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

picture a poem
about an obsession

with pictures
of ordinary things

or distant memories
of trips you've taken

to places you've never
been

as you searched for the voice
to put words to a phrase

a sentence and then to a poem
and you can hear it now

whoo whooing whooing
and the chugging

and you can almost feel the blast
of steam

the journey has begun
but it's hard to know

if it ever really ended

Whit Howland © 2020

no i did not see your
note

but like when i put on
a new shirt

it was the pins
it's always been the pins


Whit Howland © 2020

Whether it be a lonely
guitarist

or

a woman on a storm swept
street

her black blue mascara
running down her cheek

possibly between the bilgey
rain drops

and I'll cut this short
because

this piece this
canvas

is about more
we

are about more

Whit Howland © 2020

It's hard to say goodbye
to a place

when I've never said hello
as the cliche goes

and this isn't really a poem
as much as it is a meditation

about what could have been
and why it really was

or was it ever really
and why should it have happened

that way
we could go on and on

doing loop dee loops
somersaults

cartwheels bonsai dives
belly flops

but all this is procrastination
with a dash of Egyptian denial

and it's time to connect
the dots

it's real easy if you merely
sit and think about it

wake up
smell the jo

see the gate and close it
behind you

move
toward go to

the blinding beam of
light

and more over

there's the bridge

Whit Howland © 2020

With a steady hand
I paint I draw I write

by the
numbers

I am careful
maybe too

cautious
not to color outside
of the lines

so little time

and I am constantly
looking
over my shoulder

Whit Howland © 2020

No not a gust
but more a light touch

nothing that moves
like a whirlwind

or such
just a tiny perturbation

a tickle

Happy Birthday
and junk

Whit Howland © 2020

We think we go
deep

but most of the time
we skim

the surface of things

notions ideas
philosophies

and other wise

the night might've been
ink from the base

of the well but
the moon

cast a silver light
that accentuated

the checkerboard pattern
of branches

notice I said checkers
and not chess


Whit Howland © 2020

It's all I have to go by

the lurch of
wheels

the clicking of
tickets

and the rolling scenery

sliding from city
to town

to country flat
to hills

back to flat
and hills again

now
a cymbal crash

and something
completely different

there's a raccoon
that often comes to my porch

I feed it
and after thinking

and smoking on the issue
I've decided to call him

SLUGGO


Whit Howland © 2020

Though hard to judge
I feel you

are no longer close

as I see you fading in my
rearview mirror

now just a smudge
on a painted horizon

Whit Howland © 2020

I took a risk today
and trimmed the stems

on a bouquet
of roses

then I put them
in a vase I filled with water

before presenting
them

to my wife
thus proving

the poetry is in the making
of

and not in the actual
pudding itself

Whit Howland © 2020

The water lapping the shoreline
makes me think of your words

my life is on an even keel

and it's your voice that still
echoes through my dreams

my songs and poems
it must be because

you made pain
loss

and sorrow look
so easy


at a point in my life
when it was hard enough

just to pick up the phone
and deliver the news

it's been thirty years now
and her voice

is still yours I hear
when I pull your book

from my shelf
one more time

my life is on an even keel

Whit Howland © 2020

My flat cap
is on the hat rack

as I'm alone
tonight

in a big barn bed
outside

is the hum
of a ratty ******

and just before
I closed my eyes

I penned a note
to you on cheap

hotel stationery
hang in their baby

I'll be home soon
just one more drink

and I swear I'll be right
with the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

Focus on the table
the chair

and how the suns rays
warm

both pieces
not too hot but

just enough
to feel the heat on the back

of your legs
which will then draw

your gaze to the window
with its crosspatch

pattern of lines
on the glass

and now that you
know the source of the warmth

you'll feel it even more

as our feelings guide our
observations

and vice versa

Whit Howland © 2020

i'm watching it all fade
before my very eyes

as the light
what little left there is

flickers


Whit Howland © 2020

There's something missing
from my life

a part of me that floats
through the aisles

of dusty correspondence
and dispatches

something

a  piece
maybe a pawn or a knight

that never made it back

Whit Howland © 2020

A diamond

four triangles coming together
my life

now squared  away

and my mind
as quiet as a pool hall

for surgeons of the game
with only

the rhythmic focused
cracking

of solids that scatter

like dandelion seeds
riding a gentle breeze

on a fine summer day

Whit Howland © 2020

Are we men
or

are we ants
bees termites

there have been numerous times
I questioned

my presence and role
as a human

most of those came
from living

in a place
of grimy corridors

lined with naked bulbs
emitting

weak
and pasty light

Whit Howland © 2020

dingy *****
is their world

real or fictitious
as they watch

and cheer
these battling Maxos

built
like Roman Statues

duke it out

their faces being
opened

like tomato cans

Whit Howland © 2020