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

A shiny ribbon
some glitter

paper folded
precisely

edges taped
concealment

mystery
suspense

the best gift
you ever gave us

was and always will be
each other

whit howland © 2021

I could kid myself
and say that you are in me
but really

I am just trying
to force the issue by attempting
to conjure you

as well as delay the inevitable  

waterworks the aching
sickness
and the pain

so with that said
it is time to give you
and me the much needed

punctuation
we deserve
and just

end this!

whit howland © 2021

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

I've come to love

and know
the color blue to mean
not a Blue Monday
Blue Note or joke
and don't much care to sing the Blues

or for that matter
give them
because truth be told
most of the time

I want to caucus
with those
pumping and stumping
for a Blue Hawaii
or the warm blue waters

pickling poetically
the clam shell white bottom

of Palancar Reef

Whit Howland © 2019

Bright orange
liquid served

in a wavy
glass bottle

so sweet
tangy
and tingly

riding its way
down
your gullet

like pounding surf

what memories

of such a crude
but tasty delight

and of a sunny
long lost

California afternoon

We walk uphill
almost parallel  
with the sky

but like all our other
adventures

we are out
to conquer different things

mine is to take this hill
one paced but ragged

breath upon breath
foot over foot
to plant my flag

yours is to shutter
to and fro

distilling object
place and time
and what is now

into an orderly
chronicle of us

Whit Howland © 2019

red

delectable
plump

augmented with a swirl
of whip cream


and life clicks by
like a carousel

way too fast

whit howland © 2021

The muted bell
of an ice cream truck

of my youth
the red white and blue

of  a bomb pop
left on my lips

and a tear that long ago
turned to salt

s

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

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

The sun shines so early
this morning

but your face reads cloudy
with a chance of smiting rain

what do we do where
do we go from here

I've taken this journey
with you before

almost
to the point of no return

whit howland © 2021

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

A slash of red
on white canvas

aggression maybe
war

might is right
so clear

and pure

lots of kicking and screaming
but

I know that now

whit howland © 2021

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

Much simpler
than a scramble
for a basketball

I'm crazy for the trees
beginning
to bud

for the warm air
and the thaw

and the crisp walks
under a freshly
minted blue sky

but most of all
I'm mad for you
that's right

it's mad love

for the woman
I would not have
any other way

that I want to march with
down the road
to our golden years.

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

Leather
wrinkled with age

but trusty

case in point
without the fluff

we are talking about a grip
that's been through it all

seen it all
and stood the test of time

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

Red
Black
move
jump
KING

nothing to it

you are making this way too hard

but it is hard
for a square peg

in an ocean  
of round holes

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

gentle water
lapping the hull

bossa nova
clinking glasses
a tickle
of the piano's ivory keys
and you're lost

in giant strawberries
of a daiquiri
dribbling down your chin
onto your palm frond top
and shorts while you

swing and sway
poolside

tomorrow Ocho Rios Jamaica
but today sun and sea

tonight the crown stars
and a ruby juicy
fingernail moon

Whit Howland © 2019

What seemed like
a long ride of
growling diesel
on a slash of road

up an
unforgiving cliff

dissipated
once we gleaned
that ours
was not to battle

but rather
refer the case  
to a higher court

and now up here
in Taormina

the sky is clearly blue
the air so sweet and light

streets are  ruled with beyond
what we thought was gold

they're platinum

and the Cannolis

are to die for

The color of your
ballpoint pen

I used to scrawl
on the Post-it note

Are we ok

I think
that's a fair question

don't you

just one minute
in the microwave

and watch it bubble and
sizzle

greasy

slabs of fat
and all

Lord please

let me be forever
guilty

and gladly  and
eternally

doing
my penance


whit howland © 2021

In the sun
and that I have

for my day
in court

not in front
but behind the mic

without it
my voice is timid

my resolve flimsy
and shifting

Sun's rays
pierce

the bronchial
latticework

of the bare trees
in late Fall

leaving me with
windless and limp sails

whit howland © 2021

Manx
they have no tails

and not much of one to tell
either

just *****
of nonsensical verse

and joy

the mind is best
when the mind is at play

agree?

i sweep
the floor

i drag your valises
up to your room

I park your
cars

i avail
or profit from your loss

i am your worst nightmare
as i stamp out all existence of you

whit howland © 2021

Not the first day of the rest
of your life

nor a chance to revel
in new beginnings

trains have already
left their stations and ships
their ports

some advice my grandmother
once gave

just write a note

I've treasured our time
sorry it couldn't have lasted longer

but alas

it was perhaps 
as long as it needed to be

whit howland  ©  2019

Went to the store
for bread

eggs sugar
and milk

don't worry
about this morning

all will be well

Usually spooled
pink fluffy

sugary stuff
it's there

in your mouth
then it dissolves

here
then we're not

parting
is never sweet sorrow

senseless
maybe

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

past simile
past metaphor
we longed again
for clanking

fact

the shrieking
so bad
we could no longer
turn our backs
or shut the door

we called

a plumber worked
into the night

violently
snaking the drain

his pound of cure
could only repair


whit howland  © 2019

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

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

Not new
but new to you

your first Nikon
my father gifted

when he saw
your countless
flowers

it was six years old

but it was like
a wrecking ball

concrete blocks
and mason's tools

******* in an
ethereal sky blue
ribbon

which sparked
your desire for art
and commerce

coupled with my need
to find again
the line and verse

adrift
in the harbor fog

and record it
for posterity

that ultimately
leveled and rebuilt

reclaiming
in what felt like
three days

a  beautiful thing

that will
and should never

cease and desist

Whit Howland © 2019

Still resonant on my
hollowed-out soul

do you think we paid too much
for this apartment

she asked
all those years ago

No surface tension
as it is filled
just below the lip

and it rests
on a coaster
sitting on a T. V. tray

what is there more to say
except
that when you met me

you thought
I was a tall
cool drink of water

of which you never sipped
let alone
ever even drank

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

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

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

The cool aquamarine water
ripples

as it kisses the skin
and we move like fish

fumbling

in self-induced darkness
to the cadence

Marco
Polo

accidents
collisions

as well as serendipitous
discovery

whit howland © 2021

Open
with a red-orange sunrise

then
crack that sunrise like an egg

and let the yoke and white slop
into a mixing bowl

question
do we then beat that egg

scramble it
or do we fry it or

maybe poach
perhaps

we just leave that broken sunrise
in the bowl on the counter

someone else's gift
or curse

even for
the non aficionado

when you say
such trite things as

step up to the plate

knock it out of the park

they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat

smell the oiled
leather of the glove

and hear the crack

as the ball soars
higher into the sky

past the cheap seats
and beyond

and I wonder

how could I
have dismissed

these words
and turns of phrases

so raw
golden
sweet and bardic

Whit Howland © 2019

It's what it's not

your last nerve
frayed

or  your life like a baby tooth
hanging by a thread

or the train wreck or
the accident on the highway

you cannot
look away from

and it is not and never will be
staring into the abyss

with no light
at the end of the tunnel

whit howland © 2021

but today
the sky was a canvas
of royal blue

the sun
a  blooming flowery yellow

and that's why
I can't say what I wanted to say

something about
for such hallowed ground
you're quite a ***** place

it just wouldn't fit
the  tone and tenor of this moment
however quick it is

because on this breezy
less then hazy
temperate afternoon

I know there's
someone up there that loves you

much like they love me too

Like a giant hand
shaking a box of soap flakes
all over the place

then

scouring
rinsing
wiping dry

repeat

the last gasp
or a new beginning

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

Eggs Benedict
ham on rye
with freshly squeezed

orange juice

and I'm reminded
of you
and our first breakfast

with that sizzling
bacon
we made together