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

The  bouncing red ball
of my dreams

I now see
in my everyday

it's something to follow
and focus on

because
at my age I've learned

variety
was never the spice of life

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

There are some things I want to say
to you
tough medicine
rough music if you 're so
inclined not the kind you snap
your fingers to on the radio
it's more primal than that but
like the radio
when you hear it
years from now you'll know
exactly where you were the first time
you listened
and more importantly the year
make and model of car
you were driving


Whit Howland © 2019

Something to remind me
of you

a bottle blue
that just sits
on the kitchen counter

I never touch the stuff
it could never do the things
that you used to do to me

whit howland © 2021

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

Keds and Converse
scrape the court
bathed in harsh light

the ball

bouncing
echoing

off the concrete

then arcing
toward the hoop
every shot now

counts

whit howland © 2021

Burnt orange
conjures a polluted sunrise

brown and rust
evoke junk cars shattered

pieces of glass
long ago fallen to the ground


truth is in the eye
of the beholder

Whit Howland © 2019

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

a sheen of sweat
on glass
watery vision

sun again and
steam  
also rises



Whit Howland © 2019

What I might buy
for a dollar or a dime

some cheap petameter
or a bad rhyme

about

love passion
or betrayal

something
like that

maybe more lurid
and purple

on days like these
all we can muster

is a piece or a scrap
of morale in a glass

served with a joke
corny or crass

or even worse
a  bad pun

The foam atop my beer is like the stuff
that laps the shoreline

the lazy song of a record skipping
on the jukebox

peace

is something you can find anywhere
and find it

you must

Please know that I have mad love
for you

plus

tonight the moon is as robust
as Zorba the Greek

that is why I do the crazy things
I do

Whit Howland © 2020

happy little trees
blue sky
lollipop sun

misshapen things
like bicycles
keys

yellow maybe
but mostly other shades
of off-color

a painter's pallet
burglary tools and counterfeit
printing press

the great sham
magnificent theft
and master forgery

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

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

A plate of milk curds
sweetened

and served with fruit
at yours and my expense

but what is the cost
of this journey

though delectable

some say is dicey
and existential

at best

whit howland © 2021

There's a water stain
or is it coffee

spilled on my life
like fingers

with blots of ink
at their tips

I've written and
rewritten

it many times
the story

gets more grand
as the room gets

smaller

Whit Howland © 2020

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

As opposed to
10 dollars

we say something's better
when

you get it for cheap

but it's all about
the depreciation
over time

of the mind
not the thing

you bought on
impulse

10 cents

was it  a click
or a flip

of the dime
over the counter



Whit Howland © 2020

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

they're emerald green
they're icicles that drip

but only in the mind

the title of the work
Green Ice

meant to suggest
frozen glassy daggers
dead of winter

and the color green

but location is everything

hanging on what otherwise would've been bare

in a lonely room
where through the plate glass window
is the dead of night

with lights twinkling
like strewn cheesy emeralds

and the mind
now rudderless drifts far and away
to my bubblegum years

in the car
sitting in the backseat

on a cross country road trip
over his shoulder

I'm seeing a glossy green cover
with a comely pair of legs
all tangled up in fish nets and garters

sandwiched in between
the front and the back
rough and sand-papery

purple but steamy prose

and then
I'm weighted maybe anchored
to a question

how could something
so abstract
evoke an image so concrete

where purity
and lurid collide
to make a perfect storm

© Whit Howland 2019

they're incongruent
concepts

comfort

curiosity

responsibility

but in
instances like these
I can reconcile

with any inconsistencies
and see life

as ten frames of bowling

with strikes aplenty

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Fire engine
ripped
Naugahyde
cigarette burns
crusted
yellow
yoke
where am I
I woke up
and you were gone
still drowsy from sleep

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm a pig
with a ***** bib
haunches

and a pork chop
dangling
from my grubby mouth

that's right

I'm a hog
who should be a dingo
or some other wild dog

but I'm just a cannibal
preying
on my own species

and if you don't like it

Grease Me Daddy

After a lifetime of punching
and mainly kicking

against the ******
I've finally figured out

the meaning

it wasn't hard at all
although

it's about as appealing
as a butter sandwich

and involves equally mundane
objects

like a broom dustpan
cleaning rag

hammer and nails
yak yak yak

Whit Howland © 2020

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

I'm here to dream
and not to know

because dreaming of
a Golden Age

that never was
without the toil

the blood sweat and
gallon jug

of tears

may someday make it
so

Whit Howland © 2020

No more test patterns
at 2 am

or TV Snow

the world
is open all night

a convenience store
for the mind

replete with chips
Ding Dongs Twinkies

and don't forget
soda pop

whit howland © 2021

Cloudy now
and the skies
are gray

wet we are
about
to get wet

it was hot today
and blue
but not my kind

of blue spent
the whole summer
alone

on this porch swing
without you and where
you went

I'll never know
I wish I had a map
so I'd know where to go

Fine art you are encased
in glass

on a rack
with other bottles

of dark red plasma-like
liquid

or maybe in a store
in a box

cheap

like a painting on a stand
at a sidewalk art fair

in either case
celebrate

we must

life
at any price

whit howland © 2021

Meat sliced
by a stainless steel blade
and by the pound

prime
and choice

back then
cuts were cheap
but such

as life

Just some red
slathered

and smeared
on canvas

and
nothing about this

is easy
but then again

life

should
always imitate

art

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

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

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

We could blur the lines
of meaning

hot water beating the skin
hard or soft

steam rising clouds
on the glass

perspiration
or passion

morning ritual/routine
or Summer rain

but let's keep it simple
and start this day

with some cleaning
lay a foundation

and wash off the soot
from last night's mental

and spiritual
chimney sweeping

whit howland © 2021

In the morning I wake
to the beginnings
of a mid to late
March day

and that morning
muted like a trumpet
is sepia with snares and cymbals
coloring

the seconds
the minutes
the hours
with an improvisational crayon


whit howland © 2021

What do I know about death
not much

except that I almost died
three times

the first time was the hardest
the other two were pretty easy

ghostly pale wide-eyed with a lanky face
nocturnal and it hunts

on buoyant wingbeats in fields
and meadows

so what do I know about death
not much except that I almost died three times

Whit Howland © 2020

but before you go
can I ask you

was there a rhyme
reason purpose or

meaning of the thing

I ask this

because they're playing and
singing

your anthem your
lullaby

that'll slip you into dreamland

Whit Howland © 2020

We sow it like the seeds
one would sow

if they were to grow
apple trees

but we do it to make
to make our lawns green

it seems we both want
the same thing

to run as fast as we can from barren land
and limp brown blades of grass

whit howland © 2021

Jazz Hands
and I don't know why

my life at twenty-nine
already was a ball of rubber bands

some wisdom and words
to live by

don't challenge the Grim Reaper
to a pillow fight

unless you are prepared
for reaper cushions

outside there are clouds
the sky is steel gray

there's a threat
albeit an existential one

of rain
but the parade goes on

whit howland © 2021

No one cares  about
what happened
after

the dark and stormy
night

about what was tossed
and lost
by the wind

pelted by the rain

it all gets written off
as disposable

words matter

choose them wisely

and spend the money

Whit Howland © 2020

A plastic whistle
or wax paper and a comb

where every note played
conjures up a compact

red blue and yellow car
with a thousand clowns

coming through every door
and out of every corner and crevice

Or somewhere
it's raining hard and it hurts

they tell you time and time again
but nobody ever does

nobody

saves

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

All that jumping
and grouping

to end up with three
only to be reminded

that it takes just a minute
for your simple plan

to go to mush
and that this is another day

you wish you were
born a duck

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

All night the snowflakes
fell

and they were robust flakes
in the cold clear air

and all night
the earth slumbered

under
a soft white blanket

we are the metaphors we
choose

and last night we chose
the earth