when the rain came,
all was drained from me then
i wore black for days to mourn myself
to those who think they could love me:
for my ice is thin
in every season
Lives shattered from ignorance.
People struck by intolerance.
Livelihoods are judged from love,
and lives are taken by hate.
A love bathed in terror
is not a love we crave.
A love brought from kindness
was brought down by violence
Love slain by arms and a hatred.
A cry for humanity, a cry of sorrow.
It's our reach for freedom,
and we'll never back down.
For a battle not fought,
is a war never won.
Keep all the names of the victims of the Orlando attack close to heart and never forget this day.
Rest in peace.
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home
i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
rise and fall
as they melt
i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs
i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer
i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies
hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main
itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim
faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in
amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon
i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring
your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind
yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain
once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
after a 5 year absence, we are returning to utah at the end of this month
I landed upon your arm,
a pixie rose; misery sung.
I could barely hear the wailing
of the dreams you were veiling.
I dare you not, my dear,
to cast a void in these ears;
hampering my tears
from your forlorn seals.
(*) inspired by Bohumil Kubišta's "Polibek smrti" (1912)
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
the colour of freedom
a whispered memory
a mother's touch
the colour of blood
a river in the streets
the colour of despair
but a remnant
of the candle's flame
a colour of...
it must be a colour
the pallor painting the father's-
it seems lost
among heartache, loss
will the memory ever fade?
the sky under which children play
will they again?
for the sky is grey
the mother's nation
birthed of strife, breach
"The pity of war, the pity war distills". - Wilfred Owen"
Just as a feral war begs for armistice,
a season of peace engenders
a violence vacuum that begs to be filled
as surely as a hollow begs for a pond.
It seems a cosmic battle rages
between the oversouls of people
who would chisel a sculpture to grace
and those who would hack off its arms.
History’s fools fire up their bully horns
shouting proud oratory to ignorance -
and lemmings goose-step to the precipice -
doomed to plunge into a sea of misery.
Then there is quiet - guilty and reflective.
How could we let this happen
with so much gain and loss in the balance?
and the sculptors of civilization
find fresh marble to once again
carve reason, beauty, purpose
from the acrid ashes of pride.
But the oversoul of hate will brood and re-fester
as long as it's thought noble to **** for a cause.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Day after day the days will unfurl
and from every table is a view of the world,
Around both the people perpetually are
Crossing their fingers when crossing their hearts,
Then stumble and falter as they rise
To yearn for lost time but then prophesize,
Of instances when car headlights will flicker
In meaningless Morse code from the foot of the river,
As calendars die and memories erase,
A single year rolls down my face.
The awkward sibling of 'Nowheres'