The Hawk West Desk Window 9:25pm
I have slid through
the doors of powerful men
been followed home
by a complete rainbow
then there was a third thing
but I’ll be damned
if I can remember It
The Hawk Queen Bed 10:22pm
We will travel to distant stars
to walk upon lands of other planets
We will taste food yet un-savoured
& dress in garb yet only dreamed of
We will swim in salted coves
salted by the sweat of billions
We will fly our mini star-packs
through the sea-clouds of air yet formed
We will dance along valleys
& surge forward into night
We will set Our Selves loose
to gallivant with Our New Found Friends
Our New Society Of People
like Us
with Whom We will play
with magical swords
forged from metals more precious
than gold
& with Whom We will die
momentarily
at The Hands
of Lovers Divine
The Hawk Queen Bed 4:00am
Static Of The Sea
Wherein Does My Power Lie?
Static Of The Sea
The Hawk Outpost 10:15am
Beneath the woven stippling
of cloud
shimmering Silver
greets My Day
I see cross-hatches of Light
above My Horizon
and glittering grey
below
I know
Our World
and I know
Our Life
Notes from an art school project, titled “Guts” circa 1983
Oesophagus, Stomach — flesh-coloured satin
Pancreas — textured yellow
Gallbladder — green
Liver — purple satin
Small Intestine — 20 feet white tubular satin, stuffed
Large Intestine, Rectum — flesh-coloured satin, gathered
Heart — heart-shaped red velvet pillow, white feather-trimmed
suspended above
The Hawk Queen Bed 9:44pm
I have written words
I have painted pictures
I have never sung a song
Has there been enough
of Me?
When will The World stop
to assess My Persona
d’Artiste Extraordinaire
Who has yet to live
to Her Fullest Capacity
under the guise
of —
nothing
The Hawk Kitchen 8:53pm
Today I was instructed
to “Be The Artist You Want To Be”
— I AM —
I see pieces of The Universe
in sink pans
laden with the makings
of Fully Formed Galaxies
so much so that I
am One Of These
I am A Galaxy morphing
into The Rest Of The Universe
& I Love It
The Tomato-coloured Couch 7:30pm
There’s enough white
pick-up trucks
to go around
to everyone
like Me
Who doesn’t make a wish
but feels
security
in the white
mobility
of man-made
design
Joanna Gilman Hyde 