It’s too much
It was all entirely too much

In my lowest,
   came the "hello"
Alluring eyes
   I'll admit
It was love at first sight.

    Endless hours
& words expressed
     Did you hear it echoing?
the heartbeat?

Beautiful Smiles
   Fiery kisses
empty bottles
    ***** sheets.

Paragraphs
  turned into "ok."
and an unread
you set off a dream in me.
Can you hear the echoing?
of my heartbeat?

Shattered dreams
   Empty tears
a one night stand
   but not for me. . .

this love is not enough.
--for me--

her eyes were green
with golden flecks
candy apple red staining
the center ring
flowing out into a dark forest ivy
her lips soft and plump
like bubblegum
puckered out like
a blooming flower
rosey cheeks painted
with a gentle watercolor
and freckles speckling
her little button nose
like snow
last of all her hair
the perfect strawberry field
red, auburn, ginger
smelling fresh and pure
she smiles

The Golden
Gate Bridge
is a harp.

It’s one
for a giant.

Yet the harp has
never been played.

If it would the
sound would shine.

Everyone would
hear it all
over the world.

The bridges ropes
turning to a line of
raindrops though.

Rush hour
would agree.

The fish long
to be free.

The butterflies
are blind.

Stars fly through
like sand.

Trees reaching
towards it.

Yet no one
hears the pulse
of a promise.

Let us be comfortable
with the business of life

always rough
unfinished

but never chiseled
in stone

as we erase
revise

and embrace
our fingers

the amateur
cartographers
that they are


Whit Howland © 2020

Such a lovely start to the day
I think
I might flock to the lounge
and lay
upon the sofa.

Stay
at
home.

You may think I always search
for reasons to hide in your hug
But it's visible to me how curiously
You look for a place to make me
Gear up to lure

does the melancholy come
before the sorrow
or is it the other way around?

does being a fool make
me a poet
or am i a poet because
i was first a fool?

if my hands were steady
enough to hold an instrument
i could be your darling bardling
and sing you into immortality

but my voice is as shaky
as the rest of me
even when you’re not around

and there’s nothing poetic about
a bard that can’t hold a note
without going all to shambles

is there, my love?