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