|
C W Hawes
slowly wrapping
a present for my wife
Advent's last Sunday
our bitter argument
still ringing in my ears
seeing these pictures
of buildings in Cleveland
a touch of sadness
nowhere in my memory
do they even faintly linger
a red sari
artfully draped about
her body
the moon and candles
are her only light
floating down
the black oily river
talking heads
and only my nose
senses the decay
feeling lonely
I lightly run my fingers
over my face
and for a brief moment
you are caressing me
playing endless
games of solitaire
on Christmas Eve
I wonder how you
are passing the time
with a sweep
of my magical hand
all is green
and roses scent the air
my daydream at work
crabapple petals
scattered amongst pages
of my book
a reminder bare trees
will flower once again
I'm poor
if I work or don't work
a dilemma
on this warm autumn day
something tells me don't work
I run and run
but can never escape
the shambling shape
at the office my necktie
is always too tight
fog on the hills
while frost whitens leaves and grass
parting in autumn
leaves the deepest sadness
and I cannot fly south
I think
of Basho and Santoka
while packing the car
after twenty-eight years
starting a new journey
A human services worker by occupation, C W Hawes spends his free time writing and enjoying nature. His muses are Whitman, Millay, Basho, Issa, the Imagists, Takuboku, and Rumi. He holds a bachelor's degree in history and political science and a Masters of Divinity degree. His work has appeared in Carnelian, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Lilliput Review, Amaze, Makata, and The Ghazal Page, among others. He divides his time between Minneapolis, Minnesota and rural northeast Iowa.
|
