If I had a flying carpet,
I'd fly you to the falls
to watch the rainbows shimmer
in the rock-spewn mists
of Niagra's reckless plunge.

Or share the blazing sunset
at Big Bend's mystic window:
gazing at pastel layers
merged with the western sky.

Or we'd lower a canoe
in a Missouri stream
on a star-jeweled moonlit night
and hear the dulcet songs
of gentle shore-bound waves
and the hum of an insect choir.

But I have no magic carpet
to whisk you off to peaceful vistas:
only these feeble runes
scratched on a field of white.

Still, I wish that we could get away -
that is -
if you can spare the time.

*September, 2007

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

LOVE is:
   a dopamine trip
      Paris in the spring
         a really low tennis score.

LOVE is:
   ******
      platonic
         gin and tonic.
            
LOVE may be:
   requited
      unrequited
         or a little of both.

LOVE is:
   a baby's smile
      a ruined Huggie
         graduation day.

LOVE can be:
   brotherly
      otherly
         smotherly.

LOVE is:
   the real deal
      a raw deal
         sweet and sorrow.

Whatever LOVE is(n't),
   without it - no us!

*August, 2010

'“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

Cradling a handful of Illinois dust,
dry residue of sycamore, deer
and ancient Mississippians,
I splay my fingers like an eagle's claw -
releasing it to the fickle breezes.

A sudden gust of wind
swirls up an ocher cloud -
a cyclone dervish of sand and clay.

My hand, upraised for a shield
ever so briefly vanishes -
veiled by the impatient dust.

*May, 2008

"Synergy is the creation of a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts." - Organizational Behaviour (2008)


Hope takes breath when kindred tempers
     cast off qualms and hubris
to unite in harmonic synergy -
     pledging always more and never less
than each could dream alone.

Lewis and Clark together
    eclipsed the gifts of either man.
Marie and Pierre Curie were
    married to science and life
as they were to one another.

As dynamic as two conjoined streams,
     driving toward the distant sea,
minds in concord free the channel clogs
    that masquerade reality.

But what of us, cast adrift
     in this inscrutable world?
It all comes down to
     who we are together
and how we fasten life to truth.

© 2019 by Robert Charles Howard

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.

On a stage too vast for frame or shutter
    an alabaster sphere trails the fading sun
        reflected on the waves and troughs of Estes Lake,
            and reigns supreme above the snow-capped Rockies.

Two white globes - one of gas the other rock
         softly dance around a bluish one.

*March, 2012

There's a time machine whirring in my head
    that needs no dials or crystals.
        I shut my eyes and whoosh I’m off to tour my universe.

        I am five eating  sherbet
    nurse-brought to ease the ache
where tonsils lately flared and burned.

A sheepskin's offered at the high school gym.
    Hands swirl pressing ink into paper
        that binds a home to me and me to labor.

        I toss Dad a curve and it snaps in his glove.
    We sip Boston Coolers on the stoop.
I watch a shovel of earth fall to his casket.

Checking the mirror I escape the garage
    steering past farms where ancestors whisper,
        “Welcome home, son, won’t you stay awhile? ”
    Glad for the offer I cannot accept, I drive on.

My machine can fast forward too
    and the future beckons like Odysseus’s Sirens -
        promising pleasures and hidden perils.

        Next month’s journey to Anasazi lands
    is already mapped and scheduled  
and we are camera ready.

After some future dusk
    I will join the ancient ones in the past tense,  
        but for now, undaunted by submerged rocks
    I advance steadily toward the Sirens’ song.

There is a time machine whirring in my head.
    You have one too.
        There is much to see – and time is dear.

                Come ride with me!

June,  2006

Light bulbs are redundant
When Kayla walks in -
bathing every person and surface
with the flood lamps of her smile.

She smiles when she dances
and smiles when she sings
while two grateful women
who precede her in lineage
draw their bows across the strings.

None would ever suspect
that this fountain of joy
had once wanly trembled
in the valley of shadows.

Yet no matter how vilely
luekemia fought and clawed
to claim her for its own
it never really stood a chance

for Kayla had steps to dance
and songs to sing
and millions of smiles to smile
and would not be denied.

*February,  2008

The Brick Church Road leads to Friedens
where yesterday as today
wooden carts and steel wagons,
ferry their most solemn cargo.

After the preacher’s comfort tonings
of walks through the shadowy valley
and eyes lifted to the hills,
After fresh sod flourishes
over the sealed earth,
the carved stones whisper,

“Remember our bearings and sirings,
the banners we carried,
our triumphs and stumblings.
Sound the words and tunes of our jubilant songs!
Never forget that we are you.”

*April,  2007

Battling back troubled tears
Robert took the mike in church
to confess his sins to all
for the lives that had fallen by his hand.

In a causal web as dense
as a tropical thicket,
men in suits and brass
had ordered him to his post
at an Apache helicopter door.

Robert fired and men became bodies.
Those whose fate he sealed
would have done him the same
had they fired sooner or straighter.

But had the wheel turned otherwise
would they, like Robert,
have darted up from their sleep
in the dead of night -
soaked in the sweat of terror and regret?

For every Robert's sake
in every land,
I prefer to hope they would.

*November, 2013

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

confessions of a newborn

It's been something of a while
      since I tumbled down
from warmth and darkness
      into this strange bright space.

I see you coming towards me
     and curious parts of me
begin to dart about in all directions
     because I remember you.

Every time you're here
     something glad happens:
           you hold me to your warmth,
           you bring good food to my mouth
           to ease the ache inside,
           you make pretty sounds
           that tell me I am safe -
           that tell me I am not alone.

For reasons I cannot say
      I know that I am you -
that you are me.

The beauty on your face
     tells me you know it too
and like you, I smile.

*© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

Over untallied millennia,
    roiling Gunnison waters
sliced through southern Colorado
    schist and gneiss like a sabre -
carving tower walls of black rock
    ribboned with tableaus of
pegmatite and mica flakes
    flickering in the mid-day sun.

2,000 feet below, meandering
    through its stark canyon walls
like some legendary serpent,
    the Gunnison murmurs softly -
resting on its laurels.

Robert Charles Howard
September 2019

You can find Ockham's wisdom
displayed on the web
inscribed with ones and zeros.

So like everything else
in this time jostled world
Ockham's razor has gone electric.

*December, 2007

"A circle is a closed curve,
                All points equidistant
        from its center."*

Before our circles close and seal
                                       their arcs,

What
leaks out into the frigid void?

              What is ****** in like a
                               careless insect

Caught!
in a fly trap's eager mouth?

                What clusters near the
                                             center

warmed
by its radiant nucleus?

          Who or what bangs on the
                                        perimeter

Shouting
for entry or exodus?

                Who is the guardian of
                                         the gate?

What laws
have fealty over the geometry of
                                     the psyche?

December,  2006

Spear shafts splintering beneath its hulk -
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.

Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.

Others frenzied about the carcass,
tracing broken shafts
to salvage the flint for tomorrow's hunt  -
retrieving all save one.

A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    

      *The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
      Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
      brushed away the millennial dust
      and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
      'Clovis point! '

'Clovis point' - an epiphany in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jeaned hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
Mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.

July, 2006

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

For Nat Lipstadt

In response to Nat's deeply moving poem that included me, I now dedicate this 2007 poem to Nat, who I am sure, knows exactly what it means.

               
She smiled as she
set her lips into
most agreeable motion -
her larynx flexing to
modulate the passing air.

The sequenced air waves
shook my auric drums
and journeyed to my soul.

Out of my reservoir
of ritual response
my lower face
turned a congenial curve.

Two puffs of air
pulsed my vocal folds,
were filtered
by my tongue and lips
and formed a sonic pattern
she was sure to know,

“Thank you.”

December, 2007

Driving westward into Estes Park
     Is like floating on air –
Snow-capped peaks ahead beckon us.
For a treasured interval,
     The aches and struggles of the world
Fade beneath the call and glory of the mountains.

The long-awaited spring is at last among us
     And the newly re-leafed trees sway in gratitude.

The sweet songs of waking birds
     Blend with the crunch of hiking poles
As the resplendent Rockies
Welcome legions of rejuvenating hikers,
     Who have come to bask in the beauty
Of our pristine trails, streams and lakes.

We hear sermons in the distant thunder
      And rush of a gentle shower
Teaching us we are in the presence
Of glory beyond all comprehension -
     Glory that precedes and follows us
Throughout the eternal march of years.

At the third world's first sun,
the Anasazi climbed
through a narrow Sipapu
and pressed footprints in the dust
of a new unspoiled universe.

In secluded canyon hollows
watered by softly chanting springs,
they piled rocks upon stones
shaping vast adobe cities
mortared with pastes of moistened clay.

At Mesa Verde - Chaco - de Chelly
fields of maize sway,
brushed by the canyon winds
while Pueblos danced in the plazas below
to the throbbing beats
of skin-stretched hollow log drums.

Today their children’s children
circle fire pits in sacred Kivas
raising chants and prayers
to their hallowed ancestors.

Wearied by famine and conquest,
Pueblo eyes scan the heavens
searching for a new Sipapu
to lead them to a better world still.

September 11, 2006

MUSICA ANTIQUA

I - Time Keeper

Prize of a difficult hunt
fresh meat seared in the fire pit:

The ****-clothed victor
severed pieces with his flint
to feed his mate and son
then idly stroked a hollow log
with his crimson tinted club.

He picked up the pace
when the child began
to laugh and whirl
about the flames -
his mother' contented smile
telling, that for a spell at least,
serenity ruled the glade.

II - Found Flutes

In a time too early for telling.
one of our kind unearthed
a dry hollow bone and blew.

Its tones were pleasing
but many more could be found
by scoring several holes in its side.

Though carbon dating may tell
to a millennium or so, when,
no one can ever say why.

III - To Build a Lyre

A Grecian soldier on a cyprus stump
cut holes in a bow too lax for arrows
and gently swept his weathered fingers
across the new strung cords
then composed a lyric to Pan's amors
and a second to brave Alexander.

The soldier, well pleased
resolved to fashion a nobler frame
for his dulcet strings
and raised worthy songs
to Apollo and Terpsichore.

MUSICA MODERNA

IV – The Music Press

In his modest shop in Venice
Ottaviano Petrucci turned the wheel
and pressed notes to paper
for music's first edition.

Squares and diamonds peppered the staves
and tunes of Obrecht and Josquin des Prez
soon graced the salons
of Europe‘s most elegant palaces.

V - Sonata Pian e Forte

From a desk at St. Mark’s in Venice
Gabrieli pondered a question,
“How can an echo’s diminishing sound
be shown in a music score
so that one group of brass
can reflect the other
across the cathedral's nave? '

With two simple words he shifted forever
the course of music’s stream.
For the leaders he marked down “forte, ”
and their its echo marked down, “pian.”

VI - The Master of Cremona

Stradivarius extracted a maple sheet
From his curing vat in Cremona
and hung it to dry with the others -

Then taking his carving knives
He sculpted a cello's scroll
while a golden sheened violin
awaited his finishing cloth.

His secrets expired
when his time was fulfilled
but his magic sings on forever.

VII - Theodore Boehm, designer - flutist*

A gifted precious metal smith
desiring a more supple flute
applied all his art and skill
to its maze of rods and keys.

Each trial was scored
by his ears and fingers
until the door was unlatched.
to euphonious efficiency.
Clarinetists then coaxed him
to fashion their keys as well.

So behind every dixie licorice stick
or Debussy’s pastel faun
stands a persistent man
with a silver flute and
a jeweler's patient hands.

December, 2007

Poetry just might be love
     or just so the other way around.

I tell you,my dear
a day never passes without,
     (well hardly a day)
without a thought or two of
you and you and you,

bound as we are
      by blood,
              by tears,
       by laughter
or some common dream or enterprise.

You sing in my poems
       and my neurons fire for you.

Either I love you because I cannot forget you
       or the other way around.

So, my love, I offer you this poem.
      (So, my poem, I offer you this love).

*December, 2015

Majestic eagles ride on thermals high
    above the river’s wooded shore:
white hooded monarchs of the sky.

Keen eyes survey the waters as they fly
    in quest of prey to taste or store.
Majestic eagles ride on thermals high.

Above the bluffs, their shadows multiply
    as each December dawn brings more
white hooded monarchs to the sky.

At winter’s end they’ll homeward fly
    to fish the river's northern corridor.
Majestic eagles ride on thermals high.

The eagle’s noble span and piercing cry
    are immortalized in native lore.
White hooded monarchs rule the sky!

Since on spirit wings I must rely
    I dream aloft where eagles soar
and glide with them on thermals high:
    white hooded monarchs of the sky.

*December, 2006

There once was a season
for each vintage treasure
spread out on the flea market tables -
items once useful and perhaps a mite cherished.
each with a story to tell.

An Erector set unwrapped in a flurry
on the floor by the Christmas tree -
a bridal quilt for a favored niece
and a hutch from the castle of their dreams.

A clarinet with tarnished keys
rests in a velvet case
whose weekly treks to the music studio
ceased how many decades ago?

A row of antique watches that
used to mark the fleeting hours of
anonymous men and women
sits neatly arranged in a glass top case.

Time advances without mercy
for all that we've left behind
and the flea market speaks eulogies
for our fallen artifacts:
too dated to keep - too dear for the dumpster.

All are for sale now -
(everything is negotiable).

I stroll slowly from aisle to aisle
where shades of my childhood
awaken to merge with the present:
The new Schwinn bicycle
I rode that bright Christmas morning
when the church bells rang
throughout the falling snow.

and there's our wind up victrola
that spun out Sinatra tunes
from the laced covered table in the parlor.

Any of this can be yours for a price
(everything is negotiable)
except for the turning of the wheel.

*July, 2015

The 64 squares on a chessboard
match the tally of my years –
some passed in red,
others in black -
another day, another game.

Mostly I prefer to play
the knight with angled junkets
cutting a dashing profile
like the head of his noble steed
(though many moves, alas,
resemble another part of the horse) .

Of course it is rather grand
to be monarch for a day
calling the shots
from a gilded throne
in a rustic medieval castle

but a mere half turn of the wheel
busts me down to humble pawn -
moving one square at a time -
rendering to Caesar his due.

Chess may not be my game of choice
but there isn’t any other
and on the whole it’s not so bad
save for that infernal timer!

*December, 2007

If sting rays drank air
You could fly them on a string
On a brisk March day.

The sun inches skyward
in the quiet after-rain
of a gentle pre-dawn shower.

The rich sweet essence
of moistened earth
suffuses the air with promise.

Towering oaks and sugar maples
oscillate in the breeze -
their capricious rushing sounds
playing pristine counterpoint
with the jaunty chants
of robins, cardinals and chickadees.

Spring is pacing in the wings
awaiting her cue from the wheel of time.
and all creation waits in concord.

© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard Our steadfast sun inches skyward
     in the quiet after-rain
of a gentle pre-dawn shower.

Rich fertile essences
     of moistened earth
suffuse the air with promise.

Towering oaks and cottonwoods
     shiver in the breeze -
their capricious rushing sounds
     play pristine counterpoints
with the jovial chants
     of robins, wrens and chickadees.

Spring is poised in the wings
     for a cue from the wheel of time.
and all creation waits in concord.

*© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

For Betty and Clarrie

Betty was in paradise -
a soft smile on her angel face
eyes closed - gently swaying
with every note and word,

      “It’s very clear, our love is here to stay, ”

but why had she come today of all days
without her man to share the dance?

Then the usher parted the ballroom doors
and a humble and cheerful man slipped inside
barely noticing the familiar lyric,

      “Not for a year, but ever and a day...”

Clarrie searched the room and found her
as he knew he would
then crossed to offer his hand
in invitation to the dance.
His bride rose in acceptance
and they glided across the floor
while saxes crooned over bass and brushes –
her head resting gently on his shoulder
where it will always remain.

      “The Rockies may crumble, Gibralter may tumble,
      they’re only made of clay…”

The usher lingered for a moment
to celebrate their reunion
then slipped away in a cloud
to return to his station
at the gateway to forever.

August, 2010

Life is a Cafeteria

    Life is like a cafeteria because
    you have to stand in line
    when you’re hungry

Anatomy of Arrogance

    A shivering ball of fear,
    wrapped in a crust of pride
    too thick for sharpest arrows,
    huddles alone but well protected

    hoping beyond all dread
    that none will ever come to know
    the terror behind the mask.

Modern Narcissis

    Narcissus leaned forward
    to better view his matchless beauty
    and tumbled to watery doom.

    Beloved America,
    how far can we lean in self adoration
    before our coasts tilt into the seas?

Combo*

    Come join our combo,
    but just so you know,
    we all *comp for each other,
    take a chorus now and then
    and try to keep up with the changes.

*November, 2008

Full solstice moon
veiled by diaphanous clouds
drifting past midnight.

The phone rang after 2: 00 am.
Taking the steps in pairs
my legs faltered at his door -
paralyzed by denial.

Forcing myself inside,
I saw father's lifeless frame,
wired to synthetic everything -
a cold white line
still against the black.

My grief-racked soul
railed at that liar screen,
knowing his true lifeline
danced with passion  -
precision cutting with his lathe,
strumming passing chords
on his Gibson Les Paul.

That morning I knocked a ball
through a neighbor’s glass
I learned what honor meant.
With dad's steady hand
on my  shoulder,
I stammered  apologies
and learned to glaze a window.  

We'd play catch after supper.
or down franks and pop
at Briggs where the Tigers played.
Detroit is flying high this year:
God, how I wish
I could give the old man a call.

*September,  2006

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 weight of its cart,
        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

How could I ever understand
what it is you choose
to call existence
and how could I ever
tell you what it means to me?

A solitary dot stained
on the canvas
of the expanding universe,
I sense a primal shiver
whenever, 'stranger'
cries out from a page
or whispers in the aether.

*February, 2008

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?

Will the bard once told us:
"Music hath charms
to soothe the savage breast".

But who will sing the verse and chorus
to spell a world in disarray?

In this twisted season of idiot's tales,
our aching oversoul cries out
for sane and cooling anthems
to still the throb of molten *******
fevered with fratricidal pride.

Author of the cosmos, soothe us now!
Whisper dulcet songs of peace in our ears
that none can deny or misconstrue.

*July, 2015

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


­
February, 2007

Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*

The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.

Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.

Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.

A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.

*August,  2007

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.

for Robert Chamberlin

Rocking silently
In a dark anechoic cell,
orphaned to my senses,
my plumbing plays *continuo
to my neurons' treble aire.

Seigneur, please-
don’t **** the air away
or deny to me my plate.
Some dabs of water please
for my arid tongue
lest dessicated tubes
and muted synapses
score my pounding drum
to everlasting silence.

*November,  2007

On the shortest day of the year
     the sun seems to wither away
and solemn darkness cloaks the earth.

The whole world rattles in its chains,
    captive of icy blasts -
prisoner of sharp and frigid winds.

Where do we go for shelter?
    Where can we turn for hope?
Where shall we turn? Where
     on this darkest day of the year?

So we do as our ancestors knew they must.
     We start our crackling fires,
build shelters of rock and wood –
     and drape ourselves in skins and weaves,
clinging fast to one another.
    This shall be our fortress
and shield against the icy blasts.

On the shortest day of the year,
     We lift our eyes to the starry sky.
We seek and find our hope
     In merry carols, candles, and rites of peace.
Thus we rashly dare to cast aside
     the bitter sting of winter’s cruel offense
and ring the cheerful bells of hope.

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

for sister, Marcia and brother, Jim

What Kind of Fool
Am I, Blue Christmas?
A Fool for Love - That's All.

You Are Love -

The Song is You Belong to
Me and my Shadow.

So What(s)                  
The Use of Wonderin’ (If)                
What I Did For Love
Is Sweeping the Country?  

Be My (Endless) Love
Is a Many Splendored Thing!

Be My Love
Till the End of Time.

June, 2007

When the hand of his timepiece
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 –
it's whistle shrilling the Tioga valley.

Powered by coal
his train carried coal
to the shops and homes of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother’s hand –
perhaps for the final time.

The wheels, churned iron on iron,
across Pennsylvania farmland
just as yesterday’s wheels
moved his grandfather's oxcart
to their new family spread
alongside the Williamson road.

Newer wheels carry America
to urban landscapes
attracted like electro-magnets
to streetlamps – factories –
five and dime stores –
new crops for a modern age.

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

His Jenny and his sister’s Sam
had come in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Ed and Marie -
children now grown at their sides.

They all gathered to Hannah’s bed,
now approaching her final hours.
Soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond telling;

Time, ever advancing
like an ever-turning wheel
holds us all in its circling sway.

Jimmy Collins made a dash for the door
Shouting to the silhouettes at the bar,
“Lock up for me boys, the baby’s coming.”
All the men cheered
And struck their glasses together.

Relief and joy swept over Rose and Jimmy
The memory of that first arduous passage
Fading under the light of resplendent love
Asleep in her mother’s arms.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *
The radio crackled and spoke,
“Houston to ‘Endeavor, ’  
Good morning, Commander Collins.”
And Eileen fell out of one dream into another.
Beyond her window a hazy blue ball spun slowly.  

How was it possible for the Earth to be “there”
And for “here” to be any place else?

200 miles below James and Rose
Looked up in wonder at the sky.

May,  2006

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

for the Webster University Jazz Quintet

A tripod of piano, bass and drums
was spread across the stage
weaving chords and counts
into finest sonic cloth.
trumpet and tenor intersticed between,
dazzled the sound-scape
with vision and calculated risk.

Solos poured out like fountains
with swaying, clapping and bobbing heads;
Eyes closed to let the light of imagination in.

With colors as sharp and vibrant
as the cut glass windows behind them,
they painted memories of Miles
back-lit by Solar flares
and took a pleasant hike
in Shorter's Footprints
to the jazz realm's distant borders.

Having journeyed so many Miles,
we paid them sincerest thanks,
steered our engines homeward
then slept – tapping our toes in our dreams.

April,  2007

Ireland's emerald hills
     fade and fall into the sea.
        All my world is blue.