Little hands
Soft and velveteen
Shiny eyelids
Tired and drooping
Long lashes
Looking down at the ground
A small mask
To fit his round face
With a childish print
Of his favorite hero
Shy and quiet
With delicate limbs
Putting on his large backpack
Almost home
Invulnerable
To the screams of the others
As lightning strikes
Beyond the fields of corn
Body jostled
As the bus bumps along
Dull jade eyes
Peering through the window
Staring at the rain
Behind the glass

I tell her:
My little girl,
These days are intense
And alone.
And I know when you
Open that gate,
You do not recognise your home.

My little girl,
I know your mind is dark,
I know there are traces of a plague
Infecting your heart,
I know you want a fresh new start-
But put down the knife
And let wounds mend
And pains blend,
And see this life
To its natural end.

Oceans and rivers of tears I have cried
I am the siren of my sorrow
Swimming deftly through my pride
No smiles to own or borrow

Where salt and sin settle deeply in
Old wounds reopened sting
Sharp reminders on my skin
Of what hurricanes will bring

Hollow bones
No feet to stand
Yet lacking feathers to fly
Not searching for shore or sand
Instead I seek the distant sky

The air above seldom touches my face
Except for in my sleepy head
And in my dreams I see no trace
Of monsters inhabiting my bed

You would do anything if I were your good little boy. You would
spend any amount of money if I were your good little boy. Nothing  
spared to make me your good little boy. A toy, a treat, whatever I
wanted if I were your good little boy. When I was 4 1/2, Mom had
her affair and you opened the door of the bedroom and saw your wife
naked in the arms of another man and it blew you away off the earth,
out of the solar system, out of the galaxy, and you never came back.
That's when I became your good little boy. You got your separate
bedroom, read books about famous men and'how to become rich.
Nothing from your wife, not a huge, not a kiss. Nothing but silence
in the night. That's when I became your good little boy. That's when
I learned to march to the beat of your drum. Even then, I knew uncon-
sciously my life depended on it. I did not get any unconditional love
from you, Dad, only a few crumbs of conditional approval, and only if
i were your good little boy. You used me vicariously for the only gratifi-
cation you could get. I was your only son, and Mom remained so depres-
sed all she could do was watch TV alone in the living room til 1 at night,
then go to her separate bedroom and read paperback detective stories til
3 a.m. As i grew up, the happiness I experienced was at school where I
had friends, many friends, not at home. I loved the house I lived in, but
felt sorry for it;  I was projecting my own deep sadness on to it. I made
straight A's through school, but that just came naturally. One time--I
mean ONE time--Dad played catch with me in the front yard. The
apex of his wishes for me was to attend Andover. When I did, Dad,
of course, went with me. He met the Headmaster and saw what kind
of shoes he was wearing, shoes that you would never see in Topeka,
Kansas, so Dad went out and bought for me the same kind of shoes
the Headmaster had been wearing. How sick was that, I thought!
It wasn't until I dropped out of law school that I first defied my father.
That was when I stopped being his good little boy and began living
my own life. It was also when Dad disowned me emotionally for the
rest of his life.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

shoes the Headmaster

I decided to walk out one fine day,
To search for the 'happiness' of which people say,
I searched on the roads, I searched in the sky,
When I couldn't find any, I asked each passer-by.

Nobody had an answer that could feed my mind,
But then, I heard someone say what I'd endeavored to find,
He asked me, "Can you see those kites, flying free,
And that happy cuckoo bird, singing joyfully?"

"Have you heard the laughter of a child,
Or spent a noon chasing butterflies in the wild;
Sat with a cup of coffee on a rainy day,
Or enjoyed an ice stick one fine May?"

"It's hidden in the extra roti that your mother makes for you,
Or the smiles that you leave through the good you do,
Happiness is when you get to read a book after long,
And when you get to hear your beloved's song."

I listened and listened, and returned a smile,
How beautifully it's scattered, I wondered for a while.
In the unseen pockets of life, joy clings,
And happiness - it lies in the littlest things :)

The littlest of lies
Conceal the largest truths.

Because the more extravagant your lie is
.
.
.
The less likely people are to believe it.