"swaths" poems
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
Determined petals
Pierce the snow,
Refusing to wait.
Shades of violet,
Red, then yellow;
Mocking folded crepe paper,
On white marble floors
Advancing to overtake the scene;
An insurgent force,
So lithe, so pure.
Conquering in swaths,
With delicate bravado,
As if to challenge
The old mans icy grip,
While placating senses
Of the observant few;
Such a display
Of resistance,
To winter's rule
Now, slowly waning;
As the moments nigh,
But will return once again,
To defy a February's
Cruelty.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
Desired to be more attuned with idols
Their private lives gleaned from
Stills and moving images cutting swaths across
Skyscraping billboards, TV screens
The sides of passing buses
Subway cars headed deeper in,
Further in, beneath
Magazine spreads pulled out for
ad-hoc posters taped and tacked across
the plaster-sputtering suburban drywall paths
Like screams in arctic winds
Many, the young mean-spirited things
Wanting kinship with these enemies
Trying to plot a course to
**** diagonally-up across
their strident wildlife scenes
Attuned with idols riding their
phantom wavelengths with the
maverick assistance of Reds and
water-cut pints of irish whiskey
Then Father comes in proclaiming
to have saved our democracy on
the whim of a lever-pull upon
a municipal voting machine
No interruptions now please
I will direct the favors of my unborn
I am honed in on what really matters:
Hemingway hedonism.
Getting dead with generations
slinking in and out of frame
from before and after
me
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Usually
When I’m feeling down, I
bust out a box of colored pencils and
bust a vein on the paper.
But now
I dig through the box,
and I just can’t find those bright colors.
I assure myself that they’re there.
I know that they’re there.
I want
I need
I beg
for them to be there.
But the deeper I dig
The more I find
blackness, darkness, jet black ebony
murky, swarthy swaths of shadowy slate
perilous, pitiless pitch
somber, sober sable
I keep digging.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
COOL your heels on the rail of an observation car.
Let the engineer open her up for ninety miles an hour.
Take in the prairie right and left, rolling land and new hay crops, swaths of new hay laid in the sun.
A gray village flecks by and the horses hitched in front of the post-office never blink an eye.
A barnyard and fifteen Holstein cows, dabs of white on a black wall map, never blink an eye.
A signalman in a tower, the outpost of Kansas City, keeps his place at a window with the serenity of a bronze statue on a dark night when lovers pass whispering.
1.9k
The doors slid aside at Métro 1,
A interminable tube driven by an inhumane robot,
To take hundreds to their lovers, their homes, their offices.
A girl fantasying about her lover, A man scathe in love,
An old woman enamored with The Price of Salt,
facing the young man with a Kindle spirit.
A foreign girl with passion for the city,
slides through the crowd,
And an indigenous man wished he was somewhere else than here.
At the next stop a man bids a farewell kiss to her girlfriend.
And in comes a middle-aged couple,
Enters in with a hatred for one another.
I stood for my final stop,
the doors slid aside,
and I got down.
A couple of goodbye words to these swaths of strangers,
who color my dark life with smiles and tears.
"Farewell strangers, I shall meet you another day at another time."
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 6:29 PM UTC
Fire flies undulating in rhythm with staccato lightning flashes.
Campfires that have smoldered down into cinders and ashes.
Scintillating swaths of planets and stars that illuminate the night sky.
In my moment of time these sights and more have brought you to mind.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
what if i just was?
when you zone out, where do you go?
if you look at anything long enough it turns into exactly what you were looking for.
i am looking for nowhere.
hiding in what was.
i want to be in between the lines of my childhood memories,
in between the folds of time
in the solid swaths of color
huffing on emotional echoes.
i want to be in the stills from a movie, but not the running film.
where do ditzy people go when they ditz?
i want to live in the moment before you wake up, when you nuzzle into the void between consciousness and unconsciousness
the in between inhale and exhale
how do i know what words to let out of my
brain
mouth
?
who is the author of my thoughts?
what is making me write this?
i want to be mad
delirious
just be.
i am.
its okay.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
I am late, flying the long detour
blocked my usual path this morning
another scaffolding
rising to grab a pack of the sky
entering the building for work
I see a thousand blinding lights
each emblazoned
with many shades and colours
of the same words
'I want' 'Give me' 'Done yet?'
'Deadline'
'Give me' 'Give me' 'Talk to me'
echoing many times over
I cowered into my cabin
crawling into the cave
dug in through the wall
and hung upside down
like a bat
this is a yogic pose
mindfulness meditation
I'm seeking out solace
when did the week end?
Swaths of air answered
in a language of hushed silence,
spat down by a giant Catherine wheel
hung from the roof.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars
awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir
August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable
reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars
each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories
these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look
it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…
August 1
2020
noon
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
For the last five hundred years, posh “society,” is where the wealthiest and most influential people in the world mingled, inter-married and conducted business. If you’ve ever watched “Downton Abbey”, “The Gilded Age” or even “Crazy Rich Asians” you’ll know what I mean.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs - a psychological pyramid that describes human fulfillment - states that part of our human nature (once your basic needs are met) is the desire to attain social position. Having mere wealth is just not enough once you are in the top levels of achievement.
In the 1970’s Arab money started pouring into the west. Arab petro-dollars bought swaths of land in the UK, in London and New York. The Arabs dazzled everyone with their wealth and bling but they never penetrated posh society.
Then in the 90s the second, Asian wave, of new wealth washed eastward and they had a bit more success in society. But starting about 20 years after the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians started coming to the west with new money to invest - in the UK, in particular.
Russia became the billionaire capital of the world, oligarchs were everywhere buying anything not nailed down and eventually trying to insinuate themselves into posh “society”. Tatler (THE magazine of society) even began publishing a Russian version. If you were a wealthy Russian, you were moving up. By 2022, they weren’t too far from the edge of REAL success.
That’s what evaporated three weeks ago - with the invasion of Ukraine - Russia’s luxury infrastructure and their hopes of acceptance into posh society. Gucci, Chanel, Hermès, Dior, Apple and Tatler (just to name a few luxury brands) have left Russia to rot. If you’re Russian now, the chances of being admitted into posh society are gone for the next 20 years - at least.
You may say “so what?” Well, one way a dictator holds onto power is through mercantile largess. The granting of rights within the Russian sphere of influence - to control and distribute goods and services - is how oligarchs are created. The support of these oligarchs is important and transactional.
A man with a 100-million dollar yacht - looking at what chunks of their wealth may well be confiscated in the west - or lost to the Ruble’s collapse - could easily offer life-changing wealth to any henchman willing to end Putin one way or another.
Will this happen? I don’t know. But this is the system they’ve set up for themselves.
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 4:12 PM UTC
let me remind you:
know that i am the scream
i am the protest
i am the revolution
i am the awakening
of every black leader
every protester
every revolutionist
every poet
every writer
that has breathed and lived and paved paths
and immortalized and cut scathing with their art
that has cut swaths through rivers
that have tunneled through caves
that have smeared wet earth on their faces
that have picked through the foliage on mountains
know that i am every woman who has bled for her child
know that i am every foreign tongue that has unbound us
know that i am every unshackled and raised fist
know that i am a woman
know that i am a black woman
i am every black queen
i am not a display
i am not an object
i am not something to be coveted
you have no right to salivate over me
you have no right to stitch lust into my skin
you have no right
let me remind you:
i am a black woman
soft, wild, and free
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
Round and round the black tape went,
Swaths of it came, and left unbent,
Around my wrists, and around his mouth,
From back to front, from north to south...
Round and round the tape unfurled
Spinning and spitting, his lips- they curled!
Sneering and snickering, bitterly he yelled,
"What good is a God who's secrets don't tell?"
While mourning and weeping in this valley of tears,
His mighty hands shook with them ancient fears,
Tongue wet with wine, lips dry in stutter,
He buckled his knees with all faith he could muster...
While he, the mournful jeerer lost,
Quickly towards the garden rushed,
As darkness, nearer and nearer, hushed,
Left him to ponder its cost.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.
Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.
That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
March Sunshine
Reticent ray
Dappling forest floor.
Like a long-lost friend
Returning warily, without warning.
It settles on the clotted soil,
Surprising earth and creature alike.
The demure caller is not answered in kind.
Towering trees bully their way into the shaft of sparkling sun,
Cutting swaths of shade, denying warmth to others.
Perhaps they’ve earned the right to lead the parade
From darkness to light,
Weathering untold seasons’ bite and blast.
Sprightly squirrel and brash blue jay,
Scramble, Soar,
Clamor to be noticed;
Boldly demand the proffered gift.
Plants arch their backs, stretch, and yawn;
Crowd upward, seeking a draught of the milky warmth.
Not content to go without.
Soft-green infant cedars
Sway in the benign breeze,
Usher in the honored guest with jubilant dance.
Do those who dwell below
Hear the primal prompting:
“Wake, ready yourself!”
Before they crawl to the surface
To bask in the message of hope warmth brings,
And join the impending, riotous celebration?
Sunshine in March,
Fragile promise,
Beacon of spring.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Swaths of color
bring subjective representations
of objective correlative
puddles sit
collecting in black retinal holes
becoming what we wish
or believe we know
creating ****
to break a never ending cycle
adonis, taken before her day
filth meticulously applied
to create an unknown class
an artifice
a ploy
aimed at degradation
filling broken vessels
drained of all that has been deemed important
now is as good as any moment
timeless all one and the same
spinning girl, the shepherdess
seen all as one
dissolving time and space
an altered aesthetic
flattening planes
all is over
and nothing has ever mattered in the end
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
snow and humidity flow wealth
deal slow spoken depart of evening dusk
geography gave its classic crowning achievement
banks of breeze
chrysanthemum, artemisia, dahlia profusion
teeming between vast favelas
undulating urban inscribed temple example
contributes to interlude
unafflicted infrastructure officially released
an array of agglomerations and organisms
fantasy spoke understanding
capacity to cope
innermost insulation in the valley
small lessons prepared immune defense
immense swaths of civilization plan
an accumulation of saplings
prestige expanding on the edges of periphery
trees rooted in tribal transformation
movement conceived by branches
an acquisition of blooms abounding
connectivity involving strategic placement, intuitive responses, orchestrated shift
combination of changes to communicate an aesthetic of nature
a perceptual intellectual engagement to negotiate the cumulative effect
the manner in which a sense seems to take shape
through elements overhead
sculpted mindset of synthesis
animates the dynamics
a characteristic
a reservoir of peace
paradise components
dazzling province
metropolis of permanence
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
Swallows dip and rise this morning brings
more than pennies treat for my two sense
Each grass blade swaths my skin
holding me barely off the ground
but nonetheless off of the Earth
A flying bird with hundreds of green feathers
closes his eyes as his soul sings
With the swallows
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
Purple-green Bug smug like a pug in a jug
flowing, glowing in lightening paths
Cutting iridescent swaths swirling in delight and show
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
If hope ever climbed up a slope so steep,
atop a peak that no man would dare go,
there it would find a sight certain to keep
the drive for life alive, however slow.
The hills below would roll and stroll, lazy
upon the lines of sky, puffed up with pride.
Their ridges, like bridges to heights hazy,
cut swaths in time, but at sunrise run, hide.
Light, pale light, of mother moon brings to light
on deep green grass, dust covered specs unloved.
Shadows cast weave in wind the weaklings plight,
to sit and stare at cliffs adrift above.
They sit affixed to ground and drown betwixt
the sounds below, night lights above, perplexed.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Sugar will never
be as sweet as that first taste
When we were young and wanton
Careless to the world
And that first sharp sickly trickle
From the fountain of youth
Stuck to our mouths
With far more haste
Than the honey we were spoon fed
As infants wrapped in milky swaths
Waiting for this exciting new world
to swallow our cries
And then sugar's grit opened our eyes
From the inherited blindness
Of a world without sight
And we saw the sadness
This sweet song could bring
As it took our hearts and curled around
Restricting its melody
And submerging its sound
In a world more sour than we had imagined.
A world more weary than that fountain guaranteed
And now I hardly remember
When milk and honey
could taste so achingly sweet
I wish we could go back to that land
Before bitterness swallowed it
To lay waste beneath
In a tangle of fears
and wants
and slowly rotting teeth.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
i
i wrote myself a note yesterday
i have never wrote myself a note actually
that is a lie
it said..
it is ok to lie to others
but not to one´s self..
(and watch them for they
are a bunch of no-goods..!)
this proved excellent advise
which i never gave to anyone
(let alone myself)
and put it on the fridge..
one would soon become confused..
two we had no fridge
three one lie leads to two
and so on..
soon enough-
bad things might occur
not known the difference
between fact and fiction..
ii
i have a job telling truths
it is our job
(not bob)
but when they accrue
back to notes and lies
like i love you
do you love me
i do..
i hate you
i hate you too
(one on
the fridge door..)?
iii
i have lived nearly
all my adult life without
a fridge
well that is a lie-
but there were vast swaths
of time spent
fridge-less
as one gets older
it is hard to say what
the truth was
the lies
the notes..
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC