4 0 4

Late Afternoon In Early March

I sometimes forget to be fascinated

by the slanting glance of the late afternoon sun

whispering into my cramped backyard.

The jays and robins are discussing something

with great deliberation while the leaves shiver

in the tentative mid-March breeze.

They flutter, fly and flee with such

confidence, such grace, without effort

or trepidation, without grasping at the sky,

knowing it will hold and carry them.

0 0 0

water drips from faucet

             distant motor sound


loneliness is unbearable

0 0 0

Haiku's from the Elliptical

1, 2 & 3

Some mornings I have

To remind myself something

Is always better


Than nothing at all

That thirty minutes on an

Elliptical is


Superior than not

Getting out of bed before

Ten in the morning



Cute boys in bro tanks

Bouncing bubble butts running

Around in spandex



Their pecs and nipples

Poking through their cutout shirts

Is why I get up


5 & 6

Five days a week means

Losing weight and flat stomachs

My clothes don’t fit


Pants are baggy and

Falling off my ass like a

Gangster with no belt



Some days I push so

Hard my heart feels like it will

Burst from my rib cage



Some days my abs hurt

So much it is difficult

To sit in a chair



I don’t work out to

Be healthy, I do it to

Look sexy in bed


10, 11, & 12

Losing the weight that

Has found its home in my mid

Section has boosted


My self-confidence

But knowing that I can skip

Meals like a high school


Senior skips classes

For roller coasters, is the

Monster in my head



I have ran for miles

In one place, I am now a

Stagnant traveler


14 & 15

The amount of sweat

Dripping off my shirt when I’m

Finished could save the


Lives of thousands, all

You need are water filters

And a thirsty mouth



The elliptical

Is an awful friend, boring

And helpful at once

1 0 1


This house is not a safety net

waiting for your tumble.  It does


not love you the way it should

like beams in the foundation.


It leaves you dangling from the

skybox heart.  You have no one


to blame but yourself, remember

how you walked to the edge


on your own.  Remember the cars

looked like ants, furiously building


tunnels, to build more tunnels,

to build more tunnels for even more


tunnels.  Go back, where the

sky divers parachute was caught,


hanging effortlessly in the power

lines, carrying messages for


people who live too far away

to connect in person.  This house


did not raise you, it pushed

you through the door, like an


angry violinist’s broken strings.

There is nothing to repair you.


You must learn how to live

with the bleeding, how to make


music with a shattered instrument,

how to love with no foundation.

0 0 0


Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.

1 0 1

What's a dream like you doing in a place like this?

The sunrise I take in through the tongue,
clouds tasting like distant mountains,
looms over flat daily expectations-
I want to climb through to distant adventures:

the mornings there will each taste new;
I’ll wake up, greeting the sun as it learns again how to stroke the world;
it’s always so gentle at first;

fog will swirl in valleys below me,
and birds will break through it, traveling in shapes, marking the wind with their journey;

I will jump over logs and boulders, 
as I did in my dreams,
and in youthful games;

I’ll run into the fog,
catching paintings in the movement
of the air and its water around me,

and I will find a quiet place to sit,
where I will wait for the fog to clear,
and the trees and everything with them will dance so slowly into sight;

the world, then, will be mine,
though I could never own it,
and I will be conquered by travels
into its most graceful refuges.

But now, I take in the sunrise far away from there;
there are no mountains here,
save the clouds which leave me dreaming.
A dog barks;
the houses are close together;
the land is flat, and the sun will soon bake the air into stale humidity;
there are wars far away;
there are televisions on everywhere, and cell-phones to fill the gap;
there are lies abroad and lies at home- I know-
but I take in the sunrise,
it speaks of dreams,
speaks of home.

0 0 0

the oracle

I remember
when you told me
of the prophetess
and the pilgrimage you made
to see the oracle:
you went down
to see the Roman handicrafts:
now, half-built aqueducts,
safety hazard temples—
where the worship itself would be a sacrifice,
but instead you went
into the cave
where the water receded
once a day for you
to climb within.
The oracle there
wore gauges in her ears
and was working
on a full sleeve tattoo,
the centerpiece of which
was a voluminous woman
with bared nipples—
it was painted on her arm,
because no one gets
a penis tattoo,
except, perhaps
Michelangelo’s David.

3 0 3

Their Songs



Once upon a time

You were like a butterfly

Here and there and everywhere

Now you are stuck in a wheelchair


Once you sighed day in day out

“Why must I live so long?”

Now you’re blissfully content

You don’t remember

What you’ve ever said


You live in a foreign land

Like most in the dining room today

The piano plays soft melodies

Of bygone years, I feel my eyes

Well up with tears


The young nurse’s belly carries

A new life, a new beginning

Amidst the very ending

My tears keep rolling

Down to my trembling lips


The nurse keeps smiling

Her words are sweet

“Come on love, up you go

One two three, well done

Hang on to your walker, dear”

The old soul, half her size

Slowly shuffles on


I shed one more tear

My wet eyes I wipe…

The piano played

Their songs and mine

Once upon a time



 © irina dimitric  2013.




2 0 2


I skipped in beats of two

and jumped scarlet puddles

like a child in rainfall

never knowing it was your heart -

bleeding from the sky

reigning autumn darkness

in my mind.

6 0 6


We wrote our names in sand

and watched

as the ocean reached out

and gathered our letters

in her hand


like our dreams were chips

we lost whilst betting their longevity

on a game of remembrance.