Road closed ahead
so the digital sign says

as lightning illuminates
the orange reflective pylons

placed to force traffic
off the highway

it's weird

this lightning flashing
with snowflakes

whipping all around

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

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

Today
worry hangs on me
like a mill stone

yesterday
I was flooded
with guilt

which felt more
like an albatross

maybe tomorrow
I'll wear a barrel of Brandy
around my neck

trust me
I'd be okay
with rope burns

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Still
a restless scene
when I toss
turn

with sleep
somewhere
dancing in the street

passions flowing
drunk
on wine

fire
crackling
burning

he curses
flailing fury

throwing food
at soldiers
over a fortress wall

© Whit Howland 2019

Froth
but not from
a rabid god

but one
who is heavy-lidded
on the nod

drunk on the universe
and all
that he she they

created

Whale
baby blue

concrete

and like a magnet
I'm drawn to it

as though it might
swallow

me  right up

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

dry clean only

pigtails
in an inkwell

baptism
sacrament

see label for care

sing
"Shove it"

purify
ritual purification

use bleach
rinse and repeat

wasted on Saturday
Sunday we pray

flagellation

free from sin

the pulley squeaks
as we  take the clean clothes off the line

whit howland © 2021

we're on the other side
of the fence

and yes
it is what they say it was

but not quite what we thought
it was going to be

people tend to exaggerate
and fabricate

building suspension
and tension

when they are waiting
for something

they should have seized
long ago

The ambient atmosphere
of machinery

electronics
and light flashing

like a Kodak camera
amazing

what we embrace
and how we find peace

when our nose
is to the grindstone

and we are
under the gun

On paper its a child's
sun

it is bright yellow
there are green lollipop

trees
an expanse

of blue for water
a crude

forgery no doubt
of a classic he once saw

and was so moved

Whit Howland © 2020

Focus on the table
the chair

and how the suns rays
warm

both pieces
not too hot but

just enough
to feel the heat on the back

of your legs
which will then draw

your gaze to the window
with its crosspatch

pattern of lines
on the glass

and now that you
know the source of the warmth

you'll feel it even more

as our feelings guide our
observations

and vice versa

Whit Howland © 2020

Brooklyn Brawler
Greased lightning
Southpaw

stick and move
beat to the punch
on the ropes

broccoli
cauliflower
tomato can

Glass Jaw
Bayonne Bleeder
Gin Blossom

leather gloves hanging
from a hobnail
on a cracked wooden door

Whit Howland © 2020

we run we pivot
then we run again

stopping so briefly
to sit

in the window
and peer

at the freshly minted
moon

then we take off running
wondering

if one day we'll ever
muster the courage

to stop and challenge
what seems to be

chasing us

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

white blossoms
                swaying in an April breeze

petals
          twirling to the ground

best of both worlds
                   fruit and flower

precious things
                    that never meet




Whit Howland © 2019

you say
you’re lonely in the Windy City

but you never return
my call

I fumble in the dark

searching

for a song that binds us

it can’t be anything
about Chicago

a town
where loneliness
hunts you down like a hawk

and

where raindrops

hit your face back and legs
like rubber bullets

Whit Howland © 2019

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

Whether they're growing
in the garden
tall proud
or in their waning days

through her lens
my wife gives every flower
equal tonal value carefully
preserving their
hue and chroma  
with love and doctoring



Whit Howland © 2019

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

purple
slatted

they compliment
the window

boxes
of purple flowers

along the side
of a wall with sealed cracks

weathered wisened
though still beautiful

the future can come
none too soon

© Whit Howland 2019

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 platter a piece
of ham

and eggs
that are green

but it's your definition
of green

that
worries me

for not only
do I have certain tastes

in my shades
of that color

I have my preferences
for how

I like my breakfast
served to me

and I prefer
a bit more truth

and a little less
power

whit howland © 2021

Or somewhere
it's raining hard and it hurts

they tell you time and time again
but nobody ever does

nobody

saves

What is missing is something
I can't wrap my brain around

you always say I'm not subtle
and that is true

I just wish I could be more delecate
in my communication to you

but I'm too obsessed
with how things fit back to together

like plates and cups
and I love the smell of glue

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Farther
much farther than we thought

beyond stretching
to limitless lengths

not just blue
or sad blue

but blue
from teal to sky

to azure to cyan
to deep cyan

farther
much farther than we thought

riding a wave
of blue

sliding up and up
the scale

past blue
way beyond heaven

past gold
straight to platinum

farther
much farther than we thought

© Whit Howland 2019

"But baby it's cold outside"

and now that
I'm older
I feel it deeper

in my bones
like little jabs
and icy pinpricks

that turn
to thoughts
and syntax

and words like
affairs house
and order

are what come to mind

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

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

pistons gears
camshafts
pump rods and axles

all moving parts
for the greater good

a common cause

waves barreling
crashing the shoreline

the moon an undercurrent of energy
landslides beneath

such mystery
lurks

our memories
like petals

scattered
about the ground

far too many
to collect

we are losing
each other

I can feel the
slippage

but we'll keep
digging

whit howland © 2021

What's really left
is a so so plate
of lasagna

we can work from that
and go inward

and talk about
how this was one
of those boring

points in my and
maybe

everyone's life
where I made

a decision
that didn't necessarily
set the world

ablaze
but it was most

likely one of many
of the little ants
muling

morsels of food
for thought
that added up

to shape my

destiny


Whit Howland © 2020

or over ice
or crashing to shore

aged Old Spice
and a ship

wrecked
on a faraway reef


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

a bauble
or a geegaw

something to spark
the imagination

to relieve the stress
a release valve

so to speak
mine you

was something
bounced off the wall

stretched
like Stretch Armstrong

and molded like playdough
you were there

but not really
often just a figment

of a magic afternoon
where both of us danced

with crickets lizards
and whirligigs

but now you are gone
one day I cut you loose

by choice and necessity
though you still haunt me

on sleepless
and moonless nights

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

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

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

I'm staring

at a blue bottle
with bubbles

in the wavy glass
that is as thick as

thick

the world ends
when we have no more

metaphors
and similes

to describe it

Gold
is something I'll never know

the best
I can hope for

maybe marble

but  it  will
most likely be

granite

Launched with flippers
like a pinball

what was I thinking
driving from east to west

was I searching
for some pie in the sky

if so
I hope it was

lemon meringue

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

there was a tear
forming in the corner
of your eye

and I knew
I had to say something
because it was the only thing
that could save us

and then there were
those windmills
refrigerator white
and otherworldly

scattered

on what was supposed
to be our Illano Esctado
or as they say
staked plain

those **** windmills
I swear they'll be
the death of you
and me

With every turn
and twist

of the silver knobs
and tightening

of the nylon strings
the dream

becomes less milky
and gauzy

so the real picture
can begin to focus

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

the plastic lens
already scratched
popped from the frame

though in their day
this copper-colored pair of specs
was a marvelous eyepiece

but time
erodes even the finest
of instruments

and events
abrupt or otherwise
change things

and speed up
what was already
taking place

and whether we like it or not
what we love
and who we love

will always succumb
to the slow or sometimes
rapid current of progress

whit howland © 2021

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