London Eye
                you spin
                     you twirl

all circular motion
                    so high
                       above a city

Big Ben though silent
                you still keep time
                               so fast
            
slipping through the gaps
                    my hand
                          sifting sand

the guard
       changing

life
    flowing

the Thames
         steady moving
              crossing bridges

London
              when we come

Whit Howland © 2019

Whether they're growing
in the garden
tall proud
or in their waning days

through her lens
my wife gives every flower
equal tonal value carefully
preserving their
hue and chroma  
with love and doctoring



Whit Howland © 2019

we amble
caught

in a steady
pour

muddy gutters
sidewalk streams  

and a world
that could be

should be
would be dreary

but beauty can be
sometimes wet

sometimes mussed
sometimes bent

but much
depends

on the day
the glass

full
or half

maybe
just *****

Whit Howland © 2019

Sweeping gray
swirling white

windswept
water blotches


rivulets
rain drenched canvas

dreams left
unattended

now
a forgotten watercolor moment


Whit Howland © 2019

Chicago windy
blustery cold

frantic
crowded human

silver  liquid amorphous
bean

cloud gate Chicago
beauty eye behold

love adore maybe
but some will drink

another
cup of tea


Whit Howland © 2019

terracotta pink
sun-washed peach
they tumble down

tumble they do
to the sea  

Positano
the Amalfi coast
its steep and
slanted streets

Positano
where wisteria
grows on hotel walls

though paint does peel
stucco crumbles
and awnings fade

Positano
even in its sometimes
tattered state
it's  still a weathered beauty

Whit Howland © 2019

deep red logs
a perfect fit
buttered grout to fill the gaps

protective trees
wooden cask


floral garden
color splash

small troubles gone
worries in the wind


Whit Howland © 2019

white blossoms
                swaying in an April breeze

petals
          twirling to the ground

best of both worlds
                   fruit and flower

precious things
                    that never meet




Whit Howland © 2019

swirling green
blue on black

proof
in the finished product

edges smoothed
now cloudy glass

it's not the destination
but the journey


Whit Howland © 2019

brown on dusty mustard
clashes
with streaks of gray


we
drive through riding
the wave


haven't seen
a drop of rain
in days


sun bleaches boards
and bones
alike


© Whit Howland 2019

those were good times
             and **** us
                       if we didn't even know it

back when
     the Marlboro Cowboy
                     rode and lassoed Sunset Boulevard


happiness
       is never around the corner
                 it's always off in some back alley




Whit Howland © 2019

For most poets
it's  an obsession
a nagging one

a golden thread
through out their whole
sartorial collection of verse

we poets wear
our art
like suits some

fit better than others
and
some garments

well some
just need to be shot
like lame horses

I'm being tangential
and sorry
for the cruel morbid simile

but for my obsession
motels
the art deco flea circus variety

lately though
motel
and hotel art

it could be that
I'm in a really good place
for once in my life

that I can just
binge and gorge
on still lives of

cheap grocery store roses  
and
whimsical pictures of prancing horses

Whit Howland © 2019

obscured by ink
only wide eyes
and an outline

lightning
popping
like hot flashbulbs

I fumble
in darkness
for a key

before
he
flies away



Whit Howland © 2019

barber's poles
               or candy canes

water taxis
               or water bugs

gondolier's song
              maybe flamenco music

time was short
            is short

too short
         for pencil sketches

of memories that blur
           and  evanesce

in water black
           and oily


Whit Howland © 2019

a sheen of sweat
on glass
watery vision

sun again and
steam  
also rises



Whit Howland © 2019

God
always shows up
in lonely places

                   a motel room
                    frayed curtains
                                  and a naked bulb

          walls of clowns juggling
            stove pipe hats
           leap frog and pogo sticks

throw caution to the wind
absurdity over logic
and there he is


Whit Howland © 2019

Grease drips
from gear and chain
but only in the mind

as do the wheels spin
with king and jack
slapping the spokes





Whit Howland © 2019

Brass handle
     frosted glass
it swings

side to side
   a spotlight
warm fuzzy

two and fro
   a metronome
luminary

constant guide
  path to trail
up to road

truth
  to pupils
and pilgrims alike

Whit Howland © 2019

Blue Bottle
pocked with pits
                   and bubbles

broken before tossed

jagged sharp
its bottom was
                   until water salt

smoothed its edges
recoloring
                   the glass a creamy lighter blue

blue bottle
broken weathered discolored
                   the journey

its story
is the brittle crinkled
                paper message

that should've  been
lodged
              within

Whit Howland © 2019

colors once bright
              now off
pale

one year
         and the paint
fades flakes

and the American Flag
            is  nearly washed away
by  snow rain dirt and dust

yet it waits
       patiently
for summer

and sun
      to summon
painters cleaners

the worker bees
      to scramble rally
around its cause

trust for you
     trust for me
trust we  can

still once more
     strike a match
ignite the torch

and keep it lit


Whit Howland © 2019

A phonograph
or
an object

more poetic
say
a Victrola

a metronome
accordion
a Dictaphone

whatever the device
you're in there
pulling wires

plunking keys
blowing wolf tones
anything to skunk up the works

and if I were smart
I'd brace myself
for your ghostly visit

your
attempt to cramp
my style

to drag me clawing
gnashing
to the junkyard of naked language

to make me face
the paint and music
like you always did

but there's a problem
it's small
but very significant

I don't believe in ghosts
nor do I think you
to be one

and if you do come
it won't to by the light
of a beastly moon

nor will you be bathed
in spooky green
glowing paint

but
with a presence
better than the one I knew you by

one with
even more depth
and perception

and you will
bear
just a soft

new brush
fresh cans
of paint

simple
nothing more
nothing less

© Whit Howland 2019

You speak to me
now
in apologetic verse

a lyric born
from
way beyond

your cadence

a bent soldier hunched
over cups
of scalding coffee

frosted donuts
sprinkled
with the shots

its very sepia
in its cinema
and

very
tormented
in its song


and yes
you’re still
alive still present

and yes
we're tethered
still forevermore

but no
we’ll never meet again
face to face

so let’s
just cling to what’s
concrete

the image

an orange
gritty
rise and shine


ordinary
though
resonant

with
a workmanlike
musicality


Whit Howland © 2019

broken glass
bottles
trash

strewn
brutal
flowers

runners
joggers
shiftless drifters

along
once an
industrial river

now
cold
dead pond with

lumbering barges
up down
pushing

rust
junk
sometimes coal

eerie
sad
in between

or

say
strangely
beautiful

brutal lunch
ladled
raw

on a big
steel
serving spoon

© Whit Howland 2019

Woke this morning
to an empty
room

the curtains were
drawn
not painted

to
only slim speers
of sunlight

but this is not
a woe is me
poem about loss

and loneliness
quite the contrary
though

it is about being
alone
and how the mind

is inspired
by time solitude
and the devil's idle hands

© Whit Howland 2019

drops
tap pit
pit pat

pitter
patter
rivulets

first haphazard
then patterns
on the glass

you might say
I did
nothing today

but someone
had to color
by the numbers

and arrange the staff
of gloom and gray


Whit Howland © 2019

a box fan
whirring
shuddering

in a dark
corner
of the room

cold air
on my legs
bed sheets flaking away

then
claws
a cat

it's
sandpaper tongue
across my calves

© Whit Howland 2019

A dream
buzzards
fly overhead
eyes like spotlights
cars bumper to bumper
I know you are out there
and you know I'm still
that guy it's just that
he's buried deep inside
you are going to have
to dig deep to find him
but do try to reclaim

whit howland © 2019

Wispy
angelic
filament
frail

associations
like
quicksilver

hard­
to imagine
what

happened
that awful day
in Echo Park

this poem is here
now but maybe
not for long


whit howland © 2019

I'm not going
to use ten dollar verse
when ten cents will do

somewhere
a place
sunshine
someone

I miss you
you're not the person
I once knew

whit howland © 2019

still hot humid
at fifty
we've done
all we can do
our bodies strengthened
retrofitted
for the red yellow
leaves
frosted by autumn
our minds still warm
limber
hints of winter

only weeks away

© Whit Howland 2019

we stretch
we yawn
looking  out
at life so still
while
lazing
our way
through the day
then rising
eyes keen
ready
to wrestle
demons unseen

© Whit Howland 2019

This is really
about the wire

a lightly
penciled line
in the air

the birds like
underscores
or arrows

it's what's
implied
unspoken

what's
almost erased
or slightly out of reach

© Whit Howland 2019

All the things
I see
in fiction  
the mental jetsam
of dreams

I can no longer say
this isn't happening to me
that this

is the stuff
of others

this is real

and I am here for
a little while longer
maybe just another hour

© Whit Howland 2019

Still
a restless scene
when I toss
turn

with sleep
somewhere
dancing in the street

passions flowing
drunk
on wine

fire
crackling
burning

he curses
flailing fury

throwing food
at soldiers
over a fortress wall

© Whit Howland 2019

Through
the blue shimmering
water

I see the black **** 
across the face of the floor
where it was slashed

I traveled all day
to get here from there
because no one

was there
when I knocked
and yelled hello

© Whit Howland 2019

I'll see
your edges of memory
with again
my carousel of slides
clicking by
so fast
on a white screen
and like you
I'm old enough
now to ask
were we ever
really there


© Whit Howland 2019

Still life
like silver apples
sitting

pop art in
a front yard
rust now rolling

up on once apple
green paint



© Whit Howland 2019

Cherry stained
rose wood
silver
jangly
thirty five
a rough year
money
like honey
sweet
but hard
to come by

© Whit Howland 2019

Hello again
just to say
I got lucky again
and what a joy
it was
waking up to a sky
finger- painted
baby blue




© Whit Howland 2019

Even though
much time has
passed we've
had so much
to be glad for
gratitude by
the heep and bundle
every time
they've tried
to tear us
asunder your
hand with nimble
fingers sutures
us back into
the patchwork dolls
we've come to know
each other to be

Whit Howland © 2019

sun-blushed dawn
I blinked
you were gone

the world
now
newsprint gray

we don't just
see the funnel cloud
we are up in it

no way
to tunnel out

© Whit Howland 2019

wind rushes
my face
so close
not a sign
of relief but
a warning and
painter's brush
with death

© Whit Howland 2019

always right
before dawn
I am
young again

worrying that
I can't physically
see my face

this feeling
like a riptide

the more I fight
the farther I'm
pulled from shore

what always
saves me
an old television

wooden case
hissing remote

it's analog
so nothing other
then dots of snow
blips bleeps and

other delta
and divine waves

that never fail
to gift me years
and wisdom

that put me
right to sleep

© Whit Howland 2019

Tied
like meat
with a butcher's knot

a bundle of papers
sits on the side walk

the rain

pelting
the front page

smudging
running
the news

now
a steady stream of ink

feeding into the storm drain

© Whit Howland 2019

I've got
many ways
to say no to you

but instead
watch

as I slam
the door off
it's hinges

feel the vibration
that's no

moving on

let's find an image
a metaphor that says
I love you

something
cliche

a rose plucked
crushed
into oil

bottle broken
potion spilled
all over your finest
blouse

I love you


© Whit Howland 2019

Sage advice
once gleaned
from a poet's letters

compare you
to only you

that said

I'll go one more time
around the block
a brief stop

Goldy's Dime Store
some taffy and
a quick look at me

then at Goldy's
pictures
in his fighting prime

I'll leave
the bell jingling
when I shut the door

you have your
lonesome cities
and I have
my empty streets

© Whit Howland 2019

Twelve
end of summer
1982

mom dad
in
the background


I do all the talking
what I'm saying
is brief

an off-hand question
so to speak
on its face

the whole scene seems pedestrian
though it carries a bit
of restless magic

me fidgety  hard
nervous eyes
especially golden

when I turn sideways
and crack
a wry
smile for the camera

the videographer
summer camp buddy
a kid named Terry
from Pensacola

he's still around
though he might
not look the same

it's taken a while
and many carousel rides
to get around to saying


something
I thought I'd never say
to myself

I miss him
me

that kid
the one who had
yet to put a pet
to sleep

or got the news
about his brother
the merchant marine

© Whit Howland 2019

Not
a splintered sawmill
or a rotting waterwheel

but the bundle
you're muling


charred
useless wood

a bridge fire
lit
by a laconic spark

you were there
but you didn't
strike the match
so cork it

no weeping
no tears
no time
for lamenting

because
off-screen
the sky barks

here

just take my knife
cut the twine
let the timbers fall
and crumble

run

and don't worry about
a mess
the wind can blow away

© Whit Howland 2019

Though
tempted
to write about
how much I miss you

I want to create
from a place
of
enlightenment

songs of
loss
misery
sadness

are not
for those who
flew
all night

into
tomorrow
but for ones
who refuse

to
make
the
trip

© Whit Howland 2019

When you speak
go deep  
down
to the pool

of still blue
water
most people
think brain

when it comes
to clarity
but it's really
about

uncovering
and unpacking
how you feel
over what you think

the thinking
comes later
once you  have
walked the ruins

and seen what
was where and
who was what
and where the

bodies
could've
been
buried

Whit Howland © 2019