Robin will see Dr. Siegel now
whose deft and practiced hands
will dis-veil her clouded vision.
When I see her next and soon
A new portal will open gradually
to show her a world of reborn acuity.
The leaves will sing
With new-found lucidity.
Vivid color and detail
will wash over her horizons
And the world will be
a more dynamic place.
It all begins now
With Dr. Siegel's deft, and very practiced hands.
Let there be light;
Let there be color;
Let there be visual truth!
This poem was written while my wife Robin was undergoing lens replacement surgery.
“There is no Planet B” – Emmanuel Macron
Consider our dear earthly mother
Who serves our daily bread and drink,
And freely gives from her slender crust
The very stuff of farms and cities.
Every sprout that bursts by her grace
To form tiny clovers or giant sequoias,
Every saint or cutthroat and everyone in between
Owes all they have to her bountiful womb.
Given what our earthly mom is to us,
What should we be to her?
Should we shower her with obedient honor
Or gnaw off the hands that feed us?
All that we know and feel
Or hope will ever be
Lives and rains and snows on Planet A
There is no Planet B!
Robert Charles Howard
Loss is the price we pay for loving,
Knowing that love is the essence of life.
So when Hannah appeared at our threshold,
Her golden coat caked in ice,
It was a resounding all around yes!
We said yes to her joy and beauty -
The golden hue of her coat
Mirroring the gold in her canine soul,
And she agreed to adopt us.
For twelve years we snuggled
And hiked and frolicked together.
She bonded to Robin like a sewn-on shadow
Who returned her love with abiding care,
She came to chorus from time to time
And stood when it was time to stand.
She sighed and fluttered her eyes
When a flute student got the feeling just right.
She loved the grandkids and always said yes
When any child stooped to stroke her fur.
Hannah agreed to come with us
To our new mountain home
And walked daily with her papa
On the Big Thompson’s wooded trail.
A new place meant new friends by the score.
Who can say who rescued whom?
We are quite certain we know.
And now, dear Hannah as we say out goodbyes
Know that you will always live on in our hearts.
Robert Charles Howard, March 8, 2023
Christmas comes gently to our mountain town,
As softly drifting snow draws a glimmering veil
Across our forests, slopes and valleys.
Festive lights of blue, green, gold and purple
Cast a magic spell on our streets and promenades
Where neighbors bustle about in search
Of the perfect toy or sweater
For a friend or cherished aunt or cousin.
The sound of bells cuts the December chill
Rung by a volunteer Santa at his kettle
Or pealing from a steeple across the valley.
Christmas is here and the time is nigh
To celebrate the advent of a sacred child
With joyous songs of hope and gratitude.
Let us journey back to a time when we
Curled up in the safety of our parents’ arms.
The aromas of holiday meals that filled our homes
With the promise of the grand feast soon to come.
Aunts and uncles poured into sofas and armchairs
Recounting slightly embellished tales of family lore
While we children dashed about the yard
Heaving snow bombs and building the grandest snowman ever.
We remember it all -
The sounds, the scents and faces of our kin
That taught us how to love and be loved -
For after all, memories are the sacred shrines
Of our origins, our present and our future lives.
MOVING INTO THE LIGHT
Christmas illuminates our souls and transfigures us.
Lost hopes are re-found and promises renewed.
A better world seems once again within our grasp
As we bathe in the glow of fresh new possibilities.
This is a golden healing time when
Disagreements are ushered off our stages
And supplanted by beacons of filial gratitude.
In that hallowed night of silence,
God whispered his plan for us
And we listen in wonder as we treasure
That miraculous night we call Christmas.
Robert Charles Howard - 2022
Christmas, bells, memories lights, family,
You cannot defend your Motherland
By ****** and pillaging
Your Ukrainian Sisterland.
Every step you press on Ukrainian soil
With rusty rifle in hand
Is trespassing with intent to ******.
If you are in, get out!
If you are conscripted, obey your
Sacred duty to defect or surrender
Before the setting of the sun.
What have the Russians given you?
A thin tattered uniform and
A rifle that has outdated before you were born
And the promise of a
Lonely dishonorable death.
If you are recruited and
Prefer not to return to your family
In a flag-draped box soaked
With the blood of your victims,
Say hell no to the delusional fool
Who beckons you to annihilation.
If you are in get out!
If called, say HELL NO!
for russian soldiers squirming in the claws of evil.
Are you the new Cain?
Are you your brother’s slayer,
Fugitive and vagabond -
Exiled from your soul’s clear light?
Does the blood of your neighbors
Glare back at you
From your morning mirror?
Do the wails of children
Wake you sweating in the dead of night?
Leave the killing fields behind.
You were not lifted from the dust
For cannon fodder!
Why obey the cackles
Of clueless commanders
With “have nots”
Stuffed between deaf ears?
Why play the part of weak-willed lemmings
Racing blindly for the nearest cliff?
It’s time for you to go!
Ukrainians do not want you dead;
They want you gonel
But if it’s death you must have
Then death you will earn.
Go now while you still have
A soul left for saving
And a body left to house it.
Your soul is calling you home.
End War Home Peace
What if mother Russian woke up
From her nocturnal terrors
With rank clouds lifted
From delusional eyes?
What if she met the new dawn
With a fresh vision
Of what her nation could/must be?
What if a vicious, vain man
With lust-filled imperial eyes
Were no longer a
Curse on his people and the world?
What if the shade of
A newly passed seer
With a broad port-wine stain
Were to suddenly rise from his tomb?
He’d adopt a new name
For a newly shaped realm
Where truth and compassion
Are traded like ruples.
He’d hack up blood - soaked swords
And exchange them for tractors,
Planes and renaissance tools
And deliver war criminals
To somber halls of justice.
The clouds of despair
Would be scattered away
By the vibrant sun at its zenith.
A gladdened and grateful world
Would take deep breaths
Of the fresh air of peace and health
That a new Russia surely could bring.
Russia Peace Gorbachov