LITTLE VOICES WHISPERING

You find them
trying to get in
digging at your mind,
laughing at sanity
whispering obscenities
in ears bleeding
from pain.
Long nights
when the moon is empty
they play
in branches
heavy with dark
cackling messages
mistaken
for late winds.


LET'S PRETEND

touching rough stone
abrading fingers.
getting things
for a wall
no mortar
three feet tall
surrounding
an acre
       by park
novelty
for couple of months
then you plant
ivy and poppies.
soon except for you
no one remembers the wall
hidden in growing things.


IT NEVER HAPPENED

Quiet, wind company
clouds cutting
summer heat.
Speaking to people
who've trouble
holding conversation.
Directing thoughts
obscure books
tolerating
           obscurity
while digging
into your past.
Old friends
tell stories of shared past
that probably
never happened,
but that's where myth starts.


HEARING AN OWL

Flower-covered field
surrounded by scrub oak
and digger pine.
sweet peas border,
a great scent
on summer afternoon.
Once or twice a week
at twilight, you might see
a doe nibbling clover.
Do you hear the nameless owl
only heard when sun sinks
beyond western hill?

All poems © 2004 David Howerton

HOWERTON is a part-time computer programmer. He lives in the American River Canyon outside of Auburn Ca.