My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

The creek
has swelled its banks
the water

now muddy mixed
with flotsam
and sticks

panics over rocks
swallowing
trees bushes

and other things
like points of focus

the language
we use to trumpet
the call or send up
a flare

leaving us nothing
more
then just a pose

hands to face
and
mouth agape

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not make this
a rumination about
or
a referendum
on a state of mind

the day is clear
cold
the sky an icy blue

trees are bare
leaves are dry and piled

the path is
unobstructed

and crisp spare
internal prose
will win the day



Whit Howland © 2020

Today the sky
was a glossy postcard blue

the sand
a fine and ivory white

the water
that

an outrigger slid across
as a conch shell horn
blew it into shore

was so clear
you could dive straight
to the bottom

off in the distance
Diamond Head rippled
like a pennant
in the warm subtle breeze

you are here

decades may come
and decades may go

but you will always be

Whit Howland © 2020

Our eyes are no longer prone
to the things
that make them water

our limbs are stronger
and our faces shine
much brighter

we've gone around
so many times
on this wonder wheel

up and down
rocking back and forth
and if

we're not laughing we're
clutching the sides
of the gondola

hanging onto life
like we've always
done before

Whit Howland © 2020

Past the point of no return
the boat

on a track
guided by a greasy chain

goes under
the flashing sign

and the faces
of comedy
tragedy

and the masks
of love and hate

what's beyond
for now

lies in a long
dark tunnel

and for now
silent as a snowflake

a tomb

you pick

this murky journey's yours
it's what you wished for

it's what you love

Whit Howland © 2020

There's a much better poem out there
about you

it's one I probably wrote

like you
I found my niche

though not among Greek Isles
excavations
blue water and olive trees

but in the rough but
loving paintings

hung on walls
in places

seldom remembered
and mostly
forgotten

Whit Howland © 2020