It's what we pull
from the subconscious

the best parts of us
the cream

rising to the top
the parades

the celebrations the
moment

when he passed out
those cigars

whit howland © 2020

like cotton *****
or cotton swabs

we float away
on puffy white clouds

we disconnect
no

we unplug

whit howland © 2020

like in a barrel
or in a sink

we are the lambs the paper ducks
the canaries

in the goldmine
we are battered

next to chips
the food

for hungry
watering mouths to feed

sorry
it was nothing personal

whit howland © 2020

it's got nothing to do
with nothing

a tuft
of fur on a chain

swinging from a ring of keys
in the ignition

that's right

nothing


whit howland © 2020

October's slimy kiss
of wet

the air peels away
the layers

as it harvests this year's
summer crop

the soul

whit howland © 2020

Usually when I dream
the house never gets packed

the shuttle never arrives
to take me to the airport

and I have not studied
for that final exam

but last night into the early morning
that all changed

in the batting cage
as I felt the sting of swinging

hitting

and knocking all the fastballs
that came my way

out of the park
into the heavens and beyond

whit howland © 2020

Red
like a red rubber
playground ball

wet
from a late
October rain

it was a solitary galosh
that did me in floating
and suspended in thought

robbing me
of those early morning hours
of sleep

while you snored away
and I haunt the halls and rooms
of the house

to shoulder
yours
as well as mine

whit howland © 2020

my life
flashing
by
like
a fast car
going on the green
and headed out of town

some twists and turns
a lot of missed calls
some lucky pulls
but ultimately a dead end

whit howland © 2020

Frankly
I prefer the rippling white sheet

with eye holes
floating down the hall

instead of what tugs
at my conscience

like fingers pulling on that
tiny strand of hair

whit howland © 2020

Tethered
to a metal ring
in descending order

they clink they jingle
like bells or chimes
as they dangle

and swing
from your slender
fingers

I look through your window panes
and find the music
as I reach farther

than I ever did before

whit howland © 2020

just focus on the missing nose of the face
that looks like Groucho Marx

lost

and work from that

backwards or forwards

it doesn't really matter because
what is lost

is something that has been
confirmed

will not be found

Whit Howland © 2020

When evening sets in
and there's a bite

we put on sweaters
and shawls

because we feel it in our bones
of something we've never felt before

Whit Howland © 2020

Your note
handwritten
in pink pen

on coarse
and crumpled
scratch paper

"Are you okay
lately
you seem kinda distant"

if not then
I'll say it now

I'm so sorry
I must have been
lost

in the weeds of thought
and tangled
in overthinking

thank you for your
gentle hand
and firm grip

Whit Howland © 2020

Like my feet
without any wings

they clunk
and plod through mud

much like molasses

and the music
the thought jazz

has left under auspicious
no

I think you mean
suspicious circumstances

Whit Howland © 2020

A meditation about
a color

and substance
we often think of as black

but very rarely
red or electric blue

I was drawn
to you

because you were as
no other

I mean I had never seen anyone
or anything

like you

Whit Howland © 2020

What's the good word
some news would be nice

will you write
or call

because the pin cushion
I'm sitting on

will no longer
suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

Like the brother who said

you can have it

you slip out when I
slip in from the night shift

and our fingers only
slightly touch

but it's just enough
for a connection

to keep the ghosts
at bay

and drown out all the lonely songs
about about a pale and sad moon


Whit Howland © 2020

You paint our love with
somber but noisy tones

rubbing charcoal
and flakes of ash on the canvas

what is it

I'm scratching my head
a warning

a cautionary tale
because all I see is gray

windswept beauty and I want
more

so give it to me

Whit Howland © 2020

Floating orb in the
night

as black as gold
Texas Tea

oil that is

there's been darkness
enough to go around

and around
ribboning the world

with black

but no tunnel goes on
forever

and there are jokes and laughter
along the way

Whit Howland © 2020

Last night you slept
like a log

or was it a rock

as for me
I kept chasing

the merchant of sleep
into the early morning

like a wayward ice cream truck
but it's a new day

and the sun is an orange and juicy
tangerine in the sky

let's make a pact

Whit Howland © 2020

Cat's Cradle

eyes closed waiting
for

the shock

flash

the crash

Walking the dog

it never comes
on pins

and needles I wait
what is this

it's a ship arriving too late
to save a drowning witch

Whit Howland © 2020

you

me

old yellowed
stressed fractured
along the base

when did it come
to this

how did it come
to this

pipes clank
smell

drip drip
drip

so much promise so
little time

I wish I had known you
better

Whit Howland © 2020

Tonight the moon is full
and as always
it's a ball of green cheese

if we are lucky
it'll be here all week
so

in its honor

what say you and I
do a Chinese Fire Drill
on 42nd Street

because like Slinkys we must bend
and twist ourselves
to prove

and plead
that we are human
and should be called such


Whit Howland © 2020

The image a face
ripples

or contorts

when something
maybe a pebble

dares to disturb
it's universe

before it's restored
as though nothing

untoward ever
occurred


Whit Howland © 2020

Red and gold leaves
like feathers

are ruffled by the wind

lately, it seems
my world is upside down

it's hard to know
where things begin

and where they end

and that
has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

Some mornings I wake up
hot

under the collar

to handle

to trot

for bacon and eggs

with the dice some cards
or a pool cue

and most of all
hot for you


Whit Howland © 2020

What to do with a restless heart
and a restless mind

for inside
things must be burning

with flames so high
they kiss

the sky
and beyond

an unquenchable fire
or thirst

a question never
answered

an unrequited
love

Whit Howland © 2020

You mock me with a note
on a cocktail napkin

wet

from whatever you were drinking
and smudged

with ink

you love me

you love me not

and try as I try
forget you I cannot

I

kid you not

Whit Howland © 2020

A light
more a glow

the source
we do not know

should we
do we

dare
ask where

or why

my days are spent
trying

to read your ticks
your expressions

and I must do so
without fail

without question

it's the wire I walk
between two points

straddling



Whit Howland © 2020

This morning the air
bites like apple cider

and my mind is as clear
as a blue sky

with just a hint of cirrus
and stratus clouds

I have no regrets
nope

none whatsoever

Whit Howland © 2020

Why is the sky blue
I wish

I had an answer to that as well
as other questions

vexing you
but it's the seemingly

simple things with us
those innocent queries

such as

are piano keys really
ivory

and why are you so late
tonight

that has always tripped
me up

whit howland © 2020

You always take it too far
you say

I guess that's me
and why

every time I pull into
the garage

I stare down a bright green
tennis ball on a string

like both barrels
of a shotgun

whit howland © 2020

Shadows pattern
the wall

once in a while
they swing and ding

I left you because I felt
trapped

and thought
there was more than this

there was

I should have listened to you
instead of that distracting

flute music

you've always held
the key

whit howland © 2020

it's what we expect them
to say

or paint

vertical slashes
swirls and dabs of gray

with such windswept
and abstract beauty

but nobody
and i mean nobody

ever anticipates the flush
of sun

in the right-hand
corner

whit howland © 2020

like a bag of bricks
my conscience

you must have felt it too
and my breath

even from a far
when our eyes locked

and you knew you were being

pursued

so sorry
it was a heavy load I bore

for it was urgent
business

whit howland © 2020

and you are here
caught in my vortex

waiting with baited
and well

rancid breath

from the taste of
anchovies

while I ponder
where this is going

and what this all
meant

the mind a little slower
the older I get


whit howland © 2020

dishes clacking
glasses crashing

silverware
strewn and scattered

water
on the floor

i didn't mean for it
to get this way

my intentions were
always good

and i'm wracking
my brain

to figure out
where it all went

bad


whit howland © 2020

There's something
I need to say to you

this morning

but when I try
words always fail me

and like a sneeze
that never happens

it lingers in my throat
and nose

not to mention
the eternal buzz

and the sting
of frustration and impotency


whit howland © 2020

that it's here
in it's gray cloudy

glory
and bluster

such wind
and bluster

yep

that's all that needs to be
said


whit howland © 2020

Of glass that sweats
and labels that peel

in all shapes
and sizes

colors of liquid
from root to birch

onto creamy
and tangy

we can live again
love again

and we can definitely
come home

whit howland © 2020

Tracks in the snow

a small game trail
deer path
or footprints

ciphers
symbols
signs

of steps
equals
forward motion

progress


whit howland © 2020

A once bright and
red

now

a little deflated
wrinkled and faded

and it's an arm wrestle
or a battle for the soul

but the scissors are there
sitting

on the counter

to lead you to where
the air is much clearer

whit howland © 2020

My cat coiled beside me
on the couch

both he and I
creatures of the night

him
by choice

we are bonded
by the glow

of an amber globe
that looks like

it floats
in the front yard

whit howland © 2020

Something comfortable
but with pizzazz

fine lines
a touch of leather

and brushed
nickel

we think aloud
in unison

we complete each other's
sentences

with relatively speaking
the same syntax

whit howland © 2020

Often
I  ponder

about the purpose
of dreams

and why the mind
isn't merely wiped clean

and reprogrammed
every night

when moonbeams
breach our windowpanes

and
kiss the skin

whit howland © 2020

We cry about it in Paris
every spring

we used to say
before we lamented

what has left our lives
forever

even though I can't see you
I know you're there

I cling to that
always

Whit Howland © 2020

like a face
its expression changes

mostly
on a dime

reacting
to the moment

a decision at the
snap

is it fight
or is it flight

Whit Howland © 2020

Coda
or passage of time

and a rose by any other name
now brittle and dry

we well with tears
mostly sad

but sometimes aghast
at new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2020

Clarity is what I seek
as I declare

ivory keys
played with long

silk skinned fingers
is where I might find it

a rose petal
against the white

much like
a drop of blood

on flesh from
a pinprick

Whit Howland © 2020

For better or
worse

hallway vision
speak

nothing of a tunnel
the issue

is that of clearance
of cobwebs of clutter

a piece of mind at
any price

Whit Howland © 2020