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Robert C Howard Nov 2020
When it's all on the line,
our finest step up to hold it,

They secure that line on the ground
on the seas and in the air.

It is a life of service, risk and sacrifice
and not all return to their grateful nation.

For those who leave us,
we offer prayers of devine passage.

For those who return, whole or damaged,
no magnitude of honor can ever suffice.

Today is their banner day as are
all days from now to eternity.

America thanks you and remembers you,
now and forever.
Robert C Howard Nov 2020
When your name is called
and you raise your hand to swear
to pre[serve], protect
and defend us all,
the world attends your
every word and step and deed.

When your season is fulfilled,
you return to the one post
higher than that of the presidency:
citizen of the world's
most honored democracy.
Robert C Howard Nov 2020
It's time, Mr. President.
Lift the phone and make the call.
No one pretends it's easy
but the chord has been struck
and it's time to man up
and face the song that sings
from shore to mountain to shore

The tune is bitter but clear
and it's time to pick it up
and give Joe the dreaded call.

It's time Mr. President;
make the call.
Call Joe.
Robert C Howard Sep 2020
O frabjous day! Callooh Callay

My new book of poems From the Mountain to the Sea is now available from Hope you enjoy it!

Here is a link:
Robert C Howard Aug 2020
Sea stars, urchins and anemones
     ride the tidal waters at Rialto Beach
           swirling into shallow pools -
      clad in shades of blue, emerald and violet.

Gnarls of ancient driftwood line the beach
     up to the rainforest’s edge just beyond the rise.
           Pulsing waves dash and roar against the sea stacks
       where the Pacific adjoins the California shore.

Legions of seagulls circle above
       piercing the misted air with their cries
           and the tide, beckoned by the Sky Queen,
       begins to ebb and regain the open sea.

As the sun sinks into the western sky –
       the towers of Split Rock and Hole in the Wall
            are silhouetted against the horizon
       pasteled in gold, orange and burgundy hues.

Gray whales and dolphins breach the surface
       before plunging into the sacred depths
           where the ocean beats pulse on and on -
sounding resonant cadences
       through timeless hallows of infinity.
Robert C Howard Aug 2020
The lure of gold brought Fifty-Niner’s in droves
     to the Kansas-Nebraska territory
laden with packs, picks, pans and shovels -
      hell-bound for adventure and facile wealth.

Placer miners squatted beside frigid streams,
    dipping their pans and filling their sacks
with nuggets bound for the assayer's verdict.

Mine towns sprang up where the veins were strong.
    In ******* Creek, Leadville, Independence and Central City,
the valleys rang with the strident cacaphony of
     drills and explosives - burrowing shafts deep
into the ore-rich valleys and mountain slopes.

Headlamps lit and shadowed mazes of timbered tunnels
     where men piled rock high into mine cars
headed for the mammoth crushers at Idaho Springs.

Whiskey freely flowed in saloons and hotels
     where raucous miners let off steam with
every mode and cast of ***** talk pleasures

In time, the veins were spent and profits dwindled.
     When the drama ended and the curtain fell,
the miners vanished - leaving only ghost towns behind
      and a new state named for its reddish river – Colorado.
This is the second poem in a cycle called Echoes from Colorado
Robert C Howard Jul 2020
A purple veil enveloped the peaks and ridges
      along the mystical divide
           where snowpack and summer rains
      chart opposite courses toward distant seas.

Born of the ancient heave and shudder
       of oceanic and continental plates,
             the Rockies transfix our wondering eyes
        by the spell of their arcane mysteries.

So it has been for those who carved our trails
       and called their mountians by name:
             Arapaho - hoh'enii
                  Hopi - tuukwe
                        Ute – Kåib

All of these good fellow journey folk
      have listened to the same timeless airs
            chanted by murmuring streams and cataracts
       and seen hope reflected in an alpine lake.

We have heard the soaring calls of the Rockies
      on either side of the great divide
         We have heard the mountains’ healing presence
      softly whispering us to our homes.
Across the Divide is the first in a cycle of poems called Echoes from Colorado which will open my new book called From the Mountains to the Sea.

This cycle will constitute the opening my new poetry book called From the Mountains to the sea.  Should be out in a month or two
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