Evan Hawthorn's Blog

Evan Hawthorn's Blog
(visual aid by Christian Schloe)

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Motherland

in the national game of ninepins the soldiers are meant to fall
but technology knocks the civilians dead and no one counts the haul
while the media convenes complacency to keep the mob in thrall
we defend a deafened democracy where death is free to roam
and there's no one left in the homeland with the right to call it home
save a few remaining Indians who are watching out for drones
we humans began in Africa with weapons long buried in sand
then someone thought of guns and bombs and migration got out of hand
now we're lost transported Africans in search of our Motherland.

apples in a basket

ten apples glistened in a basket, one of them was bad
the stepmother seethed in anger, a wicked witch gone mad
she could have made a soufflé, she could have baked a pie
some recipe that didn't call for arsenic and lye
but rage and insecurity possessed her tortured mind
blindness to reflection sees no method to unwind
her parenting skills were negligent, her empathy obtuse
her compassion and her loving heart were never put to use
self respect and confidence were the sparks she couldn't nourish
with a cup of understanding or a dash of faith and courage.

nine apples remain in a basket, one of them's been had
her promise was ceded to anger, and now she's only sad.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

dusting the shadows

in not many days the Spirits of Christmas will reappear
one wonders how they pass the other seasons in the year
you can feel their approach in the lessening of light
as sharply featured landscapes fade into shapeless night
there's a scurrying emerging from somewhere behind the walls
and echoes are resounding in the cellars and the halls
you think you hear footsteps but you know there's no one near
it's always hard to disregard these hearkenings of fear
one shivers and shudders from a host of haunted feelings
as glances from headlights cast mutant slideshows on the ceilings
my but it's the most, dusting the shadows and living with ghosts!

Friday, September 27, 2013

twelve

twelve jurists and steps, disciples and hours
star signs and months with their stones and their flowers
there were twelve ancient tribes on wandering feet
and that many eggs make a dozen complete
it's the most you can get from a pair of dice
and the span of the small hand that goes around twice
the edge of a ruler and the final bell to chime
the drummers who were drumming at the end of christmas time
the animals in menus illustrating Chinese years
the planetary houses that forecast our hopes and fears
in this last lucky number dwells redundancy of form
the compulsion of consistency, the safety of the norm
so let the witching hour obfuscate the hold of things mundane
turn back into a pumpkin, live thee free, or go insane.

one more drifter in the snow

thirteen starlit silver moons in turn may wax and wane
etching frost and forecast on a darkened window pane
casting eternal cycles that bless this ancient earth
calling forth the breath of spring and summer's enduring mirth
we dance with yearning flowers amid life enhancing rain
dismissing last year's worries as they all go down the drain
likened to the harvesting of autumn's golden grain
then coming round the circle we find we begin again
seeking solace and safety in deep midwinter's den
beckoned by ancestral fires first lit so long ago
sharing tales spun from embers that set our hearts aglow
clasping hands we sing our songs so our lonely souls might know
the harmony of finding one more drifter in the snow.