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

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

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

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

A strong name
to some

but to others
it doesn't mean

well
you know the rest

it took a lot
of it and giant-sized marbles

to get where I am today
though apologies

to those I might have stepped on
and hurt

along the way
I regret it now

and understand that
you meant jack

and more
than I ever knew

glossy
and mostly
sepia-toned

and now more
then a touch of gray
as we grow old

so much stuff
has happened along
the way

the smell of burnt hair
on a curling iron
still lingers in the hall

you sleep and snore
in the room
next door

and I'm grateful
for the two times
I got smart in our lives

plip plop
ploppitty
plop

the late
March rain
taps against our roof

whit howland © 2021

Do I dare
write

do I have the courage do
I defy

myself to go
beyond

the box and better yet
stomp

and break it down
to its cardboard

nothingness

and to never feel
the compulsion

to stand aghast

you opened up poetry

like I've taken to
cracking words

like eggs
and reconciling

and being satisfied
with the yokey mess

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

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

Just some red
slathered

and smeared
on canvas

and
nothing about this

is easy
but then again

life

should
always imitate

art

You say I say
my wife

told me to stop
impersonating

a flamingo
I had to put my foot down

you see a sad face
but it's only a facade

I went shopping for some camouflage pants
but couldn't find any

the tears flow in puddles
but they are not that of a clown

why

you ask

because he already died
laughing

(rimshot)

the last time I heard that one
cars had fins

and scales

(honk honk}

I was wondering why the frisbee
kept getting bigger and bigger

and then it hit me
I keep staring at the phone

hoping you will call
and explain why you left

all those years ago

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

Slip slide and away
and so go the water weenies

after that last weekend
we shook hands

vowing
to pick up where we left off

when we met again
but we didn't

I guess
we made a pact

so you said

to come find each other
in our after life

sorry
I didn't get the memo

although you look familiar
and you seem nice

coffee?

Trigger pulled
a shot rings out

the race

is on
ragged breath in time

with foot over foot
and the clock

ticks

whit howland © 2021

We knuckle down
you and I

in a circle that can't be
broken

and it's a give and take
as we shoot

each other's mibs out
of the ring

collecting much more
of you

and me with each and every
game

I was young
and you were young

as we attached the trike
to the steel tongue

and pulled the wagon
around the driveway

a snapshot
capturing a mise-en-scene long

oh so long ago

but what really is it
I'm looking at

with sunspots
and the color washed out

over time

possibly
the first moment

you and I began to know
what it meant

to pull a heavy load

whit howland © 2021

Your note
handwritten
in pink pen

on coarse
and crumpled
scratch paper

"Are you okay
lately
you seem kinda distant"

if not then
I'll say it now

I'm so sorry
I must have been
lost

in the weeds of thought
and tangled
in overthinking

thank you for your
gentle hand
and firm grip

Whit Howland © 2020

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

I remember that windy
February night

we sat cross-legged
on the hardwood floor

in the room of that hotel
on Michigan Avenue

popping corks
squirting cheese ****

talking in riddles
and circles

Whale
baby blue

concrete

and like a magnet
I'm drawn to it

as though it might
swallow

me  right up

ripped
from yesteryear

it's Main Street Soda ****
with the Munger Moss Motel

an Art Deco
delight

still keeping
the route and dream

very much
alive

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

something to swivel
in my mouth

to use to pick out
food for thought

lodged
between my teeth

before I whittle
it/you down to size

then sweep away
the splinters

with my tongue

whit howland © 2021

Covered in leather
decorated in brass

locked
with the key lost

long ago

and it holds secrets
the special kind

beyond words
or expression

we tune in we
dial

we dig on the radio
to catch

a sentimental
wistful wave

to 1964

or what ever your  
candy

or guilty pleasure
may be

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

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

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

Sloopy no
those are shoes I can't fill and won't

because

we connect with people
by forging our own path

through an even denser forested
patch of land

and then looking up and
pulling our own truth  from the sky

and possibly making that sky
much bluer a little less cloudless

and the day
a little more bright

If we just start
the conversation
you have my word

that all will be
okay
one day at a time

we can and will
stitch and suture
sweep

and broom away
the broken
pieces

I swear

whit howland © 2021

So
much before us
yet to be revealed

and much like a song
on the radio

memories come
flooding the way blood
rushes

to the head
when you are suspended

in space upside
down

but then the dust
settles so we can steal
a breath

and feel

that it always seems
much simpler
then

so we can cope
we can 

 heal

Whit Howland © 2020

The stove was hot

I saw the burner
and its fiery glow

no need to touch
but I did anyway

is it caution
we are throwing to the wind

when we trust
with no proof of wounds

or scars

whit howland © 2021

Sublime
white Orchid


like Ivory

then maybe
some purple splotches

shooting
from the *****

Red and white
spinning stripes

again your internalizing
when you should be externalizing

to say or express something
specific

the comb swirling in the icy blue
will I ever love again

I still remember telling my Dad
the night before my wedding

that I never thought I would
I love that Suavecito poster on the wall

a skull with a pompadour
maybe I could find the t-shirt on line

it could even make a great tattoo
but then

what would it look like ten years
from now

faded  probably
or smudged like ink

from a ball point
pen

Whit Howland © 2020

Everybody
was somebody

at some time

old postcards
a grape  Nehi soda

and a pair of moccasins
adorned

with colored glass beads

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

A wheel that
spins

a gear that meshes

a lever and a
fulcrum

push pull
tug

and I fail
over and over

to see
the relevance

of knowing

how I came
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

Much like Haiku
we are to let this flow

but
when we see

browns burnt orange
blues whites and pinks

our mind dumps
this box of color

out
onto a table like puzzle pieces

then
the work begins

of the painter
and the poet

drawing connecting
and composing

as we forget
once again this simple lesson

serenity comes
when you toss your brush

and put down
your paper and  your pen

© Whit Howland 2019

We are stuck
in the middle of somewhere

just prairie grass and blue sky
with a ubiquitous buttery sun

front and center is a barn
big and red

its  hue
meant to wake you up

and much like hot coffee
it burns the soul

leaving little time comfort
or room to philosophize

what we see
has always been what we get

© Whit Howland 2019

A nondescript small
container

of rainwater
and *****

spoke
and I listened

but yet so much
depended on me

not
******* this up

Stacked three high
with the fourth turned upright

and resting atop
like the star on a Christmas tree

tires

that's what they are
what we are

functional

a part of the wheel a part
of a forward motion

unstoppable
uncontrollable

we celebrate

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

pink and sugary
your words
so lyrical

and yet
so fleeting
they dissolve

in my mouth

I don't want to believe
but I do believe

you sold me
a bill of goods
though I'm not bitter

how could I be
with such sweet
salesmanship

Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

balding head
crows feet
wisdom lines

this life my life
is light years away
as I sit on the edge of the boat

with feet on the dock
staring at it like Mars
Jupiter or maybe the moon

my mom my grandmother
and grandfather
still in tow

whit howland © 2021

take up thy bed and walk
is what you said
and though you were gentle

there was a force behind it
like a swift-moving river
more than enough to make me rise

put on my shoes
and take those first
wobbly steps

and eventually walk
and walk
and never

look back

Let's not assume
this to be about
exposing the truth

and how the naked light
makes the roaches
scatter

we're talking about
quotidian madness
and how one can float above it

and remain detached
and simplify the confusion
and complete the task

whit howland © 2021

Not a pigeon
mind you

just a middle-aged man
whose shoulders burn

while trying

to ***** back in the cover
on the ceiling light