Strength
expressed in
radiant beauty

a meadow
with clusters of
wildflowers

some pink
others white
with a blushing core

they sway to and fro
not chaotic
but martial with the wind

and they fight their battles
not with swords
and shields

but with rhythm
and dance

© Whit Howland 2019

We must
capture it all
before it disappears

these frothing waves
rumbling and rolling
onto shore

the clouds
that stamp and snort
and groan like restless bulls

the sun
despite the jeers and sneers
punches through the veil of nimbus puffs

and the wind
that billows sails
and drives the hulls of many tiny boats

so much raw power
so much clay and paint
and yet so little time



© Whit Howland 2019

Purple
dominates the frame

purple curls
and flourishes

the naked eye
turns to buds and stems

and although
at this moment

we are deep
in a bed of lavender

our mind
and our eye

spirits  us beyond
these flowers

to modest
grass and trees of green

then lifts us
skyward and onward
to kingly royal blue

© Whit Howland 2019

They're in a much better place
now

flying steady
against a steel gray sky

and soft white
clouds

and the more they
soar

the more they
shed to

just essence
ideas and current

flowing through
the telephone wires

Whit Howland © 2019

Caught
between drops
and lines

in this storm
there is no
thunder

or lightning
just many questions
about

where rain ends
and brain worms and
whimsies begin

Black
or cream and sugar

stirred
so it swirls as the steam rises

drinking
morning coffee

what we do
without even seeing

or thinking
a habit

more a morning ritual
so to speak

something long ago
needing and

yearning to be
downgraded to a routine

© Whit Howland 2019

Red with flourishes
and flowers

its long spout
an elephant’s trunk

it sits
at the end of a checkerboard cloth

almost as if
it is ready to be kinged

all while
the mind whistles and jumps over itself

at this early hour
the game calls for a cup of  hot whimsy

Whit Howland © 2019

Something
about a snowy night
changes a boy for life

that late hour where
the air
is lit by a dry white flare

with
branches bare of leaves
but kissed with snow

and his vision now
is spare clear cold
and calculated

© Whit Howland 2019

A brittle rose
and other broken parts
shards of our lives

glued onto cardstock
in a mishmash
collage

pieces
fitted together
with ****** fingers

we're trying
we'll do it
we can make it

© Whit Howland 2019

At the heart
it’s what drives us all

I’ll tap dance by it
noodle around it

I’ll say it
without really saying it

playing cards
with names like

Boardwalk
or Marvins Gardens

bold yellows and blues
simple plain

but still appealing
to the eye

eliciting spinning
cherries and sevens

yet I’m still beating around
the bush

it’s not the root
of all evil

nor is it the love of it
but more the lust

© Whit Howland 2019

Warmth is what we feel
and it comes from the heart

where there is a light
within

and that light
radiates out

to the sky
and the hills

skaters
are just figurines

more like set dressings
for this scene

what we feel precedes
what we see

© Whit Howland 2019

blue waves
roll one
after the other

in the distance
a cluster
of tropical palms

although native girls
and outriggers
try to distract us

we are drawn
to the  dormant but imposing
presence of Diamond Head

paradise is fleeting
and as always
time is ever short

We are stuck
in the middle of somewhere

just prairie grass and blue sky
with a ubiquitous buttery sun

front and center is a barn
big and red

its  hue
meant to wake you up

and much like hot coffee
it burns the soul

leaving little time comfort
or room to philosophize

what we see
has always been what we get

© Whit Howland 2019

Much
of what confused me
I see today unravel

the big ball of rubber bands
now being fileted and
the strands laid out in precise rows

in the forest
mist shrouds some trees
and tries to screen some others

but again
my eyes peel away
the cloudy layers

even though
there is a steady stream
of tears

© Whit Howland 2019

They went by
so fast
the years and
I'm past all the
hard stuff the
rough stuff
and I just want
to remember all that
is good stuff like
the Barbary Coast
the Frontier and the Stardust
and Janice when she sang
not when she raged against
a dying sun so I'll
pull three cubes
from a bucket of ice
put them in a cheap
glass and watch as
some smooth stuff
splashes on the rocks

© Whit Howland 2019

crude
but the shape
of things to come

the Seine
Notre Dame
in pencil rubbings and erasures

the mind
a potter's wheel
with clay raw and ready to be tossed

Whit Howland © 2019

life made plain
and simple

the big blue marble
flattened

with a wooden
rolling pin

and the earth now
on a cookie sheet

for all to see
eat and digest

Whit Howland © 2019

As though you were still here
I hear you
your voice
somewhere
between honey-laced tea
coffee
and burnt toast
it's almost
like we converse
in notes then
the rug
or an uptown taxi
you're gone
it's hard
but please
never let these late
night visits ever end

Whit Howland © 2019

Much like Haiku
we are to let this flow

but
when we see

browns burnt orange
blues whites and pinks

our mind dumps
this box of color

out
onto a table like puzzle pieces

then
the work begins

of the painter
and the poet

drawing connecting
and composing

as we forget
once again this simple lesson

serenity comes
when you toss your brush

and put down
your paper and  your pen

© Whit Howland 2019

purple
slatted

they compliment
the window

boxes
of purple flowers

along the side
of a wall with sealed cracks

weathered wisened
though still beautiful

the future can come
none too soon

© Whit Howland 2019

Though photo real
it's really oil and acrylic

bathed
in thin sky blue

chipped
with splintered feet

it leans
against the moss-covered stone

side of a building
with an open window

and rickety shutters
that are pinned back like ears

a potted cactus rose and fern
descend its rungs

while our eyes blink and squint
until a conclusion is reached

we are somewhere
nowhere yet everywhere

© Whit Howland 2019

I always try to remember the good stuff
but it’s hard
to block out and forget the cold

it was cold and rainy that day
hop skipping
and jumping

to keep up with you
on bridges
over canals

through alleyways
and bicycles
oh how we parried

to dodge the bicycles
and how I’ve tarried
so long

to think about and make sense
of what
it all meant

but like I said
I just try to remember
the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2019

Not heaven
we think about

but earth
turned upside down

and not tears or sadness
more like sound

and fury spouting
up from the soul


© Whit Howland 2019

With masterful strokes
the brush moves
then

a red crest

a wave

see it hear it ride it

and find out where
ear and eye collide

music
plus painting

equals

noodling and doodling
jazz for the mind


© Whit Howland 2019

time
to disappear

become

red jade orange
gray
dots or points on a paper or a fabric

and the ocean

blue splashes
capped
with white

as the summer sun burns
at its brightest
before it drips and melts down to its wick


© Whit Howland 2019

your face
in abstract shades

solid features like
eyes ears and nose

fell prey
to brush and blender

transformed now
into degrees of moon glow

Whit Howland © 2019

The little brush
used to dab over words
typed or misspoke

and that made globules
of white paint
on the page

outside
someone's whiting out a canvas
painting

over images and words
that have grown stale
and no longer serve them well

Whit Howland © 2019

Burnt orange
conjures a polluted sunrise

brown and rust
evoke junk cars shattered

pieces of glass
long ago fallen to the ground


truth is in the eye
of the beholder

Whit Howland © 2019

white and deep water blue
symbolic of swell and ocean spray

and the colors loom
almost like they're crashing to the shore

I never  meant for you
to challenge nature or tempt the sea

run boy
as fast as you can

toward the light
or find a door

Whit Howland © 2019

something
to break the ice
or instigate a February thaw

the impression of trees
the childish lollypop kind
and sky blue thumbprints

overhead
that meet the curves and crests
of chalky green

it's what's needed
to unfreeze the heart
and flow the tears

Whit Howland © 2019

Flameless
more like angry slashes

black and red
xs and crosses

the rest is
scattered flecks of paint

question
what is fire and do I feel it

now
when and where it counts

somewhere deep
beyond the soul

I'm searching in you
dear artist

for a poem
or at least a spark of one

and like you
it's not about the flames

eternal
or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2019

Peach painted sunrays
seep through reddish
pink clouds

they reflect on  water
lapping at a sandy island shore

the palm tree
she's curved like a taut bow
fronds sturdy not limp

clustered together
down the beach
her four sisters

there are no people
but somehow we don't feel alone
we are in love

it's private
it's paradise
but maybe a little out of reach


Whit Howland © 2019

it seems
I’m caught
in a funny place

I want to paint
a picture with words
but all that comes to mind

are quick thoughts
the kind you jot
on scratch pads and post-it notes

and the best I can do for and image
is one of a Sax
not brass colored mind you

more brushed - nickel
that’s used
for a bathroom faucet

and blowing into its reed
is like turning the ****
hot or cold

instead of water gushing
from the spigot
seedy cocktail jazz fills the basin

until it overflows
spilling onto the floor
then it seeps through the ceiling

flooding all levels of the house
I’ve been there before
and there are water stains to prove it

Whit Howland © 2019

With a neutral-colored sky
who can tell whether it’s night or day
and

it doesn’t bother those who walk
with arms locked in monochromatic bliss
toward the grandeur of the Eiffel Tower

love is too precious
and somewhat crude and time
too fleeting

to worry
about precision color
spectrum and other
artist aches and pains

Whit Howland © 2019

Fall is here
and someone spilled a million cans of paint and now
the forest is splashed with gold and red
and through it all trickles silver
just a slash
among and over dull gray mounds that pass for rocks
the impression I get is that you don't love me anymore
and now our love has reached its brightest and most colorful stage its value to you is scarce
and that in a short while
a strong gust of wind will rip it from its branch
sending it spiraling to the forest floor

have I read this right

or did you have some other message in mind

Whit Howland © 2019

Coupled and pressed
against the curves of a classic car
they lean

young lovers

with the art deco chrome
of the Chrysler building
at its core

a retro
New York skyline behind
unfurled

further paints the scene
to make these two
lost in love

and of their time yet timeless

© Whit Howland 2019

they're emerald green
they're icicles that drip

but only in the mind

the title of the work
Green Ice

meant to suggest
frozen glassy daggers
dead of winter

and the color green

but location is everything

hanging on what otherwise would've been bare

in a lonely room
where through the plate glass window
is the dead of night

with lights twinkling
like strewn cheesy emeralds

and the mind
now rudderless drifts far and away
to my bubblegum years

in the car
sitting in the backseat

on a cross country road trip
over his shoulder

I'm seeing a glossy green cover
with a comely pair of legs
all tangled up in fish nets and garters

sandwiched in between
the front and the back
rough and sand-papery

purple but steamy prose

and then
I'm weighted maybe anchored
to a question

how could something
so abstract
evoke an image so concrete

where purity
and lurid collide
to make a perfect storm

© Whit Howland 2019

Crisp blue
that fades to white
meets
the brown of fields and hills

puffy
gray green
thickets
in the distance

windless
cold

the clock ticks
a crisp clip
daylight already fading



© Whit Howland 2019

and like a still life
their faces are waxen
their bodies flat

pale lips blow
stiff fingers plink pluck
and beat the skins

it's as if their souls
have left us and the club


I've seen this print before
though not in a frame

but in mirrors shiny metal things
and reflections in the glass


© Whit Howland 2019

Our teachers sit pressed
against a cinder block wall
a couple of miles into their fifties

they look much older than that
as their faces crinkle like worn leather
puffing on Newports and Kools

life was much harder then

they watch us
run on the playing field
in our tough skins and smocks

our wise little adult faces scream and laugh
we're playing kissing bugs

we were much more innocent back then

as we cart wheel and crab roll in the dirt
staining our pant legs bruising our elbows
and skinning our knees

we were much tougher back then

we look back at our teachers
and then beyond the cyclone fence


© Whit Howland 2019

we sit atop a retaining wall
the kern river below
rippling over rocks

it was a twisty road
and it had made me sick
so Papa had stopped the bus

his voice is low and soft
as he assesses my aches and pains

through the windshield I can see my brother
has shifted
from the passenger to the driver's seat

he is steering the wheel
making jet noises

Magraw our blue tick hound
orbits

sniffing rutting and barking at phantoms
he is protecting us

this scene always lies
at the farthest edge of my galaxy of memories

and I pull at it on moonless  restless nights
when I pray for sleep
and thank God for my charmed and blessed life


© Whit Howland 2019

Cold today

so consequently
both coils glowed a fiery radiant heat

through the window
a gust of trumpeting wind
blew the rain sideways from the glass

and the sky
was a steel gray not ashen

strength's a must
warmth will push us through
and death was never an option


Whit Howland © 2019

and what might have been a day of lamenting the fakeness of things
ended with me eating an orange

a simple act
but one of healing

I like simple things
some say I'm easily entertained

especially by the chalk outline mural of Marilyn Monroe 
with painted scarlet lips
on a wall on Hollywood Boulevard

it's sunny today
but why do I always lead off with the weather
or talk about the sun

maybe because the sun makes anything metal
gleam like tinsel

in any case
that's about as exciting and tasty
as eating a vine of plastic grapes first thing in the morning

© Whit Howland 2019

It's days like these
I want to tie myself with strings
to red balloons and float away on a windy day
and like Icarus
fly too close to the sun

outside my window            
a sunny yellow
checker cab
honks backfires and belches
a bouquet of acrid smoke

it almost
blots out the sun
and turns the sky
many shades
of charcoal gray

but I'll keep wishing praying
that a gust of wind
will pick me up
and like a red balloon I'll float away
somewhere tropical and sunny

© Whit Howland 2019

just blue
and darker blue to meet a multicolored sky

something about it seems
so familiar

you're not here
it just feels like you are

you search for it
the feeling

like the quarter
that got buried in the sand

then the images refract
as through a crystal  prism

© Whit Howland 2019

Just faint light
enough to trace
the outline of the waves

as they roll and spill
onto shore

it's said
they're powered by the moon

some also say
the moon will drive you mad

but right now
all I see
is a steady lunar hand

riding heard


© Whit Howland 2019

Farther
much farther than we thought

beyond stretching
to limitless lengths

not just blue
or sad blue

but blue
from teal to sky

to azure to cyan
to deep cyan

farther
much farther than we thought

riding a wave
of blue

sliding up and up
the scale

past blue
way beyond heaven

past gold
straight to platinum

farther
much farther than we thought

© Whit Howland 2019

you lean back
like you always did
and blow

wearing your bell bottom slacks
cool
like you always were

I hear you now
maybe I always have
I just didn't know

it's all I ever wanted  to do
paint a picture
lean back
see
feel
and hear the music

so please understand
I'm not trying to be you

I'm just trying



© Whit Howland 2019

and no net
as they swing
under a striped tent

grabbing reaching
for other trapezes
lifelines
       hanging
                swaying like knives

audience
breath baited
waiting for the big shoe to drop

it never does


Whit Howland © 2019

bay
        wind
               more a gentle breeze

socks
       not caps
            as water rises to meet the hull

sun shines
             silver skyline
                       city by the bay

backdrop
              scene set
                another glorious day

Whit Howland © 2019