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

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

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

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

Believe it or not -

I gather you do.

I’m fueling, a growing fire

which burns bright
and gold.

Since my shy heart,

loves beauty

for it, is all of you.

A glowing sun,

playful and greedy,

as I.

You weren't sure when you knew it. You weren't sure where it came from. But sooner than later it enveloped you. It was your calling. No words, nothing written. Just a sense, a feeling that permeated your being. And finally you knew. No ambiguities, no uncertainties, no ambivalences. Just truth. It was intuition. No manuals, no table of contents. No advanced degrees required. It was your life, the rest of your life. It was the reason you were born. It was the reason you were on Earth. It was your destiny. There is nothing more to say except to follow it, your calling.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I hold a gun,
                                    Because I cannot run,
But I want to run,
               Because monsters come from the guns,
                  The monsters are the ones touched by the gun,
           The monsters pain is screamed and sung,
And if I run,
                                                                   I can't stop,
                                       If I run,
       I will become a monster from someone elses gun.

-a dark brigade
carrying a funeral pyre.
held to the sky,
a message burning for miles.
weeping, is their war-cry
for grief they march,
to their battle of scorn.-