Do I miss you
I can't say that I do

but make no mistake
this is still a love poem

but about loving different
things

about opening my eyes
and smelling

a much different flavor
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

What do I know about death
not much

except that I almost died
three times

the first time was the hardest
the other two were pretty easy

ghostly pale wide-eyed with a lanky face
nocturnal and it hunts

on buoyant wingbeats in fields
and meadows

so what do I know about death
not much except that I almost died three times

Whit Howland © 2020

Please know that I have mad love
for you

plus

tonight the moon is as robust
as Zorba the Greek

that is why I do the crazy things
I do

Whit Howland © 2020

Right now it's something
to ignore

a chore
this plastic leaning Tower of Pizza

planted
at the end of my driveway

through the tinted window
the early morning gets more yellow

with the sun
as I look out upon the lawn

like it's an endless crazy ocean
past the box

like it's an embattled
buoy

and try to get comfortable with my
lopsided universe

Whit Howland © 2020

Red and white
spinning stripes

again your internalizing
when you should be externalizing

to say or express something
specific

the comb swirling in the icy blue
will I ever love again

I still remember telling my Dad
the night before my wedding

that I never thought I would
I love that Suavecito poster on the wall

a skull with a pompadour
maybe I could find the t-shirt on line

it could even make a great tattoo
but then

what would it look like ten years
from now

faded  probably
or smudged like ink

from a ball point
pen

Whit Howland © 2020

It leans to the left
but before you get mired
in the double entendre

shall we say

there really was a lost child

but has been found long ago
and if the search was for that of art
it  also has been found

much like the plums
in the icebox
that were delicious

but back to what we are
seeing
more so what we are confronting

it sags
and there's not much to say about it
except that it is very short for this world

and when it topples
it will be gone forever
but we'll forget about it

much after we find the time
to grieve
and lament about the loss

Whit Howland © 2020

we need
we need

and i guess
there is no other way

to verbalize it
so i will just blurt it out

because as you can plainly see
things are coming down to the wire

folks it's like this
and sorry if this is a crude reference

but for the love of Pete
we need to

you know

or get off the ***

Whit Howland © 2020

When I was younger
I might've said rotting

but I've learned that gives
a certain impression

like maybe one of a decaying
barn or farmhouse

and I'd hate to paint and/or
for you all

to get the wrong picture

it's been a good life
no I didn't say perfect

I said good

Whit Howland © 2020

You think I did
but I didn't

A hat
A device
A lens we see through

No matter what
that's just something I'd never do

Whit Howland © 2020

Why I never punctuate
is a poem in itself
and might speak very well of my
lack of patience and how I prefer
there to be few if no stops
along the way
like a silver comet or a bullet train

and that my friends and fellow poets
is sweet milk squeezed
from the source
of your choice


Whit Howland © 2020

if it is
it'd be a symphonic journey
of mostly sound
and visuals
might be things like
leaves and trees
that bud green
then go out with an eruption
of red and gold
to bare brittle filament
that in the bittersweet end
would blow away

Whit Howland © 2020

it

marches

marches on

at first

uneasy
wobbly
shaky

then

it marches on

Whit Howland © 2020

sugar tongs figure
into this thing

as does a cupboard
a sugar cube a rose leaf

and I'll try my hardest
to resist the pestle

Whit Howland © 2020

we circle the drain
and yet we fiddle

a jet trails off into
the distance

its noise lags far
behind

we sleep through
the afternoon

to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

See anything you like
let me know if you want the keys

low mileage on that one
she's a cream puff

red yellow green blue
and white pennants

limp
in the hot stolid air

awkward

tension

knife

kick the tires

we can fix that

we're doing crazy deals

your job is your credit

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm sorry

I wish I had an answer
but if I did

I'd be a brain trust

and

uneasy is the head
that wears the crown of thorns

glasses clinking
a drink slides down to the end

a blue brocaded curtain
ripples

where did I come from

I've been here all along

I'll sit over there if you like

what time is it
the windows are blacked out

so

it might be morning

Whit Howland © 2020

you say the things
i want to say

but lack the mustard
to voice

we are guided by crazy trumpet
playing

there's a method
but

even if it's deceptive
does that mean

there's
no madness

Whit Howland © 2020

That slatted promenade
the paper ducks the
shooting gallery

and the spools
upon spools
of cotton candy

was it Santa Cruz
or Atlantic City

it was so foggy then
it's foggy now

and much has happened
with you and I
along this stroll

up hills
through valleys
and everywhere in between

but if there's been one constant

it's how tightly we clasped
each other's hands
so hard and earnest

that our wedding bands
stamped our skin
like we were certified and registered mail

Whit Howland © 2020

Soon the lamps will dim
the trees will be silhouettes
in the morning fog
then maybe later
the sky will open up to an expanse
of  solid blue

and maybe you'll come
home again
it's never the same
when you are gone

Whit Howland © 2020

My cat lies across my stomach
her eyes squint when I rub
the back of her head with
my thumb

when she's had enough
she jumps off my chest
makes for the table
and parks herself dead center

it was sunny today
but that is a mere distraction
right or wrong
better or worse

she's my child
my life
the center
of my universe

Whit Howland © 2020

And if all the world's a stage
I'll always find myself

in the third act a nondescript
dot or blob on the backdrop

and if there are shadows
I'll choose the largest one

and move with it
my contribution to you

my gift

Whit Howland © 2020

Please don't ask me
to be luxuriant

what I see
is what you'll get

my eye washes away the color
and strips

the world to its naked
essence

because life and survival
depends on thinking clearly

with an unobstructed
vision

Whit Howland © 2020

Time it seems has stood still
for us to admire

the purple budding flowers
in spring

the red
and yellow leaves of Fall

or the moss-covered headstones
in the graveyard

behind a quaint clapboard
chapel

we are not at a crossroads
there are no pivotal decisions to be made

we are free
to keep spinning the wire rack

flaring the nostrils
smelling sponging

and sometimes chewing
the scenery

getting lost in the wash of Americana
and nostalgia

Whit Howland © 2020

Some will  say it didn't go
anywhere

and I'll say they're
right

two electric trains
one going east
and another going west

which way you ask
will the smoke go

it won't go anywhere
I say
but up your nose

just like it always has

Whit Howland © 2020

you hope you live long enough
to see it

giant
and full of itself

mirrored on the ocean
or some other body of water

the moon just being the
moon

and no one's crazy
goddess

Whit Howland © 2020

the sky darkens at noon
the wind whips through the trees

like they are nothing but
toothpicks

making the pending rain
almost a relief

and the biggest myth
is that there ever was a calm

Whit Howland © 2020

Even the small ceramic elephant
on the dresser

I  remember so vividly
with it's warped drawers

was way too big for
the space

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not confuse me
with someone who's in need

or want

I could've had them
any day

and maybe I should
but then again I shouldn't

pale squishy
and somewhat ****

who'd eat them anyway

Whit Howland © 2020

does he love her
or does he not

ralph and alice
and other shades of gray

what would their lives have been like

if when he blew into that trumpet
he'd hit that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

We are arm and arm
leaning
against a street sign

Jack Kerouac Blvd

we are smiling
triumphant
it might seem

because that year
you almost lost me

but don't worry my love
I'd have gone down swinging
and would have taken a few with me

Whit Howland © 2020

Where did you go
I looked and you were gone

almost as if you melted
into the shadows cast

by the trees
leafed out in Summer

I hardly knew you
yet I feel your absence

like one more piece
of the puzzle

lost


Whit Howland © 2020

it's with casual
effect

i bless you
with my presence

you move me
and i'll move myself

every now and then
or if you will

from time to time
so as not to fade

or be washed out
by the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

I must've been faster
than a speeding bullet

more powerful
than a locomotive

and able to run between
the drops of rain

it gets farther away
with time

the life I narrowly
dodged

and with my memory
much foggier

then it used to be
all I can recollect

are the strips
of paint

dangling from the ceiling
like swords

Whit Howland © 2020

Like I remember
my mother

I know
what it used to be

the day dims
and grows silent

through the window
the TV glows

and house lights
blink like fireflies

when everything was new
and fresh


Whit Howland © 2020

i love early fall
the time just inside
of september

the leaves still green
but there's finally a bit
of blush

in their complexion
that later will turn
to a pallor


Whit Howland © 2020

you beg me
to write about
the sky and the grass
or better yet amber waves
of grain

the best i can do to
accommodate you
is paint the sunflowers
at the highway's edge

but not the ones on the
median
for some reason they seem
to have lost their luster

Whit Howland © 2020

We run we
want to escape

we try but we
can't hide

we're here and then
we desire to be there

the grass was already
a bright shade of green

why did we ever think
we needed it greener

Whit Howland © 2020

What I am to you
we are to each other

you are
a Monarch butterfly
being chased

by a barking dog
in a meadow in
late August

I am

that dog

Whit Howland © 2020

would not there be
a dry eye in the house
there wouldn't

this morning
cloud cover
dull and gray

it almost threatened rain
but
with some polish

and a little elbow grease
we shined it up
like silver

Whit Howland © 2020

Dear ???

twenty years have past
and it looks like you haven't
seen a wrinkle

nor have you skipped
a beat

silver microphone
gold saxophone and a  blue
rippling velvet curtain

don't fret any
we were just kids then
even at thirty-six

Whit Howland © 2020

you say rip off
i say found art

a verse that's cobbled together
with twine bottles tin cans
and a rusty milk pail

sunday's jester thursday's harlequin
and monday's clown

I'll be your joker when you're down

you tap out a rhythm
and say it's a song

I say it's Morse Code

Whit Howland © 2020

There was enough pink this morning
to say the sky blushed

then the day turned hazy

who should we believe
what is truth

and are there many
or is there only one that is divine

sometimes life can be a glossy magazine
with some of the pages stuck together

it's all spit and a prayer

we live in a world
of mist

Whit Howland © 2020

rain tapped my window
but I'm not

where you think i am
outside

the streets are slick
with an after storm sheen

a traffic light turns
green

cars honk
and a city bus heads

uptown

a knock can be heard
on my bowed and cracked door

Whit Howland © 2020

my first apartment
was so mall

it could be licked
and put on an envelope


Whit Howland © 2020

You ask
what is the tipping point
when does it all go away

I answer

close your eyes
and listen to the clock tick

it's only then you will see
it melting
and dripping in the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

The sky never was
the limit

that's what they wanted us
to think

so we'd stop searching
all heavenly things

are truth
waves thunder to the shore

a lone seagull caws
overhead

fighting
a stiff wind

by the grace of God
we'll make it

Whit Howland © 2020

it's canned meat
and depending on how one slices

the hammy blob
they might say it's tasty

while to others
it's irrelevant

quite like poetry where  i've learned
there are no lines

only smudges
someone wants you to believe

are flowers


Whit Howland © 2020

don't tell me what
and what does not make sense

a bulbous moon
like a clown's nose

and a wide-eyed owl
in the middle of the road

i don't see a problem

but you do

Whit Howland © 2020

chirp is the word
for the sound it makes

most say it sings
while for others  

it spills the beans
we claw and peck for meaning

a few call themselves poets
everyone fights

for freedom

it flies


Whit Howland © 2020