A swatch of sky
literally blue

a patch of green
light to dark

swirls and flourishes
impressions of flowers

red brick
and the color of stone

eyes ears hands feet
and a nose

is it deep
it is not

and it isn't really that
complicated

it just takes time
and patience

whit howland © 2021

I am flattering you
as I paddle this plastic
ball across the net

and back at myself

in my dream I can play all-day
the sounds keeping  perfect beat
and time

melts away
like that ubiquitous
stopwatch dripping off the table

he said you were not the best
but you were his
and now that I've read you  

I think that you are mine
as well

whit howland © 2021

"But baby it's cold outside"

and now that
I'm older
I feel it deeper

in my bones
like little jabs
and icy pinpricks

that turn
to thoughts
and syntax

and words like
affairs house
and order

are what come to mind

Bright
but not hot
light

neutral
might describe
it best

or
perhaps
indifferent

to the snow
swirling
around it

he who cares
about very little
controls everything

whit howland © 2021

you say
old flames can be rekindled

I say

with a little spit
and a pinch of the fingers

they can be snuffed

whit howland © 2021

but that photograph
and how it now fades

and how that shirt I am
wearing

just one day
up and fell apart

whit howland © 2021

Overtime
all absurdity and parody
turns to serious discourse

picture this

a red white
and blue box
with a boy on the front

in a sailor suit

but
he's not a ******* Jack
instead

he's a ******* ****

whit howland © 2021

Legal tender
coins banknotes

return to sender
address unknown

the expectation
of something great

my garbage
your gold

big league
raw deal

anticipation
moolah

your hell
my happy place

whit howland © 2021

a request
an urgent plea

not to focus
on minor details

to see the forest
for the trees

not to get
shall we say
lost

in the weeds

oh
what we can cobble
together

from all the  brush
we cut **** and clear

whit howland © 2021

Let's talk about
mustard and burnt orange

while we sprinkle a couple
of flakes

then let's move down
to brown

slugs snails

and after that

melt

fade
to black and white

blobs

but pity them not
they were here to destroy

our gardens our
trees

ok,
I'll stop beating around the bush

us

they came to destroy

us

whit howland © 2021

What comes to mind
is death
and the afterlife

and unraveling
the mystery
of what it's like

red white
white red
red white

vegetable
beef
vegetable

sometimes
just a dab of silver
to let you know they are cans

whit howland © 2021

It's what we're drawn to
and what we draw

a teapot
painted face
a plain table

along with muddy light
from a ***** window

and the rest of the canvas
only there to encourage ownership

is it a dream
personal memory

or does the mind
surely jest

whit howland © 2021

pale
but bluer than
ashen

not dead just cold
maybe numb
sad

a little yes

but the ice
keeps the heart frozen
and in check

whit howland © 2021

White but dark
its face

is like
a sinister heart

and its eyes
are the black marbles

little kids shoot
in the ally behind the drugstore

friend or foe
can we even tell the difference

anymore



whit howland © 2021

The glow of the cigarette
still bright orange

but yet it droops
and blue smoke curls

upward causing
a set of pale blue

watery eyes
to blink rapidly

apathy
is a powerful force

that sets many wheels
in motion

whit howland © 2021

Screeching tires
and years of rubber left smoking
on the pavement

arms flail and sneakers scrape
the asphalt at an all-night basketball game
in the rain

a phone's rings
is like the staccato report
of a machine gun

a weatherman
through a scratchy transistor radio
forecasts a storm

fight

or flight

whit howland © 2021

But what made it so strange
were the things that vanished

from our sight and our lives
coupled with the notion of progress

becoming

more a hollowed-out promise
or a pipe dream


so it seems

whit howland © 2021

Tracks
in the snow now crunchy

big feet
and the pitter-patter

of little feet
crisis crossing each other

and no need to ask
what it all means

with no scheme
rhyme or reason to this thing

whit howland © 2021

What is it about
us

we sail
without charts

we run
between the drops of rain

and we fly
not only by the seat

but sometimes
with no pants at all

charmed yes
we are very charmed

though it's hard
not to wonder

if there isn't someone
out there

who's
keeping score

whit howland © 2021

but not for Sal
you or

even me

these droopy white flowers
with dark

blackened blue
tasty berries in the middle

whit howland © 2021

Silver
bubbling
in the sweltering
heat of the afternoon

pigeons
flocks of warbling
pigeons
eating morsels of bread

I know when we see
each other again
you won't remember me
and I won't recognize you

but I woke up this morning
looked in the mirror
and asked myself
what is missing from my life

I know

A little girl who deems
it necessary to
take it upon herself
to point out

all of my character flaws

whit howland © 2021

did he
or did he not

write his great American novel
on a roll of toilet paper

so many questions so
many conversations

so little well
time

is what you make
of it

you and i had time
and then we didn't

whit howland © 2021

between
green and violet

as of the sky
or sea

on a sunny
day

but  i won't talk
about sadness

or melancholy
because this picture

was taken at a time
when you were the happiest

whit howland © 2021

You are no longer
here

but in my mind
you're the one point

I focus on to stop
the dizziness

when world spins
like a top

heading for the edge
of the table

whit howland © 2021

HONK
HONK

it jolts
the synapses

but oh yes
PEARS

and BANANAS

whit howland © 2021

amongst the faded
and yellowed green

of wintered
grass

and slightly
beyond the horizon

a spec

slowly
coming into focus

it's moving parts
becoming

more visible more
mechanical

whit howland © 2021

we flailed
we spoke

in tongues

and with thunder and lightning
it rained

you had me scared
that night I cried

you raged

but we rowed and rowed
and we pressed on

through the stormy
night

whit howland © 2021

Small
portraits
of life the universe

and everything
in between
and so sweet

when you lick them
before
you paste them

but save them
you must
because

we humbly ask
for so little
and a pittance

is what we get

whit howland © 2021

Sturdy
cardstock
with glitter and a gauzy
image on the front

and no metaphors
to describe the feelings inside
only words

plain heartfelt words

read
and spoken
over
and over again

whit howland © 2021

This is just
a friendly reminder
to take out the trash before you leave

love you

a plate of eggs
bacon
sausage

and ham

so fast
it moved it was a blur
and so loud it howled

throughout the night

whit howland © 2021

Dribble
care
luscious

against
a blinding white
refrigerator door

no

I don't care
that juice is dribbling
down my chin

it was so luscious
tasty
and flavorful

whit howland © 2021

a light
quick
burst

metallic and shiny
purple flesh tones
corncob pipe

bubbles
rising
fizzing

so so much fun
but
so so short

whit howland © 2021

A short one filled
with three cubes
of ice

cracked from
a tray
metal not plastic

and what we
drink
is a mix of things

fruity
tarty
but mostly sweet

making us that
of many masks
and a thousand faces

whit howland © 2021

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
you and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
life

yours
and mine

you
and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

inkblots
ever-morphing
clouds

but now
conforming

"Everything
in life  is luck"

"Maturity of mind is the capacity to endure
Uncertainty."

into a gray black
black thunderhead

“Dig deep & pull the roots of confidence from the ground of your being, standing firm in the raging storm
until sunlight blossoms inside you.”

heavy slashing drops
of rain

pelt
a dull steel gray bucket

making the metal
CLANG

"I was born for a storm
and calm does not suit me."

whit howland © 2021

If  there are ghosts
they are of
the friendly variety

rippling
white sheets
and eyeholes

floating
down
the hall

but not you
and never again
will it be you

your face
erases
and grows fainter

each
and every
day

whit howland © 2021

a platter a piece
of ham

and eggs
that are green

but it's your definition
of green

that
worries me

for not only
do I have certain tastes

in my shades
of that color

I have my preferences
for how

I like my breakfast
served to me

and I prefer
a bit more truth

and a little less
power

whit howland © 2021

I think of Yertle
his thone his
wobbly kingdom

stacked
ten turtles high
and how absurd

we were back then
each wanting
our postage stamp

of space

for you it was
the small swatch
of faded Oriental rug

and I

fought
for the cuckoo clock
the one with the extra slow hands

that wavered
as if they had
St Vitus Dance

whit howland © 2021

Oh
heart-shaped box

you give me no
quarter

and no room
to think

beyond
your borders

whit howland © 2021

our memories
like petals

scattered
about the ground

far too many
to collect

we are losing
each other

I can feel the
slippage

but we'll keep
digging

whit howland © 2021

Not even close
to something

as fine as
you

rolled
coffee brown

and neatly
trimmed

a sweet
Tobacco burst

of sunshine

I am talking about
a cigar

seriously

it is just
a cigar

whit howland © 2021

And I'm reminded
of that night

an argument

the never-ending loop that rip tide
we were caught in

our fingers
trying to break free

of the bamboo handcuff
that bonded us

and it's futile to ask
what happened or try

to make sense of what
it all meant

whit howland © 2021

To be hell ridden
of the itch of worry

are words I wish
I wrote

but alas
they are what I've found

more vestiges
of you

for much of what
I own

poetically is
yours

and the best
I can do

loving spoonfuls
of sugar

a blessed shot
of cream soda

it swirls
in a glass and in
our mouths

we are nowhere
or everywhere

yet
do we even care

whit howland © 2020

It's an image
I can mass-produce
on cue

ladling syrupy
sentiments into a cup
like punch

depression glass
frosted
with flourishes

filled with candy
wrapped in flashy
gold cellophane

all because
I'm trying to
sell you what you want

whit howland © 2020

And snow falls
like God
shaking
out his hair

little flakes
on the back of the shirt
a few on the comb
after it ran through the strands

still covering
the dull pate
where did they go
where did we go

how did we get here
this state
where we own
almost embrace

our foibles
our chinks
in what is now tarnished
armor

Whit Howland © 2020

but there's still
a smell of cedar

after all these
years

and i am so thankful
it dodged the moths

that i will over look
the shrunken sleeves

so small
like they are cursed

and the once luxuriant
full-bodied red

now faded
and earthen colored

something
so sentimental

no longer has to serve
a function

whit howland © 2020

Red then green
then yellow
and red again

do you stop
do wait
do you go anyway

who are you
where are you
and why

the light the
threeway
stop

it's always
the crossroads

whit howland © 2020

Black dots
they blot out the sun

almost
a Rorschach pattern

you call
I answer

we speak
in tongues

our cacophony

music
and a blessing

to someone's ears

whit howland © 2020