Mother's Voice on Season's Wind: Collected Poems by Henry Howard

By Henry Howard

Much of my writing, like much of the way I live and view the world, has been shaped by my mother. We were close enough to be part of each other's heartbeats, and when she died, on May 26, 2008, everything about her simply became part of me. We thought alike on every major subject, so this volume of poetry is both a tribute to, and a reflection of, everything she stood for and believed in. The poems are mine, but the voice is hers, speaking through my words. At the same time, the various sections accurately reflect the experiences, challenges, triumphs and losses that have made me the independent person I amalways shaped, at least in part, by my mother's influence. In this volume, you will read my words and hear my mothers voice on every seasons special wind, a calm and steadying voice on the endless winds of change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469175102

Henry Howard

Henry Howard is a native New Yorker, living in Los Angeles since 1986. I first became interested in a career in writing as an undergraduate at Hampshire College, at which a professor who became my mentor, brother and best friend during my student years first sensed my potential. He believed in me both as a human being and a budding writer, and I owe much of my passion for writing to him. I am a fiction writer and poet, and my work in both genres is linked by a commitment to human rights--and my belief in the power of words to make everyone on earth our neighbor and partner in building a better world.

Book preview

MOTHER’S VOICE ON SEASON’S WIND—Voices from the Natural World

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Mother’s Voice on Season’s Wind

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Gentle as the summer wind,

My mother’s voice floats to me

Through my window

Open to the world,

Curtains a-flutter as she hums a melody

Only I can hear.

Three summers now

Since she passed

In the stillness of the night,

But her voice lives on in every breath I take.

When August storms

Lash the meadow and the great pine forest,

Watering the flowers to grow tall and bright,

The thunder is the anger in her voice

At being taken from the world

Before her time.

October’s gray chill is softened

By new colors of red and gold,

And my mother’s voice

Is the laughter on the wind,

Swirling the leaves in dancing goblins

Round my welcoming feet.

When the year’s first snow tickles my cheek,

I hear my mother’s holiday songs

On winter gusts that silence the world

Beneath a downy blanket of white.

Every season brings its special wind,

And every wind is a special tune

My mother used to sing,

A song my heart can hear

On every breeze, in every joyous thing.

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A Primal Wind

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Four days and still the nor’easter

Cracked its cheeks

Beyond our Cape Cod retreat,

A primal creature that hurled itself

Against our straining door.

We made pancakes,

Gave each other hugs and back rubs,

Rejoicing in elemental things

The fury of the elements call to life.

Once, when the wind eased just a little,

We hustled our station wagon

To a lonely outpost

High above the boiling sea.

I remember the symphony

Of wind and water,

A strange harmony of gusts

Like a sigh of contentment

After cleansing love.

Flecks of white foam

And bits of seaweed like green jewels

Caressed our cheeks,

A splash of color that dared disturb

The universe of mottled gray.

The tempest’s passing slipped by unnoticed

In the dark hours,

Heralding the brightest dawn

Old-timers could recall.

In lemon-drop light,

Giant sunflowers turned black and golden faces

Toward the gift

Of rain-washed sky.

And in the yard of a grand new house,

An ancient willow tree lay upended

For all to touch, to scramble over, to ponder

The most familiar things,

Sculpted in a hundred new ways

By the unseen hands of a primal wind.

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Storm-Shine

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Black rain clouds tear asunder,

Rays of gold

Pierce dark curtains

To gentle the roiling sea beneath.

Is this fleeting kiss of light

Amid the turbulent shadows

A momentary gift

Of sunshine or storm-shine?

Of all the ways that nature shines,

Storm-shine is my favorite:

The final sunburst before surrender

To consuming darkness;

The jagged spears and flashes

That all too briefly pierce

The gray universe;

The soft glow of winter’s light

At a blizzard’s end,

When white winds at last relax

Their sculpting artistry of marshmallow drifts.

In a universe of chaos,

Storm-shine brings soothing order:

The menace of the dark and the comfort of light,

Surrender to turmoil and the triumph of peace,

Winds that shove and rage against the fragile body,

Blue skies that tease with glimpses of infinity

For the hungry soul.

Beyond the refuge of my home,

Scudding clouds ready waves of attack.

My windows rattle with distant thunder.

Above the horizon, lost in shadow,

A solitary diamond glows with bright defiance.

I turn my face and look for storm-shine.

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Heaven and Hell on Angels Landing

(Zion National Park, Utah, October 24, 2003)

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High upon the Angels Landing ridge,

I am a human spider on the wall of no return,

Crawling upwards,

Clawing upwards,

Inching ever so slowly upwards,

Reason reduced to instinct

Of one more step without misstep!

My legs kick out for the safety

Of sandstone blocks,

While I cling to steel chains

That weave a slender thread

Between life and death.

Gnarled pinion pine trees,

Gray with age,

Backs bent from the agony

Of holding back the gales,

Defiantly guard the dizzying void

And mark the boundary between earth and sky.

Above me, more chains gleam mockingly,

Daring me to reach for another, and yet another,

And, when all strength is gone,

For still one more.

Pushing my numbed feet to the summit in a daze,

I stare in awe

From the heights of another world

At tiny earth below.

I am exhausted, I am drained.

Death has been my constant companion,

Sharing the chains with me,

Tickling the soles of my boots,

Yet I have never felt more alive!

I am exhilarated, filled with wordless joy,

And mostly I am humbled

To briefly tread upon the dwelling place of angels

And gently touch the blue face of infinity

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When Trees Went to War

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The awakening forest

Creaked and shivered,

As the world of trees stretched their limbs

After two thousand years of sleep.

From deep in their sanctuary

They gazed reluctantly upon the world,

Mighty oaks, slender poplars,

Quaking aspens,

With little in common

Except their gnarled skin and ancient arms,

Craving nourishment from a sun

That fed them only fire.

They stirred for the first time in centuries,

Fearing danger,

And as their sensitive fingers

Reached for the sun,

They recoiled,

Shocked at a burn beyond imagining.

Sometime in the long, cool slumber of the trees,

The sun had grown fearsomely hot

As the greed of men

Consumed the oceans and the glaciers,

And the delicate skin the Earth wore like a blue veil

Began to cook like an onion,

Carmelizing in a simmering pot.

A brave sentry strode far beyond the borders

Of the Forest of Shadows,

And reported to his elders

All that he had seen and heard.

Then they called a great council of war,

And trees and shrubs, bushes and branches

From all the lands where green things ruled

Came together in an emerald awakening,

An army of green power not seen

Since men waged war

With axes and fire.

"Come forward, Messiah,

Lord of the Forest,

And show your scars for all to witness

The crimes of men,"

The elders intoned.

A great oak, hundreds of feet tall,

Shuffled roots old beyond the measure of time

Into the grove of the patriarchs,

And with shame and sadness,

Spread his shattered limbs.

The other trees fell back in horror,

And the wind carried their cries of grief

High into what blue sky remained.

Messiah’s arms, once so mighty

They could carry the weight of the world,

Were shriveled stumps,

And the beautiful bark of which he was so proud

Now hung dead and leprous white,

From poisonous factories

Men had slaughtered his kin to build.

Other trees soon found the courage

To share their pain.

"I