has a new look

Go to the new

Poetry by Tripp Howell 

Tripp lives in Shelby, NC.



© 2006 Tripp Howell






A Well-Crafted Defense


The earthquake that registered 17 on the Richter scale

was a little rough.  Certain memories fell off the shelf,

shattered across the floor.  For instance, I used to

have a childhood and build great things from blocks.


Kinetic energy was everywhere.  It was like

what you want to imagine dead relatives doing,

becoming part of everything close to you,

becoming exactly what they have always been.


All I had left was a yellow block, the longest in the set.

It was always the roof.  My parents avoided me.

It was if they knew that anything I built could fall

at any time, that their days were numbered.







How You Left Me Behind in the Quest for Questionable Morals


There was a problem with the steps to the basement.

They were broken.  They didn't work.

They no longer collected the confessions of our feet.


So we found a college that offered a major in escape.

We learned to make our absences appear almost natural.

We were so good we could make mirages that looked like deserts.


But joining the elite was encoded in your astrology.

You never questioned why there was a straitjacket in your crib.

You were more interested in the thick straight shadows than the bars.


What could I do but close my eyes, wish you luck?

I was never in a rush to add "extra" to everything.

I was even content in certain years to act my age.









All work is property of Tripp Howell.




[back to top]  [home]

© 2006 SubtleTea Productions   All Rights Reserved