Maybe
a scrap of paper
with a name number or address

that slipped down
river
and over the falls

memories
leaving one by one

until there's nothing left
but a hollow wind
blowing

into some glass bottles
perched
on a split rail fence

Mutant darts
or
if you prefer

cricket

the board
was your lawn
green in summer

but seriously

what were we thinking
as we launched
these big metal missiles

with plastic
feathers
on the other ends

and that's the thing

back then
we just did
and that's what made  

all the difference

toothpicks
in a bowl of milk
ready

to be lashed
together
into a raft

to sail down
a river
literary or otherwise

literally

a litany
of possibilities of where
this vessel

could go

January
and there's a blood orange
sunset

glowing in the sky
at five o clock
which means

we are
on the downhill slide
of darkness

heading for days
of warmth
and nights of blinking

fireflies
but honey like I 've said
many times before

never defer happiness
grab it now and not
like a falling star

but a rising one
you catch
and hold onto

by its wispy
glittering
tail

Glops and swirls
of red white
and blue

it does not fly
or billow in the breeze
it hangs

a piece of art

something to start
a conversation
you know

just small talk

with no guarantees
but no fine print
and definitely

no dotted line
to sign on

either

Blue

a mixture green
the color

of grass in summer

with yellow
like the summer sun

and that to me is something
that will never equal

sadness

Solid
the color of steel
that much is clear

but an area
where things get
murky

how could that be
when overtime
it becomes the color

of our hair
when we turn wise
and able

to see the forest
for the trees

gray
the color of days
that are cold and rainy

and there's no
ambiguity
in that

Fake or real
we wonder

the grass
tall and green

with wildflowers
among the blades

a butterfly flits above
the canopy

and farther above the sky
a marbled blue

augmented
by a yellow sun

and we wonder
fake or real

and yet we  dread
the answer

A weeping willow
weeps for me

it wipes the ground
and washes my feet

a canary sings a chirpy
little tune

that might be melancholy
if I let it

but time is too short
it was the last thing

you had to teach
me

Boxes of stuff
dropped
by mechanical pigeons

flitting about
from street to street

eggs and spam
sizzling in a frying pan

the bouncing ball
the Yellow Brick Road

if we follow the plan if we paint
by the numbers

our wedding picture
on the mantle

forever young
as we slide gracefully

into our golden
years

We're no longer young
or wet behind the years

are jokes are old
and they groan

like hunger pains
from someplace

down deep

but what is it
we hunger for

and will we find it
before it's time

to lay down
and go to sleep

but what we need
maybe just one little
thing

like a crayon
magenta
then

viola

a picture

the loaves
the fishes
to feed the soul

with seven baskets
left over

Just one red candle
******* into a log with peeling bark

burns

with fresh wax
dripping

down the sides

so much could have been said
should've been said

but now's not
the time

What was once
child's play with thrills
and spills

is now a useful tool
for adults to shape
and mold

the World
one broadened
and bird's eye view

at a time

red blue green
white

and weeping with
tinsel tears
of joy

we've made it baby
to easy street and parts
beyond

Father Christmas
red-cheeked and drinking
from his pewter stein

the milk
of human kindness

but was it really better back then
or am I just remembering it
differently

I close my eyes
and I still see those bulbous
Christmas lights

strung along the front
of the house
I want I want

I want
what I can no longer
have

A **** or string
What's the difference

I'm a dummy
Either way

With dribble
On my chin

As i gag
On all of your words

You so rudely
Shoveled

Into my mouth

Hello again
my old friend

just sending you
some yule and Christmas cheer

winter is here

but none of the white stuff
this time

only the steel gray like
our hair

that we pretend is silver
amongst the gold

a metal chain still
swinging

one can only
deduce

it to be freshly
pulled

the room now filled
with soft white light

draw bridge now opened

i'm in  my fifties
and my mind

has never been more
alive

brim-full
of hopes ideas

dreams
and most of all

solutions
to the many puzzles

and riddles
that have long vexed me

Whit Howland © 2021

Stacked three high
with the fourth turned upright

and resting atop
like the star on a Christmas tree

tires

that's what they are
what we are

functional

a part of the wheel a part
of a forward motion

unstoppable
uncontrollable

we celebrate

Covered in leather
decorated in brass

locked
with the key lost

long ago

and it holds secrets
the special kind

beyond words
or expression

All night it rained
and water coursed

through the downspouts
like blood through our veins

this morning
a red leaf leftover from the fall

floats

in one of the many finger lakes
that was once our backyard

and does pirouettes
in a water ballet all its own

I was young
and you were young

as we attached the trike
to the steel tongue

and pulled the wagon
around the driveway

a snapshot
capturing a mise-en-scene long

oh so long ago

but what really is it
I'm looking at

with sunspots
and the color washed out

over time

possibly
the first moment

you and I began to know
what it meant

to pull a heavy load

whit howland © 2021

Went to the store
for bread

eggs sugar
and milk

don't worry
about this morning

all will be well

It's the bubbles
in the clear green glass

that pull me away
from the day

lost in more than thought
abstractions

and absurdities

the graveyard
where the mind is laid to rest

More than just a flower
with white petals

you were and still are
life

the kind
that's a hot breath

in the face

with just a little drool
on the kitchen floor

whit howland © 2021

Your flavor
a candy-flake daydream

so sweet

but no
you did not complete  me

and it wasn't for trying
I chewed on all of your words

your every word
that inevitably

I know that now

lost their taste
in a matter of minutes

Sloopy no
those are shoes I can't fill and won't

because

we connect with people
by forging our own path

through an even denser forested
patch of land

and then looking up and
pulling our own truth  from the sky

and possibly making that sky
much bluer a little less cloudless

and the day
a little more bright

Meaning

of a wild
uncultivated plant
or the plant bearing it

meaning

some said you were
ill-mannered of bad upbringing
and undisciplined

but I hope you know now
I never listened
because it was

that pure
white blossom
I picked

with such relish

A place maybe
not in the sun

but one of distinction
off just slightly

the beaten path
a little grown over

with weeds
that need clearing

though
worth the effort

all work is play
and all play is work

Find a solid
wood pole
possibly oak

and loop the rope
crossing the working end
over itself

then pass the working end
under
making a second turn

but be sure
not to cross any line
at this point

lastly
pass the working end
under the last line which crossed the pole

and
finally
tie the knot

Not to be
confused with deference

an affected
ingratiating gesture

of regard
to another's wishes

but yet a disagreement
of opinion or something else of note

and
so we don't grow old

going around on this
conversational tilt-a-whirl

I'm willing to make a concession
and settle this issue

by deferring exclusively
to you

we're on the other side
of the fence

and yes
it is what they say it was

but not quite what we thought
it was going to be

people tend to exaggerate
and fabricate

building suspension
and tension

when they are waiting
for something

they should have seized
long ago

Somewhere
between red and yellow

Albuquerque and Amarillo
we've run the gamut

you and I
the spectrum

hot and cold
happy and sad

and now
we've settled in the middle

just west of melancholy
with a little bit of rust

around the edges

Deja vu
maybe

in any case
we've been here before

muddy waters
dull days

murky
uncertain future

a crossroads
and all that

A youth
that I'd like to think
was better spent

but so much time
got lost in a flurry
of white noise and fuzz

I say we'll always
have Christmas
not quite Paris

but
close enough
for drinks and cigars

never having to say
you're sorry

but I am
regrets

they hang on me
like tinsel

it's always been
my brother

not me
who could mix up the paint

saw the boards
hammer home the nails

and pour the 'crete
so to speak

and bless him
for doing all that I have never

been able to do
and for being able

to pull me from my own
abstractions

to show me
again

how to clean the roller
and the brushes

and preserve
what others have done

before us

Mason
a skilled worker

who lays units
of substantial material

stone
or maybe brick

spreading mortar
like butter on toast

building one upon
another

you are a quality
a power

to determine action
without restraint

whit howland © 2021

they're glossy
postcards

of places along the road
like a jugular vein

that roped us in
and trapped us but not really

we loved the diversions

zoo animals fudge knives civil war  plates
fiddle players

and most of all
a skillet of ham and throwed rolls

all lozenges
for a feverish mind and a heartsick soul

whit howland © 2021

hands
no wind

we throw
caution to

hands
be they good

or bad

is something
we will never know

There will be blood
there will be sweat
and there'll be a fountain of tears

but the picture is worth
more words
than I 'll ever give you

the missing piece
find it

and you've finished
the puzzle

whit howland © 2021

Crisp
apple cider air

October
it's finally here

leaves
and other things

at the end
of their string

with acceptance
comes dignity

honor
and most surely

peace

whit howland © 2021

or over ice
or crashing to shore

aged Old Spice
and a ship

wrecked
on a faraway reef


whit howland © 2021

on a cocktail napkin
in smudged felt tip

how much what
do I have to do

I dig and I dig
so deep

and if I reached China
would my efforts be

rewarded

whit howland © 2021

A wilting rose
suspended in red-tinged water
in a vase

fingers plinking
yellowed ivory keys
with reverb coming through the speakers

so much to be said but
let's not kid ourselves
nothing was ever said

and it doesn't matter anymore
no hard feelings
but that's not really true

if there's already
a hardened heart
and

a plastic smile
an off-key voice
equals

a jar full of crumpled
dollar bills

whit howland © 2021

A jar of jelly beans
red yellow purple
and green

follow
follow
follow
follow

follow the bouncing
red ball

gray  clouds
rain showers
a goldfish flopping

on the wet pavement

whit howland © 2021

old
chipped
and brown

green grass
has grown-up
all around it

the inscription
rubbed off so
so long ago

a still life a stiff breeze
people are  just dying
to get in here

respect
for the dead
is not what we are told

that it is

laughter
still lives here
and travels

to the beyond

whit howland © 2021

Trigger pulled
a shot rings out

the race

is on
ragged breath in time

with foot over foot
and the clock

ticks

whit howland © 2021

Fire engine
candy apple
cherry

red

two little bells
perched atop
with shaky hands

tick tock
tick tock
tick

RING
RING
SMASH

the time is here
the dye
has been cast

arise
arrival
my wife

your husband
a long
and happy life

whit howland © 2021