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The Homecoming

I stood beneath the sky,
reached above, and clapped my hands twice,
“okay, chop-chop…
your vacation is over,
time to come home now!”

so the sky opened its mouth,
but the only thing to ever come out
(to touch the Earth again)
was the blanket of snow,
the airplane in Moscow,
a small piece of shrapnel,
the skydiver in Nashville,
raindrops from the window-sill,
cigarette butts in the landfill,
a winter storm’s icicle
a grieving mother’s feet
for the first time
in twenty seven weeks.

you left too early
for your vacation

but maybe it was for
a homecoming.

 

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angel on the moon

I would sit at the edge of the moon with you.
we would light a cigarette and share it,
you would hold a globe in your hand like a freckle,
and like a child, I’d watch you play with it.

your hair would shine a beautiful Harlow gold
your eyes would display a fierce emerald green, 
your skin would glow a blinding ivory white
yes, you would sit beside me.

where you wouldn’t have to go anywhere
where we wouldn’t have to leave
no one would know the hiding place
that belongs to just you and me.

There, at the edge of the moon.

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After the Tower Comes the Star

Stars can explain art to us.

I mean, think about it. In a thousand years, even at the staggering speed of light, we will never touch the star that twinkles in our eyes. That second star on the right? It's out of reach. We're out of time. That star may well be dead and gone, a champagne supernova or super-massive black hole well past its prime.

So what do we do? We reach out our hands, We grope and grasp at time-lapsed illusions.

Stars would burn us down to less than dust, but we still strive to dance with them. Stars lie far beyond any world we'll ever touch, but we still adorn ourselves in diamonds and feel beautiful. We wish on stars that will never hear our voices. We navigate by stars who do not know our journeys. We strive and innovate to reach the stars that promise nothing more than our own.

Amateur astronomers make terrible investors. Stars are just not practical.

Even so... Without a star? We'd not only have frozen, we'd have never even lived. Stars in the distance give us light. One gives us life. They give us our imaginary answers and a shining moon.

It's only natural to bring them down to earth with us.

Stars, after all, represent hope.

Prompt: a celestial Anonymous 

Anonymous asked you: Write about the stars

Can you see the stars from there, anonymous? Even if you can't, they're up there. Keep going...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me prompts, questions, or review requests!

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Untitled Green

A craving for the green
Dormant and unseen
Less anger, more aggression
Three hits, it's just an obsession

To be

Above the sky,
Imagine being that high
To touch the moon
One time, one afternoon

To taste that sunshine
So sweet, so divine
Clouds, cluttering my mind
Feeling high, feeling fine.


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From Stars to Flesh

Today

I am

alive.

 

A complex

structure

of flesh

and bones

and water.

 

I am a passing figure of existence,

but today

I am

here.

 

In this date

 

and time

 

and place. 

 

In this

planet

we call

Earth.

 

I am

Thinking.

 

Breathing.

 

Heaving

 

My thoughts

are powered

by

impulses

of fluid

and electrically charged particles.

 

I am a

bio-chemical being

of

complex cells 

and organs

and matter.

 

I am a soul

that exist

in this physical

body.

 

I was once part of stars, you know?

I am that

fire;

that light you see 

in a cloudless

dark

night.

 

But I am

no longer there.

 

I am here.

 

You have passed me

once

in the grocery store

where you buy

milk.

 

I am that man

you cut off

in the 

check-out

counter.

You didn't notice have you?

 

That I was a star.

 

And maybe

you didn't know,

and so were you.

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Amsterdam

The streets and canals snow with swan white blossom
whilst the muscles in my legs squeeze against the skin
pushing great pale bones over a bridge over a canal.

Each of us are walking skeletons with barely-functioning
brain stems switched to 10% capacity 
bones and brains and tissue that walk across canals, write
cry and I walk among them as one of them as a carbon 
admirer of the tragicomedy adaptation art gallery of life

I swing round the corner towards the Anne Frank house all
of us still bones. I see an old friend from childhood by coincidence
"Hey, writer." I am not a writer I am we are walking coincidences
and it's true we all are just
ashes to ashes
bones to bones
walking from one death into the next.

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g-o-d

God must have knit psalms
into the creases bordering your
lips as he wove your
ribcage together, for the wrinkles
whisper and sigh holy words
into the abyss of my
mouth when we kiss. My bones
crinkle and hiss at your
fingerprints; does
dust recoil in sunlight
as my body flees
from your shine?
A mountain range
appears as you squint
your forest eyes at me,
and I would like to build
a log cabin on the lines
of your glorious scrutiny,
and call your laughter,
your aging,
"home."

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To Pray

I. I am four bruises old and praying to the God I was told to believe in. I pray for sunshine, a swing set, and silence. By silence, I mean for the brokenness to stop ringing in my ears. By sunshine, I mean for another day just to know for sure I made it past this one. I’m tired of listening to the ringing in my ears, pretending it’s divine. I pray to make my way down the plastic slide without getting shocked, and for something stronger than a band-aid to heal me.

 

II. I am three sleepless nights tired and praying to a God I want to believe in. I pray for a kind word, a soft touch, a deep breath. I pray to be strong, but it takes so much more than muscle to win this fight. I pray for the strength to stand up and understand. I pray for a ring that won’t rust in the rain, and one I won’t find kept in my mother’s jewelry box but still echoing in her fingers.

 

III. I am two poems scrawled and praying to a God I can’t believe in. I pray for a word that will save me. For a bible verse to call my name. A holy ghost to blow me some breath. “God” knows there are plenty of ghosts around here, one of them must be holy. Sanctity is scarce. I pray for peace to let me sleep. The blind believe because they can feel. I close my eyes and hold out what’s left of my faith, but my fingers go numb. I hum songs I call psalms into my palms hoping they count.

 

IV. I am one scar away from breaking and my reflection says more than genuflection ever could. My fingers are callused from holding on too tight to a god whose grip was slack. I’ve seen Hell, so I know Heaven must be somewhere. I pray that I won’t have to pray. I whisper into my hands, two sweaty palms pressed together, shaking from the silence I’ve kept far too long. The words that escape my lips frost as they hit my lifelines. I pray to hold onto what I have left. I don’t want to be a pray-er anymore, I want to be the prayer.

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A Prayer for Solace

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Ghost of Earth Future (Revision With Thanks to Umar and Chris Brockman)

As the water table rises you seep upward

a chilly ghost levitating

fluid limbs spread as the sun heats your body

water pools in finger lakes.


Water-striders wander the four directions of your surface

etching ripples in their wake

grass-kelp undulates as diving beetles

plumb the hollows of your headwaters.

 

As lotus roots take hold and deepen  

you rise slowly on north-facing feet

white petals burst through your visage

and a broad smile cracks your mud-encrusted face.

 

Ghost of earth future, risen.