Here are a few samples from my book, "Sunrise To Sunset (And All That Lies Between)" followed by some reviews. All works are ©2008 by Howard E. McIntyre.

A Golden Mount of Memories
First Breast
An Old Man and His Bateau
The Leaf
When Did Birds Stop Being Our Friends?
Fawn Reflected
I, The Man
Over Yonder
The Revenge of Glencoe

A Golden Mound of Memories

The leaves swirled tornado round

The leaves I raked, the children found

They rolled, tossed and frolicked there

Kids at play without a care.

The laughs the screams did my heart good

A welcome sound to the neighborhood

They'd run and dive into the leaves

Tuck them in their pants and sleeves.

They'd ride my barrow like kings and queens

Upon the leaves through tree-bare scenes

Into the woods where I'd haul the leaves

Then hide away like common thieves.

Each would sneak behind a tree

Then jump out and 'boo' at me

I'd grab my chest and fall away

They'd jump and laugh in joyful play.

We'd made these trips for years it seems

I shared their play their high pitched screams

Through the years we'd alter themes

I raked the leaves of childhood dreams.

I gathered the leaves again today

The children have grown and moved away

I gazed into the pile of leaves -

A golden mound of memories...

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First Breast

While riding a trolley

in East Baltimore

down the one lone block

where black people lived -

descendants of servants

of Clipper ship captains

and wealthy merchants

who lived up the hill -

I remember it still.

Down in Canton

on that lone black block

sat a young black woman

on a white marble stoop

with her breast - bronzed and bare -

and a blanketed baby

who suckled it there

I could not react

I sat there aghast

the view from the trolley

went by so fast

An Old Man and His Bateau

The sea oats hid all but the brim

of his weathered straw hat. They

hushed the knock of his oar

as it rapped the wooden side

of his skiff. The crunching sound

of reeds preceded the bow of the boat -

a square bow bateau- favored

by men of the South as platforms

for fishing and crabbing.

Some hunted these boats for swan,

duck and geese; but he,

at just over one hundred, had passed

through that stage in his life. He

now poled the pram as a water hiker,

through paths in the marshes

and salt-flat bays. He'd just sit,

watch and listen to the sound

of the rushes, the birds and the wind.

Occasionally he'd whistle

a familiar bird tune in conversational reply.

He'd seen the sun rise and set many times.

He never tired of the moon, the water,

his marsh-land home. He wanted his ashes

spread on an outgoing tide. And

his wooden bateau set free.

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The Leaf

The leaf, veined and withered,

Fluttered slowly to the earth

Soon to be ground to dust

By passing cars and wind -

Never knowing its origins

Its purpose or design

It had never met its roots

Nor seen within the rings -

Soon to be one with the soil

Ingested by the tree

Making it whole again.

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When Did Birds Stop Being Our Friends

When did birds stop being our friends

And drive-by shooters take aim on our schools

What evil is driving these horrible trends

Is the world adrift - a ship of fools?

Is greed so blinding that rich men can't see

What a world without birds would eventually be

And children that grow up in a world of fear

Lacking the values once held so dear?

What self destructive force would lead men to kill

The youth of our species and destroy its will -

Our hope for the future, our last recourse -

For profit and gain with no remorse?

Listen to the raven and shaman of old

Learn from history and stories too often told

Look around and decide what it is worth

To sell our souls ... destroy the birds-

and our mother earth.

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Fawn Reflected

As I awakened by that pool

The morning air - a pleasant cool

Smoke in tendril spires arise

Looking through sleepy -

half closed eyes

Reflections of a fawn appear

The young girl-child of a white-tail deer

As if by the twitching of her ear

Ringlets roll in water once clear

'Pond fawn' is ever flowing -

standing deer not knowing

Her image shimmers gently there

Does she know - does she care

Gently down her head she dips

Lapping water tongue and lips

Reflected fawn's spots run and race

Planets revolve in outer space

Standing fawn stealthily stretches

Floating fawn waning moon's -

reflection catches

Moon and planets swirling there

Standing fawn still unaware

Fawn's head snaps quickly to attention

Showing fear and apprehension

Her ears twist and turn around

Seeing, sensing silent sound

Relief appears in simple form

That from which the fawn was born

Mother deer gently licks her velvet coat

As only nature's caring mothers mote

Soft elongated lipid eyes

Reflecting pools in other guise

Fawn's pure image standing there

In her mother's fond and loving stare.

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I, The Man*

The man

Sitting next

To you right here

Have feelings to share

You, being unaware

Must think that I am foolish

My raw-nerve feelings just for you

Encourage a shy young man to speak

But the words in my mind I fear to say.

*Written in Ertheree form

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Over Yonder

(Dedicated to John, Brenda and Kelly Foehrkolb)

Mommy, where is over yonder?

Why do you ask my dear?

Uncle Herb told me that a cow -

was over yonder.

I asked the farmer standing by the cow

where is over yonder?

He mused, "why, that house

just beyond the bridge."

The house is our home so I asked daddy

where is over yonder?

He thought and said, "over by that tree

and behind the mountains"

So mommy, really,

where is over yonder?

"Well dear, I guess you could say

that over yonder is over there

and back here again

and just about everywhere."

Oh, mommy, mommy thank you so very much

that makes it very clear

That is the answer

I have longed to hear

I asked preacher last Sunday

where God lives

And he said, "Kelly dear -

God lives over yonder."

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The Revenge of Glencoe

Out of the crags of that moonlit moor

Came the cries of a clan lost to war

Of two clans that clashed for power and might

And in Glencoe - shed blood - that heinous night

When a Laird of the land his blood-oath was broke

Accepting protection of his enemy host - he lied as he spoke!

Late at night the deceitful betrayer

Cautiously crept out of his layer

To clansmen a signal he gave from on high

Every Macdonald to the last should die!

And that became clan Campbell's cry

Every Macdonald to the last shall die - shall die!

And in their sleep those of the Macdonald clan

Were put to the sword every woman, child and man

Their ghosts haunt every valley and hill

The haunting voices of those the Campbells did kill

Having no kinsmen left to take up revenge

Their own sorrowful souls they had to avenge.

And down through the ages the stories unfold

Of strange deaths of Campbells both young and old

How chieftains in fright have gone insane

Out in Glencoe in horrible pain

And babies dying in mothers' wombs

Hearing the cries from Macdonalds' untended tombs.

And to this day Scotts' fear to tread

On that hallowed ground of the long lost dead

Especially there on a moonless night

Where the souls of Macdonalds are given to flight

In eerie song from the hills and the valley arise

We're nae ta rest 'til every Campbell -

woman, child and man dies!

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Reviews for "Sunrise To Sunset (And All That Lies Between)":

"Howard McIntyre has created a book of poems for thinking readers. His subject matter, ranging from death, war, and homelessness to the meaning of life and the nature of God, will evoke tears, laughter, and "all that lies between." Readers will find poems extolling the beauty of the poet's beloved Eastern Shore, as well as humorous ditties about crafty crickets and a clever cat. You won't want to put it down."
- Ann Hennessy, poet and author of "Becoming Ann: A Baltimore Childhood", published by American Literary Press.

"When I read the poems of Howard McIntyre, I trust his honest, clear eye. As a disciplined poet, naturalist, teacher, wildlife photographer and kayak guide, Howard gathers what he feels blessed to hear, touch and see and translates these offerings to verse. This poet is so generous with his humor, rhyme and knowledge of all things natural that I am moved to accept the world anew."
- Susan Argo, Poet-in-Residence for Maryland State.

"Howard McIntyre's work reflects the joys and sorrows of a person who is a keen observer of the physical and emotional world around him. Both his poetry and his photography celebrate the ordinary moments in life as well as more rarified event with clarity, precision, and a sense of humor. Pictures and poetry - McIntyre delights us with his harming view of life and landscape on Maryland's Eastern Shore."
- Leslie Prince Raimond, Director, Kent County [Maryland] Arts Council.

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