"silhouetted" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
The truest bliss you impart upon me
sends a shiver down each column of my spine,
etching track marks over all my body,
a drug no-one can perfect or refine.
Your visage leaves lightning bolts on my eyes
and a heart palpitating in my chest.
Your body silhouetted in night skies
melts my deepest poetry to mere jest.
When we touch, it smashes my composure
into oblivion and far beyond.
When we lock eyes, I'm chilled from exposure
but for certain, only I feel this bond.
Although I strive for a day we would meet,
with the others, I could never compete.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Paints of dark twilight hues,
Slathered across in blunt strokes.
Blend with deft hands,
Cajole gently with jabs and pokes.
Backdrop begging for a few others.
Longing to hold in infinite embrace.
Friends of earth and midnight sky.
Worthy of a doe-eyed lovers' gaze.
Cascading moonbeam...
Drenching all in silvery white.
Restless twinkling stars...
Singing their mismatched might.
Silhouetted landscape as horizon,
Darkened oils of plateaued ridges.
Finest brush could only manage,
To close the gap, I build bridges.
Nearing completion, this stint on canvas.
Nuances of dawn for what I've begun,
Usher the arrival of a brand new day.
All I need now is a few drops of sun.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Street lamps play
As they have before
Dim walkway
Leading to a door
Careful steps
Strewn leaves
Breathe between gaps
Skulking like thieves
Rustling trees
Otherwise nothing
Mind at ease
Heart rapidly beating
Usually stops here
Usually I'd stir
But still in slumber
I drew closer
Eyes on door
Familiar scene
Stood here before
This dream I've been
Up the patio
Door was ajar
Accompanied by my shadow
Stretched far
Tunnel vision
Dripping eave
Door handle beckons
Hand raised to receive
Usually stops here
Usually I'd rouse
Allowed to enter
This time... This house
Handle I seize
Door seemed light
It did not freeze
Hinges did not fight
Revealed the insides
Scanned surroundings
Unlit lights
Stairs climbing
Footsteps I heard
Coming my way
Sounds absurd
But yet I stay
Usually stops here
Usually dream is done
But still was clear
It only had begun
Darkened figure
Descending on bare feet
Beauty light as feather
Ever did I meet
She did not see me
Planted at the doorway
Impossible it may be
Nothing did she say
Walked right by
My eyes followed
Seconds fly
In eternity they burrowed
Usually stops here
Usually I'd wake
Yet still I'm here
Chance I'd take
Stood at the fridge
Back towards me
Under siege
My mind set a flurry
Fridge was opened
Light casted her silhouette
Her back darkened
Curiosity grew fat
Illuminating beams
Accentuated her hair
Like golden streams
Flowing with flair
Usually stops here
Usually I'd startle
Connection did not sever
Continue I was able
Spellbound I gawked
Rooted like a tree
Wide-eyed I stalked
This siren before me
She drank
Not knowing I was there
Stiff as a plank
I was locked in a stare
Finally broke free
Shifted my weight
She turned to me
And then said...
Then it ceased
Then I awaken
Surprisingly pleased
Slice of heaven
Who was she?
Silhouetted face
Perpetually...
Mysterious grace
Foreign albeit familiar
Strange but true
Now rings clear...
It is you...
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
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
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Music provides a blanket of background noise,
As you sit, in a velveteen chair, legs parted, hands on your knees,
I stand between them, silhouetted against flashing gold lights,
I stare down into your upturned face & slowly begin to undress.
Piece by piece my clothing drops to the floor at your feet,
Pooling around my clear, stiletto heels.
Your eyes too drop down, lingering on my *******
My skin, soft & sun kissed, shimmers golden in the soft light.
I turn slowly, allowing every curve of my body to be illuminated,
The arch of my back, the contour of my hip & the arc of my buttocks
Your eyes trace down my thighs, now spread & back up,
As I bend, & reveal my inner most secrets to you.
My sweet opening that promises so much pleasure,
Just inches from your lips & your tongue & your pleasure.
Slowly I slide to my knees, down on all fours, face to the floor,
Inviting you to enter me, visually, take me with your eyes,
I turn to meet your groin & I watch with interest,
As I play with my ****** at the stirring that may come.
I rise up instead, to my knees, cupping my ******* blowing,
On my now ***** ******* & my eyes reach yours,
And time & space hold for us, as we join together, for a second,
Before I lean in, my breath on your cheek & I whisper,
That's £20 please.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Moonlit sadness
Silhouetted madness
Hollowed out bones
Marrow on the floor
Blood soaked sheets
Rotted flesh beneath
Shaking fingers
Guilty hands
Breathless lungs
Skies crowded with bodies hung
*How can any of us breathe
beneath this sky of subliminal madness?*
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
He thought that he had been evicted like a raucous Irishman, late once again on the rent, his belongings and furniture strewn on the lawn
His cold, deadly stare and ruffled red, said the same, with haughty indignation written all over him
As could be expected with any eviction, belongings strewn to the street, it started to rain; large splattering drops falling from the sky with an audible impact, adding insult to the injury
But he was just a child, set free and off to learn on his own, his perch and roost along with his chair, moved to his new home
He had outgrown the large screen porch, which was such a ridiculous place for an Owl anyway
Wood and glen gone, surrounded by girder and screen, locked into the realm of old peoples coffee and cigarettes
Tucked up into the eaves ignominiously, or sitting on the lamp, grooming flesh from his over large and taloned feet
He would sit silhouetted by the dim red glow of the bulb, relaxing, until a noise would spin his head and he would become hooded and glaring death
The lamp added a glow to his eyes, which already burned with a raptors fire and he would become the personification of evil to the world of prey
Low and crouched, wings slightly spread; he would become the terrifying story that small warm animals tell their children at night to keep them in line and safe
But now he has been moved outside and all of his familiar belongings with him, or most anyways
Now he perches outside, either on the rough, twisted branches near his roost, or his favorite chair, and contemplates late into the night
But it seems that he prefers the comfort of his living room and he rests on the arm of the chair, quiet and pensive in the still and humid darkness
He stares at me while I smoke; the white plumes drifting like iridescent fog into the moonlight, while I observe him from his former home, illuminated by the dim lamp light
His saffron eyes gleam in the darkness, his dark form robed in that of the raptor, wings held down, with the tips outstretched like fingers
He stares at the lamp, standing like a pedestal against the wall and I wonder to myself
Does he want his ****** lamp moved out there too?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
I see the beauty in a palm‑sized tomato
growing afloat on Inle Lake—
the one-legged fisherman
silhouetted, perilous
against his wooden boat,
against the slow-setting sun.
Thin echoes of beauty linger:
hundred-year ruins, temples, stupas
standing with pride,
The culture of longyi
worn with quiet delight.
I took the train that loops
through buildings, markets, houses, plantations—
a city, a country
shadowed by a darkness
yet to reckon with its genocide.
The cries rise, unacknowledged.
“Mingalaba,” says a Burmese lady,
her face painted with thanaka,
the ground bark a pale mask
in the sun’s scorching glare.
She sits near Dyamayanggi Temple,
a basket of snacks at her side,
offering them with a smile.
Joy comes chasing the sunset
in the land of a thousand pagodas.
A mystical climb,
a striking landscape.
I breathe, feel, wish to stay longer,
soaked in twilight.
For a fleeting moment,
with eyes closed,
I drown in the colours
of the golden sky.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin nearly transparent veneer.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths from the toil of many years,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose,
And guard cow catcher.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s made,
Out Oklahoma way.
And he would know,
He cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocketknife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Pluck silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touches of tenderness.
I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Black crows circling wildly
Above trees silhouetted
Beneath darken skies
Swirling clouds, towering
Static charged excitement
Ripples cross the air
A wave of heat blown
Across the ground,
By a dry breath, of
Unseasonable wind
Bending saplings to
Kiss dusty, dry earth
Time stands still poised
Restless, wild world
Waiting
For Odin’s hammer
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
He saw her through the tower window.
Silhouetted by candle light
Her beauty quite breath taking
On this cold November night
High above the tree tops
Imprisoned in the stone
She was far too pretty
To be trapped up there alone
So he fought his way to the top
This damsel deserved his best
He slaughtered the mighty dragon
Blood smeared across his chest
He made his way to the door
And found to his surprise
He could not break it down
Because she barricaded the inside
A scream from the room
You fool she hissed and said
I want to be here by myself
And now my pet is dead!
You ruined my castle
With your disgusting little plight
I am no damsel in distress
And you sir
Are no ******* knight!
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
I look again upon the sky as I have done so many times before.
To see the change of natures' palette as sun sinks beyond horizon's floor.
The blue of daytime sky and the wisps of white and mottled gray,
give-way to golden inlaid mauve upon red curtain as amber fades away.
Hues of golden yellow that were present short moments before,
now lost beyond the silhouetted landscape as if cast to distant shore.
Flame upon the heavens, cloud lit as if scattered, precious jewels.
Colours of natures palette so vibrant, disobeying all artistic rules.
silhouettes of birds in flight etched in black upon the fading light,
All traversing in rapid beat of wing, to seek shelter from the night.
Trees and distant vistas mere shadows where sun did slide away,
as palette welcomes the new nighttime bidding farewell to passing day.
Aug 16, 2022
Aug 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
Death proposed to me last night
We met
In a field of branwen
Not a soul in sight
Just them
Silhouetted in shadows and sorrows
Within the murky black night
Death proposed to me last night
they kissed my hand
And asked if I
Would like to be
their lovely bride
Death proposed to me last night
I intertwined
their hand in mine
As I rapturously whispered
Yes
I will be your wife
Death proposed to me last night
they pulled me close
And wrapped their cloak
Of sadness and sorrows
Around us both
And while the cloak
Fought the chill from my bones
We walked
Hand and hand
Soul and soul
Over the threshold
Into the unknown
Jun 8, 2022
Jun 8, 2022 at 9:39 PM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
Walking out 'upon-the-grass,'
found myself a-lone.
Roses, trees, the walking paths,
a second sort of home.
How did,
how did I...
How did I get this way?
*People in the park at night,
find themselves a-lone.
People in the park at night,
wandering, -no home.
Silhouetted moving shades,
invisible by day.
People in the park at night,
-not people now they say.
and they,
they are...
-just wandering away,
-wandering away.*
Laying up against the Oak,
Father I am home.
Open skies, see stars amass,
I am not a-lone?
Why was this my destined path?
How did I get this way?
*People in the park at night,
they are not a-lone.
People in the park at night,
WAN-DER-ING BUT HOME.
Silhouetted moving shades,
invisible by day.
People in the park at night,
-not people now they say!
PEOPLE IN THE PARK AT NIGHT,
lost along the way.
SLEEPING IN THE PARK TO-NIGHT,
crumbling; they fray.*
Lord why?
why are things...
why are things...
Why are things this way?
Falling from this life at last,
found I'm not alone?
Jesus came to see me pass,
said
"Nev-ver were you a-lone."
*People in the park at night,
see themselves a-lone.
People in the park to-night,
not wandering but home...*
Never are they alone.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
the sun has that certain haze
as if it were the dead of Summer
and heat radiated through the air
but
this is a tease a reminder of those days
because indeed the air is fresh
and sharp as it should be in Winter
at the seaside a roaring song and dance
those distant waves appear as a range
the ridges of a desert mountain top
and
silhouetted at depths with the vibrance
of sunset hues bringing shade to the wild
while preparing for the cool of night
the reflections are shorter now
and I lose sight of that glowing orb
as far off clouds take shape to dip
then
colors shift to violet, navy and maroon
leaving a bruise to bumps in the night
and dream of an August day by the sea
Jan 21, 2022
Jan 21, 2022 at 9:40 PM UTC
Blue is the color of the dragon-winged girl,
The color of the girl whose life was lost.
Blue is the color of the deity girl,
The color of the one who wouldn't pay the cost.
Teal is the color of the water-loving girl,
The girl who lead into a new world.
Teal is the color of the frightened-eyed girl,
The girl who into a new life was hurled.
Grey is the color of the logical girl,
The color of the girl who teaches demons how to love.
Grey is the color of the snake-tongued girl,
The color of the boy who thought he was above.
Green is the color of the story-telling girl,
The color of her brother who would fight and **** to own.
Green is the color of the blind and mute child,
The color of those who may have yet to be known.
Orange is the color of the reckless girl,
The color of the girl filled by desire,
Orange is the color of the samurai man,
The color of the man filled with fire.
Red is the color of the five-fold girl,
The color of the demon at the core.
Red is the color of the half-vampire,
The color of the one who wanted more.
Purple is the color of the plaid-skirted girl,
The color of the feral demon child.
Purple is the color of the girl who lived in the sky,
The color of the eyes that watch the wild.
White is the color of the once-afraid man,
The color of the child who never got to have a say.
White is the color of the defender in the skies,
The color of the one who took her own life away.
Black is the color of the white-pawed cat,
The color of the girl who shows one their mind.
Black is the color of the silhouetted man,
The color of the world they left behind.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
There was a Truth
in murk-settled water.
I'll sit at the surface
and remember past wrongs.
Stirred lake was below us,
the eels and a catfish,
but towered above
the sun shone down warm.
A dead masquerade,
you kicked for the surface.
Your body, it rippled
a silhouetted sky.
Dead hum underwater
our eyelids were liquid.
My jellyfish back
absorbed the tanned rays.
Ingest your diffraction,
a hunger astray.
A dry-land discov'ry:
it was my legs aflame.
The murk was in you.
The murk was in you.
Dear God, I was clean.
Dear God, I was clean.
A seat at the table
to pray for the lake.
But what does it matter?
Wash my hands to eat.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
The first half light crescent sneaked out
catching a glimpse of you glinting
exuberant on the pitch dark
edge of the other side of the pool
wrapped in pure kohl.
Time and again matching the vision
it waxes into the full moon.
Awake all night in the serene shadow
down the blinded silhouetted earth.
I can see out off its calm lock
a firefly flies out and maybe afar
but that view might not miss no star.
But does even the moon see the tuberose
blooms in dark earth deep down the kohl?
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC
chasing down those clouds
in penetrating light
rode to the bridge
sun had set
pink and gold patterns
on the river
The man at the water plant
leaning on the railing
glanced down the river.
above the silhouetted hills
below the salmon gilded clouds
a patch of blue
no longer blue
but the color of the turquiose ring
on my bike tires
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
A winters stare,
Beautifully resonates in the air,
A clear sky, a frozen pitch,
I wonder if the beauty,
will last more than a few minutes,
The snapping of a twig,
which was once part of the untouched view,
A graceful swan as muted as I am in awe,
Gliding by,
Looking over by the hill,
The mist breathing through the grass,
as I pause once more,
The grandest of oaks, silhouetted by the rising sun,
Grips me to the core,
Only in England…
Say no more.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Lady you stand at the end
Where entrance meets daylight
Under the red brick archway
Between the buildings,
A white cap hides your hair
And the Dutch costume
Is of yesterday.
Silhouetted in geometry
Your profile senses thought
Far out in the distance
Where hopes and dreams reside.
You are as ancient as humanity
Womenkind contemplating
Their singularity,
Waiting for time
To eclipse this solitude.
Love Mary
From Pieter De ***** The Courtyard Painting
National Gallery London.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
Eyes of the stars are
on the wings of the fireflies.
Guess who is marching
in the moonlit night?
The moon rows down
on to the river.
Has the Huri squeezed
out of the gem packed
tight door of paradise?
Basked out on the gripping
bank of the Sal Sabila River,
only to spill a heady perfume
drop down on the stunned
awestruck silhouetted night?
The eve has long gone far
to wear a khol of this
mesmeric shady contour!
No one, not even you
will want to miss the peak.
Where it all begins with
the tuberoses riding the wind.
Aug 5, 2021
Aug 5, 2021 at 6:04 PM UTC