And it goes something like
walking the line

balancing on the head
of a pin

and of equal weight
as the scale teeters

between comedy
and tragedy

Whit Howland © 2020

Flapping
like a pennant

on opening day

it propels
the little skiff

oversea
and chop

topping white
caps

offshore
in crisp Spring

so with that

may the wind be
always

at our backs
and never

from our sail

Whit Howland © 2020

A gray wet plume
rising

from the bottom of  black
cast iron

blowing off steam

releasing pent up
and strong emotions

and yet
we are still called human

as we continue to be such
marvelous machines

Whit Howland © 2020

as we level up
they rise under
our feet

these metal stairs
with ridges
moving us

higher and
higher

toward a more
ethereal

equilibrium

Whit Howland © 2020

The flashing
red

amber and
green

the visceral
images language

and poetry
of those

who move and
shake

with places to go
things to do

and people to
see


Whit Howland © 2020

This is the time
between lurches

and the hisses of
airbrakes

that much of life's
conundrums

get solved

and

where the new and beautiful
reveals itself

during the blare
of the horn

as the bus
with lumbering grace
weaves and ducks

slowly
unraveling

the urban snarl

Whit Howland © 2020

I go back and forth
about who I want
to be

most of the time
I try to figure that out

through observation
of people passing

so briefly in and out
of my life

over a newspaper
and coffee

Whit Howland © 2020