Wednesday, September 17, 2014

A Discriminating Palate

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Luis Ruiz Berti

the snails took the long way home that morning,
leaving their trail of slime behind them,
marking territory.

leaves glistened in the sun.
trails crisscrossed like so many overpasses,
an epicurean guide to the gourmet ghetto.

i would have thought basil too strong--
too pungent a stew 
for moist snail mouths,
especially when gone to seed,
white flowers dancing on stalks in the gray wind.

but snails know delight when they taste it,
and whoever said that they lack a discriminating palate.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

The Sound of Lace

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girl in white lace dress
Evil Erin

words fail the ebbed tide

of emotion pulling at my feet

as the walls of you

pull me deeper.

love's footsteps

weave their way quietly.

I turned,

the lace of your dress

catching me unawares

in a double clutch.

And tears fall

marked as unexpected

in a notebook chronicling


The shiver of lace has its own sound,

one that I mark now

as love.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

Posted for Poets Pantry.

My older daughter is getting married next June. We bought the dress yesterday.  I expect this will be a time of joy and deep seated feelings for me over the following months. PS. I cry at everything it seems.

Thursday, September 11, 2014


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little said

little done

i fear the worst


somewhere in the middle of it

nestled against its cheek

holding thought

in abeyance

it is you

you see

terminating my sight

with your eyes

tell me again

that i will find

my way


time settled accounts the other day

dissipating its thread

in colored loops

spindled before i had a chance

to glean what might have been.


music stirs the mots

in front of me

i see them vibrate

and wonder

if this aria will find

its way home

into my body again.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

A bit of free form with no editing. I am the first to say that I have no idea what all this means

Saturday, August 30, 2014

A Cage of Colors

Seated Woman with Bent Knee, 1917
Egon Schiele

I hold myself in abeyance
my stories strewn upon walls 
by fingernails too porous for contemplation,
in streams of colors from an unseen palette.

As I watch,
 the stories shift.
Patterns emerge in blues and greens
within the seams left there 
by some carpenter or other,
a master at the construction
of love's fairy tales.
They always seem to find the you
I keep locked inside,
the you I wanted to hold with me,
the you that fled
my cage of colors.

I hold myself in abeyance
my stories strewn upon walls,
upon the walls,
upon the w
upon the


copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

Posted for Poets United.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

The Language of Trees

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Mariusz Oleszkiewicz

there is a place i go sometimes 

where the trees have woven their branches

into the length of my spine

their leaves cushioning joints

creaking with age.

and from it

i found a language we share

based on the silent wishes of the heart

unspoken for so long

that they get lost in the neural determinants of bone and sinew.

and sometimes

when i am silent long enough

i wake to find their roots

gently cradling my legs

enrapt, like lovers


copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

posted for Poets United 

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Sand Stories

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"Mikrofossils hg" by Hannes Grobe 20:52, 12 November 2006 (UTC), Alfred Wegener Institute for Polar and Marine Research, Bremerhaven, Germany - 

sand whispers in a secret language

speaking its tales of love lost on beds of brine 

tangled in kelp webs

tended by spiders in the dark.

my toes find purchase 

in the last bits

of summer

pulling it toward me

as grubs push toward the surface seeking.

i place my ear over them

 listening to stories

i used to know in my sleep

as salt tips between us

a concave bed 

of passing.

copyright all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014

posted for Poets United

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

I Find A Beginning

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a hint of the next day
Kenny Louie, Vancouver, Canada

grasses whisper through
fog's fingers 
into solace 
at my feet,
a seed at a time,
reminding me that 
even in the end
i find a beginning.

I am at music camp out in Marin County where the grasses line the hillsides in brown.  I was walking the other day and listening to the grasses whisper in the breeze of the early evening--it is amazingly quiet out there. 

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2014