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Best Poems Written by Matthew Howels

Below are the all-time best Matthew Howels poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

A Spark

There is a spark, a whisper 
That dwells within my heart
That cannot be touched upon by
Conscious ambition.
To put a finger to it
Would be liken to 
Foreseeing the final resting 
Place of a falling 
Feather. But still
It is there, abiding, hidden
As if by a veil, a veil
Upon which rests the weight
Of Heaven and Hell.
Could I but raise 
Such a gift, such a burden.
Could I but smash the 
Sacred mirror 
Would the whisper sigh, whir,
Would great Ise fall?
A treasure that lies
Dormant, it does not sleep
But waits in terror and wonderment, 
Like a tome yet to be penned
By the hand of the fiercest 
Of angels.
The spark
The whisper 
The falling feather
The holy trinity of 
Love and desire yearn 
For the lifting of the veil,
The cleansing of the sanctuary
The sound of a pin-head dropped
In the hallowed halls of Moria.
Or perhaps simply the
Briefest of glances from
The corner of an eye,
The smell of fragrant leaves
After the rain,
A single dust mote drifting.
Some will say the 
Great Game of the Cosmos 
Is played out in the fraction
Of a second, the blink
Of an eye. 
Some will tell you there is 
No spark
No whisper
No falling feather.
I say lift the veil
Cleanse the sanctuary,
Perhaps you will see the fruit.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Chaotic Nonsense

Everything boils down 
To chaotic nonsense, or
So it is written.

Einstein and Bohr tangoed
On tiptoes over 
Unsavory uncertainty 
“Why would God play dice?!”

Buddha already knew
Though, he 
Looked on laughing 
“When you are done, 
Come and find me”

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

The Park

I sat on a bench in the park to read 
some Bukowski, which I did,  
but had to keep putting the book down
And just sit basking in the sun 
Like a content canine. 
There's nothing much like sun,
Blue Sky and rusty red autumn 
Leaves to bring you back to 
Whatever you are 
When you're not a part of 'the other world' 

There's only a few people around, mostly runners and bikers 
and a little kid I can hear behind me, but that's OK, 
we're all here for the wisdom of the park  
however it wishes to enlighten us.  

The language of the sun today is
White hot, no nonsense welding torch blues
Just relax and feel the photons. 
The most beautiful part though 
Is one brave red tree, by itself 
Facing its elders, an audience of dark green and brown serenity, 
Ready to sing its swan song
About how it just can't let go of 
It's leaves.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

A Red Bird

A red bird, motionless 
A cardinal rare to my city eyes
And almost indistinguishable 
From it’s neighboring autumn leaves
Crimson and rusty, 
Feathered with impatience 
For winter.

A red bird
Silently invisible 
Aside from a telling
Twitch, or a quiver, or the flexing of wings 
The blink of an empty eye.

A red bird
Enviable and unenviable 
And all to itself as it
Considers not a thing
Except whether to take flight
Or stay perfectly still.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Zen

Pasta and peppermint 
tea night last night, 
soothing to be sure.

Something different today, 
a quick morning jaunt through 
ambiguous paradox, 
a shift in perception, perhaps.

The temple looks nice enough
Its thick green and brown doors
Open and vulnerably inviting 
Like the entrance to a old forest dwelling 

Once in, the chanting begins
Ancient sutras bellowed in the 
Memory of the Buddha, stark lessons
Given down to mankind in his time of grief and need,
the answers we so desperately seek, yet are out of sight.

We sit on mats of the darkest blue, 
backs straight and heads titled forward,
our breaths counted in our undisciplined minds, struggling

“Let go of the five Skandhas!
There is no separate YOU 
You are empty, void of everything, nothing.
And yet you are the entire Universe!”,
he put forth afterwards, imploring
us to JUST SIT and count our breaths. 

I’m hungry, is what 
I am 
And my legs hurt
like a bitch
The Zen teacher didn’t like me
I didn’t care though
I’ve already read 
Everything he said 
In plenty of dog-eared books

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Traveler

I am a traveler 
Through space and 
Time and thought.
My wife cut pieces 
From the past today, 
She read from her bygone hand
And I travelled.
I cried.
Then, walking with no destination,
No journey,
Just walking
I realized no control.
My traveling is a 
Motionless voyage, for where
Do I leave from and where
Do I return to
In space and time and thought?
Knowing the answer,
I would sit still
And wait.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Bayonets

The grey sky
outside seems oddly comforting today.
My fire escape cuts a sharp, blackened 
silhouette against its 
iron-like visage, worthy 
of any modern art wannabe

I’m listening to Ken Burns
wax lyrical about the horrors 
of the Civil War. 
The bayonet charge ended with 
that war, apparently. 
A convention of death rendered obsolete 

I wonder what it must have felt like, 
shaking, staring at the savage tip
of the steel, ready to plunge.
Was it dull and grey like this sky?
Or as sharp and piercing 
as the Sun?
They were just boys 

Green tea, slippers and 
a cigarette are 
my comrades in arms today
And we shall revive the 
bayonet charge into unknown 
Tomorrow, unheeded and silent as the clouds.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Before

Could I turn 
Back the clock 
To rooftop summers, 
Crimson in their arrogance 
And say “watch out for 
Tomorrow”?
I would turn the sun
On a needle 
And sit, listening

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Stardust

Our Stardust is long
gone, hewn into our own bones
but forever unobtainable 

We are all weak 
in our own hedonistic way,
Live Young, Die Fast, but
is the blooming flower 
God’s secret teacher?
Or am I mad, insane? 

Doesn’t really matter. 
The sun and moon will
continue long after we’ve stopped 
giving a f***

But surely, he says, light must
prevail, return us to stardust,
death and darkness must recede
like a lonely tide, waving goodbye
to lands’ last command

But light and dark are really
One and the same.
Stop asking the world for answers 
She will only say
“You have your time, use it wisely”

We pass away, we mourn.
Our stardust though
hides infinity.
Nothing is lost here.

Details | Matthew Howels Poem

Who

Who was I?
I don’t know, only the
alcohol can answer that.

Who am I ?
I don’t know, try to
start by looking for the I
and nothing can be found,
let alone known.

Who will I be?
The night is drawing in
And tomorrow never knows.
Tea is brewing.
That is enough for now.