fire engine lips
big tongue
bulbous nose

free lunch

TANSTAAFL

surgical gloves
a steady hand to sew

through chaos
comes order

hence
the peach-colored sunset
behind a scaffold
of darkened branches

whit howland © 2020

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

drops of rain on the roof
sound like the pitter-patter

of little feet

you say there's water
collecting in the backyard

and we might need a French Drain
I say baby

we made it

whit howland © 2021

but feels like a crazy eight
with one day off

that was all that was
in the cards

and last weeks
drama

is this week's life
affirmation

it's the things we do
to clutch at straws

when we really want to use them
to slurp soda

whit howland © 2021

It's in their eyes
an expression

or mood

as if someone pulled on the switch
in the room or the mind

pastel baby blue

feelings over facts
abstract over concrete

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

Shadows
were not seen

therefor
the grass is soon

to be green
and you and I

have toiled scraped
searched

and finally

now

a much needed
break

hung up
actually
specifically
snagged

on language
more pointedly
tangled in the use
of words

sharply

hooked
on the gears and wheels
of the mind
and how it works

words

without them
we falter
blunder
we fail

as admirals as captains
to map out our journey
to chart our voyage
our trek

to plot our course

whit howland © 2021

Might it be blown
inside out

a stiff wind  
off a great lake

the cause of its new
shape

location identification
maybe clear

a place icy cold
urban

and the umbrella
still red

it's bright color
much needed to offset

the gray

whit howland © 2021

With a pointed hat
ruddy face
and a frosty beard

you take me back
to a past
of fried bologna

cheese Wonderbread
and mayonnaise and
in the end

I am left
with following
conclusion

you truly are
what you ate

all those years ago

these fits
of cognitive dissonance

we're having

from exposure
to the snow and sun

egads

we have way too much more
to explore

about each other

whit howland © 2021

No not a gust
but more a light touch

nothing that moves
like a whirlwind

or such
just a tiny perturbation

a tickle

Happy Birthday
and junk

Whit Howland © 2020

Fall is here
and someone spilled a million cans of paint and now
the forest is splashed with gold and red
and through it all trickles silver
just a slash
among and over dull gray mounds that pass for rocks
the impression I get is that you don't love me anymore
and now our love has reached its brightest and most colorful stage its value to you is scarce
and that in a short while
a strong gust of wind will rip it from its branch
sending it spiraling to the forest floor

have I read this right

or did you have some other message in mind

Whit Howland © 2019

A floppy hat
shades her face

while she sits
cross-legged

and alone
over coffee

with her thoughts
that should be private

except we see
through a plate glass
window

that she's waiting
for a train

to come down the track

Whit Howland © 2020

A wind-up
tin soldier
walks across

the table stopped
only
by a jar of marbles

some clear some
opaque
some milky white

we can't change it
but perhaps we can
sweep it up

(but not under the rug)

tomorrow
will be a very
special day

whit howland © 2021

Red
and festive

yep that's me
and it is all because of you

top of the world
or

at the very least
atop a  roof

as a weathervane

whit howland © 2021

start from the opposite end
and peel away the skin
in one piece

a simple art
and after that
it's really not hard

just eat
and heal

Not heaven
we think about

but earth
turned upside down

and not tears or sadness
more like sound

and fury spouting
up from the soul


© Whit Howland 2019

i'm watching it all fade
before my very eyes

as the light
what little left there is

flickers


Whit Howland © 2020

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

Horned rimmed
and tortoiseshell
they rest just left of center
on my nose

and if I ***** my eyes
I can see the bifurcated line
where the focus changes

and it's the same one you
are seeing right now

I miss my mom
my grandmother my grandfather
and my brother

and I'm bracing myself
for the shape of things to come

Whit Howland © 2020

On the right day
the lake

is as calm as the most
precious glass

grinded
from the finest of sands

with only a speedboat
or two to disturb it

and the trees make a great canopy
of green

letting in just enough
sunlight

but never more
than we need

people always said
follow your dreams

but mine kept sending
me in circles

so I choose another path
one with stairs

that led me to
a much higher elevation

Such as life
we have

many irons
in the fire

some glowing
and some

not yet red hot
and like a household

appliance
we mix

or blend
our metaphors

because of

so much information
passing through

our minds
like pets

that have passed through
our lives

and most
importantly

people

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

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

bloodless knuckles
as we grip the sides

a clanky chain
pulling us to the precipice

the drop

stomachs to our knees
and me and my brother

knowing we will never
live this day again

the memory placed
on the spindle with the rest

much like you and me
and Paris

with tearstained
napkins

whit howland © 2021

The sun beats down on the street
like a rented mule

not even a stormy Monday
for me

just hot
and getting hotter

maybe I'll thank you
somewhere down the road

but right now

the sun beats down on the street
like a rented mule

whit howland © 2021

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

Every day I strive
to radiate

the power
of a thousand suns

I fight the good fight
no matter how much

my mind says
it's a losing battle

and tries to saddle me
with the yoke of self-doubt

whit howland © 2021

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

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 silver shiny
replica

of a handsome
hat

fashioned
for a little tuxedoed man

with a walrus
mustache

who's bald
stern

and wears pockets
that are fat

Just a  speck
but I know it's there

across the sound
waiting for the tide

to recede
and the sand bar to appear

a bridge a connection
to the past

and a spark and a flame
to future enlightenment

a miss miss miss

fire

a dis dis dis

connection

snow falls and looks like
puffy fluffy cotton
on the ground

do i stststutter do i
do i have a sspppeeeech impede

impediment

ssstop stopp the the
world the world
from sppininng

I want to get off

impediment

the pipes clank
and the sink drips

in a syncopated
rhythm

whit howland © 2021

What we're driving away from
is the same thing

we are driving toward

a gray cloud beast
behind

one in the front
and a signpost

up ahead

A zip code
stamp

or maybe
metered mail

post office
or going postal

all night the rain
tapped the roof

are we in
distress

should I
or should I not

send
up a flare

or
launch the buoy

What are you but
a statuette

and quite possibly
a matter of fact

yes you are here
and something to be touched

or for which a certain feeling
and perhaps

a specified action could be
directed at

but alas

this
and our relationship

can only go so far
because whatever attention

affection
or any other emotion

I may toss your way
you cannot reciprocate

my apologies if you object
to this assessment

Whit Howland © 2020

A Neon Splash
from a forgotten age
of cool and class

and jazz
palpable and complete
with curls of smoke

it's still there
you

are still there
it just takes a while

to notice what was once
so familiar so clear
and dear

not life
just the town

in its scale model glory
a whistlestop

where every joke has
a punchline

and business is finished
on the day it's initiated

and nothing dangles
like a pesky past participle

Whit Howland © 2020

Short and heavy
it soars through the air

or does it slide into
the lock

it's what you do to me
crossing my wires

one minute I want to fly
be free

and the next
I want to slide in and lock this

us

up forever

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

Where even the doorman
has a joke

and no one
is straining gnats

or swallowing camels

because they're too busy
swatting them or smoking them

while trying to scratch
an itch

that is next to near
impossible

to reach

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

Black
or cream and sugar

stirred
so it swirls as the steam rises

drinking
morning coffee

what we do
without even seeing

or thinking
a habit

more a morning ritual
so to speak

something long ago
needing and

yearning to be
downgraded to a routine

© Whit Howland 2019

hello
it's me again

with the same sad repartee
and refrain

we were somewhere
I swear

even if you thought it
was nowhere

and I'm sorry it's
always so gray and rainy

if we could just meet
one more time over

coffee and scones
I'm sure

it will all clear up
soon


Whit Howland © 2020

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

Yesterday
the weather was warm

with the sun sunny
side up

and the sky was a solid
blue

and now
I must honestly ask you

what just happened
a cold snap

ok maybe
but seriously

ginger
preferred

No not stone
but one

shaped like a ***
filled with ***** and *****

of multicolored yarn
figurative

of course
more the stories that shape

the way a man feels and teaches
him the why and how

to love

This poem
is about

a rouge
blushy
flushed
sunrise

and lots
of red
lipstick

and no cigarettes left
in the last
cigarette machine

known to

woman


it's six am
and yes

I am wide
awake

whit howland © 2021

What are you
going to do

the last ones
in the joint

the chairs
pushed into tables

the bartender cleaning
glasses

a night cap
or resignation

that things
are what they are

as you let
those angelic questions turn to tautologies

if you
listen closely

the phone is ringing
it might serve you well to answer the call

© Whit Howland 2019