Let jubilant bells ring out
     proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
     that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!

With joy-filled hearts we zip up our coats
     to savor the crisp morning air.
We take to our sleds for a vigorous ride
     then draw snow angels in the meadow.

Our town is decked out its holiday best
     where strangers and friends pass our way.
We stroll down the streets ‘til the stars appear
     to dance in the jewel case sky.

The bold steeple bells peal so clear and loud.
     Bright Christmas lights are gleaming.
Our kinfolk have gathered from far and near
     To share in a holiday feast
and after the meal we all gather by the fire
     To celebrate the blessings of family.

With grateful hearts raise our songs
    and ring our bells this joyous day.
Rejoice, give thanks. Give thanks, rejoice!

Let jubilant bells ring out
     proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
     that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

When the arc of his watch hands  
reached the top of the hour
Sam pushed the throttle forward.

Engine 138 thundered
out of Blossburg station
like an iron dragon
breathing smoke and steam -
whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley.

Powered by coal
the train carried coal
to the waiting city of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother's hand -
perhaps for the final time.

The wheels churning iron on iron
across Pennsylvania farmlands,
turned like other wheels before
moving settlers west
to break its ready earth -
wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart
turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills.

New wheels now carried America
to urban landscapes
drawing us like electro-magnets
to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores -
new crops for a modern age.

Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon.
and Sam pulled the train in on time -
brakes screeching through billowing steam.

His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam
came in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Marie and Edward,
children now grown at their sides.

They all gathered by Hannah's bed
now approaching her final hours
soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond all telling:

Time, ever advancing
like the hands of a fine old watch,
holds us all in its circling sway

© 2006 by Robert Charles Howard

The moon hovers high in the dawning sky,
    heedless of clocks and calendars
foretelling the impending hour    
    when her diminutive circle
will mask our proud and mighty sun.

Back in reliquaries of time,
     our fear-quaked ancestors
cowered in deepest shadow doom,
    “After our sun has died,
what will become of us"?  

Then as now, our resilient sun
     re-birthed as it will again
to warm and illumine our ways.

But shadows darker than eclipse
     remain to cloud our future,
“What will become of us
     should reason's light be doused
and forever vanish from the earth”?

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

A blessing, please upon my mess!
     For this seeker finds no greater bliss
than weaving a little order
     from tangled strands of chaos.

Whether it be quirky verbal wanderings
     in search of virginal syntax
or note-ribbons hung on the boughs of time,
     allow me a little chaos please
and I'll fight like a badger to sort it all out.

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

In the stillness of a winter dusk
     softest snowflakes begin to fall -
draping the western slopes
    with delicate veils of purest white.

The rising moon faintly glimmers
    veiled by swirling clouds
and towering peaks swiftly vanish
      beneath the storm’s frigid advance.

Winter has come to the mountains
     painting a snowscape wonderland.
Winter has come, winter is here
     and rules the high country once more.

Howling winds merge with the poignant cries
     of distant coyote laments.
Deer and elk bed deep in the woods
     gaining warmth in the sheltering pines.

From dawn to dusk the snow cloak deepens,
    wind-sculptured drifts sweep over the hills.

Through the long night the storm presses on
     lashing sleet waves against our window panes.
Homebound, we gather close to our hearths -
     braced to wait out the storms final frenzy.

By morn a few lingering clouds remain -
     spreading vibrant prisms of violet and gold
and shimmering crystals across the valleys.

Winter has come to our village
    and with it a snowscape wonderland.
Winter is here, winter has come
     to rule the high country once more.

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

For Ben Godfrey

I awakened today to the frenetic clamor
         of a desperate wasp at destiny’s gate
                  thrashing between my blinds and window.

         (Surely Kafka’s bug had fared no worse).

Emerging from my soporific haze,
         I released my back door latch
                  to clear a portal back to liberty.

But all hopes for a nobility rush
        faded to black when I found her -
                  comatose on the bedroom floor.
  
Placing her shell on an envelope,
          I ferried her through the open door
                  to rest in state on my back porch rail.

BUT HOLD THE REQUIEM FOR A SPELL!
          She wasn’t quite so done as feared.

As if by cosmic intercession,
         she suddenly twitched her wings,
                  and soared into the morning sky.

My elation mystifies me just a little.
       After all, who cares about a lowly wasp?
Yet for one frantic insect,
        how could anything matter more?

© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

Through an open window, I hear
      the Big Thompson's steady music
drifting up from the valley below.

May breezes and gentle rains
     coax the snow-capped peaks
to surrender their alabaster cloaks
      downslope into gathering streams.

Silhouetted by light from the waxing moon,
      a cinnamon bear lopes along water’s edge,
pauses for a draught and meanders on.

A bull elk newly coifed with velvet antlers
        folds his legs beneath its belly
and kneels into grasses beside a tranquil pond.
        while the Big Thompson rushes on.

Spring beauties, calypso orchids and geraniums  
       shake off their winter's sleep and
dot every vagabond trail and verdant hill
        while fresh new leaves adorn the aspen boughs.

The Big Thompson inexorably presses on
        bound for rendezvous with time and space
and tumbles into the always patient sea.

© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard