Caught
between drops
and lines

in this storm
there is no
thunder

or lightning
just many questions
about

where rain ends
and brain worms and
whimsies begin

Black
or cream and sugar

stirred
so it swirls as the steam rises

drinking
morning coffee

what we do
without even seeing

or thinking
a habit

more a morning ritual
so to speak

something long ago
needing and

yearning to be
downgraded to a routine

© Whit Howland 2019

Red with flourishes
and flowers

its long spout
an elephant’s trunk

it sits
at the end of a checkerboard cloth

almost as if
it is ready to be kinged

all while
the mind whistles and jumps over itself

at this early hour
the game calls for a cup of  hot whimsy

Whit Howland © 2019

Something
about a snowy night
changes a boy for life

that late hour where
the air
is lit by a dry white flare

with
branches bare of leaves
but kissed with snow

and his vision now
is spare clear cold
and calculated

© Whit Howland 2019

A brittle rose
and other broken parts
shards of our lives

glued onto cardstock
in a mishmash
collage

pieces
fitted together
with ****** fingers

we're trying
we'll do it
we can make it

© Whit Howland 2019

At the heart
it’s what drives us all

I’ll tap dance by it
noodle around it

I’ll say it
without really saying it

playing cards
with names like

Boardwalk
or Marvins Gardens

bold yellows and blues
simple plain

but still appealing
to the eye

eliciting spinning
cherries and sevens

yet I’m still beating around
the bush

it’s not the root
of all evil

nor is it the love of it
but more the lust

© Whit Howland 2019

Warmth is what we feel
and it comes from the heart

where there is a light
within

and that light
radiates out

to the sky
and the hills

skaters
are just figurines

more like set dressings
for this scene

what we feel precedes
what we see

© Whit Howland 2019