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

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

Whit Howland © 2020

And if all the world's a stage
I'll always find myself

in the third act a nondescript
dot or blob on the backdrop

and if there are shadows
I'll choose the largest one

and move with it
my contribution to you

my gift

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

rubber souls
frayed laces
and a hole in the toe

a whiff of sock
was enough for you

get to stepping
you said

and stepping I did

whit howland © 2021

inkblots
ever-morphing
clouds

but now
conforming

"Everything
in life  is luck"

"Maturity of mind is the capacity to endure
Uncertainty."

into a gray black
black thunderhead

“Dig deep & pull the roots of confidence from the ground of your being, standing firm in the raging storm
until sunlight blossoms inside you.”

heavy slashing drops
of rain

pelt
a dull steel gray bucket

making the metal
CLANG

"I was born for a storm
and calm does not suit me."

whit howland © 2021

Black Eye Patch
baseball cap
pink and sugary gum

conjures
the twilight
games

of stickball
kick the can
and hide and seek

and I could ask
where they all went
those days

my brothers my pals

but life
is too complicated
for that kind of lament

and also
nostalgia
good memories

are meant to simplify
wipe cleanse
and finally

stitch together
the wounded
soul

whit howland © 2020

All it took
was a March
Chicago wind

to turn you
inside out
and show you

how fragile
you really were
but not us

not you
and not us
I'm not talking

about us

no

maybe I am
about how it will
take more than

a stupid icy wind
to tear us
asunder

whit howland © 2021

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

Cold today

so consequently
both coils glowed a fiery radiant heat

through the window
a gust of trumpeting wind
blew the rain sideways from the glass

and the sky
was a steel gray not ashen

strength's a must
warmth will push us through
and death was never an option


Whit Howland © 2019

Thick nimbus clouds
against patches of white sky

more rain maybe
but either way gray

a bright red rubber ball
rolls down the street

still slick
from last night's storm

makes me think
of Superman's boots

our yard looks like
a lake

no matter how hard I try
I can't keep the basement from flooding

whit howland © 2021

A hearth fire crackles
that is how I know
I’m not alone

because

the log glows bright
with warmth

that flows through the room

it’s that warm cheer
that makes me know

you are near
and that's because

you’ve never been far
this I know

something I’m positive

is true

Whit Howland © 2019

a small window
with squeaky clean panes
of glass

pulls in raw sunlight

into a small room
with a slatted wooden floor

where I sit in the corner
on a hardbacked chair

it scrubs and scours
my face

I'm constantly told
not to be so rough on myself

but there are a few things in life
I  can no longer ignore

one being that only the ruthless
survive

Whit Howland © 2020

A place maybe
not in the sun

but one of distinction
off just slightly

the beaten path
a little grown over

with weeds
that need clearing

though
worth the effort

all work is play
and all play is work

This morning the air
bites like apple cider

and my mind is as clear
as a blue sky

with just a hint of cirrus
and stratus clouds

I have no regrets
nope

none whatsoever

Whit Howland © 2020

Chicken Soup
for the Soul

why

who knew the Soul
had a cold

I guess that explains
all those aches and pains

it was you it
always has been you

tugging
at my heartstrings

is if I were a violin bass
or steel guitar

whit howland © 2021

brown on dusty mustard
clashes
with streaks of gray


we
drive through riding
the wave


haven't seen
a drop of rain
in days


sun bleaches boards
and bones
alike


© Whit Howland 2019

Last night you slept
like a log

or was it a rock

as for me
I kept chasing

the merchant of sleep
into the early morning

like a wayward ice cream truck
but it's a new day

and the sun is an orange and juicy
tangerine in the sky

let's make a pact

Whit Howland © 2020

Gray
with a film of fog

I knew you once
but now

you are just a pair
of ruby red lips

on a cocktail napkin
in a trunk in my

attic

whit howland © 2021

We say we don't
but we do

things don't just fall from the sky
but they do

suction
the production

of a partial vacuum
by the removal of air in order to force

fluid into a vacant space
or procure adhesion

that night those things you said
where did they come from

whit howland © 2021

Of high value
but yet the most flimsy
or breakable

and in some cases
shatters in pieces
and scatters across the floor

was this truly legit
or just an impulse buy
in the checkout line

at the front
counter
in the Hallmark store

something like love
so precious and we still
kick it to the curb

or manhandle
and shove it roughly
out the door

HONK
HONK

it jolts
the synapses

but oh yes
PEARS

and BANANAS

whit howland © 2021

The Red White
and Blue

gloppy
painting

of the flag
hangs on the wall

in my den
and I have a whale of a time

keeping it straight
freedom

is messy
and not everyone enjoys it
always

but I won't give up
on that painting

nor you
and I hope you

won't give up
on me

The soft motor of the mop
purs

as it squirts more detergent
on the vinyl floor

after an up-down motion
across the surface

it's all over but the drying
and onto

vacuuming bathrooms
laundry and other tasks

that seem eternal much like
fungus

drudgery mundane chores
the stuff we do


to stay ahead of the storm clouds
torrential rains and smiting winds

I am really cleaning

whit howland © 2021

Is it too late
to ask ourselves

how  it came to this

he sits
his back pushing

into a red
nogahyde booth

his hat pulled low
and his suit

just a little dusty
and rumpled

the drink
at the edge of his hand

something with *****

who is he
and who is he waiting for and

again
is it too late

to back track
do the math

and find out
how it came to this

© Whit Howland 2019

it's always been
my brother

not me
who could mix up the paint

saw the boards
hammer home the nails

and pour the 'crete
so to speak

and bless him
for doing all that I have never

been able to do
and for being able

to pull me from my own
abstractions

to show me
again

how to clean the roller
and the brushes

and preserve
what others have done

before us

As if rubbed with
charcoal

tire black rope white
and slung over a branch

ashen pale
against the gray trunk

a summer
my summer
your summer

colored
in gothic tones

much like a rubbing
from a  gravestone

in an old church
cemetery

whit howland © 2021

Fake or real
we wonder

the grass
tall and green

with wildflowers
among the blades

a butterfly flits above
the canopy

and farther above the sky
a marbled blue

augmented
by a yellow sun

and we wonder
fake or real

and yet we  dread
the answer

and like a still life
their faces are waxen
their bodies flat

pale lips blow
stiff fingers plink pluck
and beat the skins

it's as if their souls
have left us and the club


I've seen this print before
though not in a frame

but in mirrors shiny metal things
and reflections in the glass


© Whit Howland 2019

for the machine to
work

every cog must
turn

meshing

with other like-minded
wheels

and

ours is not to understand
ours

is to carry out simply
and efficiently

to survive

as we continue to

stand

Whit Howland © 2020

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

A **** or string
What's the difference

I'm a dummy
Either way

With dribble
On my chin

As i gag
On all of your words

You so rudely
Shoveled

Into my mouth

All angles
and rectangles
of natural

geometry
the antithesis
of mystery

fiction
but rather
orderly

clean
and efficient

Whit Howland © 2020

sprinkled with the petals
of roses

much like ours that have crossed
throughout the span of time

the paths are dirt
where they diverge

with some flourish here and there
but mostly hardscrabble

making travel bumpy
and rough

Like we are  traveling
by rail
through bucolic scenes of villages
hamlets and vineyards

with the sun bright-eyed
and fresh
in a sky that's marbled
and blue

it's the concerto
we hear when we
close our eyes
plug our ears

and write the
music
to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

Permit me to go
deep

because there is nowhere else to go

but to ponder the meaning
of silver

and the properties of
aluminum

and which metal is more precious
as well as

is value something that can be measured
or

is it all just conjecture like the best way
to crack an egg

Whit Howland © 2020

The gray sky
and minimal sunlight

coupled
with the hard earth

seems so small
in Winter

and it makes me feel
so alone

almost like I'm trapped inside
of myself

whit howland © 2020

As though you were still here
I hear you
your voice
somewhere
between honey-laced tea
coffee
and burnt toast
it's almost
like we converse
in notes then
the rug
or an uptown taxi
you're gone
it's hard
but please
never let these late
night visits ever end

Whit Howland © 2019

we fear what do not
understand

a man in the dark
leaning against a lampost

an orange glow and a curl
of smoke

rising toward the pale
and sickly light

whit howland © 2020

Not half full
but cheap

in fact
so cheap

it wouldn't even make
a sound

when it shattered

smudges
grudges

daily drudgery

and spots
lots of spots

whit howland © 2021

We can be
folded

or

broken
down

so easily

wrapped
up

put
in a box

tied
with twine

just like
that

in a moments
notice

fight or flight

it never fails

we'll always
choose

flight

Whit Howland © 2020

you hope you live long enough
to see it

giant
and full of itself

mirrored on the ocean
or some other body of water

the moon just being the
moon

and no one's crazy
goddess

Whit Howland © 2020

It's what we're drawn to
and what we draw

a teapot
painted face
a plain table

along with muddy light
from a ***** window

and the rest of the canvas
only there to encourage ownership

is it a dream
personal memory

or does the mind
surely jest

whit howland © 2021

Outside
the bare
tree branches

some brittle
some strong

interlock
and crisscross

the pattern
haphazard

so it seems

the method

apparently
unsound

Whit Howland © 2019

We can't

keep them straight
we

mean well but
in time

our hand
cramps and quivers

and

we do whatever
makes the discomfort

stop

hence the squiggle
the curve

or the corner
cut

Whit Howland © 2020

Snow still lingers
it is cold

and I’ve grown
accustomed to it

and the pit
or stone

my heart has become

I held on
as long as I could

to kindness compassion
and forgiveness

but finally
Winter’s icy fingers

pried those warm  
human gifts

from my grip
and

put them someplace
cold just

slightly
out of reach

Whit Howland © 2019

my life
flashing
by
like
a fast car
going on the green
and headed out of town

some twists and turns
a lot of missed calls
some lucky pulls
but ultimately a dead end

whit howland © 2020

The water lapping the shoreline
makes me think of your words

my life is on an even keel

and it's your voice that still
echoes through my dreams

my songs and poems
it must be because

you made pain
loss

and sorrow look
so easy


at a point in my life
when it was hard enough

just to pick up the phone
and deliver the news

it's been thirty years now
and her voice

is still yours I hear
when I pull your book

from my shelf
one more time

my life is on an even keel

Whit Howland © 2020

Give me some
if this is Heaven

red gold
petals

pressed against
solid blue sky

without a cloud
in sight

if this is Heaven
give me some

Let's talk about
mustard and burnt orange

while we sprinkle a couple
of flakes

then let's move down
to brown

slugs snails

and after that

melt

fade
to black and white

blobs

but pity them not
they were here to destroy

our gardens our
trees

ok,
I'll stop beating around the bush

us

they came to destroy

us

whit howland © 2021