As if rubbed with
charcoal

tire black rope white
and slung over a branch

ashen pale
against the gray trunk

a summer
my summer
your summer

colored
in gothic tones

much like a rubbing
from a  gravestone

in an old church
cemetery

whit howland © 2021

*** in the morning
Death in the afternoon
And it was dark

Milling about stacks
Of paperbacks and out of focus snapshots
Some of her in the shower

But pay heed
She's an iceberg
Warm her up on a bed of nails

Until she's a plaintive waterfall
And then tie her to the scaffolding
Of a clean well lighted place

What remains out of sight
Through omission
Through silence

Through childlike syntax
Shall float to the surface
In its own due time

By the time I was 23
Mom and Dad were
both dead.
I know it sounds
strange, but I felt
like an orphan;
like Oliver Twist.
Real love has
eluded me ever since.
like the goldfish in
the tank
at the Chinese restaurant,
when I reach in and
try to grab one.
Growing up, I thought
my parents would live
forever; of course that's
absurd, but even back then
I was a dreamer.

a swath of blue a few
ripples

here
and there

that lap what might be
sand

a slash of yellow
sun

you are here

but right now


I am there
my mind molding

fashioning
the perfect day

at the beach

and possibly
the perfect life

for us

whit howland © 2021

broken
reassembled

cubes squares
triangles

light refracted

I've studied it
from many angles

and my mind
always winds back

to the same truth

Blue

why is it blue
is it because I miss you

and that the house is empty
when it's just me

or is it the bad weather
emotional or otherwise

or the losing battle I fight
with the lawn and the cleaning

it seems so much of life
is being

swallowed up
in a quotidian funnel cloud

whit howland © 2021

Maybe it's me
and my slothful ways

but something
and I mean something

has riled them
as they vault

somersault
and skitter in and out

of my bedroom
my cats

I feel their frustration
at my failure to launch

into this hot hazy Saturday
all my Friday weekend plans

rapidly evaporating
as if

on the freshly tarred sidewalk
outside my window

whit howland © 2021