Thursday, October 29, 2015


photo by Audrey Howitt

we push through,

feel the air whip,

veins an extension

of the need to be present

for just as long as we can.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2015

Posted on Dverse

I hate titles--so this title was borrowed from Bodhirose--I hope you don't mind

Friday, October 23, 2015

Salt on My Tongue

The Morgue File

i fold salt into the remainder of my day

and watch parsley

soak up oil's emotions

a round of bread nearby.

i taste tomorrow

floating bittersweet on my tongue

as the day settles,

pours out its stories

for those who pause

to listen.

I read a piece today about aging. I read once that the young are rarely the ones who enter therapy as they haven't lived long enough to have experienced regret. The taste of regret and loss as we age fascinates me. And I am reminded again of how societies can hold onto their elders and treasure them--when we all pause to listen. I hope you enjoy this small write.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2015

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

The Gravity of the Moment

The Morgue File

the bed lies empty
its center, a crater
in which we found ourselves

pulled from dark matter,
night without light
surface abraded
its tension, molding space

bodies are drawn together
as time slows,
we cannot overcome
the gravity of the moment.

Copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2015

Well this feels very rough to me--but there it is--I have an old bed and need to turn the mattress else we keep finding each other in the middle

Posted for Poets United Midweek Motif

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Three Poems on Loss

The Morgue File

i am hollowed out
 your bones nestle
down next to mine

 an uncharted map


The Morgue File

perhaps it is the sun
which will steal you away
old bones 


The Morgue File

i search. 
endings veiled
in  obtuse emotions,

my guide.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2015

Posted for Kerry's prompt for mini poems at the garden

I will be 60 soon. My constant companion is 13.  I sometimes think that growing older is a lesson on continued loss--peeling one layer back at a time, until not much is left. Maybe that makes it easier to leave when the time comes. I don't know, but as #60 approaches, I think about it.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

матрёшка (Matryoshka}

The Morgue File

Paper lined your eyes
and cyrillic your tongue

as you loosened both,
plucking the stories of us

from mother soil
before we knew who we were

forming us, a decoupage
in Russian.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt

Today, Susan challenges us to write about teachers at Poets United Mid-Week  My poem is for my father, who taught Russian to so many, and who gave me and my sister both, a Russian soul in the process--

A matryoshka doll (Russian: матрёшка;, matrëška), also known as a Russian nesting doll, or Russian doll, refers to a set of wooden dolls of decreasing size placed one inside another. The name is believed to be a derivative of "Matriosha" or "Matriona," which were female names that enjoyed immense popularity among Russian peasants. The name connotes the matriarch of a big Russian family.(from Wikipedia)