Seth Howard


BY THE RIVERSIDE SHE WAITS

The night is vibrant, be still O heart of storms.
I trace my way along the 
                                              paper’s edge. 
She waits for me still.  Kept here in the 
silence of 
                   histories, time 
turns upon the cusp, extends into the afternoon
that is a stranger.  The light beckons 
& I sit in stillness.  Patient for rain to   
cease I look
                      up
& day rewinds, spirals in the haze.      
I wake.  This is how we become free, 
abide, with money left, a cushion.    
These trials
                      God 
has given me, this earth that vacillates.    
I must listen to the wisdom of the 
elders.  
              In a stasis I wake to mist 
& rain.  The night is vacant as a 
Russian girl pensive over hot coffee.
Patience is my virtue, the sun is 
magnificent, & it is today of all days I will begin again.
Quiet music
                       drifts in from 
another room.  Yes, the fatigue of 
dry days gives me this strength.    
& so, I search for the end, think
on all beginnings.
                                 She waits for 
me still, where the swans make love.  

BOLÍGRAFO

Deep breaths
return
me to
my locus.
Floating
along
in the
silences
that
womb
us.
This fixed presence
I see warp.
Dream, the
distant
skyline
we all
must
travel.
But what was
behind the
veil of our existence?
Twin
pistons,
a life
you
lived in quiet
rooms.
Waiting,
always
waiting for
the
rains
to
cease.



DO WE LIVE FREE?

Is of change, & the unchangeable.
Hours flow into silver streams.
Cognition. My life is a pendulum
of thought. Do we live free, by
signals that call, do we believe?
These words are made of wood,
of waters & a deep reflection. I
dream of my face before I was born.
O light of God upon night stars,
a faint lucence in the ceiling of
glass.

This slow sequence when I am alone.
This calling of vocations in the
vacancy of the sky. I live with
hope held firm in my hand, &
the moon is a beautiful woman
who disrobes before me.
In a strand of silk that slips from the gold of last stars.
In the earthlight of the sisters
I wake, the sun is a bloodshot
eye.

Each line of your life a sonnet.
Each day of rain a celebration
or lament, that perhaps this
world did not know us even
now. These words of wood & water
O life of vibrant coals. I swim
in the sky as God’s hand moves
over the deep. It is night as
I navigate a city’s storehouse.
There is a woman who press-
es her hand to mine, & stars
explode a million miles from
home.




Seth Howard is the author of two chapbooks: Out of the East, & Waters from a Well. His work has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVOX [books], unarmed journal, Big Hammer, Oddball Magazine, Chronogram, Saudade, & Elephant. He graduated from the University of Connecticut, & studied abroad at Sophia University in Tokyo for three years. In his spare time, he enjoys the practice of Zazen, watches J-drama, & co-edits CAPSULE Magazine in New London where he lives.
 
 
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