Poems by Derik Hawley

Underground

Subtle acts of kindness

flowing in private acts

hidden from public view

Whispers of gentleness

in private conversations

support our kindest actions.

On the surface of things,

the shared city,

day to day exchanges

of commerce and glances.

Sometimes clear public vision

misses

the living motives

from above

and below.

As we lift our mind

towards the sky,

where ideas dance

around the sun

and with the moon;

bring with it

a gentle kindness

that was born

quietly

underground.

The World at Play

Stars spinning in circles,

planets spinning and moving

in circles around them;

moons creating more circles.

Around us trees

are playing at being trees.

The sun plays at shining.

The waves are just laughing.

The skies prefer to be blue,

not sad.

To be as playful as the world,

How pleasant that would be.

Sadness, sleep, and

general weariness,

can break us from the world.

A quiet pause,

away from play and work,

(Work is play if you do it right).

A child I know pretends to be a baker.

Her shop is always full,

and her smile is always wide

-- a game she plays with passers by.

I watched a log pretend to be a boat;

carrying passengers to distant shores.

I watched a bird pretend to fly

and wished I could learn those games.

In our playroom of time and space

we pretend to be, yet always are.

The Light in the Kitchen

The late evening stillness,

shelters the farmhouse

Crops and leaves sleep,

within a starless night.

A light now radiates from the kitchen,

filling the halls and yard with long shadows.

The children are asleep.

As I descend the stairs,

only the clatter of dried plates

answer my footsteps.

I enter the kitchen,

she has taken down her hair;

no need for a costume

when we are alone.

Her hair is often held up,

to be serious in front of children,

to look dutiful in church,

or prepared

in front of dinner guests.

She wore her hair down,

when she was young,

she never needed to pretend,

but was content to play.

I smile as I pick up the towel,

and join her in the evening’s labor.

faces and masks

in the morning the play begins

dressing for roles

parts practiced by experience

habit and reflex

for each enacted moment

in public

staged prompts

get staged answers

how does spontaneity

get lost in mask and costume?

we played these roles before

chatting about weather

and complaining about

what never changes

cause we never change

sometimes it seems

our souls embitter

as they congeal

into cut out dolls

with paper mache faces

the fossilized remains

of  the living

fantasy is illusion

but so too are faces

clinging to expression

while struggling for lines

stages tire

a soul

beneath a weighted mask

still the audience remains unseen

behind a wall of black

the emptiness which in we play

lone soliloquy

feigned solitude

even here a critic sees

judgments neither just nor fair

reality based on mood

drop the mask

remove the tired robes

walk without lines

as smiles unthaw tired faces

still carved in yesterday’s expression

roles and cues

just serve a muse

neither confining nor defining

the person or the scene

an unmade face

sees the unmade faces

behind unliving masks

The Hobbit Song

We are just little Hobbits, not much larger than a duck,

With last names like Baggins, and maybe Brandybuck.

Shampooed feet and eating, are our highest goals.

We hang around in meadows, and live in tiny holes.

With no taste for adventures, that is not for us.

Those orcs and trolls and balrogs, create such an awful fuss.

When you only three feet tall, what else can you do?

‘cept eat seven meals a day,and perhaps a snack or two.

We are round and pudgy hobbits,

eating mushrooms succulent.

Even though they make us

gassy,and slightly flatulent

We dress up every Sunday, by wearing English tweed.

Lounging 'round in forests, and smoking Hobbit weed.

Though for busy people, its such a rarity,

For us tiny hobbits, its just gregarity.

If you come to the Shire, to Hobbiton or Bree,

You can join us for a picnic, we'll be waiting by a tree.

The Holography of Being

How does our soul get imagined?

From the view of a single point?

Or in the fusing of reflections

seen through different eyes?

I think of the good things in me,

and how they emerged,

through gentle contact

with gentle eyes;

and of the dark thoughts,

created by angry stares.

Our eyes can pull things into being,

when we look into each other’s eyes.

Or we can use them

to push our anger,

into someone else’s heart,

where it becomes transformed,

and internalized; sublimated;

spinning into threads of pain,

and self doubt.

Gazing at the stars,

seeing the order emerge;

the revolving beauty of graceful spheres.

Walking beneath the heavens,

hands move gently,

caressing ideas into the world.

The kindness of another's eyes,

stirs the emotion and respect

of those things which are most sacred;

pulling gentle order out of dark chaotic feelings.

The healing vision

of gentle eyes.

A September Day

The sunshine that enters my morning room

wakes me softly from sleeping.

The faint reflections of last night’s visions

evaporate like the morning mist.

An evening wind that blows past the garden,

a soft warning of the coming autumn,

causes me to forget my reading

and join the march toward winter.

Two Trees Talking

Two trees once shared their seasons together,

slightly apart from the forest,

overlooking the valley,

and just glimpsing the vast ocean beyond.

Experience flowed

from root to delicate tip

(feelings to gentle words)

rounding rocks, knots, and,

the remains of branches

(futures not followed);

The upward pull of sunlight

on two upturned faces.

A conversation

where smiles beget smiles

and sadness and grief are granted

compassion and solace.

Emotions flowing through words;

the living circulation through living air, moving

between two trees that share

the same sun and rains, whose roots go down

to the same stony

yet living earth.

The Weaving

Time, motion, sound and rhythm,

interweave thoughts, and

fill empty spaces

with emotions,

both warm and gentle;

overwhelming sensation,

enwrapping

every living thing,

within a universal song.

Each melody is a sample,

struggling to reveal

the intricacies of the universe

to anxious awaiting ears.

Education becomes entertainment,

through kindly metered revelation.

Beauty is the play of light

on the surface of the unknown.

Morning Grooming

Borne softly on gentle waves,

a rower passes,

alone in a single scull.

Head rocking in rhythm,

with strokes,

of a comb through hair.

A mirror set on the water’s edge

reflects the angel in the treetop.

Tie rope is pulled to moorings

and taught with careful force,

to keep cares safe from jostling waves,

and bind a boat to wharf.

Looking out she sees a bird,

As a river runs through her mind softly.

I saw a woman sit alone,

I am the mirror at the water’s edge.

Rock

I am a rock,

who lies by the shore,

growing not an inch

aged by wind and waves.

Once I was a stone,

alone in the desert,

until struck hard by a staff,

I spilled forth water,

and watched the rains.

Was it the sorrow of lonely tears,

or the wrath of an angry god?

Now I wait, immersed in water.

Beside me a be ringing bell,

warns the ships

and summon birds.

I met a man,

one day in a storm,

his ship forsaken,

washed upon me by waves.

Unsheltered he lay,

alone in the parching sun,

arms outstretched,

almost unalive,

without relief;

only water filled with salt.

I would have wept that day,

but a rock no longer sheds tears.

Alone and empty after the driving rains,

I wished to become a great bird,

and carry him to shore

but I remained a rock

destined to betray

despite a warning bell.

So I did what rocks can do:

I waited among the waves

praying for a single dove.

The man returned to me, one day,

to survey a rock,

or forgive a sinful stone.

And beside me the bell rings.