a soft pale glowing
sliver

over the bedpost
or through the bathroom door

for when we need
to be creatures of the darkness

it's nothing to bark at but more
to read by

a beacon
to guide us through the night

Whit Howland © 2020

Horned rimmed
and tortoiseshell
they rest just left of center
on my nose

and if I ***** my eyes
I can see the bifurcated line
where the focus changes

and it's the same one you
are seeing right now

I miss my mom
my grandmother my grandfather
and my brother

and I'm bracing myself
for the shape of things to come

Whit Howland © 2020

I fear my change may only be fleeting
because
although like Pharoah

you've hardened my heart

you left me with a full set of teeth
to come back and take another bite at the apple

Whit Howland © 2020

I wait
you hesitate

then wave me on
I start to go

but your body's
syntax

signals me to stop
I halt

but you go
then I  go again

and our worlds and passions
collide

Whit Howland © 2020

You call me an enigma
I say you're a mystery

and like two pieces
of formless wax

we float
pickled in amber light

Whit Howland © 2020

it's really about the hat
straw with a farmer's brim

we got them for free
at a baseball game

and made each other laugh
tilting them rakishly on our heads

it was the first time we had talked to each other
in days

Whit Howland © 2020

Wall or painting
and do I really care

they say every house settles
mine is no exception

and I've come to realize
maybe by kicking against the ******

that it's better to pin a gold star
on a mediocre pig

then chase a fast greasy one
and get dragged through the mud

Whit Howland © 2020

who are you
she demands

i answer her
with silent letters
and vowels

my voice
left years ago

on the last bus to
Pittsburgh

Whit Howland © 2020

as summer
lopes
with days
more doggy
than ever

it seems
keen sight
has given way

to acute hearing
of things

like a clock ticking
and putting down

bottom
to the soundtrack
of my life

and when i hear
my cat's meow
and see the red

yellow green
pop and flash
behind my eyes

outstanding

I tell him
as he limps
on his clubfoot

by me
into the haze
of this magic afternoon

Whit Howland © 2020

you once said
i had rapier whit
as exemplified

in my letters to you
one summer
when we were young

you are now long gone
but that gleaming silver knife
your gift to me

still sits on my desk
cutting sharper
than ever before

Whit Howland © 2020

still brown suede but now scuffed
they're older than our marriage
and I still look at them like they're new

staring at me from that plateglass window
down in rummy Pioneer Square

I won't let them go just like I'll never
let us go and I'll never abandon old Seattle

like Coney Island
it still exists in the mind

Whit Howland © 2020

darkness
interrupted only

by fits of garish
neon

rain in spots
bone dry in others

mostly country
on the dial

if anything at all

oh what I'd ****  
right now
 
to hear some smooth jazz
while complimented

by a glass of

you fill in that blank

Whit Howland © 2020

we are stuck
in the mud

that's practically
cement

filling
our shoes

making them
heavy

as a steady
down pour

pelts our
faces



Whit Howland © 2020

fact

i woke up this morning to 98 degrees
and steamy

it was so hot
that as the old saying goes

you could fry an egg on the pavement
for good measure

i added spam and bacon
to that mix

but the real issue
sizzling

on the front burner
is

when exactly will this
end

corollary

or
whether or not we want it to

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe
we found each other

or did we just
stumble onto one another

each time
the story unfolds

it's either big
small or medium length

before it folds back up
again


Whit Howland © 2020

bits of glass
in a puddle of milk

i'm sorry
i just can't  fix it

so we mop we sweep
we bag them up
and throw it in the trash


Whit Howland © 2020

and for lack
of a better metaphor

I will call it a
magnet

not one shaped like
a horse shoe

you might see in a
cartoon

but more of the refrigerator
variety

say
a rubber bumblebee

to remind me of the sting
of bad choices

Whit Howland © 2020

I thought I'd write about
clouds

the gray bulls that stampede
ahead of the thunder

as opposed to those
nebulous forms

hanging over us
when we are mad

or sad
nope

these
are the real McCoy

droplets of water
or ice crystals

now floating
catching their breath

outside as heavy rain
beats the pavement

while a frog hops then
stops

to wait out the
storm

Whit Howland © 2020

E
we can see

thus we know it's there
and we feel safe

it's what we can't
discern
what is blurry

we fear
because we don't
understand

are you with me so far
good

because
from here on out
it gets kind of wiggy

if a tree falls in the forest
and no one's around

how big was the ax
that the woodsman used
to chop it down

Whit Howland © 2020

you've been the eye
of my storm

and have taken great pains

to allay my fears that
we'll ever be apart

now the morning is here
and as the shadows vanish

I think of merry England
her history

namely
the old saw

of how the sun
never sets

on the British Empire

thank you so much
my love

for always confirming
that to be true

Whit Howland © 2020

The choice
between

throwing
and hurling

is no choice
at all

there are fast *****
curve *****

and soft tosses

words are always
tools

but never are they
and never will they be

weapons

Whit Howland © 2020

Do I have
a one-track mind

I sit and watch
the wheelbarrow

fill to the brim
with

and I search and search
but I never seem to find

you or ever come close
to hitting that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

i woke up
early

mostly because
i could

no longer sleep
i vacuumed

the living room floor
swept out the dusty corners

and instead of pointing
to the bluebird

in the backyard
perched

on the brittle branch
i'll steer you

toward the toby jug
sitting

on my mantle
it's more interesting

Whit Howland © 2020

your voice
this morning
left me with questions

blustery gray
or blue and sunny

boxers
or briefs

and

autumnal gold
or blooming

flowers
in Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

Your tone
should always be
conversational

but professional

highlight your
strengths

and when possible
weave dross into
strands of gold


tell the story
however
control the flow

of the river
so as to keep the narrative
on point

mostly though
you'll want to make it clear
for all to see

that you're a caterpillar
fast becoming
a big and beautiful

butterfly

Whit Howland © 2020

This stuff will **** you
if you let it

the silver bullet
I search for

or the daggers
to drive  

through the heart
of the matter

you keep asking

is this going to be
my thing

what will bring me
to the precipice

Whit Howland © 2020

Not a lot
to go off of

if there's anything
at all

the night is hot
and sweaty

a June bug
clinging to the screen

gets flicked
by my *******

with the busted
knuckle

into the starless void
of this late summer night

Whit Howland © 2020

beneath us
brown roiling water

moving rapidly
downriver

as we anxiously peer
around

a wooded
bend

Whit Howland © 2020

Turquoise blue
or coffee brown

or did it matter

as long as it spun
on its axis

and was life ever
really the same

when we unhitched it
like a wagon

and watched it bounce
down the stairs

only to have it collide
with other alien worlds

Whit Howland © 2020

With Spartan
sentences
and syntax

life stripped
down to only
what we need

it doesn't get
more luxuriant
than that


Whit Howland © 2020

it was so very hot
today

but i mowed the grass
anyway

all the while
fighting

the stinging sweat
that burned my eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

it's when your mixing
paint
and metaphors

such as

being a bottle
lost in a sea
of eternal sunshine

then
all of a sudden

the light
on the projector
pops

and the world
simply

and beautifully
fades

to black

Whit Howland © 2020

what was it we
drank

and before you
get too glib

it wasn't
the kool-aid

words matter  
words mean things

who said they didn't


Whit Howland © 2020

not much for you
by way of kind words

but i have to say
i love the silver beads

of morning dew
on lawns

green  
with summer


Whit Howland © 2020

Right now
the wind does not
howl

instead it sounds
a lot like whale music
calling

from down deep
and beckoning me
to dig deeper

don't worry
what ever is broken
I promise

I'll fix

Whit Howland © 2020

Today
worry hangs on me
like a mill stone

yesterday
I was flooded
with guilt

which felt more
like an albatross

maybe tomorrow
I'll wear a barrel of Brandy
around my neck

trust me
I'd be okay
with rope burns

Whit Howland © 2020

So much of it
is looking at that
half glass

and wondering

which way the day
the week the year
your life will go

some advice

paid for I know
with a song

just drink the water

it will flush
all that troubles you

Whit Howland © 2020

It could be thunder
or sunshine
yet you always remain
at your desk

looking out the window
musing

about quotidian things
like chirping birds
and if they know you exist

and the stuff
they might say about you
behind your back

that is if you're not too busy
typing up pages
of the emotional weather report

Whit Howland © 2020

Only partial sunlight
but that's by design

just enough illumination
for us to see

yet
keep our focus inward

but if we could
would we dare

throw a brick
or a stone

at the frosted glass
louvered slats

and make them
shatter

and if we could leave
where would we go

and would we be equipped
to handle

the scenery the splash
of color

or might it cause
a sensory overload

Whit Howland © 2020

No one's coming to
save us

this and other
steaming cups

of fresh coffee

I must bring myself
to smell

note to self
awakenings so far

have not been glorious
on the contrary

they've been quite  
rude


Whit Howland © 2020

We woke up one day
and the world had changed

not almost but overnight
and somewhere

there was a letter never
delivered

or a memo never
read

in the end
and we are truly there

the struggle boiled down to
specific names

titles
and addresses

Whit Howland © 2020

Why are they
here

why are we
here

am I really
here

mysterious
could be a word

but whatever name
or term

they're most beautiful
when much is left

to an unbridled
imagination


Whit Howland © 2020

as I've told you many times
before

so much depends on the words we
forage for
and our ability to whittle down

those pieces of wood
and fashion a workable phrase

the structures we choose
to build

and that has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

A life like
mine

spent
scuttling

from point
to point

every once in awhile
a light

a respite



Whit Howland © 2020

we run we pivot
then we run again

stopping so briefly
to sit

in the window
and peer

at the freshly minted
moon

then we take off running
wondering

if one day we'll ever
muster the courage

to stop and challenge
what seems to be

chasing us

Whit Howland © 2020

Let's not make a federal production
out of this

it's just laundry

clean not *****

trousers shirts
socks and underthings

flapping like pennants
in a breeze

on a clear day
rubbed

with a pastel blue sky
and warmed by the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

a smooth stone
pulled back

and shot
from a sling

with an arch
meticulously

imagined

i'm thinking of you
and what should have been

as opposed to why
it wasn't

Whit Howland © 2020

for most  
it's a big overstuffed suitcase
and not one with rollers

it's something we lug
through airports bus stations
and at midnight

because we never travel by day
it always the last coach
or a redeye flight

Whit Howland © 2020

A false start
maybe I jumped the gun

or  told a lie
botched a story or an explanation

so the fixation continues
with these wadded up things

atop each other in a wastebasket
and I no longer fear them

nor do I welcome them
I guess I've merely made piece

with my failures epic
miserable or otherwise

and see them as impurities
in a vat of something molten

soon to forged into mighty weapons
like swords

or even more marvelous
things that were possibly made to

I don't know
the sky's the limit on this one

Whit Howland © 2020

Please pardon
the name dropping

but I first thought
maybe

I would dedicate this one
to A R Ammons

then I considered Raymond Carver
or Galway Kinnell

and there was a strong possibility
the honor might go to Gary Snyder

but most
if not all those men

have gone on to see things
better

and more beautiful
than the sky

trees
and streams

so what's there left to do
but dedicate another canvas

to me

and take this moment
to pledge

not to obsess about
small things

like a crumpled piece of paper
or bread crumb

but to see past those objects
and beyond in search

of the door that leads
to the clean and well-lighted path

Whit Howland © 2020