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Best Poems Written by Rick Howarth

Below are the all-time best Rick Howarth poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Advice To Gardeners On a Distant War

You small community of men
devoted to the gentle arts
why would you cross those foreign seas
where war awaits to break all hearts.

Stay in those  gardens you make green,
sustain your rank amongst the trees
and don’t donate to wars grim scene,
the wages of your liberties.

Ignore the rant of those fool lips
that sanctify wars fight and kill,
always the vampire life’s blood sips,
always are some who to war thrill.

Your honest work’s a noble thing,
there’s no reward in enmity,
just pains choral where t bullets sing
their hymns of death and agony.

Walk on the paths amongst the flowers
and let your strength make fruitful keep
to tread the uplands of your bower
not trenches of infernal sleep..

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Father In Law

He had no garments old or new 
that didn’t have a hole burnt through
from sparks when he lit up his pipe
and nearly set himself alight.
Smoke rituals in his old car
began when we set off not far
to visit Truro’s small town charms
on Wednesdays when from all the farms
the ruddy faces and flat caps
descended on the town perhaps
to share a pint or tea with wives
as antidote to lonely lives.

He’d park the car in Lemon Street
at bottom where we’d have a treat
of cake and coffee laced with chat
about a future he hoped that
might see us settled close at hand
with the grandchildren he had planned,
yet though he knew I would away
to Cumbrian hills upon the day
I qualified children to teach
he put the means within my reach
of self belief and energy
to be the man that i would be.

Yet these foundations that he laid
had in them no contentment made
for him, who as a family man
was separated by a span 
of tarmac miles the countries length
to sap his age diminished strength
on visits to those Northern climes
laden with tokens of his time
spent planning to express his joy
in one small fair haired little boy,
his first grandchild maintained the line
of thread connecting binding time.

So by degrees my first resolve
to as a mountain man evolve
became diluted by the pull 
to holiday in Cornwall, full
of strengthened bond to sail and sea
and his love of my family.
In the rectory and its grounds
we tested new life to be found
where two small brother boys would know
and feel the care that he’d bestow,
new life on Cornwall's granite rock 
aside the shepherd of our flock

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

Shakespearean Sonnet

The sun in splendid majesty departs
To drape his train across the evening sky,
Mere candlelight next to the vivid spark
Struck from one glance from thy once azure eyes.
Both man and nature music doth compose
On instrument of orchestra and trees,
But all of heavens hymns I might transpose
And never match was tender speech from thee.
Such beauteous things to worship and to love
Once lived about the temple of thy grace,
Thy body was the substance of my dreams
Where'er thou wert was made a lovely place

So once a garden in a garden stood
Til time and season stole its bright lifeblood..

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

Just Yesterday

Just yesterday this patriarch
sat on the beach to watch the larks,
parents and grandkids digging sand
a warm sun, stranger in the land.

No breeze to sap the gentle heat,
the sea far off with the tides neap
absorbing there my day’s memoir
witnessing summers door ajar.

Aback the beach a little hut
specific for refreshment put,
its tables filling as mid morn
folk take a tea and scones sojourn.

The sea is creeping slow away,
some rush towards in there to play
then faster rush back to dry sand,
with blue imprint of sea’s cold hand

And now the rock pools have their day,
soliloquy has had its play,
with bucket, net and child to hand
adventures in crab-nippy land.

The plastic buckets slowly stocked
with outraged tenants of the rock-
pools weed filled tide deserted homes,
each forced to have a sloshy roam.

A sequenced of heart testing shocks
unbalanced on the slippery rocks
until it’s time to reinstate
in pastures new the crab ingrates.

Confident stride on firm packed sand
to reclaim our oasis land,
now circled closer than before
by lovers,haters,dogs and more.

The pull of home late beckons me
to bid adieu and saunter free
from the foundations once I laid
when I was young, across decades.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

The Hunter In the Woods

Well met sir, in this silent wood
Where I seek verse and you seek blood,
I knew you were not far from here 
Your gun spoke loud, its message clear.

I judged your day was a success
I found a pheasant in distress,
The shot you fired had pierced its eye
Surprising that it did not die.

Hung there are six I see are dead
Their lovely plumage sodden red,
They fell like hail from up on high
Wide airs highway free where they fly.

When you arrived here on the lane
I knew your interests dealt in pain,
You think your gun’s a lovely thing,
Though nought but death for birds it brings.

Of course it’s only birds you kill
Just little murders give you thrill,
Here for your quarry skulk and hide
Out in this lovely countryside.

These creatures that you hurt and maim
Their yours,you bred them for the game,
You put them in the wood and field
The power of death o’er them to wield.

You’re not alone in this delight
Your dogs they wag and rush and bite,
One fetched a bird with gaping wound,
Your equal joy, though he’s a hound.
 
So good day sir, your repast done
Time once again to take your gun,
Enjoy the horror game you play
I’ll write my poems another day.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

Wheat Field

There where the sun is on the field
I walk aside its wheaten yield,              
pathway strewn with golden ceding        
  of some growth beholden, deeding
violent gales to cast to earth
too soon to consummate rebirth,
some sterile grains of bread of life
beneath my feet a sacrifice. 

Small death among the congregate
that feeds to us the common fate.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

A Beach In Summer

Who loves those days when the sun is hazed 
and the seas unruffled with its mirrored glaze
showing every ripple and fish that moves 
in the currents stream swept surface ooze.
 
And the tide on the beach treads soft and slow 
leaving hardly a footprint as it goes
where the dark sand that each sea fall makes 
is quickly absorbed to its flaxen state.
 
When the sand is warmly soft and gold 
and the seagulls plaintiff call is bold
as no other sound competes for space 
in air as soft as a mother’s embrace.
 
Then you lay by a bed of scented pinks 
as rustling reeds their music links
with a skylarks distant worshipping praise 
to sunlit, happy, palliate days.
 
So the amphitheatre of the cliffs 
reduces all the world to this,
sea, sand and skies sensuous ideal 
caressing body and soul to heal.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

The Friends

Peter I knew since our childhood
though as a youth he wasn’t good,
but then Joan cured him of all that,
two babies in a two roomed flat.
 
Now Frank came later to my life,
by when, like him, I had a wife,
so here we were all at the door
of what the future had in store.

This in an age seems foreign now,
our common link was Mereston Brow
converted into “flats for rent,”
mock Tudor, here our lives were spent.

The grounds were large and had a man
brought his lawnmower in a van, 
then round in circles he would drone
so the big lawn was neatly mown.

And Frank would shout, “come on you chumps,
a practice hour, then we’ll draw the stumps
and take the girls down to the pub”,
Frank fast bowled for the cricket club !

With sinking spirits Pete and I
would lace two pillows to our thighs
and on the lawn try to act brave
like *Brylcreem boy” who was the rave.

Then, often bruised, to end the grief
the babysitter brought relief,
so we’d limp off for wine and ale,
with our sports prowess all regale.

And whilst  we boys bragged at the bar
the girls our reputation marred, 
I wish I’d known the worried frowns
were talk of lesions bloody brown

For in two months Frank’s life detached,
skin cancer was his final match
and his wife went back to her mum 
to make a life without our chum.

Our cricket suffered on the lawn
the captain of our sport was gone
the pillows now back on the bed
was hearts and not our thighs that bled 

Then Peter, never to enlight ,
murdered his children one hell's night
whilst we slept soundly in our bed
not knowing that our world was dead.

These friends they came and life it goes,
you can’t predict from what you know,
for what you know is in lights gleam,
death the assassin stalks unseen.

*.Dennis Compton, famous cricketer advertised "Brylcreem" on UK postwar TV.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

Sea Adventure

I venture on a falling tide,
my little ship the current rides
down river to the open sea,
from Carrick Roads first to be free.

Anthony Head I hoist the sails
and now the boat leans to its rail
as winds hand grips and gives it course
in the uncertain land-breeze force.

Swiftly I run the green salt road,
where Pilgrim Fathers ships once strode,
Drake set the foreign sailor dread
and Packets news the Empire fed.

The lift and fall of my wood stead
rode on a westerly sea breeze,
sheet in the sails and head her forth
upon this salt sprayed bucking course.

South west away I see the teeth,
the Manacles, that hungry beast
has fed upon the bones of man
since first he ventured the sea,s span.
 
Now on my bow motioning slow
its great steel marker buoy speaks low,
a mournful lonely elegy. 
to all the lives there lost at sea.

I think of tragic emigrants, 
set off  with hope and confidence
in wooden ships with east set sails,
upon the wind and tides deaths rails.

Not long to think upon these things
as now that wicked wind loud sings,
“Circle about on homeward tack,
let’s test your boat can take you back”.


Now with the sea upon my stern,
it’s time for me my choice to earn,
I surf the hissing chasing green
within whose troughs no land is seen.

A time be sure to keep ones head
as swiftly homeword I am sped,
boat must not turn or those high waves 
will swamp us to a watery grave.
 
But all who love to sail the sea 
will tell that such adversity’s
the essence of the great depart 
from routine to adventures art. 

Close this adventures to its end,
high to view the mariners friend,
atop the cliffs the lighthouse stands
welcoming home to Cornwall’s lands.

Back in the Roads to furl the sails,
to start the engines grumbling wail,
down to Percuil and mooring’s keep,
where boat and I will berth and sleep.

Details | Rick Howarth Poem

The Marathon Man

I had a friend who was to me
 the very best a friend can be,
so loyal, warm and humorous,
a Cornish Celt to truly trust.

I see him now with smiling face, 
so strong and fit to win the race,
the problems in our working days 
diminished by his winning ways.

An educator, kind and caring, 
valued knowledge always sharing
with all his students, most who knew 
here was  a teacher fair and true.

His talent was to harmonize 
some fun and knowledge in their eyes,
humanity and Science combined
within his teaching, firm but kind.

And to his colleagues straight and true, 
courageously expressed his view.
his pride of birth-right without rant 
or bigoted degrading cant

Accepted without prejudice 
what lesser men turn into vice.
so many warmed towards this man, 
enchanted by the charm he span 

And partnered by his loving wife 
he welcomed friends into his life.
their table had the best of fare 
for this man had a talent rare,

His cooking skills so finely honed 
that many a chef could be dethroned
so proud my wife and I would be 
when welcomed to their sanctuary.

Through working days a course we ran 
deriving strength to carry on,
his wise words guided me to see 
the best time when we both broke free

Work routine however worthy 
never matching freedom’s journey,
Both found ourselves two new careers 
though did not have close friendships cheer.

Then circumstances and neglect 
reduced our contact and respect
and though we met from time to time 
our friendship suffered a decline

I never thought the steps of time 
approaching swiftly from behind
would overtake him in life’s race 
and sickness claimed such strength and grace.

I'm one of many, this I know,
and not alone to miss him so,
but I've no faith to ease the strife
with promises of afterlife.

Of him past memories all that’s left 
now I am of my friend bereft
with life a sadder, bleaker place 
never again to see his face.