.000Z Transparency, they'll say on the TV. The people want to understand the process. To feel and taste, examine it. To see that it is not some hidden party bosses, but free and fair elections that decide the future and the nature of our nation. So bathe the truth in light, don't let it hide; immerse yourself in facts and information, and that is how you'll get the best result. Upon examination, though, but really? With must win battles lost, then, who's at fault? No, battles aren't won with touchy feely. Important ones? You'd much prefer to win those. Transparency is best left for your windows. ### Faint Praise URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/faint-praise/ Last updated: 2024-02-04T12:00:00.000Z Objective standards notwithstanding -- and are there any other kind -- no standard can exist depending on the perceiver's state of mind, since if it is, it's not a standard, but an opinion that's rendered from the perspective of its host. It may be popular, at most, but isn't truly universal, the way a meter or a gram produce a measure worth a damn, and never subject to reversal. Those limitations understood, I thought this thing was pretty good. ### Moments in Time URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/moments-in-time/ Last updated: 2024-02-03T12:00:00.000Z A spelling bee got trapped by amber, right at the start of the awards, while she was trying to remember much thornier and tougher words. With voice as smooth and sweet as honey and cheered along by mom and nanny, so confident as she took flight she lost, and early in the fight, by placing "e" at the beginning: who thinks of resin when they're young? The letters rolling off her tongue, she spelled it out with thoughts of winning... The judge said: found on pine and bark, not ashes glowing in the dark. ### Everyday Miracles URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/everyday-miracles/ Last updated: 2024-02-03T12:00:00.000Z If you want to walk on water, better find a frozen pond. Whether you're His son or daughter -- oh, He's equally as fond, though seems more so fond of science, so if acting in defiance of the known God-given laws, don't expect any applause. Any help from God, our father, as in miracles and such -- wouldn't that be a nice touch -- No, it isn't too much bother, but assume that He will not. And it's not that He forgot. ### Mixed Bouquet URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mixed-bouquet/ Last updated: 2024-02-03T12:00:00.000Z You choose -- a rose or a carnation? One's fitted for a crown of thorns, the other less a coronation but quite attractively adorns a suit's lapel, a wreath or laurel? Well well, I see no need to quarrel, each has its beauty, truth be told and can be something to behold. The rose is taffeta and velvet, carnation: satin, silken cloth. The petals are as bright for both, so put that thought away, and shelve it, the blossoms need not to compete, and the arrangement is complete. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* You choose -- a rose or a carnation? One's fitted for a crown of thorns, bestowed by a forgetful nation, so quick to anger as it mourns the loss of yet one more messiah, refusing, still, to answer why her begotten son is not of god. Was there another that he had? Or a carnation, lowly flower, best suited for a laurel wreath, her dignity so far beneath of those who seek to wield real power, but safe, uncomplicated, bright. In an arrangement, a delight. ### Look Both Ways Before Crossing URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/look-both-ways-before-crossing/ Last updated: 2024-02-02T12:00:00.000Z What better way to understanding than simply listening for once? Stop claiming, wanting and demanding, and give the answer half a chance. And no, not only to appease them; you've no monopoly on wisdom, and listening, you might just learn that what they long for and they yearn is not so different and appalling. Compassion, dignity, respect. That's what they want, what they expect and so would you, should you come calling. That's what the ancient writings teach. And also: practice what you preach. ### The Morning After URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-morning-after/ Last updated: 2024-02-01T12:00:00.000Z As blessed as it is, fruit of the vine, it manages to harbor a few curses. Commanded to imbue by the Divine in biblical refrains, chapter and verses, we toast our celebrations with its spirit -- let no one doubt what that is all about -- then in the morning wish we weren't near it, and on occasion with a bout of gout. But everything, they say, in moderation. Today, I'm feeling moderately blessed, though cannot put a shoe on. In frustration, I realize my blessings need a rest, though if there is a way, I have the will. Turns out, even for this, there is a pill. ### Reality Bites URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/reality-bites/ Last updated: 2024-02-01T12:00:00.000Z From Socrates to Aristotle -- and this might be the key to Locke -- reality is half the battle, so as I labor to unlock, and paint myself a better picture, whether of Marx -- yes, Karl -- or Nietzsche, but no Immanuel, no Kant, as far from Plato as a plant, and neither Qiu or Epicurus, indulgent with the worst of you, confusing Yue Fu with haiku neither philosopher can cure us from thinking we're not in the know, and all of this is just for show. ### Dramedy URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dramedy/ Last updated: 2024-01-31T12:00:00.000Z Attempting but to entertain the missus, discovered me this early little gem. Off Broadway, which has had its share of misses, but this one, like a rose still on its stem, thorns sharp, the petals radiant and textured, its fragrance filled the audience with joy. We left without feeling we've been lectured, a feeling that can easily destroy, wring out any last semblance of pleasure, a pointing, wagging finger in your face. So rare these days -- no lecture -- one must treasure, must value it, must cherish and embrace. As mighty as a pen is, it's no hammer. So fewer proclamations, better grammar. ### Number One URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/number-one/ Last updated: 2024-01-30T12:00:00.000Z The better angels of our nature, us, children of a greater god, if one believes the nomenclature -- and that's the only one we've had -- where have they gone? What drives our fever, disdain for any non-believer, such that these angels have to flee. We can't agree to disagree, nor tolerate an opposition, and so the angels must abide, must find a proper place to hide. They're guilty, by their own admission. Are they the cause, or the effect, these angels of benign neglect? ### Fate No More URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fate-no-more/ Last updated: 2024-01-28T12:00:00.000Z Determinism is all the rage of late. Apparently, you can't reach a decision. There is no vacuum. What there is is fate, unfurling with a clockwork like precision, with every action leading to the next, in ways that are predictable if only one had the math to do it; Still, perplexed, some popular, and most just sad and lonely, we stumble as the future turns to past, predictable, but not in ways that matter, and dying think we're free, we're free at last, when all we were is but a blotchy splatter on a gigantic, universal graph. Where each line ends, though few have had enough. ### Sunny Side Up URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sunny-side-up/ Last updated: 2024-01-28T12:00:00.000Z An omelet without breaking any eggs. How does one go around such ancient wisdom, and do it while conforming to the regs -- no liquid egglike product. To appease them, the ancients that came up with this refrain, one cannot simply buy it in the store, and surely there is no need to explain that nothing would upset the story more then going out to eat. That's not the spirit in which the riddle's posed. No, not at all, so any effort of the sort, or near it, would surely violate the protocol. What's left then to attempt, but to renege, and counter with the chicken or the egg. ### Werifesteria URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/werifesteria/ Last updated: 2024-01-27T12:00:00.000Z There is a forest that exists: abandoned trails, forgotten beasts, where tiny streams play well-tuned chimes. Witches and fairies talk in rhymes; they trade you wishes for a kiss, and promise you eternal bliss. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Summer Children URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/summer-children/ Last updated: 2024-01-27T12:00:00.000Z Cranes fly south for the winter as souls crack and splinter ice creeps into veins until no love remains Crane -- do find other work and come back as a stork! --- **Author notes:** Artwork is by Chie Yoshii ### Holiday Dinners URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/holiday-dinners/ Last updated: 2024-01-27T12:00:00.000Z Knives out, we pull our chairs up to the table, and sit, while dreading that which is to come. No, love is not enough. We are unable -- wherever we may be or we are from -- unable to suppress our hurts and losses. Find difficulty in expressing love. The hurts seem to win out. We bear our crosses, and see those closest as the cause thereof. Yet most of us come back to face this music, accompanied by chimes of Jingle Bells. If God looks in, must find it quite amusing, these get togethers, all those little hells... And then it's all kiss, kiss, until next year. A step outside. A sigh. We're in the clear. ### Soap Bubbles URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/soap-bubbles/ Last updated: 2024-01-27T12:00:00.000Z before Dr. Phil's, pills and Oprah when music was concert and opera and opera wasn't for soap just how did we manage to cope and what did we do with our laundry please answer me this little quandary ### Evergreen URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/evergreen/ Last updated: 2024-01-26T12:00:00.000Z I came across an ancient oak which had refused the Fall, his neighbors bare. When asked, he spoke, a voice meant to enthrall: "I care not for the seasons, child, nor for the Day or Night. How hot, how cold, unpleasant, mild, a time was, I'd delight in every variance and change but I no longer care. When nothing's new and nothing's strange, why would I have to bare my mighty branches to the wind as if I stand in awe? Go tell the seasons to rescind, go on and tell them so." I asked the lush and sprawling giant: "Don't you know regret? You stand there, mighty and defiant, as the seasons let, but have you ever loved another? Standing all alone, no acorn you can call a brother, tired and overgrown, in your own shadow, and no doubt, you do not crack or bend, but all these years to go without a tree to call a friend..." He interrupted: "there was once a tall and pretty fir. We had a bit of a romance, I was soo fond of her. She liked to needle me, the lass, but gently, in good fun. We grew and watched the seasons pass. Together, we were one. Then one cold day a lumberjack arrived and set her free. I called to him: will she be back? He laughed, said Christmas tree. 'Twas then that I decided that I'll never fall again. Let Winter try its best to flatten, bears sleep in their den, but I will stand here and defy, leaves green as if it's June, as if a fledgling butterfly just morphed from its cocoon." Fell silent, there was not a sound except the sound of grief. And then I noticed, on the ground, a single, wilted leaf. ### Unreliable Narrator URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/unreliable-narrator/ Last updated: 2024-01-25T12:00:00.000Z A narrator, reliable or not, should still deliver something of a tale: so be it of a land that time forgot, or a mundane affair, he must regale his audience with brevity and wit, omitting needles words but keeping those that matter even just a little bit. Remembering to plot and juxtapose, while banishing a hero here and there, their absence timed to make the heart grow fonder, and I'd suggest, especially, beware of failing to maintain a sense of wonder. When all is said and done, the work complete, don't hesitate: hit save, and then submit. ### How Do You Get Your Ideas URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/how-do-you-get-your-ideas/ Last updated: 2024-01-23T12:00:00.000Z I'm often asked: how do you pick a subject for this or that unlikely composition? A tired, stale cliche, or just an object that's placed in an unusual position. A dialog between two silent partners so caught in an unlikely dialectic that the ensuing conversation garners reactions from the rad to apoplectic. Attempts to wax poetically are often too maudlin to earn their weight in paper. Eschew the urge to decorate and soften. Ethereal, like tiny whisps of vapor is great for a deodorant commercial. I aim for the bizarre and controversial. ### Poetic Vacations URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/poetic-vacations/ Last updated: 2024-01-21T12:00:00.000Z "Picture yourself", said the travel brochure. Sunsets so pretty, and water so pure, Mediterranean, AirBnB, perfect to write your to be, not to be. --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Same as it Ever Was URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/same-as-it-ever-was/ Last updated: 2024-01-21T12:00:00.000Z Be it llama or alpaca on the lake of Titicaca you will see a world that was be no stranger to the cause, even though you're just a tourist, to preserve it in its purest. --- **Author notes:** image from nationalgeographic.com ### Piano URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/piano/ Last updated: 2024-01-21T12:00:00.000Z Unless you're ambidextrous -- and who is -- your melody is favoring the right, until it's played with habit forming ease, each keystroke made to thrill and to delight. There's strength in it, there's purpose and technique; perhaps a hint of genius or gift. It is as if you hear the music speak, you revel in it, wholly, mind adrift... But on the other hand -- since you have two, and one much more familiar with pleasure, which leaves another without much to do, accompanying solely for good measure, and feeling, for its part, so left, ignored... Do give that hand a chance to strike a chord. ### [ belly full of laughs ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/belly-full-of-laughs/ Last updated: 2024-01-20T12:00:00.000Z belly full of laughs no substitute for dinner cried the omnivore ### [ find it ironic ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/find-it-ironic/ Last updated: 2024-01-19T12:00:00.000Z find it ironic that Frost would side with fire over winter ice ### Try This At Home URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/try-this-at-home/ Last updated: 2024-01-19T12:00:00.000Z To figure out who's pot, who's kettle, no need to use a color chart. Whichever one is tougher metal, the clue for telling them apart is neither color nor complexion; nor is there need for vivisection. For the solution, look for sound. That's where the answer will be found, because you see, though both may bristle, too hot to handle without gloves, do not let pushes come to shoves: the one will boil; the other, whistle, and you will see, as like as not, which one is kettle, and who's pot. ### Radio Gaga URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/radio-gaga/ Last updated: 2024-01-17T12:00:00.000Z buttons and knobs, chrome and metal union jobs, 'lectric kettle future seemed permanent then where did it go to, and when? --- **Author notes:** image from Facebook ### Five Minutes To Midnight URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/five-minutes-to-midnight/ Last updated: 2024-01-15T12:00:00.000Z Pray tell, but have you heard of any prophet predicting nearly anything but doom? Today they're likely running a non-profit, reach followers on TikTok and on Zoom, or flying out to Davos on their jets, to party and test out their new toboggans, while heretics, still smoking cigarettes, build barricades and circle up their wagons. What's left then for a modern Jeremiah, when everyone who's willing to be saved is praying to a different messiah? To free them, they must surely be enslaved. Good news, though, there's a sale on doomsday clocks. It's tough out there, for prophets, and their flocks. ### Ariel URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ariel/ Last updated: 2024-01-15T12:00:00.000Z One last chance: stay in the water is he worth it, this young prince? Dwell on it, Poseidon's daughter. Every step on land, you'll wince, live in agony and pain. What is there but love to gain? --- **Author notes:** artwork from Facebook ### Haggis URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/haggis/ Last updated: 2024-01-15T12:00:00.000Z if haggis is as haggis does then one must simply say because there aren't any rules or laws that say you can't (though decency demands a clause -- ok I shan't) and so I open up my jaws to ridicule and to applause and then a gulp of scotch, no straws and as they chant -- I hear their laughter and guffaws but can't recant ### Marquisade URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/marquisade/ Last updated: 2024-01-15T12:00:00.000Z If God be Love, and Love be kind indeed, then isn't He the God of tender mercies? Dispense then with your virtue. Let's proceed with pleasing Him. I've had enough of curtsies, of furtive glances and of deeper sighs -- an abbess would be proud of your resolve. But hunger, real hunger's in your eyes, a hunger no confessor could absolve. Shall I then be the shepherd, you the sheep? Or would you rather have me in the saddle and let love run its course, so very deep. Perhaps you're not a stranger to the paddle, lips reddened by another kind of rush? A slap? Oh well, at least I've made you blush. --- **Author notes:** Prompt 1 ### Fair Use URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fair-use/ Last updated: 2024-01-14T12:00:00.000Z With labels like "fair use" and "prior art", Derivative defended its existence: "Oh surely you can tell us two apart? This nitpicking, this insolent insistence that every sentence be a pure creation -- are alphabets exempt from this demand, or do they too require a citation? How would a reader try to comprehend -- without a common canon on their tongue -- the latticework of paragraphs and commas that place a given writer's work among those that transcend their periods; the dramas that we still cherish -- and their use is free. How are we then to be, or not to be?" ### Garnet URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/garnet/ Last updated: 2024-01-13T12:00:00.000Z blood red poppies in her hair eyes that make you stop and stare necklaces of gold and garnet is she Lust, Desire incarnate down to Earth to reign supreme or a poppy driven dream --- **Author notes:** image from pinterest ### Point of No Return URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/point-of-no-return/ Last updated: 2024-01-12T12:00:00.000Z I've been observing expeditions out to the point of no return. Despite the challenging conditions, and often showing scant concern, they sail in any kind of weather, with slogans such as "come together", designed, it seems, to drive apart, though hard to know another's heart. Reluctant, or enthusiastic, what makes these people leave behind their membership in humankind? Conformist, or iconoclastic, what drives the few that want to rule? The theory of greater fool. ### Autobiography URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/autobiography/ Last updated: 2024-01-11T12:00:00.000Z Unauthorized biographies abound, but I, for one, feel ready for the spotlight. Am I a worthy subject? Pound for pound, I'm neither the receiver of a Fulbright, nor scholar, Rhodes or otherwise. MacArthur would not have deemed me worthy of a grant. A laureate gig likely a non-starter, and I cannot philosophize, no Kant. And yet I feel that I contain a story; there's something that's demanding to pour out, to claim its place in gloried inventory of masterpieces one can talk about without having read them. Coffee table. I'd like to place it there if I am able. ### Best Place on Earth URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/best-place-on-earth/ Last updated: 2024-01-11T12:00:00.000Z Still looking. That's what I tell people when they ask me: where do you want to retire? Oh, there's a perfect place. I can see it as clear as I can see myself in the mirror. High up on a granite cliff overlooking the Pacific as it fights to claim its piece of the American Dream. That's where I'd like to retire. Right there, where the eternal sunshine lights up the angry, futile spray of the waves, and the bracing wind fills your nostrils with the scent of salt and iodine as you sip your coffee, and you say dammit, but I've made it, I've made it to the best place on Earth, and the stirrings of the planet's crust way down below may be a warning sign, but you can ignore it, because there's still time. There's still time. Isn't there? ### Simple Arithmetic URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/simple-arithmetic/ Last updated: 2024-01-10T12:00:00.000Z Arithmetic, try as you might to sate her with decimals and fractions of the whole, demands more than a common numerator when adding, as a point of protocol, uneven parts. And ditto with subtraction. Multiplication, that it does with ease, both top and bottom get in on the action, achieving simultaneous release. (I might add, parenthetically, division, the long one, and the short of it, in kind, when otherwise unwrecked by indecision won't pay an operator any mind) So calculating, you might call it scheming, though I believe that quality redeeming. ### City at Night URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/city-at-night/ Last updated: 2024-01-10T12:00:00.000Z How cold is the city: lit up for the season, so vain and so pretty that you might well reason it's warm and embracing, the truth though, remains. You'd better be bracing, there's ice in its veins. --- **Author notes:** image from pinterest ### Celeste URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/celeste/ Last updated: 2024-01-05T12:00:00.000Z Ask the Man on the Moon: are the snow covered pines, branches ready to swoon, they are looking for signs, any signs from above... Does he give them his love? ### The End of the Rainbow URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-end-of-the-rainbow/ Last updated: 2024-01-05T12:00:00.000Z It's always either over or beyond, but never underneath it or below. Add adjectives galore to correspond, evoking its magnificence and glow, as if the rainbow isn't really there, illusive as its cousin the horizon, oblivious and wholly unaware of efforts by the crotchety and wizened to treat it as no more than a mirage, a metaphor for all that isn't destined and everything that isn't, a collage assembled by romantics that go questing in voyages that seek the rainbow's end. All hopeless, but preferring to pretend. ### Cross Current URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/cross-current/ Last updated: 2024-01-01T12:00:00.000Z You ever wonder why it tries so hard? The water in the ocean, as it churns, impressing with apparent disregard for our inane and meaningless concerns, and stressing, as it does, its boundless measure, why does it bother, only to agree, as waves roll to and fro in seeming leisure that it's been long since conquered, no more free than seagulls on the wing are free from hunger, or waterspouts that fail to claim the sky. I rarely thought of such when I was younger, but lately tend to wallow in the why. And as to why I find it so appealing? Some sort of sign. The ocean knows the feeling. ### Beast of Burden URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/beast-of-burden/ Last updated: 2023-12-30T12:00:00.000Z Obedient, like any beast of burden that's trained to carry water up the hill. Ambivalent, equivocal, uncertain, and lacking all initiative and will. No, that's not you? You style yourself a rebel. Important, of some consequence, at least, when you are hardly more than just a pebble, unworthy of a cease or a desist. An insect, inconvenient when splattered -- a dirty windshield, not much of a chore -- Would someone notice? Have you ever mattered? Here, wipe your tears and don't be such a bore. What's harder than irrelevance? To wit, what's worse than if you matter not a bit? ### Resolutions URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/resolutions/ Last updated: 2023-12-29T12:00:00.000Z My thoughts on '24? You must be kidding. Then I shall have to bet on Armageddon. It's true enough, pandemic is receding, but has it failed in its attempt to deaden, to permanently dent our sense of taste? One only needs to taste the air for Freedom-- deep breath, all the way in, start at the waist -- it's missing right? Smell too, but do you need them? Much easier to tolerate manure when you can't taste or smell, so life is better, if greasier and blander to be sure. And Freedom? You'd do better to forget her. Remember though, the world will end but once. My thoughts on '24? There is a chance. ### Who's First URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/whos-first/ Last updated: 2023-12-23T12:00:00.000Z With infamy their tireless pursuit, and each one of a mind to be the winner, the seven deadly sins had a dispute. To settle it, found a prospective sinner, and tempted him with all that they could muster, which one of them is deadlier, the quest. The prize? Their bust in gold and alabaster, but bragging rights is what they wanted best. The challenge -- who goes first, and in what order? Pope Gregory was chosen as a guide, and history, a dutiful recorder, lists Lust as first and terminates in Pride. But this was, by no means, an easy choice! Let's give the seven deadly sins a voice. Let's give the seven deadly sins a voice. Lust, teaming up with Gluttony, went first. Expecting boys to, after all, be boys, they targeted a certain kind of thirst, sweet chocolate, cold grapes, whipped cream and cherry, appeared as buxom maidens in the flesh, seductive in their movements, wild and merry, their laughter music, voices young and fresh. They'll tempt him with the fruit or with their curves or failing that, with both, and split the win. He looked at them, and maybe it was nerves, but otherwise unmoved, he didn't sin, and therefore had no reason to atone. Perhaps Lust should have tried for it alone. Perhaps Lust should have tried for it alone, Greed thought, and having learned this useful lesson, neglected to seek allies for the throne. She saw no need to share, to split, to lessen her ill-begotten prize. No, he's all hers, seduced with silver, diamonds and gold. Dressed in abundant, flowing sable furs, a gilded thread through every nook and fold, she couldn't have expected his reaction. "Too much", he said, and turned to look away, while leaving her to stare in stupefaction, unable to convince him or to sway their charge to evil deeds, she too was stumped. Ignored, unceremoniously dumped. Ignored, unceremoniously dumped, Greed slumped away defeated. Here comes Sloth. You'd think, enthusiastic, she'd have jumped at this unlikely chance but she is loath to make a move of any kind. Indeed if there's a way to idle, doing naught, then that is how Sloth chooses to proceed, and so she did, or didn't, or forgot, but ultimately making no attempt to win the bet, to make her charge a sinner, she failed to even try to test, to tempt, and he, observing, shrugged, an easy winner, while asking "that's the best that you can do?" Sloth couldn't care less, lazy, through and through. Sloth couldn't care less, lazy, through and through. The thought of it brought Wrath to easy rage. Fists clenched, she called their charge to task: "hey you! Sloth may just be too lazy to engage, but don't expect the same from me, you loser! What shall I call you, since you're not a man. How could a man see Lust, and then refuse her? Your lack of appetites destroyed her plan, and Greed's to boot. You have no need of money, because you're not a man. No, you are dust. My sisters may attempt, as flies to honey, to lavish you, to tempt you, as they must, but I will give you naught but righteous anger! I will not fail as Sloth, in sluggish languor!" "I will not fail as Sloth, in sluggish languor!" Yes, that was Wrath, but our prospective sinner remained unmoved by all the ire and rancor, and though the clock was showing well past dinner, did not appear as weakening at all, but rather growing stronger by the minute, was righteousness itself, no harm, no fall. Now Envy's turn, and she is truly in it. "Come, stranger", she then said. "Is there no thing, no secret wish or person or desire, no artifact, no fetish and no bling? No inner voice that's whispering: aim higher? No anger at your relegated station? Is that why you're resisting your damnation?" "Is that why you're resisting your damnation?" Did Envy find a weakness in their charge? Pride, grabbing at this hint of hesitation, continued: "Shouldn't you be living large? Magnificent, impressive as you are, impervious to Gluttony or Lust! Example to us all, a shooting star, unswayed by Greed, left Sloth down in the dust, and cool, so cool when in the face of Wrath. I must confess I envy your composure, and wish that I could follow in your path. Accept us, and lead all of us to closure. And Satan spread his wings, with eyes aglow. Said "thank you Pride, you had me at hello." ### Upside Down URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/upside-down/ Last updated: 2023-12-22T12:00:00.000Z Effect despised his allocated role. To have to follow Cause, damn the torpedoes, and never ever, ever in control. Why didn't he, when choosing among credos, pick one where he would get to be in charge? Instead, he's stuck with playing second fiddle and can't make a decision, small or large. At best he's not in front but in the middle. But he's not losing hope: turns out that quanta tend to dismiss causality at will. Don't like the outcome? Wishlist granting Santa can grant you with another, and, no bill! Causation, as they say, no correlation, and Cause, to this Effect, is no relation. ### Critic's Notebook URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/critics-notebook/ Last updated: 2023-12-20T12:00:00.000Z Considering the depth of your performance -- as shallow and as muddy as a puddle -- can't give you any points for non-conformance, assuming that desire to befuddle and discombobulate is what had driven creative choices, set design and costumes, since those are sadly, nowadays, a given. But I'll confess that like so many bridegrooms I entertained escape through intermission, though somehow, persevered to the finale, no, not because mine is a noble mission, but rather 'cause your goons out in the alley behind the theater refused me exit. So here is my review, I thought I'd text it. ### Winter Tales URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/winter-tales/ Last updated: 2023-12-19T12:00:00.000Z the branches of the ancient oak are stark against the sky and in the distance, chimney smoke just one more lullaby with tales of bunnies in the snow above it all, a moonlight glow --- **Author notes:** Art by Carol Collette ### Part II URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/part-ii/ Last updated: 2023-12-18T12:00:00.000Z The angst over the loss of Western Civ. Why worry? Future Ciceros and Catos can dance on TikTok to the week's motif, performing with such passion and such pathos and get so many warm and heartfelt likes? No Cato was this cherished or adored, nor Cicero beloved. Oh, you might "yikes" at juvenile theatrics by the bored, but really, have you carefully considered that you've become irascible and old? Bewildered, puzzled, stupefied, embittered by being fully out, not in the fold? Perhaps you're still enamored with your Gibbon. No worries. Everyone will get a ribbon. ### Limitations URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/limitations/ Last updated: 2023-12-16T12:00:00.000Z "A man has got to know his limitations." Rare wisdom, and in practice, rarer still. We, all of us, aspire above our stations, by hook or crook or dogged, stubborn will. That "Dirty Harry" wisdom from Clint Eastwood. The business edge, the muzzle of a gun, effective, perhaps more than if a priest could deliver it in sermon, one on one. The gun -- it used to be our legislature, and some would argue it is still in charge. To be content defies our very nature, we claw our way, obsessed with living large. Exceed our limitations? Easy puzzle. Just find a way to be behind the muzzle. ### Тranslation: Visotsky: Affairs URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/translation-visotsky-affairs/ Last updated: 2023-12-15T12:00:00.000Z To dos! I'm overwhelmed by my to dos every day, every day No Use Burned songs and poems to a crisp only ash and decay All year I couldn't lose and then she left, no excuse, no excuse Oh dear, the sorry state of my to dos So there if you would gift me with an evening, a dinner, a walk I swear I won't try anything, just talk Undone, Undone the list of my to dos, my to dos, my to dos As one, Burned up to ashes, it's no use it's no use All year I couldn't lose and then she left, no excuse, no excuse Oh dear, the sorry state of my to dos So there if you would gift me with an evening, a dinner, a walk I swear I wouldn't even try to talk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6QEYvJR\_Fs \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Дела! Меня замучили дела — каждый день, каждый день, каждый день. Дотла Сгорели песни и стихи — дребедень, дребедень, дребедень! Весь год жила-была и вдруг взяла собрала и ушла. И вот — такие грустные дела у меня... Теперь Хоть целый вечер подари, подари, подари — Поверь: Я буду только говорить! Из рук, из рук вон плохо шли дела, у меня шли дела. И вдруг Сгорели пламенем дотла — Не дела, а зола... Весь год она жила и вдруг взяла собрала и ушла. И вот — опять весёлые дела у меня... Теперь Хоть целый вечер подари, подари, подари — Поверь: Не буду даже говорить! --- **Author notes:** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6QEYvJR\_Fs ### Yom Rishon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/yom-rishon/ Last updated: 2023-12-14T12:00:00.000Z Why start it on a Sunday of all days? Supreme, he could have started on a Friday and still be done on time with no delays, the Universe completed, nice and tidy. The Pentateuch would call it Yom Rishon, and start the count, though off by a few billion, list Satan among other hangers on, and unaware we could have been reptilian, put humans at the top of all Creation. How special must we be, it took a week, six working days to put us in our station, omnipotence and all? Now that's unique! Perfection thus achieved, He took a day, and damn the consequences, come what may. ### Hanukkah URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/hanukkah-17521966/ Last updated: 2023-12-08T12:00:00.000Z If history is written by the winners, our victories are few and far between, but nonetheless substantial. No beginners, though quoted on the subject sight unseen, we celebrate those few with food and candle and marvel at the heroes of the past -- they make our losses easier to handle. We toast each other: free, we're free at last, but underneath it all, a common worry: How long this time? Is freedom here to stay? As black and white turn grey and red lines blurry, what options do we have? Forgive and pray? A festival of lights, each night a toy. Joy to the world, indeed. So, so much joy. ### Well Rehearsed URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/well-rehearsed/ Last updated: 2023-12-08T12:00:00.000Z "The chimney", she said, "not the ceiling!" Prostrated, concussed and still reeling, The Santa Claus actor learned timing's a factor "Once more", she repeated. "With feeling" ### Beg Pardon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/beg-pardon/ Last updated: 2023-11-29T12:00:00.000Z Forgiveness and Permission disagreed: according to a pearl of common wisdom it's surely better, having done the deed, and rather than attempting to appease them, the ones that would say no, and shut their ears, to simply say "I'm sorry" -- if you're caught. Produce regretful and abundant tears, and get your way, not settling for naught, which like as not would happen if you ask. "This isn't really fair!" Permission wailed. "Well, fair or not, accomplishes the task." Forgiveness answered smugly. "You had failed to grasp that above all, we value fun. And now, if you'll excuse me, I am done." ### Fairy Tale URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/fairy-tale/ Last updated: 2023-11-28T12:00:00.000Z Little Red Riding Hood, learning to ride often misunderstood, cannot abide any more hungry wolves, hunters and grandmas had quite enough of those fairy tale dramas --- **Author notes:** image from pinterest ### Black Friday URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/black-friday/ Last updated: 2023-11-26T12:00:00.000Z An angry anthill, having just been kicked, the workers rushing to repair the breach. That's Walmart as the lucky shoppers, ticked, contort themselves for items out of reach. It squirms and wriggles, pulsing as it flows, this mass of human, shall we call it flesh? Unchecked the melee likely comes to blows and consequently threatens to enmesh the retail standard in a scandal. Worse, the evening news will run the lurid clip. Though amply stocked and furnished, the perverse impression driving many more to ship. Some think accounts revert from red to black. But Walmart knows there is no turning back. ### Salmon URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/salmon/ Last updated: 2023-11-20T12:00:00.000Z Some friends implore me, with affection: as if I wasn't under steam, you're rowing in the wrong direction, what is this need to get upstream, to struggle so against the current. The will to make things are, that aren't. ### Sky Road URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sky-road/ Last updated: 2023-11-20T12:00:00.000Z I got lost as usual. GPS has been flaky, so asked God for directions. But He wouldn't show me the error of my Waze. In fact, he showed me nothing at all, until this here tower. And when I climbed to the top, this odd, mysterious sign: Sky Road. Is that where I'm going, I asked, not really expecting an answer. And none came. --- **Author notes:** Photo © 2023 Susanne Donoghue. ### Surface Tension URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/surface-tension/ Last updated: 2023-11-19T12:00:00.000Z A ripple on the surface of the pond disturbs its eerie, mirror like perfection, then dissipates, and eager to respond, the water settles back upon reflection, that being its true purpose -- sate our need to probe, indeed to challenge our existence and validate the basis of our creed: yes we are in His image, though some distance remains between what's perfect and what's us. So easy to reach out for that ideal: a mere stretch of the hand, so why the fuss? But try to grasp it -- it was never real... Recoiling from your touch, the ripples spread, and taunt you: in His image? Or His stead? ### Permanent Vacation URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/permanent-vacation/ Last updated: 2023-11-12T12:00:00.000Z A beach vacation: labor to pretend that we are meant to lead a life of leisure, to sift with carefree fingers through the sand, no, not in search of hidden prize or treasure, but for a sense of timelessness. To us the hourglass, a metaphor for being. Where better then to discourse, to discuss, or hide, for some, from time itself, all-seeing, than in the flowing dunes that wrap the shore in infinite and precious, precious seconds. Dare waste a whole week's worth, and ask for more, reality be damned, the siren beckons, out there where the horizon draws a line. Come, join with me, she sings. The water's fine. ### Garnish URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/garnish/ Last updated: 2023-11-05T12:00:00.000Z Some condiments were having a discussion on topics that are difficult to relish. "How did this happen?!", ketchup, flushed with passion, his tendency to sweeten and embellish more evident than ever. "How, and why?!" The others at the table staying quiet, till mustard, jaundiced, ventured a reply: "Because they're stronger, ketchup, why deny it, and boast of fewer calories to boot! Sure, mayonnaise and ketchup keep on pressing but their entire effort rendered moot if no one gets or asks for Russian dressing." Defiant, ketchup said: "We'll form a lobby, and stop the spread of curry and wasabi!" ### Retired Archeologist URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/retired-archeologist/ Last updated: 2023-11-03T12:00:00.000Z My travels -- came across an ancient tomb. Near Ankara, where continents collide. A quick onceover with a handy broom and time starts yielding that which tried to hide. Sarcophagus, a solid mass of gold Inscriptions in what seems like ancient Greek, They start, the letters carved in large and bold: "Turn back while you still can, and do not seek that which you cannot have, or pay the price!" Pried open the humongous coffin's lid. Inside -- a gilded mummy, dressed up nice. Tried taking it all with him, that he did. The rest reads: "This is Midas, he knew hunger, but wishes he was cursed when he was younger." ### Abstract URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/abstract/ Last updated: 2023-11-02T12:00:00.000Z Is math abstract? The beauty of a spiral, when captured in a sluggish mollusk's shell? A dandelion picture going viral, a ladybug that's resting for a spell on leaves designed by unrelenting fractals to gobble sunshine up. Though it's no bird, nor relative of ancient pterodactyls, Bernoulli is a name she's never heard, she nonetheless can fly as though the ether, (replace it by a boffin's quantum foam), can lift her as she soars, the land beneath her a temporary respite, not a home. An elegant equation tells the tale. A ladybug, a flower, and a snail. ### Water Line URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/water-line/ Last updated: 2023-10-29T12:00:00.000Z A wave swells up and crashes on the beach. The sanderlings, undaunted, scoot away, continuing to forage out of reach, then rushing back before the salty spray has had a chance to dissipate or dry. Beaks polished by the unforgiving sand hunt, peck at tiny morsels washed up by the grey, relentless sea onto the land, an ancient, immemorial dispute with the reluctant shore, to gain, lose ground, while scavengers, both slow and light of foot, play out their shallow parts, all to the sound of clockwork, indefatigable tides. Observing, but refusing to pick sides. ### Freudian Clip URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/freudian-clip/ Last updated: 2023-10-25T12:00:00.000Z Necessity, Invention often mentions, as strict a mother as you might expect, which, leading to innumerable tensions and loss of self esteem and self respect, resolved at last through therapeutic sessions, expensive as they were, more to the point, a lust for the material possessions that tweak her mother's nose all out of joint. Such conflicts with our fathers and our mothers -- must we achieve because we are annoyed, exhausted by the pointing out of others? Or does the answer really lie with Freud? Dear mother, I've invented something new, and all because I long for "proud of you". ### In the Details URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-the-details/ Last updated: 2023-10-21T12:00:00.000Z If there's no hell, then where are all the devils, as surely you're not meaning to imply that Dante's dark Inferno, all nine levels, are absent any guide or passer by, and simply his inflamed imagination? The poet and his vision of a hell where each receives according to their station, proceed with caution, never mind the smell, made up? An Alighieri allegory? A children's tale to frighten those who sin, an ending for in the beginning's story, a payback for what happened in between? Assuming that's your take, the answer's clear. If there's no hell, the devils are all here. ### Apocalypse Then URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/apocalypse-then/ Last updated: 2023-10-20T12:00:00.000Z Apocalypse, predictions notwithstanding, will only happen once, so just relax, and stop it with the ceaseless, never-ending lamenting of the passing of the Pax Romana -- have you seen the coliseum, where gladiators ready for the stage? Their pay is pretty good, although per diem -- per Cicero, the orator and sage. I hear we've brought in prisoners from Zion, who seem to think their god will intervene. The odds are ten to one, but on the lion. Expecting that is something to be seen! So go ahead and mark this in your journal: abandon fear, our city is eternal. ### The Beholder URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-beholder/ Last updated: 2023-10-19T12:00:00.000Z a kiss, and elemental bliss but it will make her sadder, colder since although nothing seems amiss she's not the loved, but the beholder --- **Author notes:** image from FineArtAmerica.com ### Robespierre URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/robespierre/ Last updated: 2023-10-19T12:00:00.000Z I wake in search of somebody to cancel. A quick search of the news to prompt my fury, discarding paper pad and sharpened pencil, and more an executioner than jury, assembling what evidence I find, I channel pent up rage in all directions -- can't be the last to comment. Top of mind is critical. Apologies, corrections -- the tools of the oppressors -- and the weak, \-- that's us in us and them, in case you wonder -- we must be heard, and louder, when we speak, to drown their hatred with our righteous thunder. Wait. Why is there a story with my name? It looks like someone woke. And I'm to blame. ### Perennial URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/perennial/ Last updated: 2023-10-18T12:00:00.000Z perennial, we lack the flower's power of seasonal renewal and rebirth and fear the certain coming of the hour that destines our return to Mother Earth so tendril like, we let our roots reach out and search for signs of hope in every sprout --- **Author notes:** image from bouqs.com ### Know Your Audience URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/know-your-audience/ Last updated: 2023-10-17T12:00:00.000Z though utterly brilliant the AI's poem was rejected as the requirement clearly stated for a non-binary audience --- **Author notes:** image from thewalrus.com ### Instant Gratification URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/instant-gratification/ Last updated: 2023-10-16T12:00:00.000Z Delivery deliberately placed, he snaps a proof of life, a toothy smile. His every move is analyzed and traced, but used to it -- he's been at it a while -- he moves on to the next delivery. The van's electric motor hums to life. It's painted blue, and telltale livery, a smiley arrow that is now so rife, no, it's not quite a verb, more a cliché, a way to say I never leave my home, for most of us. For him, it points the way, no Ithaca for him, just roam and roam, and when you get there, don't forget to snap it! He hopes, one day, to get one, and unwrap it. ### [ moths drawn to a flame ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/moths-drawn-to-a-flame/ Last updated: 2023-10-15T12:00:00.000Z moths drawn to a flame like fallen angels vying for a second chance ### Freewheeling URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/freewheeling/ Last updated: 2023-10-15T12:00:00.000Z I've tried to free my verse but it refuses. No sign of an escape or other plot. I'd ask it why, but every answer oozes with irony and sarcasm like as not. But no one talks like this, I tell it tersely. Your use is a mnemonic, that at most, and rhyme and rhythm are perceived, perversely, as something to avoid, at any cost. Head buried in the sand, it keeps on writing, oblivious to popular demand. It's gotten to the point they've stopped inviting yours truly. Oftentimes feels like I'm banned. Well, freedom isn't free, so too my verse. To read it, you must open up your purse. ### Man Cave URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/man-cave/ Last updated: 2023-10-12T12:00:00.000Z When Man first painted bison on the wall of that decrepit, ancient cave in France, had he considered there may be a soul? The charcoal silhouettes -- were they by chance some fledging indication of belief? A shaman drawing figures to compel these creatures to his will, in stark relief. A ritual, a rite, a magic spell? Or was a budding artist overawed by nature, in her majesty and splendor and so was moved to capture, to applaud what men still try, and often fail, to render. One answer I've advanced, though not the coolest. An early version of a honey, do list. --- **Author notes:** image by GPT ### Between the Lines URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/between-the-lines/ Last updated: 2023-10-10T12:00:00.000Z I'm often told to read between the lines, this sadly nearly doubling the length of that which must be read. To search for signs among the plainly said. Lord, give me strength. It's hard enough to get what's on plain paper. You want me to attempt to understand the thoughts that hide, ethereal, like vapor between the lines, and all the while pretend that this is the true meaning of it all? The rest of it a feint, in camouflage? Designed to throw you off, delight, enthrall, and all the while beneath it a barrage of ridicule and punning and entendre. Oh, this is kind of funny, let me ponder. ### Well Met URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/well-met/ Last updated: 2023-10-08T12:00:00.000Z It's no beluga, but do try the sturgeon, the caviar is honestly first rate. You see that guy? Right there? Yes, plastic surgeon, and that's his trophy wife. No, no, he's straight. Yes, way too cute, but hey, no harm in looking? Too funny, he's a bit too young for me. Besides, I'm busy. A new class. No, cooking, A lying diet? Lion! Yeah, it's free. You heard about what happened to the Learys? Just goes to show you, you can never tell. Oh, to be sure, no deficit of theories. It probly started when the market fell. OK, kiss, kiss, I gotta make the rounds. So good to see you, please enjoy the grounds! ### Poetry in Motion URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/poetry-in-motion/ Last updated: 2023-10-07T12:00:00.000Z I tried for poetry in motion and really entertained the notion alas I didn't get too far as lately I commute by car ### Morning in America URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/morning-in-america/ Last updated: 2023-10-06T12:00:00.000Z I know it's morning somewhere, but can't find it. The sun appears to want to stay in bed, and seeks out every cloud, then hides behind it. Obedient, the leaden shadows spread. Wake up, I tell the sun, and do your duty! Inflame the skies in oranges and blues and let me see the world in all its beauty, let colors strut and demonstrate their hues. For all the good it does. I get no answer, as everything around me turns to greys, and fear invades and spreads, a deadly cancer. Can it be gone forever? Will its rays return to bathe us in its holy light? I flip the tv on. The screen is bright. ### Mother of Invention URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mother-of-invention/ Last updated: 2023-10-05T12:00:00.000Z Discovery the mother of Invention. The father, as is all too common, absent. Dismissive of both custom and convention, with help from an occasional relaxant, she reared Invention wholly on her own, though on occasion did bring home a sailor. Perhaps it was in trying to atone for any moral injury or failure, that she did overcompensate, or maybe, Invention, growing up, as daughters do, thought: I won't be like you, but now brings baby to mommy, adding sweetly, looks like you! And soon enough, she'll realize, at last. The future always borrows from the past. ### Politician URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/politician/ Last updated: 2023-10-04T12:00:00.000Z Pretend to care. It's really not that hard. You might even squeeze out a tear or two. Show real concern, fist placed above the heart, and practice every day, make sure you do. It's not for you? Then how about some rage. That's easier -- the place has gone to shit, and anger might be simpler to engage. Just short of a full apoplectic fit. No, not that either? Oh, you want the middle!? But that is, frankly, such a loser's game. For one, its true location is a riddle, lacks passion or conviction. Don't be lame. Pick love or anger. Masters can do both. See, there you go. You're ready for your oath. ### Comment Contest URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/comment-contest/ Last updated: 2023-10-03T12:00:00.000Z I ask my friends: please tell it like it isn't. Those who pretend that telling like it is deserves some sort of prize - escape the prison of notional sincerity, and please, lie through your teeth, go on and stroke my ego, assure me that I'm great beyond belief; remember we're simpatico, amigo, no need to be succinct, laconic, brief! Remember, it is nothing if not karma and surely I'll reciprocate in kind. We'll wear each others' praise like shields, like armor, ignoring any criticisms we mind. When asked: what do you do, say I'm a poet, and stick to it. They'll nod as if they know it. ### For Every Pot URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/for-every-pot/ Last updated: 2023-09-30T12:00:00.000Z Peculiar, Unusual and Weird had trouble making friends, as you'd expect. A consequence of how they had been reared? It's hard to ascertain cause and effect, but lonely, that they were, and so to grapple, they sought to meet with others of their kind -- cause strange as you may be, the urge to couple is rarely out of sight or out of mind. And the result? They've found they're not alone. found company to wallow in their oddness, for each and every one of us is prone to fall for that terrific brand of madness that we call love. And so, do not despair. Love lives within you. And there's love out there. ### On the Block URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/on-the-block/ Last updated: 2023-09-27T12:00:00.000Z I write, and so my audience is massive. I oftentimes refer to it as flock, although in fairness it is rather passive, and suffers from a case of reader's block. As each sincere and breathless composition gets added to my swelling repertoire I'm struck by certain doubt and indecision: is this the best one yet? At least so far? One must continue growing as an artist, if not in stature then in length and width, perhaps neither the cleverest nor smartest, but surely worth to spend a moment with, a moment that the reader won't regret. A cure for reader's block? I'll find one yet. ### Modern Goodbyes URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/modern-goodbyes/ Last updated: 2023-09-26T12:00:00.000Z time was, a goodbye looked best in Times New Roman now glows in the dark --- **Author notes:** image from shutterstock.com ### Sweet Nothings URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sweet-nothings/ Last updated: 2023-09-24T12:00:00.000Z Revenge debated Love. Claimed she was sweeter: "You loved and never lost. Boohoo", she said. Not known for backing down, Love worked to beat her: "You're sweetest when your enemies are dead, but what then of the living, of the journey? That's surely more of an acquired taste, and best served cold" -- she was a great attorney, Revenge, though, knowing well that haste makes waste, fell silent as Love spoke with heat and passion, while dwelling on each injury and hurt, and thinking: balanced meals might be the fashion, but I would rather order just dessert. Love might be sweet enough to win your favors. Revenge for those who favor stronger flavors. ### Philosopher's Stone URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/philosophers-stone/ Last updated: 2023-09-22T12:00:00.000Z I've always wanted to establish what one would call a School of Thought. To write, to influence, to publish. "You read it yet? By god, you ought!" I'd count Confucius as a student, trade candid insults with Voltaire. Rousseau would call me harsh, but prudent, and mutter "extra-ordinaire". I'd love debating Marx and Engels over an opiate or two. They haven't thought through all the angles: there's no utopia in you. I'd rise above the ceaseless chatter and will be listened to, by choice, and count, in all the ways that matter. Unfortunately, lost my voice. ### [ there is no you ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/there-is-no-you/ Last updated: 2023-09-22T12:00:00.000Z there is no you in utopia ### Cut URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/cut/ Last updated: 2023-09-19T12:00:00.000Z Rewind, play back. Unlike our real lives, the movie can be analyzed, digested, and even be remade. The plot survives, now audience rebalanced and retested. Rewind, play back. No good? Redo the take. The movie struggles to achieve perfection, but then again it knows just what's at stake, while you are flailing, searching for direction. If only you could script your real life, predictable in all the ways that matter, as witty as a newly sharpened knife that guts the kill without stain or splatter. And then, whether attacking or attacked, you'd always know the right way to react. ### The Graduate URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-graduate/ Last updated: 2023-09-16T12:00:00.000Z As school year starts, you'll hear these lamentations: the graduates are too obsessed with looks, are clueless of the history of nations, and cannot even balance their own books. Let's dwell, if for a minute, on the latter: I may be speaking strictly for myself, but when it comes to books, the ones that matter, display them, in their glory, on the shelf. Some might even achieve the coffee table, to demonstrate my interests and cares. I'll surely skim through those when I am able, my friends assure me they have read through theirs. But balance them? Oh, I support the struggle! I'm good at judging, but I cannot juggle. ### Since the Dark Ages URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/since-the-dark-ages/ Last updated: 2023-09-14T12:00:00.000Z E'er since the ages some consider dark, when Guttenberg invented his old press, (as big as GPT, no more, no less, and certainly has left a bigger mark) in letters on white pulp, the contrast stark, the poets serenade, and some confess, describing thoughts and feelings they repress (it's sometimes hard to trace the story's arc). And some of course manipulate, deceive, or angle for a buck, however quick, so long as the result is worth the trick, they know there's someone willing to believe. Sure, much of what is written' s truly tragic. But on occasion, the results are magic. ### Making Memories URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/making-memories/ Last updated: 2023-09-13T12:00:00.000Z They say: eschew material possessions, it's better to make memories instead. Let go of your compulsions and obsessions. All worthless, in the end, you're just as dead. Providers of these sage recommendations, grown wealthy on the strength of their success, pontificate at length: avoid temptations, a simple life will modulate your stress. To tell the truth, consider me a skeptic. Advice to be content with what you've got, conveniently bland and antiseptic, it strikes me though, there's something they forgot: The bestest kinds of memories you want are those when others fawn on what you flaunt. ### What About Them Apples URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/what-about-them-apples/ Last updated: 2023-09-11T12:00:00.000Z Comparing oranges to apples -- itself a common enough trait -- made even more so when one grapples with being shown they aren't great. But what about -- the ego hollers -- and be they lay, or be they scholars -- but what about this other thing, for surely it'll reduce the sting? That said, the ego rests securely, since in its choice of universe it's clear that things could have been worse, no need to worry, prematurely. Drown out the noise, achieve your Zen, secure that you are great, again. ### Wretched Planet URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/wretched-planet/ Last updated: 2023-09-09T12:00:00.000Z So, wretched planet, what is your demand? It seems, at last, we've gotten your attention. As numerous as all the grains of sand was our god's promise, but he didn't mention that we would be like locust on the land, and while we focused on our own ascension -- by all accounts, it's going to be grand -- and celebrated every new invention, we severed our connections, strand by strand. So, wretched planet, what is your demand? ### Truck Stop URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/truck-stop/ Last updated: 2023-09-07T12:00:00.000Z Ugh, coffee's bad, an aftertaste that lingers. The powdered creamer tries its very best but cannot overcome. Arthritic fingers will nonetheless obey the mind's behest and stir the cup reflexively, like so then dump the plastic stirrer in the trash. Too early to wake up, too late to go, you frisk the wallet for forgotten cash. None to be found, she took it all, of course, though mercifully, not the credit cards. No whiskey left to drown any remorse, the cleaning crew will settle for regards. A thousand miles to go, best not be late. Your phone chimes in: avoid the interstate. ### Reunion URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/reunion/ Last updated: 2023-09-03T12:00:00.000Z they called them trinity, puzzle and mystery living their life on the road between bars time comes when mystery turns into history then into farce but the jokes are too sparse --- **Author notes:** image from tumblr.com ### Mnemonic URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mnemonic/ Last updated: 2023-09-02T12:00:00.000Z Ambition once decided to announce that it no longer wanted wealth or power. Greed seconded, demanding not an ounce beyond what it was due. Before the hour was struck the others followed, each in turn denouncing this or that, and filled with passion, renounce, reject, repudiate and spurn their nature's calling. Soon, it's all the fashion: Fear dares to dare, and Anger starts to cool, Ambivalence makes hard and fast decisions, while Ignorance, excited, goes to school, and learns about our pluses and divisions. Unfortunately, it all came to naught. Perfection quit, and History forgot. ### Vermont URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/vermont/ Last updated: 2023-09-02T12:00:00.000Z Embarrassed that they'll soon be standing naked, so jealous of the evergreening pines -- and honestly, it's so unfair, can't take it -- deciduous leaf bearers of all kinds blush helplessly. They're showing their true colors, refusing to resign themselves to fate. Exasperated, lonely warbler hollers, the sunburned foliage hides his chosen mate. Mosquitos swarm, daredevil aerobatics, their bites will make the deerskin hard as bark. The warblers, unimpressed by these dramatics, zoom through the swarm, each picking out a mark. Our bachelor attempts one final call, but time runs out as autumn comes for all. ### Sum of All Our Parts URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sum-of-all-our-parts/ Last updated: 2023-09-01T12:00:00.000Z Ambition once attempted to announce that in no longer wanted wealth or power. Greed seconded, demanding not an ounce beyond what it was due. Before the hour was struck the others followed, each in turn denouncing this or that, but with it, purpose, and as they idled, trying to discern if there was any there beneath their surface discovered that indeed they play a role in separating us from one another but at the same time, each does make us whole, distinguishable, close, but not our brother. The sum of all our parts, good, bad and ugly, we're nonetheless ourselves, and fitted snugly. ### Camera Obscura URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/camera-obscura/ Last updated: 2023-08-27T12:00:00.000Z Got me a camera obscura, and at a reasonable price. Resulting images are purer. To penetrate any disguise I simply point and click the shutter: the photo, absent any clutter, displays on an adjacent screen, not of what is, but should have been. If only life could be that simple we'd capture it without regret. No need to double check or vet; replace the pimple with a dimple. If not the fairest, at least fair. And yeah, a thicker head of hair. ### Time Flies URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/time-flies/ Last updated: 2023-08-27T12:00:00.000Z time flies when I am having fun each takeoff and each landing and when I cannot find me none my efforts notwithstanding I might just time an errant bee it really doesn't matter is it to be, or not to be let's see, here come the swatter ### Visotsky Translation: Trouble and Grief URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/visotsky-translation-trouble-and-grief/ Last updated: 2023-08-26T12:00:00.000Z grief and trouble carried with spring ice buckling underneath soul quick falling through the crack, through the firmament falling like a heavy rock trouble is that grief got stuck grabbed the edges of the ice, became permanent now it follows me around to wherever I am found gossip with it, and ill will, rumor peddling that I didn't die but live knew the land with naught to give well and maybe the odd quails, with their meddling which of them told him the truth him the master of my youth but they gave my secret up, with their bantering and unable to resist he pursued me through the mist grief and gossip rode nearby, horses cantering he caught up, and having found hugged me, lifted, spun around alongside him, in the saddle, grief chuckling said he really couldn't stay all we had was that one day grief remained though to the end, it is suckling ### Visotsky: Trouble and Grief, loose translation URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/visotsky-trouble-and-grief-loose-translation/ Last updated: 2023-08-26T12:00:00.000Z grief and trouble carried with spring ice buckling underneath then collapsed, my soul lost grip, sinking suddenly falling like a heavy rock my misfortunes, hanging back grabbed the edges of the ice, glumly, sullenly now they follow me around to wherever I am bound gossip with them, and ill will, rumor peddling that I didn't die but live knew the land with naught to give well and maybe the odd quails, with their meddling which of them told him the truth him the master of my youth but they gave my secret up, with their bantering and unable to resist he pursued me through the mist my misfortunes rode nearby, horses cantering he caught up, and having found hugged me, lifted, spun around trouble rode with him, and grief, they're a trinity but he really couldn't stay all we had was that one day grief and trouble though remained, to infinity --- **Author notes:** https://youtu.be/pfMKLuUy7cI?si=XwnSsA0UrHMV-kXa ### Night Light URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/night-light/ Last updated: 2023-08-24T12:00:00.000Z shadows gathered by the light and as none of them too bright argued over width and girth even length for what it's worth one, a shadow of a doubt didn't know what it's about but insisted if it's width it is only by the teeth and another, somewhat dim though a mainstay at the gym demonstrating inner strength waxed poetic and at length but to settle the debate which went on till far too late and to figure which was which someone came, and flipped the switch --- **Author notes:** image by GPT ### Dust to Dust URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dust-to-dust/ Last updated: 2023-08-22T12:00:00.000Z a cloud of dust ignites: creation soon planets settle in their stations new worlds await a mind that reasons questions the meaning of the seasons and ponders why it must exist before returning to the mist --- **Author notes:** image from 123rf.com ### Master of None URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/master-of-none/ Last updated: 2023-08-22T12:00:00.000Z what if life reversed the tables every vestige that enables you to feel that you're in charge you're the master, written large would it bother, would it sting when the bird demands you sing? --- **Author notes:** image from 123rf.com ### Of Mites And Plans URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/of-mites-and-plans/ Last updated: 2023-08-21T12:00:00.000Z when mice and men are long since gone and roaches plan them having won will roaches worry about mites in worthwhile stories something bites ### Dancing with Narcissus URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dancing-with-narcissus/ Last updated: 2023-08-20T12:00:00.000Z listen, dear friend, as I sing you a waltz I once met a man lacking failings or faults as perfect he was, as fresh dew on a leaf and no, I can't say our encounter was brief for the man, as he was, can I say it much clearer is staring at me when I look at the mirror ### The Chessboard URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-chessboard/ Last updated: 2023-08-20T12:00:00.000Z imagine yourself as a piece on a board can't make any moves, not of your own accord no, every decision dictated above a hand that descends, lacking mitten or glove and grabs you in fingers still covered in grease so unceremonious, no thanks or please just moves you wherever, and says, stay right here and you, just a pawn, have the whole world to fear but opposite you there are bishops and kings they think that it's them that are pulling the strings but really for all of us, it's just that hand and we, like all pawns, struggle to understand ### Weathervane URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/weathervane/ Last updated: 2023-08-20T12:00:00.000Z fireflies are for Julys, locusts are for Augusts legacies of mostly wise Romans in their togas when the calendar relents into colder seasons do beware the Ides of March, Senate had its reasons ### Recipies For Disaster URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/recipies-for-disaster/ Last updated: 2023-08-19T12:00:00.000Z a sonnet a day keeps the doctor away the doctor preferring free verse so I've taken to writing them into the night and so far no reactions, adverse maybe site of injection, so after reflection I might need to choose a new form let me try this for size, try appear to be wise it was dark outside, there was a storm ### Last in Line URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/last-in-line/ Last updated: 2023-08-19T12:00:00.000Z hope heard some say that she dies last long after all is lost, when all that's best is in the past and all that's needed most is gone, forgotten, suds of soap all you can do is grieve she's heard it all, but being hope continues to believe ### heavy URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/heavy/ Last updated: 2023-08-18T12:00:00.000Z I know I have a way with words but rarely stop to weigh them in search of medals and awards got nowhere to display them of late though, they have lost some weight it might be something that I ate ### doggerick URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/doggerick/ Last updated: 2023-08-18T12:00:00.000Z when a dog has its day, does it know does it care if it's win, place or show no, its day is complete when you give it a treat and you ask it to give you its paw ### Participation Trophy URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/participation-trophy/ Last updated: 2023-08-17T12:00:00.000Z Your wrinkles, trophy for participation. The age spots measure trips around the sun. The line you have to stand in at the station reminding you that you are not the one. No first class seats for you, no shiny medals. As plain and ordinary as can be. You're not the one that wins, you're one that settles There's nothing to admire, naught to see. And yet a part of you still keeps on dreaming a hopeful, foolish child that trusts, believes, convinced you've something special and redeeming, though fate, so stubborn, hides it up her sleeves. This inner angst, your shrink makes a suggestion, is likely just a bit of indigestion. ### Before the Beginning URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/before-the-beginning/ Last updated: 2023-08-17T12:00:00.000Z The multiverse, a flexible contraption, so God's inclined to let it do its thing, explore the most impractical of options and strum each strange and quirky cosmic string. There's one where Eve refused to bite the apple, no matter the reward or provocation; makes Satan and the angels try and grapple with each divine, immaculate gestation. If there's no bite -- is there no good or evil, cognition a prerequisite of sorts, or are these forces integral, primeval predating Hell and Heaven and their courts? As Eve and Adam frolic without sin, their world awaits its signal to begin. ### Word Bank URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/word-bank/ Last updated: 2023-08-16T12:00:00.000Z Some days you'd trade a kingdom for a horse. But mostly, you would rather take the kingdom, and work to be the subject of a course on how to pick your battles and to win them. Some days proceed exactly as you like, but many are a comedy of errors, and worst are those determined but to strike your clenching heart with undiscovered terrors. Some days it feels that love is labor lost, a night's dream, nothing more, a passing pleasure, and others find you paying any cost, refusing any boundary or measure. Most commonly, your days are much ado, and all is well that ends well. Good for you. ### Dog's Breath URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/dogs-breath/ Last updated: 2023-08-16T12:00:00.000Z The panting dogs of summer off their leash and roam the Earth from middle spring to autumn. Parched tree coronas painting a pastiche of hungry flames. Leaves falling to the bottom, then offer kindling to the raging fire, the forests merely husks of former glory, a fire that consumes the world, entire, an ashen end to mankind's sorry story. As Sirius retires to his kennel and licks his scarred and bloodied, mangy paws, does he imagine Earth when it was gentle the planet as it could be, never was? Anthropocene, as we now rate an epoch. Anticipate our failure to be epic. ### Social Scientist URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/social-scientist/ Last updated: 2023-08-15T12:00:00.000Z Apparently, two wrongs don't make a right. Arithmetic is hardly my dominion, but having seen how right is made with might, inclined to think it merely an opinion and not a fundamental, rigid law, a rule that doesn't tolerate exception, or axiom from which conclusions flow, enhancing understanding and perception. Exasperated, I'm in search of proof, refuse to be accused of dereliction, but bound by duty to remain aloof in separating tested fact from fiction. Results are coming in, it won't take long. Unless, of course, I'm doing something wrong. ### Sing, Little Bird URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/sing-little-bird/ Last updated: 2023-08-10T12:00:00.000Z reason is the harshest prison trapped by maybes and what ifs day is rarely for the seizin' wisdom, precious of all gifts will seek comfort over freedom caged birds sing because you feed 'em --- **Author notes:** image from shutterstock.com ### Marionettes URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/marionettes/ Last updated: 2023-08-08T12:00:00.000Z Conspiracists that graduate to practice -- mere theories no longer all the rage, and further, insufficient to distract us. By practicing, they manage to engage. Bear witness to the recent UFO news. The Pentagon, and hearings on the Hill. Aways from big ole' Bigfoot with his snowshoes, or choosing the right color for your pill. What is this urgent need for hidden meaning, for proving that there is a puppeteer dictating ways in which each leaf is leaning and nobody and nothing is sincere? The one and only "truth" of which we're certain: there is indeed a man behind the curtain. ### Clay Tablets URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/clay-tablets/ Last updated: 2023-08-07T12:00:00.000Z A rendering of Hammurabi's Law. Cuneiforms etched onto pliant clay, the stylus having marked them with its claw. A manual for those who go astray, and those who, come what may, bring them to justice. Our oldest penal code, eye for an eye. The ancient king first codified the practice of never letting any bygones by, but surely wasn't first in application. No, that must go way back, before the flood. Before our tribe had use for rank or station, we knew that blood must always answer blood. Is it a wonder, then, that for our kind it is the blind that tend to lead the blind? ### [ nothing as filling ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/nothing-as-filling/ Last updated: 2023-08-06T12:00:00.000Z nothing as filling as alphabet soup poured from a pencil --- **Author notes:** image from thewriter.com ### First Draft URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/first-draft/ Last updated: 2023-08-02T12:00:00.000Z Quill dipped in ink, what's it to be? A tale of star crossed lovers? A windswept isle, a stormy sea, a general that discovers his cheating wife, but it's a plot? To be -- he writes -- to be or not. --- **Author notes:** image from thenewyorker.com ### Every Rose URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/every-rose/ Last updated: 2023-07-31T12:00:00.000Z Day after day, she knots the flowers. If it were only in her powers, she'd grant each wish and each desire, but as it is, works without tire, sends them for those who love, or mourn. She knows no rose without a thorn. --- **Author notes:** Image from beaudryflowers.ca ### Passing Grade URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/passing-grade/ Last updated: 2023-07-31T12:00:00.000Z The unexamined life is not worth living, as Socrates quite famously proclaimed. So though the years have been less than forgiving, decided to examine it, reframed. "But wait!", I hear, "It's surely way too early. You're barely past the midpoint, as it were, and neither too irascible nor surly. You'd better wait until there's a there, there." As to the surly, I would beg to differ, though I do try to nip it at the source. My joints ache when it rains, and plenty stiffer than back when Socrates was just a course. That Socrates, I am a huge supporter. Examined it. Appears to be in order. ### Roots and Tubers URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/roots-and-tubers/ Last updated: 2023-07-30T12:00:00.000Z I came across some root of all that's evil, unfortunately, not of all that's good. A root like any other. Its retrieval was easier than could have been, or should. Replanted it, remembering to water. Got ready to collect my dividends, but nothing grew: no, not even a quarter. No means to help effectuate my ends. Perhaps my ends are morally uncertain, not evil in the strict sense of the word? I've tried to ask the man behind the curtain and listening to every little bird... Reviewed life's lessons past the birds and bees. Turns out that money doesn't grow on trees. ### Above the Waters URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/above-the-waters/ Last updated: 2023-07-29T12:00:00.000Z orange haze above the waters sun gets ready for its bath ocean sends its faithful daughters wave by wave towards the path men had left here, long ago and the sky observes, aglow ### Primeval URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/primeval/ Last updated: 2023-07-24T12:00:00.000Z these truths are primeval: first, lunch isn't free the root of all evil won't grow on a tree the funniest stories those too will get old but it won't shut up those that say silence is gold ### [ if money is the root of all evil ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/if-money-is-the-root-of-all-evil/ Last updated: 2023-07-23T12:00:00.000Z if money is the root of all evil why doesn't it grow on trees ### Square Pegs URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/square-pegs/ Last updated: 2023-07-18T12:00:00.000Z The Devil said: "It's time for a parade. Arrange the sinners into neat platoons, according to the order Dante made, and march them to the sound of martial tunes." Beelzebub objected: "Foulness, please! You know we simply cannot square a circle, it is a rule of angles and degreesss..." Trailed off with an apologetic gurgle. "Get Euclid and Pythagoras to work", his boss demanded, willing him to silence, "or you will get demoted back to clerk. Don't bore me with your can't be dones and science." Beelzebub complied, but though he's fly, has failed to overcome the humble Pi. ### Thoughts of Anna URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/thoughts-of-anna/ Last updated: 2023-07-18T12:00:00.000Z Unhappy couples, each in their own way -- as Tolstoy said in his immortal book -- should I feel guilty, or be thankful, pray? Avert my eyes, be trying not to look? We do not, no, we cannot understand. Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy. For those of us who're dealt a better hand, a nagging question: can't they just be happy? Is there some special secret to the task? No shortage of advisors and well wishers. You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask, and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures. The answer I subscribe to and espouse: We know, deep down, the day we make our vows. ### Common Sense and Sensibilities URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/common-sense-and-sensibilities/ Last updated: 2023-07-15T12:00:00.000Z A fairytale, its moral loud and clear, attempted to regain a little balance. Why even try? That's neither there nor here. Since subtlety was not among its talents, it set about the task with grim resolve, determined to convert reluctant readers, convinced their understanding will evolve: what better way to groom those future leaders! It soon discovered it is not alone, as all the other fairytales endeavor to expiate, aby, and to atone in ways some call unnatural, some clever. Do they succeed in their desired missions? Beyond compare, can't find the old editions. ### Old Proverbs URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/old-proverbs/ Last updated: 2023-07-15T12:00:00.000Z Redid my house and boarded up the windows. The flat, brand new TVs will do the trick. As to the walls, although I'm trapped within those, repainted in the latest style and chic. The grass outside gets cut, his name is Jorge. Deliveries for toiletries and stuff. My food, as if by magic, to the doorway. That pizza, I can never get enough. Grown tired of the constant admonition. The wisdom of the ages leaves me dry. I swore, indeed I've made it my life's mission, to argue, to resist and to defy. So yes, I sit and brood here, all alone. Glass windows boarded up, I throw a stone. ### [ in geometry ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-geometry/ Last updated: 2023-07-14T12:00:00.000Z in geometry parallel lines cannot meet without perspective ### Your Star URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/your-star/ Last updated: 2023-07-14T12:00:00.000Z some are changing, set to morph to a brown or yellow dwarf some are nova, some are giant bending gravity, defiant they are far, so very far but each one wants to be your star ### Children of Mages URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/children-of-mages/ Last updated: 2023-07-13T12:00:00.000Z "Hey honey, it's your turn to change the baby." Indignant, I respond: "Change into what? A dragon or an elf? A mermaid, maybe? Can't change her to a princess, she's all that." I know, of course, the answer to my question. The diaper on the princess a bit full. Unless in an extraordinary session, we each must take a turn, that is the rule. You'd think the rules of magic would permit it. A snap of fingers and the diaper's changed. To pamper it, to clean it or to feed it, a spell that seems so easily arranged... Up in her crib, the baby starts to squeal reminding me that magic can be real. ### Masquerade URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/masquerade/ Last updated: 2023-07-10T12:00:00.000Z evening gown, pompadour and the mask, a nice touch leaves you begging for more best not want it too much and her eyes say it all she's the belle of the ball --- **Author notes:** image from poetrypoppoetryblog.com ### Evening Rain URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/evening-rain/ Last updated: 2023-07-09T12:00:00.000Z wet concrete beneath my feet street's a dirty mirror the reflections, incomplete although getting clearer as the streetlamps flicker on and the day admits it's done --- **Author notes:** image from nextcity.com ### Still Looking URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/still-looking/ Last updated: 2023-07-06T12:00:00.000Z I first misplaced myself in college, (this happens to the best of us). Was it a lack of carnal knowledge? Perhaps, but like the rest of us, I suffered through my English major. My friends would party, drink and wager, but I did study, study hard, while planning to become a bard. Then daddy said: "get a profession", and added: "no one wants to write, but to have written." He was right, and so when faced with this confession, I put my barding on a shelf, and ever since, look for myself. ### [ the rhyming haiku ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-rhyming-haiku/ Last updated: 2023-07-05T12:00:00.000Z the rhyming haiku for those having not a clue between me and you ### Phys Ed URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/phys-ed/ Last updated: 2023-07-03T12:00:00.000Z "Your situational awareness", said my exasperated coach, "it truly sucks, although in fairness, the effort is beyond reproach." No, it was not these words exactly, but said just so, matter-of-factly, and added, just as even keeled: "why don't you try for track and field?" Track didn't serve me any better, and tennis wouldn't do at all, since all I did was drop the ball. though when at last put on a sweater, found out that skiing fit the bill and ever since, it's been downhill. ### Remember Zion URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/remember-zion/ Last updated: 2023-07-02T12:00:00.000Z If Hollywood is Babylon then where, pray tell, is Eden? Where parties rage from dusk to dawn, the place to do the deed in is surely by the famous sign, lit up by movie lights. I'll bring the coke, you bring the wine; for Hollywood, the nights are as important as the days, in some ways, even more. When morning comes and parts our ways, we surely know the score. No soul to sell, we pay the price. A perfect slice of paradise. ### Born on the Third of July URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/born-on-the-third-of-july/ Last updated: 2023-07-01T12:00:00.000Z I'm told I almost made it to the Fourth. At night, though not last night, well past eleven, and far away from Washington's true north, both mom and baby fine, weighed in at seven. But Fourth is when I choose to celebrate the orbits that I've made around the sun, although of late these do accelerate, and turning over having just begun appear to fade into a kind of haze. The fireworks a colourful distraction. Each New Year's and each Fourth. Those special days, competing as they do to round the fraction, until at last, they'll settle on the whole. And someone will proclaim: yes, that was all. ### [ a world of difference ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-world-of-difference/ Last updated: 2023-06-30T12:00:00.000Z a world of difference between "loose change" and "lose. change" but just one oh. ### [ to serve the people ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/to-serve-the-people/ Last updated: 2023-06-29T12:00:00.000Z to serve the people every politician's dream neatly, on a plate ### Yesterday's Roses URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/yesterdays-roses/ Last updated: 2023-06-29T12:00:00.000Z nothing says I loved you like yesterday's roses --- **Author notes:** image from dreamstime.com ### Foodie URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/foodie/ Last updated: 2023-06-28T12:00:00.000Z Confession: I am somewhat of a foodie. So when I'm served a steak, or rack of lamb, my gut reaction isn't "goodie, goodie". Instead I post a pic on Instagram. It's then I put to use my English Major, (assisted, as it is, by GPT) "This hen", I caption, "never met a cager, and I would wager you can taste the free." Of late, though, I've been forced to post more veggies, as veganism has gotten so in vogue. Competing with young models in their wedgies I find that one can never be too woke. My wholesome salads are my alibis. Now off to Mickey D's. I love the fries. ### Peregrine Dream URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/peregrine-dream/ Last updated: 2023-06-28T12:00:00.000Z a peregrine dream on the surface would seem to be of a bird in the sky but shifting to Latin -- to bolster and fatten the vocab I use to get by will hint at my travel on dirt roads and gravel a voyage not yet at an end so yes, peregrine here and there, in between and that is my story, dear friend ### Ladies and Gentlemen URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/ladies-and-gentlemen/ Last updated: 2023-06-24T12:00:00.000Z Come, mortal, come and get your ticket to watch a brawl between two gods. Though both are equally as wicked Las Vegas will be giving odds. Up on the right, he's mastered thunder and dreams of asteroids to plunder, and on the left, he knows your pain and uses it to make a gain. Will one prevail? Since neither titan would care to settle for a draw the match is likely to be raw, until the loser goes down fighting, resisting to the bitter end. Yes, that's the ticket. Tell a friend. --- **Author notes:** https://www.outkick.com/elon-musk-challenges-mark-zuckerberg-to-cage-fight/ ### Float the Boat URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/float-the-boat/ Last updated: 2023-06-24T12:00:00.000Z "A pair of each, until the ark is full. But skip the dinos, they are too much bother." And so he did. The rest of us, to rule, continued fighting, brother against brother. The water, though, it kept on rising, rising, providing, as it did, a kind of thrill. While Noah searched for peace on the horizon, we battled for a kingdom on the hill. At last the deluge stopped, the waves receded. The earth, though soaked, allowed us on the plains. We celebrated: see, no ark was needed! and marveled at the dinosaur remains. Now, once again, the ocean grows, encroaches. Perhaps this time we will get on, as roaches. ### Summer Solstice URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/summer-solstice/ Last updated: 2023-06-22T12:00:00.000Z What does it mean to me, the longest day? Another minute basking in the sun. A bit more time to master what to say, a chance to finish more of what needs done. Split second, and the hourglass is flipped. The deities resume their ancient match, their victories impermanent -- the script does not allow it, so they start from scratch. The night absorbs the few remaining embers proclaiming, as they do, their last hurrahs, but it is not concerned. No, it remembers that this is no defeat, no coup de grace. The summer is succeeded by the fall. And in the end, it's night that conquers all. ### Morality Play URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/morality-play/ Last updated: 2023-06-21T12:00:00.000Z For those of us the Devil gets to troll -- by random chance or evil circumstance -- resisting the temptation to just fall, the Devil, meanwhile, sparing no expense: He takes a wife, a child, a house, a job, as if it is a game, some sort of bet: "can this guy take it? Oh, look at him sob... I haven't done my worst. At least not yet." What evil twist of logic leads to this? To teaching that acceptance is the key. "Maintain the faith, and wait for future bliss, His ways are too mysterious for thee". Take a deep breath and meditate. Exhale. At least you're neither Jonah nor the whale. ### Night Mare URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/night-mare/ Last updated: 2023-06-20T12:00:00.000Z A sudden start: I'm on a moonlit plain, up to my waist in gently swaying grass. The air is warm and wet, it smells like rain. The sky's up close, a magnifying glass. A rolling thunder turns into a mare, dark, living shadow, eyes like orange embers, her nostrils glow and sparkle as they flare. I take a step towards her. She remembers and lets me get up close. That's right, she knows, we do not need to labor or pretend. Her hot breath on my face, we're nose to nose. An enemy so old, she's like a friend. Well, shall we ride again, just you and I? The stars wink out and darkness fills the sky. ### Do Tell URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/do-tell/ Last updated: 2023-06-19T12:00:00.000Z Implored, and more than once, to show, not tell, I nonetheless avoid all ASCII art, preferring both to punctuate and spell, and pry unruly paragraphs apart. I struggle, still, with this unbidden rule. Since pictures may be worth their weight in gold, the alphabet, once man's most trusted tool -- has fallen out of favor, gotten old. Is there some tongue in cheek to my response? Hope I've not bitten more than I can chew, and this -- though no Petrarchan Renaissance -- is where the couplet bids to say adieu. Treat "show, don't tell" as something short of scripture, though everything you write should paint a picture. ### Tales From The Script URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/tales-from-the-script/ Last updated: 2023-06-18T12:00:00.000Z I'd rather not, but here it is, the story of my life. It started, like most stories do, when I first met my wife. I was quite young in ways of men, I think at most eighteen. But there we were, out on a date, turns out though, in between, another date she had before, and one that she had later. Since we're together to this day, I must have been the greater. Well, there she was and I'm like wow, not typically poetic. My jokes are dumb, my tongue is numb, as if on anesthetic. You want to see a movie, I did manage in the end. She said ok let's do it, if it's cool I'll bring a friend. Not sure how good a move it was, I didn't have a prayer. Turns out the friend -- and, the next date -- was quite a hockey player. The movie, it was Death Wish Three. I REALLY like the franchise. And afterwards, a Burger King, a Whopper and some french-fries. In short, you'd think there was no hope, yes, there was none, indeed. If you were me, what would you do, and how would you proceed? That story for another day, I'm hoping you'll stay with me. But not today, as this here tale, is suitable for Disney. ### [ when the truth sets you free ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/when-the-truth-sets-you-free/ Last updated: 2023-06-17T12:00:00.000Z when the truth sets you free who is going to pay for lunch ### Clap Clap URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/clap-clap/ Last updated: 2023-06-17T12:00:00.000Z When God finally tires of creation will we receive a message in the sky? Apocalyptic sign, a short citation, or maybe it will be a "buh buh, bye"? The Horsemen reappear, like once an hour, and Gabriel, did he misplace his horn? God must be entertained, up in his tower, our misery is like a kind of porn. Answers abound, in prophecies and studies. There's even been a calendar or two, and plenty of opinions, my buddies, well, some at least, claim they know what to do. Noble beginnings, and ignoble ends. Perhaps it will just be a show of hands. ### On the Wall URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/on-the-wall/ Last updated: 2023-06-16T12:00:00.000Z My mirror tires of reflection: why can't I be like the TV? Use the remote, make your selection. There are so many yous to see. The you before there was an after, or back when after was a thought. Back when to love "remember laughter" meant that you haven't -- yet -- been bought. The you not wrecked by indecision, nor rattled by a simple choice. With better, clearer, purer vision and steadier, much stronger voice. They may be closer -- oh, so near! -- the mirror says, than they appear. ### The Snow Queen URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-snow-queen/ Last updated: 2023-06-16T12:00:00.000Z Come, winter snow queen, decorate my window with delicately crystalline designs. Invite me to your kingdom, where the winds blow. I'll trace and search your messages for signs of castles in the ice and frozen roses, and fairy tales where hearts thaw out at last, and rosy colored cheeks, and reddish noses, a dire wolf to help complete the cast. Imprison me in frigid, freezing shackles, the chimney labors, bellowing with smoke. Come join me by the fire as it crackles, and sets the room aglow with pine and oak. Check my restraints, till nothing is amiss. And then, I dare you, give me just one kiss. ### A Single Rose URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/a-single-rose/ Last updated: 2023-06-15T12:00:00.000Z a single rose, but songs aplenty the keyboard wants to know them all no, there can never be too many the rose a window to your soul bright, crimson petals brought by spring they want to open up, and sing --- **Author notes:** image from classicfm.com ### Village People URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/village-people/ Last updated: 2023-06-15T12:00:00.000Z I'm sure you've heard this said: it takes a village. Which begs the nascent question: to do what? Too often it's to justify the pillage. Best go secure the stuff that's in your hut. No, no, I'm not a misanthrope, nor really a Darwinist -- just hate to be a pawn. Too easy for the rulers, willy nilly, to help -- though not the village, but their own. And so despite the best of all intentions, I find "to each according to their need" to be among those, worst of Man's inventions, a road to hell as slick as any creed. "If only we could all just get along." Much harder than a slogan, or a song. ### [ if you were a tree ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/if-you-were-a-tree/ Last updated: 2023-06-15T12:00:00.000Z if you were a tree what kind of tree would you be a symmetry --- **Author notes:** image from istock.com ### The Night Beat URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-night-beat/ Last updated: 2023-06-15T12:00:00.000Z night approaches, shadows lengthen but it only serves to strengthen their dedication and resolve and doubts evaporate, dissolve since they know well, it bleeds, it leads get ready for their evil deeds --- **Author notes:** image from betterphotography.com ### Letters From the Editor URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/letters-from-the-editor/ Last updated: 2023-06-14T12:00:00.000Z Unruly subjects argue with their verbs and tenses seek debate and disagree. The sentences run on, but what disturbs the most is that the verses aren't free. Drawn letters do not spring from sculpted fonts. No punctuations barge into the middle of incoherent rambling that wants to masquerade as an enlightened riddle. Vermillion does not describe the sky and nights are neither dark nor warm or stormy. The narrative, there merely to get by, is begging please devour me, adore me. In college you might gather a C+ In short, the work described is not for us. ### Stable Genius URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/stable-genius/ Last updated: 2023-06-14T12:00:00.000Z How often would you need a stable genius? Unless you're breeding horses, not at all, though if you ask the stallions they'll whinny as a way to make a point of protocol. But nonetheless, there's one that is available. More equal than the others on the farm. He's steadfast, resolute and unassailable. And even if he's not, then what's the harm? Of all the weird and wacky ideologies, the cult of personality stands out. In endless whataboutisms, no apologies -- it cannot entertain a shred of doubt. Prepare then to accept -- it is a stable, and get used to manure, that's if you're able. ### Just in Case URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/just-in-case/ Last updated: 2023-06-13T12:00:00.000Z For God, there is no stone too hard to lift -- omnipotence, it brings its own rewards -- but He can make one, it's his special gift. A paradox worth putting into words. They fascinate us so, those paradoxes, and taunt us from the corners of our minds, won't fit into no neatly packaged boxes. A paradox perplexes and reminds that there's a limit to our understanding, a point where reasoning and logic fails, and rigid rules require subtle bending. Yet all the while our logic, fights, assails, demanding that there be a resolution. But just in case, we ask for absolution. ### The Old Ones URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-old-ones/ Last updated: 2023-06-13T12:00:00.000Z Cut into granite, holding bow and arrow "Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair." Whatever else you'd say about this pharaoh, you must admit the fellow had a pair. They stare at us through history, the giants -- can't make them like we used to, we all say -- Their lips still curled in the marquee defiance of those you are expected to obey. And were they wrong? Do we have works to rival? No shortage, in our age, of living gods. We shout and trumpet, herald their arrival, in videos squeezed in between the ads. The Old Ones took it with them in their wisdom. The new ones? Must work harder to appease them. ### Picture in Picture (v2) URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/picture-in-picture-v2/ Last updated: 2023-06-10T12:00:00.000Z Leap off the canvas, will you? Come to me. Embrace me as you would a jealous lover. Protest, claim that you're innocent, and free, that there is nothing, nothing to discover, and I'll believe you, old fool that I am. I long for but a moment in your glory, and persevere, all consequence be damned, to be more than a footnote in this story. Your heartless stare, slight curling of the lip, so captured in your drawing room, idyllic. A grail I dare not touch, no, dare not sip. Defeated, conquered. Tempera and acrylic. If only I could draw you as my own. The paint is drying, and I'm all alone. ### Famous Cousins URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/famous-cousins/ Last updated: 2023-06-10T12:00:00.000Z A rooster's life's much harder than you think. To satisfy his hens in pecking order, and jealously defend his rights and border, the cockerel can hardly grab a blink. Then, of a sudden, news about T-Rex, apparently a cousin on his cock side, (genetic test, with ethylene based oxide), thinks all he needs to do is strut and flex, and feels no need to crow, or call, or hustle, since after all his nature should suffice. He thinks himself the terror of the coop, though truth be told, has more white meat than muscle. That said, the owners thought about it twice but in the end, they wanted chicken soup. ### Medusa URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/medusa/ Last updated: 2023-06-09T12:00:00.000Z her kisses are hisses, she's speaking in tongues our marital bliss is a scream of my lungs her scales on my skin, tattooed by her squeeze her irises tinted with scandalous ease seduced and enslaved, lacking reason or will I cannot be saved, filled with terror and zeal and know of no other, no break or escape no thing I would rather, I worship her shape forbidden desires mix pleasure with pain the ritual fires can't make me abstain each sinuous curve demands my attention I live but to serve -- serve what? I can't mention she draws out her hooks I am chilled to the bone and yet, as she looks I'm, as always, to stone ### [ how often have you ] URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/how-often-have-you/ Last updated: 2023-06-09T12:00:00.000Z how often have you rushed passed the cherry blossoms in fruitless searches --- **Author notes:** image from bostonherald.com ### Picture in Picture URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/picture-in-picture/ Last updated: 2023-06-09T12:00:00.000Z Leap off the canvas -- will you? Come to me. Embrace me in your gentle, loving arms. If only you were as I wish you'd be, more than the sum of innocence and charms, and if you could return a fraction of the feelings that well up, and guide my brush; My folly, the absurd attraction of, the thoughts that even now do make me blush... Why do you look as if you'd rather leave, the corner of your lips a subtle frown, as if you somehow can't even believe that you wound in up in this, my part of town. If only I could draw you as my own. The paint is drying, and I'm all alone. ### And Nothing But URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/and-nothing-but/ Last updated: 2023-06-07T12:00:00.000Z The truth may yet come from the mouth of babes, especially if truth is goo goo gaga, but let us not pretend that truth behaves the way it is portrayed in ancient sagas. "Oh look, babe speaks the truth, is that too cute??", it works so well in fairy tales, the reader might be excused for thinking that she should bring truth and nothing but to fearless leader. An emperor stripped naked by the truth? More likely the truthsayer drawn and quartered, while sycophants work feverishly to sooth. The truth is never what the doctor ordered. In truth we learn the emperor is splendid. Around him, best leave disbelief suspended. ### Just How Many URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/just-how-many/ Last updated: 2023-06-06T12:00:00.000Z debating how many will fit on a pin the boffins consider all angles the sharp, the obtuse, and the rest in between in rooms once lit only by candles but now in the glow of warm, natural lights provided by new LEDs attempt to uncover unearthly delights -- well, somebody has to, and these are certainly issues of utmost import... regretfully, there's nothing new to report ### Nothing Like the Sun URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/nothing-like-the-sun/ Last updated: 2023-06-04T12:00:00.000Z My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun. Dark, brooding wells of ravenous desire; one look and all is lost, too late to run. Too late when she consumes me whole, entire. No, nothing like the sun, more a black hole. and I'm a comet, hopelessly in orbit, to strut my tail and prostitute my soul, in secret hopes the goddess will absorb it. Though like the sun she singes with her stare she's nothing like, no warmness in her lashes, and just as angry when her nostrils flare reducing me to cinder dust and ashes. No, mistress, she is nothing like the sun. The sun's one star of many. She is one. ### Summer Shower URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/summer-shower/ Last updated: 2023-06-03T12:00:00.000Z Umbrellas mushroom as the drizzle accelerates from drip to drop. Splish splash, the raindrops hiss and sizzle, the melting street a cooking top. The air, infused with noxious vapors, expels the acid from its veins, but long before the downpour tapers, debris and flotsam clog the drains. This deluge, can it break my fever? I'm drenched, rain mixing in with sweat. Can water finally deliver relief of any kind? Not yet. The rainbow colors stick together and wait, like me, for better weather. ### Children of Poets URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/children-of-poets/ Last updated: 2023-06-03T12:00:00.000Z "'magination", says my daughter, "easy peasy, just add water". "is that so?", I ask her, "pet, won't you get your noggin wet?" and she giggles, baby's four. "Daad! It's just a metaphor." --- **Author notes:** image from freepik.com ### Forest Alley URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/forest-alley/ Last updated: 2023-06-03T12:00:00.000Z The architect of fertile valleys and rugged mountains raised sky high, presents me with a forest alley, a landscape easy on the eye. Snow glories paint its shallow fences and spill onto its sloping walls. The architect spared no expenses to canopy its vaulted halls. Can you imagine lovers, walking, their fingers tingle at each touch, and on occasion, interlocking, until the hunger is too much, and they fall to the grass below, where heaven bathes them in its glow. ### Incomplete Collection URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/incomplete-collection/ Last updated: 2023-06-03T12:00:00.000Z The other day, Hell searched for woman's fury, but no such luck -- it may have never had it. Appealing to his peers, if not his jury, the Devil then proclaimed: "but we must add it! What are we, if we cannot trap or capture the wrath of even one rejected lady? We must, or else we're furthering the Rapture, go, get me some, be devious and shady." With these instructions, every demon lover set out into the world in search of this most rarified, and hardest to discover, and truth be told, the opposite of bliss. But though they've tried their hardest, tailed and horned, still got no fury like a woman scorned. ### Mirror, Mirror URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mirror-mirror/ Last updated: 2023-06-01T12:00:00.000Z her lustrous hair as smooth as satin she wills her wrinkles: smoothen, flatten and scans her neck and naked shoulder for any sign she's getting older a nagging fear she can't forget and sighs: none visible, as yet --- **Author notes:** image from smithsonianmagazine.com ### Burn URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/burn/ Last updated: 2023-05-31T12:00:00.000Z tears of amber, hair like fire blood red lips, and eyes, desire languish, pine and yearn look at her, and burn ### Mountain Road URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mountain-road/ Last updated: 2023-05-31T12:00:00.000Z Steep mountain road, a dormant, sleeping serpent, lies prone between the stark and jagged cliffs. It slumbers, trapped, but wholly unrepentant, marked only by the pictographs and glyphs that warn the traveler of impending danger, a hairpin or an avalanche, a deer; a set of skidmarks where a careless stranger neglected shifting to a lower gear. Oh, this snake bites, its every curve a warning, but it is far too late, you cannot stop. So you press on, and hope to welcome morning, best viewed when at the very mountaintop. Awash in early light, you feel a chill. From here on out the journey is downhill. ### The Perfect Egg URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/the-perfect-egg/ Last updated: 2023-05-30T12:00:00.000Z for some the sonnet's like a perfect egg three minutes, after that it's overdone. and others struggle mightily and beg for muse and inspiration, for just one. for some the sonnet's much more like an omelet ingredients to cater to the taste add ample salt and pepper, throw in Hamlet, It'd be a shame to let him go to waste for some the sonnet's holy and pristine a pedestal fit only for a giant its subjects for the Met or the Sistine its authors those the devil made a client I meditate at length and dwell upon it for me, there's nothing better than a sonnet ### Adrift URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/adrift-17193555/ Last updated: 2023-05-30T12:00:00.000Z heart with Venus, head with Mars she's adrift among the stars and their ancient, steady glow when she gets there, will she know --- **Author notes:** image from peakpx.com ### Mountain Road URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/mountain-road-17193735/ Last updated: 2023-05-30T12:00:00.000Z mountain road a sleeping serpent prone between the jagged cliffs slumbering but unrepentant every hairpin brings its gifts of sharp, sudden gasps of terror but the wheels obey at last don't you dare commit an error future streams into the past does it ever widen, straighten in the moment, you're not sure but the serpent has awakened and will call you back for more ### In Bloom URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/in-bloom/ Last updated: 2023-05-28T12:00:00.000Z The bloom is off the rose, the petals wither. The thorns, though drying, serve to better prick. Old age, it surely knows, as birthdays slither, that skin becomes more brittle and less thick. Perennial, we lack the flower's power to rise again as seasons take their turn, and dread the sudden striking of the hour, our flower pot to double as an urn. In search of deeper truths and hidden meaning, we put down roots that, tendril like, branch out, and look, in vain, for signs that we are greening, for certainty that shadow is a doubt. The end always the same. Hope some bring flowers. Remembering our Mays, and April's showers. ### On the Nile URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/on-the-nile/ Last updated: 2023-05-28T12:00:00.000Z On the floodplains of the Nile, hippo, crane and crocodile, got together to chat weather, haven't done it in a while. Hippo liked to be the first, if he wasn't he might burst, said his mommy fears the mummy, thinks that all of them been cursed. Following, it was the crane. He remarked that it might rain, and that mummies were for dummies. "if you want, I can explain." Both then turned to crocodile. Crane expected his denial, but the croc, down in the muck, known for his trickery and guile, said the pharaohs feared the narrows, that their chariots and arrows, would be useless in the mud, any curses that they've had, were reserved for desert sand, not for water, but for land, so dear hippo, get a grip, and crane, impressed with your bird brain but please, do take it down a peg. And do you need your other leg? ### Andalusia URL: https://www.hawkword.com/poetry/andalusia/ Last updated: 2023-05-27T12:00:00.000Z Bandana on his forehead, sweat that glistens, reflecting warm but murky candlelight. His face a grimace as he sings and listens, the hands hug a guitar in mournful plight. A sinuous, no, wanton splash of scarlet, she glides onto the stage, dark color lips. She's Carmen, and no caballero's harlot. The castanets are hungry for her hips. Percussion soon shakes loose your tired muscles, exhausted from the day's unguided tour. The galleries, the palaces, the castles. You long to be her gypsy king, her Moor. It's then you realize they are a pair. And know a touch of anguish and despair. _Includes the latest 500 public posts. Use `/sitemap.xml` for the complete archive of public content._