you’ll want more
you always do

but no poem
is ever perfect

like Christmas trees
on a lot

they’re either
too full on top

or
too slight below

and this poem is no exception
just the essence

of a loved
wooden hutch

with only traces
and outlines

of Nana’s
precious plates

saucers
and teacups

not enough
concrete  imagery

for critique
or analysis

but more than enough
for action

like maybe a phone call
to a mom or a dad

ceramic
with a childish image

of an ark filled
with simple happy pigs

giraffes
and elephants

sans
the smiting rain

and
biblical justice

I’m sorry
most days as hard as I try

I fail you
miserably

so right now
I need a God that forgives

with an abundance
of gopher wood

Whit Howland © 2019

Woke this morning
to an empty
room

the curtains were
drawn
not painted

to
only slim speers
of sunlight

but this is not
a woe is me
poem about loss

and loneliness
quite the contrary
though

it is about being
alone
and how the mind

is inspired
by time solitude
and the devil's idle hands

© Whit Howland 2019

drops
tap pit
pit pat

pitter
patter
rivulets

first haphazard
then patterns
on the glass

you might say
I did
nothing today

but someone
had to color
by the numbers

and arrange the staff
of gloom and gray


Whit Howland © 2019

Wispy
angelic
filament
frail

associations
like
quicksilver

hard­
to imagine
what

happened
that awful day
in Echo Park

this poem is here
now but maybe
not for long


whit howland © 2019

I'm not going
to use ten dollar verse
when ten cents will do

somewhere
a place
sunshine
someone

I miss you
you're not the person
I once knew

whit howland © 2019

This is really
about the wire

a lightly
penciled line
in the air

the birds like
underscores
or arrows

it's what's
implied
unspoken

what's
almost erased
or slightly out of reach

© Whit Howland 2019

Through
the blue shimmering
water

I see the black **** 
across the face of the floor
where it was slashed

I traveled all day
to get here from there
because no one

was there
when I knocked
and yelled hello

© Whit Howland 2019

I'll see
your edges of memory
with again
my carousel of slides
clicking by
so fast
on a white screen
and like you
I'm old enough
now to ask
were we ever
really there


© Whit Howland 2019