With head bowed and eyelids sealed in prayer,
    an Arapahoe youth crouched atop Old Man Mountain
waiting alone in silence for a dream to come -
    a dream to reveal the course of his future days.

A rush of wind bent and shook the silvery aspens
    and the breath of his ancestors came and whispered,
“You are to be a shepherd of the mountains.
    You will gather and tend the sheep of the slopes
that your people may gain warmth and shelter
      against winter’s harshest chill and searing winds.”

Guided by the moon and morning constellations,
     the youth, now elevated to manhood
descended the mountain with joy-filled heart
     to reveal his vision to his people.
    
*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

'“Music is one of the attributes of matter, into whatever forms
it may be organized”. - John Muir

A song bursts out as I wander
through a glaciered valley -
richly coutured
in the opulence of spring.

Verdant grasses and Aspen leaves
have shaken off winter's pallor
to join voices with evergreens
in praise of new life emerging
out of the glowing, spectral universe.

The love of a doe guides her fawns
to finest grazing and sweetest waters
as the vibrant sun above
affirms its life-giving covenant.

If I cared, I might lend labels
to flowers, trees, streams and grasses
but have recused myself -
for the season's majesty demands
that nature do all the singing
and I do all the listening.  

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

Can we talk?

I'm new to town
and I'm certain that you and I
have not yet met.
Are you a stranger too?

It's rather soon to say
but I caught a beacon in your eyes
(or maybe hoped I did) -
wanting down those
Frosted walls of unfamiliarity.

Who knows what tales
we soon may say
of overlapping circles
of shared community -
of parallel victory and loss.

It's so soon to say,
but for now, accept this hand
as a token of mutual membership
in Pangaea's beneficent sanctuary.

Can we talk?

*© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

Sam Clemens snagged his nom de plume
     from a boatsman's measuring cry,
"Mark twain," two fathoms depth - quite enough
      to keep a stern wheel free from mayhem.

What are the markings of our voyages?
     What leadsman within will navigate us
through the rocks and shallows
     of feckless greed and foolish delusions?

The captain waits uneasy at his station
    then above the engine's quiet purr,
and the music of gently lapping waves,
    a voice from the deck cries out, "mark twain"
and he nudges the throttle forward.

*© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

A halo of transfigured light.
     spanned the hills and autumn gold
of scores of aspen groves
     basking in the morning sun.

But what is this thing we call a rainbow?
     For all our science talk of vapor,
refraction and angle of the sun
     we surrender still in willing captivity
to its beauty, mystery and myth.

Rainbows beguile by their fleeting rarity
      as ephemeral as life itself -
temporal blessings suspended in time
      unintended and undeserved,
spectral bridges between here and there -
       between what is and what should be.

for the 2016 Estes Park Elk Fest*

They call me Wapiti or Cervus Elaphus
      but you can just call me Bull.
Momma raised me in these peaks and valleys -
      and I owe it all to her -
showing me places to graze -
     taking me to trumpet lessons -
guiding me to the choicest watering holes.

And now I am a man-elk
      and have the rack to prove it.
Fall is here again and some of the ladies
      are looking mighty sweet.
( Just last week I saw one making eyes at me)
      so I gave the rut another go.
It worked out a bunch better than last year
      when I left half my head gear
lying in pieces on the grass.
       but life is good this year as you can see
from all these ladies standing by.

Now let me slip a friendly tip
      just from me to you.
If me or one of the other guys
      have that look in our eyes
and seem perturbed or fidgety.
       Don't mess with us!
Never forget  we outweigh you five to one
       and can book along at 35 miles per.

The same goes for the ladies
       when the babies come in spring.
They love their own like you love yours
       and will abide no wrong to come their way.

Mostly your folks and mine get along fine
       amidst the hills, lakes and other critters
so let's share our common miracles
       in thanksgiving, peace and harmony.

Robert Charles Howard
     *Estes Park, October 1, 2016

Why should I entomb my hatchet
     after so much toil in the honing?
After all its blade excels alls measures
     for heft and keenness
and no finer tool can be had
     to strike the ultimate blow -
except perhaps the one you're holding.

So here we stand my friend
     ensnared by pride's inertia
with everything to lose
     but one or another's demise
within our imminent grasp.

Then without a sign or preamble,
     our eyes meet as if by chance
and in that unsought instant,
      the shame of forgiveness
saps our strength and sinew.
     Our weapons clang to the pavement.

Unless we're history's fools
     we know it seldom ends this way.
How much must we sacrifice
     before the worst we have been
can give up its sorry shade
     to the best our souls demand?