Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Baby's Nightmare #3

Wolf eyes, slits open
Pulling along angry creases.
Green fire burns coldly.
Disturbed, SHE is,
Disturbed, SHE hates to be.

Disguised by darkness--dense, syrupy,
Slipping into corners, under eaves,
Whispering its sly lies of harsh sweetness
Soaked with barbs licked cleaned
By slinky rodents with silver washed tongues

Chocolate sweetness melts upon
Swaddling soaked with urine
And feces.

Alone, the girl child lies,
Tiny heart destined to be devoured by
SHE who hates to be disturbed--
Devoured over years of neglect and disgust.

Tiny fists ball up in outrage.
Fear dilutes outrage’s watery edges.
The cry, wordless, desperate,
Drives a fiery knot through
The frontal cortex of SHE.

Greed, lust, revulsion pour out
In an uncontrolled avalanche
From its hole of a mouth.
Rotted sludge, dank, necrotic with hate.
Better to hate than to feel the despair
Which pinwheels HER innards,
Twirling noiselessly on fetid gasses.

Tiny heart, beats furiously.
Fear could kill her now.
Instead, whether by intervening circumstance
Or the gift of grace by some errant spirit,
Girl child lifts her hand,
Unfurling perfect fingers,
Translucent skin glowing.
As girl child blocks the eyes of SHE
With iridescent fingers
Untempered by the vagaries of disappointment or hate.

And girl child SHINES.

© 2011 Audrey Howitt


Has there ever been a time
When your hand did not touch me,
When your shadow did not cross mine in the sunlight?

Of me and yet not.
I have railed against you,
Medicated against you,
Lost myself in alcoholic stupors,
Pressed knife against flesh
Before I cried out
Blazing in fury,
White hot in the darkness.

Your face returns with the inevitability of the sun
And the tears fall.
You catch them with a finger,
Ready to flick them away,
Inconsequential, the known litany of sadness.

Burnt away, the shell of anger,
Surrendered to your constancy.
Softness remains.
The permeable door.

Enter again
My constant companion.
Take up your vigil.
Sit with me,
I have saved a seat for you.

© 2011 Audrey Howitt

Monday, June 27, 2011

The Ignored Ones

She cries the cry of the forgotten,
With desolate heart, beating quietly in a corner.
Loneliness has robbed her of words.
None can communicate the depth of her aloneness,
So she waits.

Head nestled upon a blanket
Dingy with the bruised film
Of an eternity compressed
Into a matter of weeks on this,
Her piece of pavement.

I ignore her, avoiding the merest possibility
That I may be like her,
That I may be her.

Furtive glance met by the other,
Eyes lock, souls mingle through the ether of forever.
A heart beats once,
And it is over.

I pull out my last dollar and hand it over
Silently praying, “Let me never become you.”
She waits, eyes drop.
Aloneness descends,
Blanketing my prayer into a thud as it hits gray pavement.
I buy my absolution.
The price, a dollar.

Copyright/All rights reserved 2011 Audrey Howitt

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Awakening

Tears fall                                                          Unfettered dreams
Rivers run                                                         Darkness abates
Whispered cries                                                Laments unfold
Deepening sorrow                                             Alabaster hardens
Sighs fall                                                           Breezes soften
Sleep deepens                                                   Dreams subside
Crevice opens                                                   Light flits
Swallows me                                                     Ears open
Whole                                                              Wide
Stillness                                                            Stillness

                                 I am

Copyright All rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


Wave crashes upon wave
In the blackness of the ocean
Relentlessly pulling sand from under my feet
Unsteady toes dig deeper gaining purchase
How like my heart . . .

Copyright All Rights Reserved 2011

Grace After 50 #3

A river gently washes the tears of women over 50
Inexorably cleaning the crevices under sagging skin
Drenched in gravity’s reality.

We are the ones left behind
By children grown
Whose schedules press unceasingly.

Outlived our usefulness,
With fingers intimate with
Cooking, laundry and the drying of tears.

A river of Grace seeps through us
Binding old wounds
Salving new ones,
Its sweetness clearest to those
Most intimately acquainted,
Whose wounds sharpen as days unwind.

Let my hand touch the ragged edges of you,
For mine are similar.
Compassion lies in the knowing,
Such knowledge binding us
As we let the river enclose us,
Hold us fast to one another.

Copyright All rights Reserved 2011

Shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry