The glass of my mask
is clear though foggy

at the edges

as I often dream
of turquoise waters

where I splash dive
and roll with

zany  shelled creatures
paddling by my nose

as white sand between my toes
floats up to the surface

it's hard to know where life
is going

I am told there's a plan
and a God who executes it

and with a vision like this
could it be

he's telling me to trust
what I see when I'm fast asleep

and that the plan is something
not to overthink

it's possible

whit howland © 2021

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

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

They went by
so fast
the years and
I'm past all the
hard stuff the
rough stuff
and I just want
to remember all that
is good stuff like
the Barbary Coast
the Frontier and the Stardust
and Janice when she sang
not when she raged against
a dying sun so I'll
pull three cubes
from a bucket of ice
put them in a cheap
glass and watch as
some smooth stuff
splashes on the rocks

© Whit Howland 2019

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

As we got older
the windows

stayed open for only
a brief moment

then they shut
for a very long while

seconds mattered
and so did accuracy

Whit Howland © 2020

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

A handwritten letter a licked
stamp

old fashioned
yes

but not outdated
yet post-dated

with the red metal flag
pointing

to the sky and burning
like an Olympic torch

in anticipation
of your triumphal

return

whit howland © 2021

No need to think
beyond the box
the game is simple

a color wheel
melted

into thin
waxen sticks

ripe
low hanging fruit

you just point
and shoot at random

at the drop of a hat

don't cry over spilled milk

and you're judged
by the crayon you choose

with which to color your days
weeks months
and years

© Whit Howland 2019

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

Much smoke
but is there fire

bread crumbs and a half-eaten
sandwich

water
boiling on a stove

and more on the floor
either spilled

or ice cubes that melted

a shirt draped over
a chair

or is this my way of telling you
that life is made up of a bunch
of Maguffins

and it really doesn't
add up to much

all mystery is art
and the best is at best
impressionistic

absurd

or experimental

Whit Howland © 2020

Red then green
then yellow
and red again

do you stop
do wait
do you go anyway

who are you
where are you
and why

the light the
threeway
stop

it's always
the crossroads

whit howland © 2020

Something
about a snowy night
changes a boy for life

that late hour where
the air
is lit by a dry white flare

with
branches bare of leaves
but kissed with snow

and his vision now
is spare clear cold
and calculated

© Whit Howland 2019

Those ceramic eyes
do not have a price

and should not
be among the racks

of moldy clothes
and old toys

with dayglo stickers
affixed to them

in life we all have
to stand on something

let this artifact of kitsch
and love for all that is feline

be my rock
if not

the most delightful hill
to die on

Whit Howland © 2020

I have a list
like one might take
to an auto parts store

jet
plane
traveled
quickly

the camera then
zoomed in
for a closeup

Whit Howland © 2020

After a lifetime of punching
and mainly kicking

against the ******
I've finally figured out

the meaning

it wasn't hard at all
although

it's about as appealing
as a butter sandwich

and involves equally mundane
objects

like a broom dustpan
cleaning rag

hammer and nails
yak yak yak

Whit Howland © 2020

Just faint light
enough to trace
the outline of the waves

as they roll and spill
onto shore

it's said
they're powered by the moon

some also say
the moon will drive you mad

but right now
all I see
is a steady lunar hand

riding heard


© Whit Howland 2019

If I had brushes and a canvas
I'd paint it

a gathering
soiree or better yet

a ticker tape
parade

a celebration
of one's life well lived

and deserving of such
reverie

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

With masterful strokes
the brush moves
then

a red crest

a wave

see it hear it ride it

and find out where
ear and eye collide

music
plus painting

equals

noodling and doodling
jazz for the mind


© Whit Howland 2019

It was cold today
but my mind was limber
with images

of glowing fingers
and rosy cheeks
so my thoughts

were not of Santa Claus
but of
Father Christmas

that bearded zesty
wild-eyed
ruddy- faced potentate

I went for a walk today
and I got as far as the bridge
but I did not cross it

© Whit Howland 2019

Why are they
here

why are we
here

am I really
here

mysterious
could be a word

but whatever name
or term

they're most beautiful
when much is left

to an unbridled
imagination


Whit Howland © 2020

Eggs over easy
farm fresh

so they say

scrapple
or corn beef hash

sizzling in grease
on a cast iron skillet

life

on the Mother Road

You don't hear me
anymore

my voice

as if buried
among many

yellow
pressed

and crinkled
notes

on your old
bulletin board

Whit Howland © 2019

it's canned meat
and depending on how one slices

the hammy blob
they might say it's tasty

while to others
it's irrelevant

quite like poetry where  i've learned
there are no lines

only smudges
someone wants you to believe

are flowers


Whit Howland © 2020

you can be a doctor
of letters

and never crack a book

just read what it says
in the think bubbles

many will tell you I'm crazy
because

I am here to smash
all those sacred statues and break
the most forbidden of taboos

just free your mind before it goes
flaccid

and please believe me when I try to
disabuse you

that it is possible to become Atlas
on a diet of bubblegum

and ding dongs

my aim is to show you how

Whit Howland © 2020

The smell was sweet
when you dropped

the hammer on that roll
of red ribbon

making the gunpowder
puff

and it almost smelled like success
when you watched

your imaginary foe
grab his chest

and fold over
that hitching post

Whit Howland © 2020

It soothes the
soul

knowing

we can call it out
by name

extreme fear or
a child who causes
trouble and

is a nuisance

and to interpret or to bend and
stretch the meaning

like it's play dough or
silly putty

is our superpower


Whit Howland © 2020

Morning
began with a birdsong

nothing fancy
some rhythmic chirping

but it sufficed
and gave me the impetus to float

not slog
through the day

we are what we choose
to eat and digest

whether it be aural
or through mastication

whit howland © 2021

Big brass
and shiny
it rang and swung

as the clapper
clanged
from side to side

as a line of doves
pointed
to the sky

and someone
was happy
someone

was very
very
happy

whit howland © 2020

Back then they were no
angels

just Rorshach blots
in the snow

wingless
sometimes headless

never more than just an abstract
musing

coming going
in cold

sunlight
with a stiff wind

Whit Howland © 2020

we amble
caught

in a steady
pour

muddy gutters
sidewalk streams  

and a world
that could be

should be
would be dreary

but beauty can be
sometimes wet

sometimes mussed
sometimes bent

but much
depends

on the day
the glass

full
or half

maybe
just *****

Whit Howland © 2019

Spinning
the world is
spinning

out of control
I don't I don't
know

I focus on you
and only you
your deep blue eyes

black eyelashes
your offwhite porcelain
skin

Whit Howland © 2020

Pink and orange
smear
the gray clouds

as though a ***** mop
swabbed

the darkness
and the night away

it's over now
I forgive you

why

I do not know

I just will
I just am
and it'll just be

Whit Howland © 2020

Deep
in the tall grass
and long ago
defunct

and yet
it seems as if
they left us
way too soon

but now they rust
or have rusted
and are dwindling
in the blistering heat

and sun
on this hazy
dusty
afternoon

Whit Howland © 2020

Usually when I dream
the house never gets packed

the shuttle never arrives
to take me to the airport

and I have not studied
for that final exam

but last night into the early morning
that all changed

in the batting cage
as I felt the sting of swinging

hitting

and knocking all the fastballs
that came my way

out of the park
into the heavens and beyond

whit howland © 2020

I must've been faster
than a speeding bullet

more powerful
than a locomotive

and able to run between
the drops of rain

it gets farther away
with time

the life I narrowly
dodged

and with my memory
much foggier

then it used to be
all I can recollect

are the strips
of paint

dangling from the ceiling
like swords

Whit Howland © 2020

More a meditation
than a description
of a scene

a window
busy with Christmas
figurines

tinsel
ornaments
and streamers

a tiny tree with lights
stands next
to Mary Joseph and Baby Jesus

you’ve got me on a tight rope
walking gingerly
over troubled terrain

love on one side
hate
on the other

but I come with good news
and that news is
it's been mostly love


Whit Howland © 2019

White but dark
its face

is like
a sinister heart

and its eyes
are the black marbles

little kids shoot
in the ally behind the drugstore

friend or foe
can we even tell the difference

anymore



whit howland © 2021

Leather oil
and smell

figures into it


and crack  of the bat
sound

as well as
the other senses

and food
food is for action

not for thought
as we grasp at straws

and other metaphors
we appropriate mix

and call
American

My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

This is just
a friendly reminder
to take out the trash before you leave

love you

a plate of eggs
bacon
sausage

and ham

so fast
it moved it was a blur
and so loud it howled

throughout the night

whit howland © 2021

The stationary space ship
or silver bullet train

of many youths

with incongruent and shiny
chrome

where they still serve
up

a healthy platter
of comfort

and warmth with a side
of truth

Whit Howland © 2020

dare I say it
a ****** not a clang

as a breeze tiptoes
through the valley

and the tulips
yes

we've had some
rough times

but I think
they're behind us now

I've finally figured
it out

whit howland © 2020

It's those long days
spent

with you
that play out

like a 24 hour
solo

on the saxophone
and summon all the cliches

"where have you been
all my life"

is the first one
coming to mind

These frosty panes

like stained glass scenes
capturing the Christmases of my youth
the taste the sounds

the tree wrapped in strings of lights
the tinsel draped like gleaming
dripping icicles

but mostly the hanging shiny red
yellow green ornaments
with their blinding glare

Whit Howland © 2020

More than just a flower
with white petals

you were and still are
life

the kind
that's a hot breath

in the face

with just a little drool
on the kitchen floor

whit howland © 2021

The dream is retro
with a lot of chrome

and indecipherable
structures
basking in two suns

I think I'm in a rocket car
maybe a bus or train

it could be I'm flying
arms akimbo
by moveable windows

and things that might be other
people in spacesuits

pass me up or cut me off
and at night ads for

toothpaste in a gleaming
silver tube

are broadcast against
an obsidian sky

are we there yet or
did I sleep through it all

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more
I'm more

about the interior
landscape

the mind that was once
young
and like an engine room full

of wonderful gears
and spinning wheels

that over time
has turned pointed
and predatory

Whit Howland © 2020

A brittle rose
and other broken parts
shards of our lives

glued onto cardstock
in a mishmash
collage

pieces
fitted together
with ****** fingers

we're trying
we'll do it
we can make it

© Whit Howland 2019