so I am writing you
something breezy
to make you think

of a kite on a string

reaching
for the stratus
and

swaying and  gliding
rhythmically

like one partner
in a ballroom dance

as it soars
higher and higher
on its journey

That bleery sunrise
staring back at you

has nothing to do
with *****

but something else
something
you could not put down

something you
stayed with

all night rooting
and cheering

for the things
the people

and the world
you really cared about

I'll resist that apple

and other baubles
that distract me
from my pledge to you

to keep watering
yours and my
inspiration

which sometimes leads
us to cut  and prune

and strengthen what
is already here

rather than plant
something new

Back then
I thought the letter
you sent
was nothing more
than a kiss off

but today
twenty years later
sitting on Art Hill

ignoring
your ghost
down at the edge
of the pond

and loving and
understanding
the words you
once wrote

Art
soul
and appreciation

I am knowing that
this revelation
didn't didn't come with
age or through prayer
which begat wisdom

but  from just
watching these
balloons launch
and soar higher
and higher

butting up against
the blue sky

and almost
breaking through
to the heavens

And while I may snap
my fingers to
your songs and stories
of storms and *****

its your gospel music
i'll always cling to

the kind you sang
with such grace

the kind
with the substance
of smoke-fired meat

and the kind
that will  always feed
and increase
the size and muscle
of the soul

@ 2018  Whit Howland

it is with deepest regret
that i don't have something better
to tell you about love

about being a sugar cube
you stir into a cup of coffee
to make it less bitter

its never worked that way for me
and I've always had to think

of something tired and stripped
of all its varnish  and dignity

something I've already asked
way too much of and yet
is still there for me  
night after night

when my voice  and words
have long since failed

@ 2018  Whit Howland

even though you think
our dots connect
in ways we only
understand

i've been there before
with a thousand
other clowns

who had
the same schtick

of trying too hard
to make a silk purse
from a piece of craypaper

Found an old picture of you
and me nothing
I could paint or recreate today

so we'll call it found art
that triggers memories
of things we shared

such as  a love
of  Frank Sinatra

so here is a question Ol' Blue Eyes
might ask

What's new in your world
today something

I need to know something
that will set
the record straight

The tides rise
Piazza San Marco floods
perfection has a price

for Venice
being at the mercy
of her progeny and
their strength of mind

to save the memory
of her canals
cathedrals
steeples spires

her beauty
perfection

threatened and someday
defeated
by water and salt

Malta

I've seen you
only in sepia tones
on a cardboard postcard

you're a little turquoise bay
rimmed with toy houses
and piers with matchstick boats

that dangle on strings
as they rise and fall
with the tide

Malta
we've never met

but I feel
we're kissing cousins
and like Saucelito

I'll dig you

and I'll envelope myself
in your streets your cafes
your denizens

and though I may
never know you
I feel I finally understand
what true love is

as I continue to mold you
like you are rich
river bottom clay

  Whit Howland © 2017

I've found one
my own lizard

but it doesn't run
among the rocks
of the Roman Colosseum

it slithers in between
my own  magical
worn and weathered stones
of the Greek and Roman Theater
Taormina Sicily

so you can have yours back
your reptile that is

it served me well

but mine will now guide me through
the cobbled streets

haunted by ancient history
and yet blessed
by holy unions and new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2017

I've walked across a bridge with locks
ate quiche in a bistro on the Left Bank

I've seen the Eiffel Tower
lit up like a sparkler at night
and maybe it was somewhere
on the Champs Elysees

I realized how far I've pushed you away

I'm ready to come home to you
and don't worry about the broken vase

nothing we can't fix
or replace

Whit Howland © 2017

A ***** rag shines the mahogany
past the arm of my shabby coat
it nudges the smudged glass
with her face swirling in the amber

She laughs at me
and the world laughs
while I sit on this wobbly stool

Punched

Whit Howland ©2017

Your circus friends
the roustabouts trapeze girls
and all the other clowns

they've seen the light
and that's why they'll never call
and you know they'll never write

because of this
you swim in pity

to the joy of thousands
of  hollow fans

Whit Howland ©2017

A Summer sun
turned lush green grass
to lunar dust

but the dogged day
clinched water tight

and wiped the stinging sweat
from its eyes and plowed
pell mell
through crushing heat

toward the dark and gray
of a violent dusk

where thunder ripped
from its nervous fingers
its earthly hopes and dreams

then pelted them
with heavy drops of rain

as it flushed away
all vestiges
of this ugly Summer day

Whit Howland ©2017