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

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

What if Escher had it right
and "within" is really "without,"
and stairs turn inside out
and "up" is just the same as "down?"

Imagine if you will
a "topsy-turvy" sort of place
(or is that "turvy-topsy")
where time marches retrograde
and all effects precede their causes.

I know, I know, your life is busy
but can't you drop it all for half a day
and step out with me
(with Escher at our side)?
We'll cross the edge of time and space
where an alternate universe or two
is just a dream away.

Hurry up now (or then), let's go!
We have to get back
before the sun ascends in the west!

'“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

for my parents with love

Such a grand and festive lady
that steamer to Put-in-Bay
escaping her dock
just after dawn
leaving Detroit's factory din
moored to the Michigan shore.

Sunbeams glanced off waves
in lake Erie's tranquility
bound for Sandusky
and Put-in-Bay Island.

Clattering silver and porcelain
veiled by sweeter sounds
of congenial banter and
ballads crooned by the shipboard band.
playing late beneath the stars
for 'swing' and 'jitterbug'
reeds and horns and ritual beats
blazed the air with frenzied jubilation.

Paired in the rhythm section,
Jim drove chords from strings and pick
while Janice matched beat for beat -
fingers gliding over ivory and ebony
until Detroit lights shone ashore
on the port side bow
where the Put-in-Bay would
re-tether to its Motor City pier.

How their union sealed is forever’s mystery.
Was it bonded
checking chords in a Gershwin tune
or on break over scotch at the bar
or with a sideward smile during “All of Me? ”
No one knows but the moment came,
as sure as rain to Lake Erie,
when Janice knew that Jim would ask
and he knew she’d answer, 'Yes.'

Thanksgiving day, 2008
(also Dad's birthday)

Step right up!

I stand on tip toes in the circle
- grasping for the ring.

It slips - drops - clangs.
(Oh dear you saw that, didn't you -
witness to my futility)?

Go ahead then take a turn.
Curve your knuckles
reach out - seize the brass!

Did you miss again?

What the hell,
let's go another round
for bending or for broke.

The clock ticks on -
soon enough
we'll both be was.
Today is for the seizing.

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

for Robin on our 22nd anniversary*

The placid Current River ever growing
      brightly shimmers in the mid-day sun,
its azure waters cool and southward flowing.

Buried caverns through the limestone bring
      fresh fountains pouring cold ablution
into the placid Current ever growing.

Around the bend another rushing spring
      bursts forth to lend aquatic motion
to the crystal water’s southward flowing.

Cheerful floaters revel, tanned and smiling,
      celebrating pleasant summer fun
upon the tranquil waters ever growing.

Gentle breezes set the leaves to rustling
      while time stands still for everyone
along the peaceful river calmly flowing.

Shaded skies foretell the day’s conclusion
      and a stellar fantasy has now begun
to dance above the moonlit river glowing:
      its azure waters cool and southward flowing.

June 26,  2009

It was summer's last days
along the trail
where the serpentine creek
murmurs and winds
beneath the limestone bridges.

Just beyond the bend
a weary stand of feed corn
awaits the harvester's blades.
An unexpected gust sets
the oaks and sycamores swaying
and a few desiccated leaves
skitter across the path -
harbingers of the impending fall.

In the brush along the trail,
newly morphed Monarchs
flit from purple thistles
to yellow star flowers like
a streak of airborne tigresses.
while honey bees,
cloaked in veils of pollen dust,
quench their thirst with
draughts of goldenrod nectar.

The autumnal equinox
looms just days ahead.
Shadows lengthen as summer sings
its final hymn to the setting sun.

"The pity of war, the pity war distilled" - Wilfred Owen

Somewhere in the after-haze,    
     Jesus sought Mohammed
who was on his way to see him.
     Moses met them on the ridge
and without a mike or gavel,
     the meeting was convened.

They fell to their knees in sorrow
      hands cupped to catch their tears -
shed for the smoldering chaos below -
     so far from what was meant to be:

Sworded and chain-mailed crusaders,
     suicide synagogue bombers,
machine guns stuttering in Palestine,
    fire raining from the skies
bombs igniting at the speed of death,
    slaughter at a Parisian concert.

Fathers of the light rise up
     from your lofty provenance.
Unite your tear-drenched hands
     and come dwell within us.
Breathe healing truth into the ears
     of every foe of love and life.

          So much more was meant to be!

Come to us now
     before the setting of the sun!

November, 2015

The steady sunflower
     Follows and glorifies the sun
Tracking its light from dawn to setting -

Each solar tilt
     A dauntless declaration
Of self-fulfilling hope -
     Intrepid symbols of
A strong Ukrainian nation!

After the invaders have left
     In shame and failure -
Their crimes faded
     Into pointless ugly memories and
Liberty sings her triumphal anthem,

Sunflowers will break the soil
     And prevail in everlasting glory
Over all her shining fields and valleys.

Slava Ukraine forever!!

Yellow horizon
Sunflower fields gently sway
just beyond the crest.

A feast of colour
yellow, orange, crimson, black -
Dusk's kakeidescope.

"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

Sacagawea's Capture*

As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.

Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
        husking corn -
              beading moccasins -
                     scraping a buffalo hide.

A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.

Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.

Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.

A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."

I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.

When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.

Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.



August 6, 2010

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

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

Those he met say his eyes
     Would freeze his victims’ tears
And the windows of his diseased soul
     Mirror only rabid ****** and chaos.

The currency of his homicidal
     Delusions of dominion?
War crimes that russian pens
     Helped etch into global law.

His dreams of a cleansed russia
      Need no lengthy search.
To find the filthiest part to scrub
      All he needs is a mirror.

Slaughter, lies and treachery
     Fill his curriculum vita
And his country’s patience
     Has outreached its vanishing point
Say a contemptuous goodbye
     To the butcher of Moscow.

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

If I could be a fly on Einstein’s wall
I’d buzz about from chair to curtain
watch him check out plans and gadgets                                            
and scratch remarks on his papers.
When the clock edged to noon
his stomach would growl,
he’d fold up the prints and say,
“It’s a relatively short walk to the café.”

With Albert out I’d take the run of the place -
practicing banks and dips and vertical lifts.
I’d munch on scraps of Brie and fowl
left fused to the edge of his table.

When the tumblers turned
I’d buzz back to my wall, eager to witness
whatever this sage would chance to say.
He’d go to his desk to file reports
and stack them neatly into a tray.

Without warning he’d rise from his chair
scattering papers across the floor.

“MASS AND ENERGY ARE ONE, ” he’d shout, -
“CRUSHED TOGETHER BY TIME! ”

I’d buzz and swoop and fly circles and loops
and taxi in on his collar.
I’d beat my wings to cool his brain.
But wait…Whose voice do I hear?
Oh, it’s you gentle reader.

“Stop, hold it right there, ****** pest!
It couldn’t have happened that way!
Have you no shame or respect for God’s truth? ”

But I’d stare you down with my compound eye
and scornfully twitch my wings.
Consider this, troubled sir,
you’re the one scolding a talking fly.

*July, 2006

Early spring has come to Thelma’s farm.
The geese are on the pond,
a green velvet carpet circles the barn
while songbirds greet the morning sun.

We walk down Thelma's rutted road
where milk trucks used to rumble in
to fetch the morning’s yield.
Old Tikki leads the way - a pale fluff of a mutt
like a dust mop searching for its handle.

Thelma’s cows are long since gone –
sold off after Dutch was called to eternity
but she'd no more forsake this land - her land
than the sun would forget to rise.

Early spring has come to the Missouri hills
where clean warm breezes whisper hope.
Soon the ready soil will taste
the furrowing blades of the plow
near fields where livestock graze and flourish.

We’ve reached the bend in the road.
Old Tikki's wearing down
so we turn to retrace our steps.
A committee of neighbor calves
studies us with soulful eyes
and we appear to pass inspection.

Tikki guides us on our homeward path
where a ribbon of golden jonquility
neatly trims the foreyard fence.

Spring has come again to Thelma’s farm
as it always has and always will -
where clean warm breezes whisper hope.

March 13, 2011

In the calm still moonlit night
      she silently wove a silken tapestry -
          spinnerets spewing slender strands
      light as air but strong as Kevlar.

A silvery armature spanned the trail
    clinging to trunks and branches.
          Rappelling down from its pinnacle,
      she fixed radii to her deadly wheel.

Spiraling in from the outer ring
      she knitted her way to the center
          to await the tell-tale shudder
    of a fly or moth flown into her snare.

She took no note of the hiker
      paused alone on the trail -
          transfixed by the dew laden spiral
    shimmering in the rose-glow sun.

It mattered not to the spider
      that a man would find her work pleasing
          and it mattered not to the man
    that the web was not woven for art.

The Bolshei has chosen the right ballet    
     To spin the tale of its homeland spirit,
But the characters IDs are all amok.

The heart of Spartacus does not      
     Pulse in putin’s hollow chest,
He is Crassus incarnate –    
     Arch-enemy of freedom and justice.

The true heart of brave Spartacus beats    
     In the torsos of the Ukrainian people
Who stand dauntless in defense    
     Of their sacred liberty and honor.

So dancers of the heralded Bolshei,    
     Do not delude yourselves!
There is no art or prowess fine enough    
    To culture-wash the blood
from the murderous hands of those    
     Who slaughter their Ukrainian siblings.

The immortal caring arms of Phrygia      
     Enfold the children of Ukraine as if
They had emerged from her very womb.

The russian people wait in pain and sorrow.      
      For their bold new Spartacus,
Who will have both steel and soul to love      
      his neighbor’s freedom as his own.

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?

Then go!
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.

Go now!
Your soul is calling you home.

“Daddy, why do you have to go?”
    “Duty calls Olga, I must.”
“Don’t hurt any little children, Daddy”
     “I will only do my duty, little one.”

“Daddy, you’re pointing your gun at a little girl.
     She’s just like me; Daddy don’t shoot.”
“I must do my duty, my child.?

“She IS me, Daddy, you shot me.”
     “I’m bleeding Daddy, how could you do it?”
“I’m dying, Daddy, how…could … you...”?

The doors will fly open without warning.
     Strong arms will encircle the bald man
Whose stare is as cold as his heart.
     The chains that bind him
Will clang and echo across the world.

More sudden doors will bring arrests
     Of his minions in soul-less ******.
They will be pulled from their desks,
     Yanked out of their tanks and turrets
And led off to their cells in chains.

No soldier with blood-soaked hands
    Will escape the consequence of his evil.
Cells walls will be draped with the
    Images of human carnage and the
Sounds of their victims will scream in their ears.

Where will they find enough chains
     For putin, and all his gutless puppets?
The russian people will lend them theirs
     The press will surrender theirs
And turn on their cameras once more.

The criminals will walk to the stand -
     Silent and un-repentent in their chains.
All of russia will sit glued to their screens.
     As one by one the gavel falls on their shame.
And the judge intones the fates of justice.

Who will step forward to lower the curtain?
    Will generals wake up in the dead of night
With the wails of innocents in their ears?
     Will politicos vote in solemn silence
To rid their state of its festering cancer.

The just of the world don’t care how or who
     Just so long as it’s soon!
Show us, don’t tell, Just so long as it’s soon!

Every child of ten knows
the universe is a jagged shape
edged by home and park
and school and market -
at least that’s the way I knew it

and all the world’s kids
went to McKinley school
and everyone's dad
worked at Lincoln Park Tool
while mother stayed at home.

So my entire universe
was shaken to shards
when father broke news
that we soon would be moving
to a distant galaxy
a dozen miles away -
entirely peopled by aliens.

Well it wasn’t so bleak after all -
my brother and little sister
were allowed to come with us
and we kept the same grandparents too.
New friends popped up everywhere
like rainbows of tulips in May.

The house was fresh and new
but seriously lacked a lawn.
so a rusty old truck rumbled up
and dumped us a mountain of soil.

Seizing the obvious challenge,
I put a shovel to its intended use -
moving and spreading non-stop
until Mom called us to dinner
then went back and shoveled ‘til dark.

The pile was nearly leveled
by afternoon next as
Dad turned his fifty-three Ford
into our driveway -
hitting the horn to call me over,
“Son I need your help.”

Dropping my shovel
I sped to the open trunk
and stared in disbelief.
In an ecstatic yelp
produced only by ten year old boys
I circled Dad's waist with my arms,
then gratefully unloaded
the best yellow scooter
in this or any other galaxy.

*September,  2008

At 20, it's adios to childhood.
By 30, you have played your youthful folly card.
At 40, you have ground it out to mid-field.
At 50, the bigger helping was dished out yesterday.
At 60, you enter the final stretch.
At 70, you finally get to play your wisdom chips.
At 80, most are surprised to see you.
After 90, Godot is waiting for you.

*November, 2015

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

for Onorio Zaralli

Wherever we look, my friend,

we see children at play.
and children in school .
     We see children in triumph
     and children at risk.
  
We see mothers at work
or lost in thought.
     We see mothers on the edge -
     survivors striving for a rainbow.

We see aged ones,
proud of their grand-kin's deeds
      and of marks they have etched
      on the universal ledger.
      
We are our forefathers and sons,
granddaughters and mothers,
     foraging our way through chaos -
     searching for the best map home.

So we hone our skills
and practice our trades
     to harvest our daily portions
     and navigate the tides of time.

Whoever we are today,
wherever we might wander.
      we are our only hope for a better day
      the only “us” we can cherish.

Lost in dreams, my eyes gently close
hoping for a well-marked path to follow
     paved with respect, compassion and justice
     where we may all walk together in harmony.

© 2019 by 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

To light a solitary candle
may not seem like much
but will suffice to
illuminate a neighbor’s path -
obscured by the loss of day.

So we strike a match
and with charring fiber and melting wax
reveal our neighbors’ faces
glowing faintly in the shadows.

Friends gather to join
their wicks and wax with ours
spreading shafts of hope-born light -
melting despair and gloom
in consoling flames of transfiguration.

Like a lighthouse set high on a cliff,
our beacons will shine through
the dark and fog of uncertainty -

       Light to press the harm aside
       Light to safen the shaking ones

in vessels great and small
from splintering against the rocks.

To light a single candle
may not seem like much
but it can suffice.
This we can do and we will!

Our footsteps echo through ancient halls,
                where here is everywhere
        and every time is now.

Caesar’s twin-edged conquests are our own
                as is Brutus’s fickle knife
        and Marc Anthony’s cunning speech.

Plague steals across our Europe
                like a remorseless highwayman -
        rosies all ringed and falling down.

We wait in Wien's Kärntnertor theater
                for Schiller’s An die Freude    
        to shine anew in Beethoven’s score

and are ushered in at Menlo Park
                where Edison's tungsten faintly glows.
        Tomorrow will bring sun to the night.

There's Jonas Salk at his microscope.
                One more test will crack the code
        to banish polio's scourge.

But nature’s caprice strews logs on our roads.
                We are dashed by a Tsunami’s rage.
        Katrina’s torrents have swallowed our homes.

Prides of warriors wade rivers of blood  
                and Darfur bullets tear into our chests.
        Nuclear Toys ‘R Us shelves are fully stocked.

We are the heirs of each triumph and treachery.
                We grasp the keys to tomorrow.
        What have we done? What must we do?

Factory Frog

A frog of the Greatest Generation,
Rosie fastened skins to the planes -
all the while ceaslessly chattering.
All of the other factory frogs
covered their ears or plugged them
since none could abide the endless pattering
of Rosie the Ribbiter.

Basketball Frog

Few frogs try their hands(?) at basketball
but Kermit (Z. Phrogg not D.Frog)                  
gave it the old college try.
He wanted to play like his hero Alcindor
before or after his name change.
But never managed to loft the ball
o'er the edge of the basket's rim
so he finally gave it up and sang,
'It's not easy being Kareem.'

For all the Cane Toads in Australia*
*To the tune of Froggy Went a'Courtin.

Toady went a'courtin' he did ride, Hmmm.
Toady went a'courtin' he did ride, Hmmm.
A toady went a'courtin' he did ride
A road **** honey for his bride Hmmm, Hmmm.

She said, 'Please Mr. Toady won't you bury me, Hmmm?
Oh please Mr. Toady won't you bury me, Hmmm.
Please Mr. Toady won't you bury me?
Said he,  'Not now, Honey I'm in ecstasy, Hmmm, Hmmm.

*January, 2007

The sign said.
"Heisenberg may have slept here"
so we'll never know.

Was he never here
or was he here and failed to sleep?
Perhaps he slipped in the back
to saw some zzz's on the couch.

We'll never know for sure.
As soon as we think we spotted him,
the screen fades to black!

for Mark Richards

It was a spur of the moment thing -    
     One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.  

So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,  
     We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.

Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
      While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.

Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot    
     Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.

In years past Mark had captained the Health works    
     For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.

So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies    
    In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.

Robert Charles Howard

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


­
February, 2007

(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

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

When it's all on the line,
our finest step up to hold it,

They secure that line on the ground
on the seas and in the air.

It is a life of service, risk and sacrifice
and not all return to their grateful nation.

For those who leave us,
we offer prayers of devine passage.

For those who return, whole or damaged,
no magnitude of honor can ever suffice.

Today is their banner day as are
all days from now to eternity.

America thanks you and remembers you,
now and forever.

at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois

White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.

Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.

All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.

Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.

February, 2007

She sang softly as she swept
     Broken glass and dust
From her bomb-littered sill.

It was the song of her people
     Rising and enduring -
Singing of brotherhood and liberty.

Throngs huddled underground
     Sheltering from explosions above
Broke into the great Ukraini song of love.

The world knows this is your land,
     Your Motherland your Fatherland -
Your daughter land, your nephew land.

Sing on Ukraini, together forever!
     Sing songs of your parents, your children
Your doctors, teachers, bus drivers .
     Tailors, mechanics, dancers!
Sing on policemen, clerks, shopkeepers
     Factory workers, farmers and actors!

Sing the music of your
     Rivers, forests and rolling hills.
Your ancestors, and your grandchildren
     Sing full voice by your side.
The world sings with you –
    cheering you on to victory.
Soon the sounds of ringing bells
     Will echo from every street and valley
And freedom and glory will once again reign.

Slava Ukraini!
     Slava Ukraini!
          Slava Ukraini!

Robert Charles Howard

An orange-rose halo suffused
    the eastern horizon
like the birth of a fresh new world.

Our celestial furnace, still veiled
    beyond the eastern edge,
lent its glow to the bright silver disk
    still hovering in the western sky.

In the chill still of an autumn morn
    where yesterday greets tomorrow,
a sermon wrought of science and spirit
    whispered through the aether,

        "All is hope.
            All is promise.
                All is awakening,"

On a tranquil spring morning
     after the gold-washed rising sun
had yielded to the glow of an azure sky,

     the western peaks crept into view -
their crystaline white-capped peaks
     frosted by a nocturnal snow shower.

While the valley gently awakened,
     a frenetic dance swirled on the heights
choreographed by turbulent winds.

     Billowing clouds gathered like dervishes
whirling violently in a ritual tempest -
     hurling frigid sprays into the dawning sky

Down in the valley, the warming sun
     calmly consumed the remaining flakes  -
while battle raged on the peaks, unabated.

April, 2020

Jack Frost's icy breath
works its crystal handiwork -
puddles into glass.

*November, 2013

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

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 brittle icy blasts.
Where do we go for shelter?
    Where can we turn for hope
on the longest night of the year?

So we do as our ancestors have before us;
     building shelters of rock and wood.
We make our fires for warmth
     against the cold winter drafts-
on the coldest nights of the year.

Thus we live as our ancestors have before us,
    singing glad songs of love and peace.
and sound our merry bells of hope.

*© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard