Robert C Howard

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Anticipation

I am snow weary
    waiting for the sun to shift
        to the southern sky.

Harbingers

Crocus through the snow -
    its yellow shadow tells us
        spring is on the way.

Equinox

Daylight equals night
   and all the world awakens
      from it's solemn sleep.

Celebrating Spring

Wildflowers flourish
    along the sylvan trailways
        raising hymns to spring.

Is it Really Spring?

All the trees wear leaves
    wheat fields all carpeted green
        why this April snow?

Is it Still Spring*

Heat swirls hovering
    like a scorching summer noon
        yet it’s only May.

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Vesuvius (Bonito and the Tour Guide)

(Plaster cast at Pompeii)

[THE TOUR GUIDE]

“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls.  One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”

[BONITO]

Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.

"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone.  Follow me please to the residential
area.”

He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.

“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest.  During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”

The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.

“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments.  Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”

*June, 2006

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

That Dark November Day

The bittersweet harmonies of
Barber’s song of ruing
carry me back two score years
to that day I sat intent on the bench -
Barber’s accompaniment on the stand.

Ben Walker exploded into the room
“Have you heard about the president? ”
My blankness answered,
“Kennedy's been shot! ”
My stiffened fingers lifted from the keys.
Dread-filled I stammered,
“Will he be all right? ”
Unable to utter the words,
Ben shook his head.

Scenes flicker on our mindscreens
like scratched newsreels -
tears staining Bernstein’s face,
Eroica and Resurrection
weeping our televised agony,
Oswald doubled over Ruby’s bullets,
a toddler's unbearable salute.

Watching motorcade frames
repeat in slow motion,
we careen on rubber legs:
a nation’s heart shattered in Dallas.

The somber song plays on:
Housemans’s words
Joined with Barber’s melodies:

'With Rue my Heart is Laden.'

*April, 2007

I was practicing the piano part of a song by Samuel Barber set to a poem by A.E Houseman (With Rue my Heart is Laden). I was preparing to accompany Ben Walker, a baritone friend who was to sing it an upcoming recital when he burst in and gave me the horrific news.

#sorrow #assassination #kennedy

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Mightiest of Swords

I - WORDS LIKE PRISMS

The crystal awaits the perfect slant of sun.
The world turns just so and refracted light
Hurls a color blaze against the wall.

So it is when a long awaited word
Forms on the lips of the wise.

II - WORDS LIKE FLAX

In the fire of conflict,
Words fall to the floor like mounds of charred flax.
Red–faced saints gather clumps to themselves
To spin into finest thread for self-flattering raiment.


III - WORDS WITHOUT WORDS

When pain burrows deep in the marrow
Where words cannot assuage
A gentle touch can bleed some out
And channel hope back in.
No words can spell a kind caress.

IV - POISON WORDS

Beware the charismatic
Carrying a jar of poison pills!
Cover your glass when he passes your way
Or he’ll slip one in unawares.

V - LAUGHING WORDS

Absurdities and failures are the stuff of jokes.
Long live non sequiturs and double entendres!
We love a clumsy tumble into the drink
As long as nobody drowns.

VI - WORDS FOR BUILDING

Of course you can!
I place my total trust in you.


VII - WORD PAINTING

Mister Frost's words never made a wood
Or caused a harness bell to shake.
Even so I’d travel many miles
To see his imagined snow accumulate.

VIII - THE GIFT

My cat, Zoe, never says a word to me!
He doesn't have the tongue or lips or larynx for it.
He cannot fit his paws around a pen.
His brain’s too small for metaphors.

The gift belongs to us alone.
To craft words to build or **** or heal.

Forgive us Zoe for doing little with so much.

July,  2006

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Unity Tree

T                                                          R
      I                                                E
            M                                  T
                  E                      T
                        *            A
                              M
                    BECOMING
                              Y
                        G          S
                  R                      P
            E                                  A
      N                                            C
E                                                        E

February, 2007

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Looking Glass Universe

A looking glass seems such a simple thing -
     a boomerang of sorts
          (here's looking at me, kiddo).

So many me's (or you's) to view -
bucked out in natal garb
or gussied up for the corporate ball.
Better fix my Medusa hair,
Should I opt for the purple shirt?
Just who will I seem to be to you today?

Take a breath - a really deep one
meet those soul panes
gazing back from the other side
emissaries from an inverted universe -
romancing the past - stalked by
tomorrow's "shoulds" and "maybes".

Who will I chance to serve or sway or fool
     between now and the evening star?
          Will one of them be you or me?

A looking glass seems such a simple thing.
     So many me's (or you's) to view,
          Just who should I seem to be to me today?

Robert C Howard Jul 2013

Pictures at an Exhibition

Poor Viktor Hartmann!
All that remained of his towering soul
were visions pressed on to paper
hanging in a St. Petersburg gallery.

Mussorgsky advanced his lumbering frame
along the gallery halls
searching for his lost friend.

Sonic images formed in the composer’s mind
singing replicas of Hartmann’s icons:

An old castle,
Children quarreling,
An ox resisting the yoke,
The Great Gate of Kiev.

Mussorgsky’s notes sound and vanish
as ephemeral as life itself -
passing into the ether only to live anew
with each successive performance.

Viktor lives!

October, 2006