Meat sliced
by a stainless steel blade
and by the pound

prime
and choice

back then
cuts were cheap
but such

as life

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

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

through a streaked window pane
I watched life

get washed like flotsam and jetsam
into a storm sewer

and realized  again
that

it's all about days like these
and  the quotidian truths

they reveal

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

Just some red
slathered

and smeared
on canvas

and
nothing about this

is easy
but then again

life

should
always imitate

art

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melting
broken
twice right
cat's eyes
swishing tail
stuttering
stammering
seconds
making
solid minutes

Whit Howland © 2020

Close my eyes
let go of fear?

I fear

if I do,

I will look up above
and see

a black anvil
hanging  by a  thread

over me.

whit howland © 2021

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

Ice
on the trees

like ice crystals
on a bottle  

of vintage
soda

steam rises from a cup
of hot cocoa

and the home
is always warm

when the heat
radiates

from
the heart

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

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

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

We are

a silver hat,
or a silver shoe,

a still life
and one never fully realized

as we move around the board
so many times;

faces and names become
a blur.

"That was so long ago...

I barely remember yesterday"

she said.

whit howland © 2021

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

Sun
Summer

it is here

passive voice
and lazy days
in a hammock

as it is swinging


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

Wheels spin
as other parts move

gears grind

so many things
being

mixed
in a blender

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

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

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

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

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

These frosty panes

like stained glass scenes
capturing the Christmases of my youth
the taste the sounds

the tree wrapped in strings of lights
the tinsel draped like gleaming
dripping icicles

but mostly the hanging shiny red
yellow green ornaments
with their blinding glare

Whit Howland © 2020

Blue sky
crisscrossed

with
chemtrails

the first butterfly
of the season

and a lawnmower
gasping

for that last
bit of gas

point

you ask

point is something
usually lead

and almost always
on the end of a pencil

He pulls up the stoop
the doors slide shut
the wheels turn

the silver cars lurch
the last whistle blasts

too late

there's no grousing
no second-guessing
and no need for tears

whit howland © 2020

Some say I threw
my money away

on trips
and other frivolous things

and now they tell me
it's all in the wind

but if it's the wind
that's in my face

when I'm on the open road
what better place is there

for my money to be

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

A life like
mine

spent
scuttling

from point
to point

every once in awhile
a light

a respite



Whit Howland © 2020

The bristles
on my toothbrush

are ragged
and that's a fact

as well as my chipped tooth
that sometimes slices

my tongue

whit howland © 2021

Actually it's about a watch and fob
and how our lives

dance to the musical score
of the minutes

hours days
and years

it measures
and records

Whit Howland © 2020

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

with an ivory handle
and so sharp

you cut like a knife
through butter

your tongue

shaving off minutes
from my life

almost
two at a time

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

With Spartan
sentences
and syntax

life stripped
down to only
what we need

it doesn't get
more luxuriant
than that


Whit Howland © 2020

A flickering street lamp
Fedora and a black thin tie

that's all I get in my
dreams

an occasional shot glass
filled with perfect cubes

and a splash of something
dark to drink

maybe

I go back and forth
about who I want
to be

most of the time
I try to figure that out

through observation
of people passing

so briefly in and out
of my life

over a newspaper
and coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

silver tin can
on thick

rubber wheels
frayed velvet seats

raw deal
memories

regrets
are plenty

nowhere
to go no sense

of place
or belonging

whit howland © 2021

I climb in and out of you
like a jungle gym
slide down your slide
spin on your merry go round

what makes you tick

passion and intensity
is something I get

but the other part
is just so foreign to me

whit howland © 2021

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

A nondescript small
container

of rainwater
and *****

spoke
and I listened

but yet so much
depended on me

not
******* this up

it could be anything
shoe

or chest of drawers
just shovel in the dirt

light loamy
so there's drainage

water generously
with a hose can or pitcher

you pick

"Buy the ticket, take the ride"

"You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them."

the plunge the leap
roots of caution

flash flood

washed down the street
the journey sans the pendant

learning and the trip
is a medal or medallion

unto itself

whit howland © 2021

Thunderclaps
lightning flashes

and the rain
pit pats on the roof

my fingers
snap crackle pop

and I'm distracted now
but I'll get back on track

as soon as I see
a rainbow