OLD SOLDIER IN THE RAIN

I was born in a desert
A long time ago
Where my family went to
I just don’t know
But all roads I’ve taken
Have led me to this
I have bled in your garden
Betrayed by a kiss

I made a name for myself
I cut it in stone
But all it ever did
Was leave me alone

You envied my affliction
Grew jealous of my pain
Where you saw glory
I just see an old soldier in the rain

(C) Frank Howson

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BEWARE THE MAN

Beware the man who says he’s highly principled but bad mouths you behind your back.

Beware the man who is in awe of you, then wants to be you, then realises he can’t be, then resents you.

Beware the man who tells you how much his wife is worth and what he’ll get when he divorces her.

Beware the man who turns everything into a competition to compensate for his dick size.

Beware the man who tells you he’s best at everything. They are the ones who make the most mistakes.

Beware the man who is a snob and looks down his nose at everyone yet tells you he’s a Democrat. And a highly principled one at that.

Beware the man who counts your mistakes but never his own.

Beware the man who takes a commission on something he contributed nothing to. Although he’ll tell you he’s highly principled.

Beware the man who’s so dumb he doesn’t realise you are awake to him.

Beware the man whose ego is so huge he can’t see anyone else’s point of view.

Beware the man who shares the same Star Sign as Hitler but tells you the stars have moved.

Beware the man who suffers from deep depression because he knows what he is.

Beware the man who denies the existence of God because he fears being judged.

Beware the man who is scared of himself.

Beware the man whose ambition far outweighs his ability.

Beware the man who is only nice to those he thinks may be useful.

Beware the man who was born to lose. He wants you as a friend.
(C) Frank Howson 2018

(c) photograph by Frank Howson 2018

 

 

THE BIG MOUTH STUMBLES

2 dogs barking through a symphony
A bottle of red wine gone bad
Like a new king in early spring
One never knows what one had
I lost my youth in search of truth
But it got me here
I came so neat
I’m gonna fake my death
And find some peace
Just like Elvis did
I’ll walk away my pain in the Kentucky rain
Just another face in the crowd
I never knew what love was till you broke my heart
Now I’ve got it all down I don’t know where to start
K.D is gone. And Sisto too
Maybe our world ends one at a time?
So many things lost in translation
And disguised by poets’ rhymes
Distractions invented to confuse
By some other guy’s muse
Wearing a tattoo that says “Born To Lose”
I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome
By the look on your face
I didn’t hear the starting pistol
In this human race
Well I’ve walked with kings
And I’ve walked with fools
And I’ve treated him them all the same
I judge people on your spirit
I don’t need to know a name
But you on the other hand
When I was down
I heard you laugh at me
But now I’m back you reappear
Quoting lies like poetry
Do you think I’m dumb?
Do you think I’m smart?
Or a bit of both
Cursed with a heart?
Call me Einstein or Casanova
But give me credit for once
For knowin’ it’s over
You assassinated me
And poisoned my son
You polluted the lives
Of everyone
You’re a Shakespearean character
And this story ends in death
Cursed is the one
Who steals a dying breath
Because a good life
Has belittled their evil
They can’t live till I am gone
Gone, gone, gone
But in death we are everywhere
And cannot be conquered
The evil vote for evil ones
But God is on my side
And the love I leave behind
Not even fake news could distort or hide

 
(C) Frank Howson 2018

A MUSING

i love
laugh
desire
crash
and break like china
my reward for longing?
the moon
and
stars
“where is paris in this empty place?”
yells a fool to the drunken maitre ‘d
my taxi driver’s lost again
the eyes of st. christopher
stare down on
me
may God forgive

 
(C) Frank Howson 2018

THE WORLD ENDS ON TUESDAY

I got the good news, baby
All our troubles are gone
The world ends on Tuesday
God said “Hey Frankie
The world’s in a mess
But it all ends Tuesday
I gave you the gift of love
That you seldom used
I gave you countries and borders
You chose to abuse
I sent you many angels
But you killed every one
You couldn’t get the message
So I sent you my son
I gave you seven seas
You polluted them all
And every time a tree grew
You made it fall
You think you’re me
And you’re oh so smart
But come Tuesday night I’m gonna break your heart”

(C) Frank Howson 2018

THE DEAD SHALL NEVER AGE (for my father)

I was awakened to the end
From our waiting sleep.
He was going and it wasn’t long.
Sitting in his chair,
He bid us all farewell.
We were too scared to cry,
Too lonely to try,
Though we sat at his side.
Death left its calling cards years before,
But in morning’s safety had waited.
Gasping for breath that wasn’t there,
Holding our hands that were.
He never cried a lonely tear
Or closed eyes that knew only hope,
To those past long nights
When nightmares were life.
They came for him, ready as he was.
We brushed his hair and washed his face.
He knew, and we knew,
Though nothing did we say
Lest we frighten the other.
Yet I screamed so loud in my silence
And cried so long in my pain.
So many things left unsaid,
But, oh, think of the times we spent,
And don’t bring flowers for the dead
Unless he saw them in life.
Just think of his humour as dry as the sand,
And his smile as big as his heart,
And those eyes as blue as the sky
And twice as wise.
Even now we miss him,
Every day I’ll wish he were here.
He loved us more than he loved himself.
We loved him back as much.
Something’s gone now forever,
Part of us is gone with him,
And in the still of things a night voice screams — “God, I’m as lonely as hell.”

Dedicated to Henry (Jack) Francis Howson

By Frank Howson (c) November 1974

 

WHAT IS TRUTH?

I’m at the age when people die. I view life from the cluttered comforting living area of a mystical art space, going from room to room as inspiration strikes me. A song lyric here, a line of dialogue overheard from lunch, a painting or sketch there. It’s a very full solitary life and reduces everything to the minimalists’ joy of simplicity. I suppose I would be just as happy in a jail cell with my necessary tools, although I’d miss the occasional walk in the sun. And impromptu visit from a friend. My life has been crammed with so many adventures, tragedies, faces, external forces, Machiavellian plots, heartaches, silent joys, defeats and comebacks etc., that I sometimes feel I’m five hundred years old. Other times I forget and am back to feeling like that seventeen year old kid with it all before me. Sometimes Hercules, sometimes Norman Maine. Many memories occasionally stampede through my mind from what feels like another life. Friends and lovers long gone, but my heart still carries the weight of their memory. Although death may take a life it seems that the relationship continues for those left behind, excluded from the final mystery. Sometimes I resent the birds who are not chained to the ground like us confused humans. Our only soaring comes in those momentary waves of joy that are so overwhelmingly spectacular and personal that there are no words invented to accurately verbalise them so we walk them away in dark alleyways, alone – as alone as our birth and our death. The magic hours just before dawn. There is an exquisite sweetness in failure, just as there is a sour aftertaste in triumph. Perhaps only General Grant fully understood this when he allowed General Lee to savour the nobility of defeat in all its glory and, as Grant stood in his torn and dusty uniform, head bowed in humility, paying homage to his defeated opponent, denying himself the tacky opportunity to steal the thunder of victory from a long and vicious campaign where young boys died bewildered and despairing on battlefields made muddy from the blood of their comrades.
In my own line of work I too have known long campaigns that have left me too weary to celebrate the victory knowing how much it has cost myself and those that battled alongside to make a dream a reality. “Was it worth it?” The eternal question that is right up with Pilate’s “What is truth?”
David Lynch believes that life is just a dream. And perhaps he is right. And perhaps it does one no good to think too long and deep about such things, for to stare into the abyss too long may be as damaging as staring at the sun. You just become blinded in a different way.
Does it matter how one achieves creativity? Does anyone really care what price is paid for their entertainment? Scott Fitzgerald put something of himself into six novels and over a hundred short stories, until there was nothing left. He died a hollow, weary, flawed man, old before his time. Broken by Hollywood because he took it too seriously and led with his heart. And didn’t realise it was all just a game.
I too have worked for many people in my past that nether understood what I did, or how I did it. But that doesn’t stop them attempting to piss on the tree to claim ownership. A bet each way. If it’s a disaster it’s all my fault. If it’s a smash, it’s because of them. I don’t work for such people anymore, regardless of the dazzling upfront fees that are used to tempt you to go against your instinct. This donkey has been beaten too many times and won’t go down the dark mine shaft anymore. I now only work for people I truly trust and/or admire. I can’t be bought by money because experience has taught me that it’s a false god and to worship at its altar will never fully satisfy your hunger for more and more until there’s nothing of you left. You will die like Elvis having over-eaten, been overworked, misused and misunderstood, devalued, surrounded by carny promoters, backslapping sycophants, con artists and those who want to be you and secretly resent that they can’t be. The most desired man in the world died of loneliness. Now, if that doesn’t tell you something about our society, nothing will.
Success has to come on your terms or else you lose your identity. And to lose sight of who you are is to become a ghost ship wandering lost in that innermost night of the soul. Going through life mimicking the happy-go-lucky person others expect you to be lest you reveal that you’re haunted and thus damned from seeing too much. As my dear ol’ daddy used to tell me, “The best way to lose people is to tell ’em you have a problem.”
Those who don’t understand creativity will seek to belittle your contribution, downplay your involvement, and even humiliate you by praising everyone except you. This is a tactic and you are smart enough to recognise it. And, thankfully, so is the audience.
Wilhelm Reich once said, “The living are always under attack from the dead,” and so it is and will be till the end of days. All I know is this – it’s alright to love something, but you are damned if you love that thing too much.

What is truth? Well you sure as hell won’t find it in your newspaper or favourite news channel or the Internet. These days it seems to only exist in our hearts. Our in-built shit detector. Trust it. It’s all we have.

 

(C) Frank Howson