Why didn’t we do this years ago
all that time now gone for good

it’s green it hangs
flaccid on a door jamb

it's beauty only apparent
in action and the act of shopping

and its fabric
rough to the touch though strong and trusty

but seriously why didn’t we do this years ago
all the time spent now dried up and blown away so

why didn’t we

flush out all the  purple and excess verbiage
and flense the fat and grizzle

my goodness

so many plastic bags
and not enough manure to fill them with

Whit Howland © 2019

The propeller rotates
and chops

the air and
I feel the wind on my face

I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and

the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss

an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer

but she’s great and thank you
for asking

and though like you
she does not  understand it

she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude

Whit Howland © 2019

They have memory
so the creases

from where I wipe
my eyes my face

still linger
and they’re two weeks old

now ripe
with a ***** whiff of must

the colors
red and yellow are mismatched

and
if I really tried

I could make them hang straight
but I lost you once before

and I vowed
never again because it’s myself

I have to save first before
I can rescue you

Whit Howland © 2019

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

It’s people that offend me
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

someone’s vision
of how a cat should look and be

calm
but wary

perched on your hind legs
and though relaxed you’re ready to strike

blue eyes seductive and yet
disapproving

I trust you
but at the same time

I don’t want to turn my back
I’ve been burned before

by people
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

your ears pricked back
like your perturbed

your mind
surface tension

Whit Howland © 2019

No need to think
beyond the box
the game is simple

a color wheel
melted

into thin
waxen sticks

ripe
low hanging fruit

you just point
and shoot at random

at the drop of a hat

don't cry over spilled milk

and you're judged
by the crayon you choose

with which to color your days
weeks months
and years

© Whit Howland 2019