Audrey Howitt Poetry, Alive and Well

April Afternoons

2022-05-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

MorgueFile by GaborfromHungary

wait, spring will find you

look for emergent grubs under the underbrush

when newly hatched birds

are hungriest

or motes that dance on

pale afternoon light

through slanted windows

its warmth teaches

glimmering seedlings to push

through dirt and claim their spot

advancing spring claims its horizon

shadows thicken

the gloaming finds us both

in its gentled hand

a tinkle of glasses marks a win at cards

The Calendar Game

2022-03-27T12:02:00.006-07:00

MorgueFile by forghis

in the end, the smallest actions
count the most
a slow drip of persistence
a container to catch it
hold its freshness

how should I count these days
so long in passing
as they slide into each other
knocking each one onto its backside,

this plague will be with us for years
reflected in daily case and death counts
roll the dice--

advance or not--

it is a game best played sober
or so the rules say,
laminated on mustard-yellow paper
parked under a refrigerator magnet
to avoid destruction in this life or the next
laminate is a 500-or-more-year thing

Time Loses Substance

2022-02-13T10:46:00.002-08:00

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

we leave shutters open in fear

that inner storms won’t pass easily.

rooting. pinned in chairs.

day five or seven, it doesn’t matter.

blinding each other in battles of syllables

crusted with yesterday’s hates and today’s small uncertainties,

decorating cakes in pained pastels.

better to butter your bread

singe tea,

collapse inside yourself

on this dusky morning.

sew lips closed

as shutters clack against painted clapboard

and we measure out planned vacancies.

Miles to Go

2022-01-30T09:46:00.003-08:00

Morguefile: Alin

When this is done

I will lay you here

in that thin line

between earth and air

I will stop crying--

eyes will have dammed themselves

behind sloughs and marsh lands

where sanctuary now resides

When this is done

I will know who I am

and where my feet are

And if I am lucky

I will lie down with you

your laugh, fast and hard

behind my eyes.

Do Strawberries Contain the Meaning of Life?

2021-08-15T10:06:00.005-07:00

Image by Pezibear from Pixabay

I wanted to forget how to feel,

unreeling old celluloid 64 mm

on sheets in memory

a perfect day by a stream

this two-year-old with hair so blond

it disappeared in the sun

bounced on his lap

cigarette hanging from his lips

Brylcreem shine on curls I would inherit

wind pulled ash from his face

into tinkling water

patched lives can look like anything

even a strawberry offered on a summer day

Posted to Poets and Storytellers

small kindnesses

2021-07-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

Morguefile

ttronslien

I turn and watch
see the face beside me
engaged in frustration
pulling out the correct amount
for coffee
her four-year-old pulling at her jacket
distraction is the flavor of the day

she searches for a penny or a nickel or something
torn between two worlds

my five is ready
I place it on the counter quickly
just to see her eyes change
to see the person underneath

startled, she reveals just a bit
all in her eyes

copyright/all rights reserved 2021

Cantos For the Dead

2021-03-12T09:30:00.004-08:00

Wikimedia Art Commons

La verdadera sonrisa del agua", de Héctor Valdivia. acrílico s/masonite 2014 colección particular

My garden feasts upon detritus

left behind.

outcasts mold their companions

from fractured bones and algae

to walk among the dead,

their dreams a foretelling
of sunsets decried
by voices blistered.

growing roots through trees,
birds flutter, wings made of glass,
songs muted on pan pipe drifts.

Were it not so quiet,
i would build fences,
but the dead seldom speak,
they are busy with each other.

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

The Unsure Path

2021-03-12T07:59:00.002-08:00

The Morguefile

by Remaa

forgotten words kindle embers

that no longer find me

in night's inky coolness

now I set my heart aside
wait for you to find yourself here

an icon breathing prayer
near my veins

filtering
each beat of you,
your eyes knowing me
and the child

gathering inside you each day

the coins I use to barter for life

have found their way into your pocket

are we not all one

my mama always said

spend wisely

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Escape

2021-02-23T07:19:00.000-08:00

The Morguefile

thesuccess

open the pantry door sister

go ahead, make a decision

open or closed

it's all the same to me

little to teethe on
some dry crust
a couple of dented cans you shouldn't touch
best by dates ten months gone now.

does flour last forever?
I hear the weevils get it

when you leave it alone too long.

can I make an independence cake
out of what is left?

Lord knows I need one.

recipes tell me I need a quart of brandy and twenty pounds of flour
the rest is just for fun.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2021

Brailled Maps

2021-02-14T09:02:00.003-08:00

Morguefile

GaborfromHungary

hope is a river in the dark
heard but not seen,

moving on its own
binding skin to muscle.

one foot, then another
shedding sadness, like
too many clothes in summer’s heat

dripping off the depth of cuts
left by those who inflict booming cruelty.

the trickle an echo swallowed
beneath thought’s closed book.

Posted to Poets and Storytellers United Pantry

A Lesson in Futility

2021-02-07T07:23:00.001-08:00

Morguefile

GaborFromHungary

damp thickens
throwing roots
through febrile air
destined for vacuous couplets,
a shared cocktail as they tender thoughts

of what could have been
had ears taken the place of mouths

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2021

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Vessel

2021-01-23T18:18:00.002-08:00

like syrup, it pours out
into rocked creek bed,
soothing edges left raw
by dogged news cycles

breath falls open,
the body’s currency
freely afloat in tender trade
seeking safe harbor.

each refuge marks a deeper map,
an oasis founded on currents of air

a pilgrimage to spaces between,
unfold pressed thoughts
fluttered into place
where petaled flowers
need no light.

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Morguefile

3rd world man

Leavings

2021-01-15T07:20:00.002-08:00

Morguefile

Gleangenie

when your words ended
I sat still trying to absorb them
as they flew past me on the breeze
you created

when you slammed the door
on your way out

Posted for poets and storytellers united

Balm

2021-01-03T08:30:00.004-08:00

Morguefile

Gleangenie

It’s time.
Put down your guns,
your anger.
In this time of death neither helps.
Dominoes fall one by one
until they become a sea
washing up on an empty shore

It’s time.
Handle each with care,
wash away the hard breaths
that fill the end
tears are warm.
Help them remember,
one hand on another

It’s time.
Let them go,
the wind will carry
all we need.
Bind wounds,
remember our job
is to care for each other.

I have just started writing again after a long absence. May we all find peace and healing this year.

Posted for poets and storytellers united

Stay safe everyone

July 4, 2020

2020-08-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

we normally barbecue burgers
let potato salad wilt in afternoon heat
spit watermelon seeds against oak trees
raise flags, drink iced tea and warm beer
as dusk draws down
into purple, and then black
punctuated with shimmered light

but this year
hollowed out,
we pick ourselves up

read these words

and hold them to the light

we lost our way
have allowed this destruction of life

he bends justice watching it break
binds judges to his will

muffling justice’s voice

abdicates responsibility

abandons us without protection

sacrificial lambs to his economy

pummels, incites, excites division

stroking, always stroking

his fragile ego

a death clock ticks

130,000 dead and counting

now is the time
end this long train
of abuses
of tears
of death

signed,
The Founding Framers

Posted to Poets and Storytellers Pantry

Note: On July 4 this year, I sat down to read the Declaration of Independence and was struck by its language. This piece grew out of and tracks that language.

In Absentia

2020-07-12T13:51:00.002-07:00

Morgue File

Seanrwatson

I left you standing by a dock

In a harbor blown by winds

I can’t know or name

It seemed fitting

to watch your back against the tide

to know that its muscles, its skin

its granular language

was the syntax pulling me apart

liquid language lost

leaving tattooed fragments behind

I watch that back fall into me

one last time

as the tide goes out

pulling at skin

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Lost

2020-06-21T13:20:00.004-07:00

small gods litter the cryptic landscape
their dreams washed clean
in black and white pictures
we keep on the refrigerator
to remind us of better times
when we could find our way home

their gray shades park benches
during summer's heat
their refuse an opaque heaven
purchased with the skin of small drums
kept for violent dances

bend down
pick up a piece of paper
left behind
see if your name is inside

if you tilt it just so
you'll see the litany of saints
pray for us
deliver us
recycle us

energy meets energy
as gods dance

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2020

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Candyland Revisited

2020-06-07T13:10:00.000-07:00

Morguefile

quicksandala

gingerbread houses line candy apple streets

where caramel people

go to work in houses

owned by meringues

who live under plastic wrap

for protection

never really comprehending

that moments collide

without warning

sluicing out the chaff

Countdown

2020-05-17T14:21:00.003-07:00

MorgueFile

eyecatch7

for every good day

there is at least one

when the toads don’t sing

for everyday that my joints don’t ache

there are 100 when they do

I forget to count

I lose track

the gray matter behind my eyes

consumed elsewhere

in a series of control-alt-delete moments

Wallstreet, Penn Ave

shitstorms fly

while I look for a mitzvah

paid for in grace

on small streets

the music stops

I grab a chair

all I know to do,

is one thing at a time.

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

Fever Dreams

2020-03-15T07:13:00.001-07:00

Morguefile

by Hotblack

the despair that grows in me
does so quietly
buckling down,
nailing in nails,
wrapped in a kind of permanence
that I hate to think about.

it is seldom seen,
preferring
to send up shoots
in the panicked dreams
of my 3 a.m. self,
whose subconscious seems
best resigned to such things.

it rises,
bilious, seeking the night
etching window's glass
which only seeks the night.

I lay my cheek against its coolness
and wonder whether
it has the peace I seek.

it is only a moment.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2020

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

A Wise Woman Writes a Survival Manual

2020-02-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

Morgue File

by Ken Brasier

I do what I can,

whip white horses into froth

to line a horizon

pull at bone layers

to make spit out of fire

fill you with anguish at death

and laughter at night

push out babies when the dying is done

and the living need to go on.

I dance under the moon

make sigils from wind

and push my words to edges

without falling off.

No treaty enforcement exists in the wild grasses

to bring you with me.

You will do what you can.

Notes of Love Lost

2020-01-12T13:30:00.002-08:00

the story of us
is written on notes
that now lie on a table
across from me

I closed the door on empty
finding my way back
with paper torn from abandoned books

their words sweeping me aside
pulling at my feet

I gathered them up
brought them home
lay them out before me

if I rearrange them
would we still be here?

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2020

Posted for Poets and Storytellers United

A Healing Wire

2019-12-15T12:27:00.000-08:00

cells bring their own happiness
jounce until vibration becomes a foxtrot
or a jig itching to move
on a Saturday night

I watch you heal slowly
winter is an unkind time for debilitation
heat a balm in the snow

I fan out warm clothes
press back my hand
and walk with you in short bursts

we will find out more about dancing cells soon

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2019

Note: My dog, Logan, broke his ankle in September. This piece was drafted about 3 weeks ago as we were wondering whether he would need surgery after the casting process. He is doing fine now, and we are rehabbing that leg.

Posted for Poets United

The Silence of Lies

2019-11-24T09:09:00.000-08:00

I feel you leave
in the silence stamped
into the cracks of my kitchen tiles
by lies told and not

I cook with it,
this silence so alive
it flutters at the door
seeking to escape

I sit on the floor
wondering if you chew them
or swallow them whole

knowing they stick on the way down
when there are no tears left
to ease their way

the clock ticks
orchestrating time
as the door clicks
shut behind you

Copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2019

Posted for http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/11/pantry-of-poetry-and-prose-5.html

A Saturday Sentry

2019-11-10T12:35:00.001-08:00

Morgue File

by davidpwhelan

a heron stands
one-legged sentry
poised with watchful eye
the gate-keeper

fish tell him their stories
of young birthed in brine and mud
marsh golems
fins outstretched
toward an uncertain future

they pinch reality in the cheek
as tenacity bubbles in their water

warning of a retreating shore

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2019

posted for Poets United