George Henry Bass
was the maker of
Norwegian ‘Weejuns’
penny loafers
able to make both
Dean and the King
look cool
as those Ivy League
students too lazy
to find their socks
two pennies
for their thoughts
just enough then
for a phone call home
that Mommy please
guilt dip
into your own
secret stash
send more love
in the form
of a twenty
cause my two
sense
to rub together
is gone.
Tag Archive | love
Language of Love
I grieve
for the loss
of a mother’s
embrace
the kiss
on the forehead
the rest
of a rough hand
on my shoulder
the bristled edges
of a corrective
rebuke
where shouts
to get out
disguise
her desire
that the sun
will heal me
hold me
warm me
kiss me gently
when she
can not.
4/7/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Sweet Mystery of Life
Sweet Mystery of Life
It was the longing, seeking,
striving, waiting, yearning,
for rich milk chocolate
that tempted me
to sin.
The grocery clerk
slid other items by,
and I hung my head
to dig for quarters,
but the truth
hiding in my pocket,
was mine for the taking.
I felt past
my confessional days
with my back to the wall
where sliding screens
could diffused my sins,
and only the priest
would know why I blush
or cringe beneath
his blessing.
In my backyard,
a rabbit watched
as the candy wrappers
were the last to fall,
and without asking
he chomped my grass,
never spitting out
sweet guilt.
It was not love,
but love alone
that I was feeling,
and my salty stolen tears
at last I’ve found you.
6/11/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Just Beneath the Mirror’s Surface
Just Beneath the Mirror’s Surface
We are water.
Our words pour out
our grief.
Heated in our argument
our flowing tears
cloud our thinking.
It might be easier
to push them back,
but we must put our palms together
and our righteousness aside.
To smear clarity through the fog,
and bring us into focus,
we need to retouch
our unyielding words.
Our hearts pour out
our love.
We are water.
6/9/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Guillotine
(Writer’s Digest – 2nd Place Winner- Quatern Challenge 3/05/2012)
Guillotine
When your lips brush my yielding neck,
I remember why I should turn
away from all the sharpened words
that landed with a cutting edge.
Your warm breath tries to soften me
when your lips brush my yielding neck,
but I’m still stiff and suspended
above your pensive punishment.
Even though I reprimand you
as your strong arms coil around me,
when your lips brush my yielding neck,
you make me want to struggle less.
For I’ve been found guilty of love,
and if I have to bite my tongue,
I’ll forgive my shoulders dropping
when your lips brush my yielding neck.
Leaving the Fight
Warm drips melt
on my shoulders
falling down my arms
like dappled leaves
gently spilling sunshine.
Warmth can’t be cupped
cold and hard
like snowballs
forming a sheltering fort
to challenge you from.
Summer, you vixen,
my long distance love,
you have teased me again.
I ache for your taste,
your heat on my tongue.
10/12/2011 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Bowl Full of No Thanks
Bowl Full of No Thanks
There is a dustiness,
an orange
lingering stain
that bites
into our cuddle
on the couch.
Your orangeness
threatens
to separate
our elbows
onto opposing
armrests.
I love you.
Just don’t kiss me
with those Cheetos lips.
5/07/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Ode to Plano, Texas
Ode to Plano, Texas
Ok, not technically an ode,
but an exalted emotion
from my complex gratitude
for your continual support
of my little lines.
I long to see your little penguin
on my Feedjit Live.
Mingling with countries
and foreign principalities,
you reign supreme
Plano, Texas!
It is your presence,
continual, constant,
popping in as often
as I do,
you looking for me,
I looking for you.
Plano, Texas,
If only you were my sister,
my brother, my love,
as speak your silent comments
so eloquently.
And I without little words
to thank you.
(Plano, Texas: To claim your THANK YOU copy of my book, please email me your mailing address at: phawkenson@ecasd.k12.wi.us)
10/04/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
Novelty
The worn edges and bent corners
told of their repeated connections
where she had held it lovingly
slowing fingering the words
of its story,
the story
that she believed.
Then a friend
ran with urgency
to show her another writing
that showed things
from a different point of view.
She devoured it,
shocked and provoked and betrayed,
the words denying what she knew
to be true.
But this was clearly labeled:
NON-Fiction.
Her story
now tainted,
her reality defined
by the words
of her friend
and a writer
who she never met,
but now blindly believed.
Without a sideways glance
she threw her love in the trash.
9/08/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
Accent Shifted To A Weaker Beat
A beat can be split
into two steps
like the main syncopation
in cha – cha.
We have no conductor,
no drummer,
to help us keep in step,
yet there a dance in the way
I carry laundry to the dryer,
passing you with electrical cords
on your way to the garage.
There is a soft repetition
of your kisses on my forehead,
merging with the melody
of my messages on the fridge.
There is a rhythm to our love,
the beat of our days together,
but if you want the band to play
our song,
neither of us can name it.