Not a pigeon
mind you

just a middle-aged man
whose shoulders burn

while trying

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

True friendship takes us
by the hand
and shows us
we are not alone

on the front lawn
in tandem
they do a loose-jointed
shuffle

I never wanted anything
more in life
except to be your
everything

perched on a roof
with eyes a google
they honk
like feathered *******

remember the joy
forget all the pain
and the tears and sadness
will wash themselves away

a steady stream
from a thick rubber hose
is all it takes to blast
those geese droppings
from the dock


whit howland © 2021

A clown's makeup
cascading down his face
under a hot spotlight

your call so long ago
a Dear John Letter
mostly in audio

a broken vase
with its ceramic pieces
fanned out across the floor

thumbing through
a high school yearbook
and a picture of me and you

no logic no rhyme
no major scoop
to stop the presses

life
just goes on
in one eternal loop

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

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

A silver nicrophone
blares

rapid fire punchlines
in one long sentence

that snakes its way
to your funny bone

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

What was once
child's play with thrills
and spills

is now a useful tool
for adults to shape
and mold

the World
one broadened
and bird's eye view

at a time

Floating orb in the
night

as black as gold
Texas Tea

oil that is

there's been darkness
enough to go around

and around
ribboning the world

with black

but no tunnel goes on
forever

and there are jokes and laughter
along the way

Whit Howland © 2020

Father Christmas
red-cheeked and drinking
from his pewter stein

the milk
of human kindness

but was it really better back then
or am I just remembering it
differently

I close my eyes
and I still see those bulbous
Christmas lights

strung along the front
of the house
I want I want

I want
what I can no longer
have

Who can
how

can I
someone

put packets
of jelly in them

what can I do
to fill the holes

in the soles

did you try stuffing them
with the Sunday Funnies

whit howland © 2021

You must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

two swarthy males
wearing El Padrino hats

and ranch wear
playing Flamenco guitars

in front of a peach
cream colored matte

leaning
into their strumming

you must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

but where we are
is lost in a network of caverns

made of stanzas
line breaks syntax and

other pesky devices
and useless knowledge

these men
their music

are the bread crumbs
we'll follow

no questions asked

Whit Howland © 2019

Mason
a skilled worker

who lays units
of substantial material

stone
or maybe brick

spreading mortar
like butter on toast

building one upon
another

you are a quality
a power

to determine action
without restraint

whit howland © 2021

Screeching tires
and years of rubber left smoking
on the pavement

arms flail and sneakers scrape
the asphalt at an all-night basketball game
in the rain

a phone's rings
is like the staccato report
of a machine gun

a weatherman
through a scratchy transistor radio
forecasts a storm

fight

or flight

whit howland © 2021

What is it about
us

we sail
without charts

we run
between the drops of rain

and we fly
not only by the seat

but sometimes
with no pants at all

charmed yes
we are very charmed

though it's hard
not to wonder

if there isn't someone
out there

who's
keeping score

whit howland © 2021

a metal chain still
swinging

one can only
deduce

it to be freshly
pulled

the room now filled
with soft white light

draw bridge now opened

i'm in  my fifties
and my mind

has never been more
alive

brim-full
of hopes ideas

dreams
and most of all

solutions
to the many puzzles

and riddles
that have long vexed me

Whit Howland © 2021

Fields
of golden wheat

and a summer evening
on the porch

where two lovers
hands and fingers

hover each other
like moths around a flame

I've seen those paintings
of which you describe

the ones that you can just
walk right into and be a part of

you are that picture
for me

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

Rattling
shaking
rumbling

convulsions
and unbalanced load

unbalanced



whit howland © 2021

God
always shows up
in lonely places

                   a motel room
                    frayed curtains
                                  and a naked bulb

          walls of clowns juggling
            stove pipe hats
           leap frog and pogo sticks

throw caution to the wind
absurdity over logic
and there he is


Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

loving spoonfuls
of sugar

a blessed shot
of cream soda

it swirls
in a glass and in
our mouths

we are nowhere
or everywhere

yet
do we even care

whit howland © 2020

Even the smallest
of minds

is an incredible thing

for instance

one look at Rialto bridge
over the Grand Canal

as water taxis flit


it comes to us
our small mind that is

in crude but evocative
language and prose

this is a place
a world

we can visit

but never
ever will we or should we

stay

Whit Howland © 2020

He makes his own shadows
in an ocean of amber light

a fedora obscures his face

his dark suit melds
with the leather of the couch

and an outline of fingers
caresses an amber drink

the fragment the  hanging participle
the remainder in long division

and the business
that's never finished

Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

the weight

and what's riding on it's
back

the amount of money that
clatters

crinkles jingles
and changes hands

all of this

coupled with the risk
and the fear  

of one man's loss
being

the wrong man's
gain

Whit Howland © 2020

as if every day
is a blood orange sunrise

sometimes we muddy the waters
just to see the silt finally settle

whit howland © 2021

wind rushes
my face
so close
not a sign
of relief but
a warning and
painter's brush
with death

© Whit Howland 2019

A hazy day in summer
with cicadas
buzzing

we swing

on an old tire
slung over a tree branch
getting lost in an afternoon

so long ago

whit howland © 2021

inner space
between the ears

wind blowing
through a screen door

maybe chimes
in the distance



whit howland © 2021

Not even close
to something

as fine as
you

rolled
coffee brown

and neatly
trimmed

a sweet
Tobacco burst

of sunshine

I am talking about
a cigar

seriously

it is just
a cigar

whit howland © 2021

This is as much about me
as it is you

our erratic rhythms
giving original meaning

to a Harlequin Romance
as we both run

like hamsters on a wheel
or better

around like rats in a crazy box
trying to navigate life

whit howland © 2021

white
thick over skim

not quite full
so no surface tension

in a cold sweat
I am connected

to you
I flow freely

for you with
you

whit howland © 2021

You are no longer
here

but in my mind
you're the one point

I focus on to stop
the dizziness

when world spins
like a top

heading for the edge
of the table

whit howland © 2021

muscles twitch
moonlight radiates
though still soft

a voice

angelic
or otherwise

sings

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

I have no context
for you or
who you once were

I only know you in sepia tones
and grainy photography

today with your chipped sign  
and burned out neon

it's though
you are mute and dying

before my eyes


and you'll slip away
taking your secrets

and confessions
with you as you go

© Whit Howland 2019

Don't run away
run into the  lightning

the thunder
and the storm and

wash thoroughly
in the torrential drops

because as they say
a little sudden rain

never
hurt anyone

but there was a time
when we loved it

so much
we named a magazine

Life

with the title in white block letters
against a small red square

and glossy pages
in between

you beg me
to write about
the sky and the grass
or better yet amber waves
of grain

the best i can do to
accommodate you
is paint the sunflowers
at the highway's edge

but not the ones on the
median
for some reason they seem
to have lost their luster

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Blue

why is it blue
is it because I miss you

and that the house is empty
when it's just me

or is it the bad weather
emotional or otherwise

or the losing battle I fight
with the lawn and the cleaning

it seems so much of life
is being

swallowed up
in a quotidian funnel cloud

whit howland © 2021

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

It never reaches its
zenith

bleak
the sun in winter

the day only half
realized

unfinished business
with the sky a diluted blue

and shadows ever
present

whit howland © 2020

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

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

Whit Howland © 2020

I no longer have
the knack I once had

for removing one side
of the doll house
then stepping back

and looking in
at all the stuff
that is both our lives

seeing each thought
and feeling
in every room

as a figurine

life it seems

so suddenly
pulled me under

stripped me of the title
making me a player
an understudy of sorts

for 23 years
we've been friends

until one day

or shall I say

one night

the notion throttled me

you were gone
and not coming back

Whit Howland © 2019

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