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

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

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

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

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

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

Gold
is something I'll never know

the best
I can hope for

maybe marble

but  it  will
most likely be

granite

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

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

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

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

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

twice a day
and I'm such a broken man

unwind
rewind

set back
turn back

be a dad
what a joke

pull my finger
my string

yank
my chain

whit howland © 2021

A silver nicrophone
blares

rapid fire punchlines
in one long sentence

that snakes its way
to your funny bone

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
life

yours
and mine

you
and I

collapsing
under our own weight

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

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

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

I get lost in silly daydreams
about conquest

and most of all
becoming

a cruise ship comedian

there are things I'll never
understand

like how to get what you want in life

and all the intricate parts
of men

Fall is here
and someone spilled a million cans of paint and now
the forest is splashed with gold and red
and through it all trickles silver
just a slash
among and over dull gray mounds that pass for rocks
the impression I get is that you don't love me anymore
and now our love has reached its brightest and most colorful stage its value to you is scarce
and that in a short while
a strong gust of wind will rip it from its branch
sending it spiraling to the forest floor

have I read this right

or did you have some other message in mind

Whit Howland © 2019

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

Beige walls
with painted blue anchors

yellowed light

a gray rug
worn

but still good

do you
or don't you


everybody does
has a story to tell

that is

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

Hello again
my old friend

just sending you
some yule and Christmas cheer

winter is here

but none of the white stuff
this time

only the steel gray like
our hair

that we pretend is silver
amongst the gold

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

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

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

A Neon Splash
from a forgotten age
of cool and class

and jazz
palpable and complete
with curls of smoke

it's still there
you

are still there
it just takes a while

to notice what was once
so familiar so clear
and dear

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

At this hour
the world is an
inkwell

ripe  
for a feather to *****
and draw blood

from

where am I what
am I

if I'm trapped between
morning
and evening

searching
chasing

answers

Whit Howland © 2020

We mustn't end on this
note

so how about some food

a piece of wonder bread
piled high with hot tuna

dripping with mayonnaise
and compressed by

another
piece of bread

possibly the heal
which means

the package
is crumpled up and maybe

on the floor?

"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

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

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

In the spotted mirror
popping quarters

to make the bed
rumble

as the shower sputters
steam rises

and freshly chopped ice
fills a vinyl bucket

you are everywhere
that was so long ago

or over ice
or crashing to shore

aged Old Spice
and a ship

wrecked
on a faraway reef


whit howland © 2021

hurling
sliding

with finesse
effortless

so it seems

all my life I've chased
watching

you swoosh and cut
a path

I wish was mine

Mostly

I'm about  the simple
image

or idiom

like two slices
of split top bread
with

butter spread
across each face

taking care I don't
skimp or
cut corners

not too thick

but never
never

too thin

Whit Howland © 2020

heavy
burden

weary

as the world
turns

with

progress—
slow

but steady

hopeful

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

"It's supposed to be sunny today..."

he says to no one
then shrugs

and walks off
to make copies

like soap bubbles
from a wand

so many broken pieces
of conversation

float off into space
before

they pop

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

Not a pigeon
mind you

just a middle-aged man
whose shoulders burn

while trying

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

Crashing waves
a merry-go-round

fishing poles

sandy beaches
palm trees

it's the end of the road
but more

of a line
we didn't know

we could cross

Covered in leather
decorated in brass

locked
with the key lost

long ago

and it holds secrets
the special kind

beyond words
or expression

Let words dance

nothing choreographed
but more

interpretive
and spontaneous

then let order
form

from the chaos that is
the free verse

and dance
again

like water

flowing

Whit Howland © 2020

What is life
but one I never
knew

without
a stray bolt
or ball bearing

rattling
around
inside my head

whit howland © 2021

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

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