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

Like with fluorescent paint
I glopped on a title

Basic Transportation

feel free to sit in this one
kick its tires

scratches and dings
cracked windshield

engine running
rough

I swear I can fix all of that

Might it be blown
inside out

a stiff wind  
off a great lake

the cause of its new
shape

location identification
maybe clear

a place icy cold
urban

and the umbrella
still red

it's bright color
much needed to offset

the gray

whit howland © 2021

drops of rain on the roof
sound like the pitter-patter

of little feet

you say there's water
collecting in the backyard

and we might need a French Drain
I say baby

we made it

whit howland © 2021

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

Why

I'm just a harmless
gray fuzzy thing

sometimes without
but mostly

on a string
a pool shark

or maybe  a card shark
so to speak

it doesn't hurt
when I bite

and again you ask
why

that's because
I have fuzzy green teeth

question
you trust me

don't you?

Brown stains on the porcelain
make the cup

look like bad teeth and bad
decisions

the short window of cleanliness
and innocence

before sugar daddies
and Milky Ways folded

into themselves
a galaxy leaking over the rim

I was young
and you were young

as we attached the trike
to the steel tongue

and pulled the wagon
around the driveway

a snapshot
capturing a mise-en-scene long

oh so long ago

but what really is it
I'm looking at

with sunspots
and the color washed out

over time

possibly
the first moment

you and I began to know
what it meant

to pull a heavy load

whit howland © 2021

Tracks
in the snow now crunchy

big feet
and the pitter-patter

of little feet
crisis crossing each other

and no need to ask
what it all means

with no scheme
rhyme or reason to this thing

whit howland © 2021

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

Just a  speck
but I know it's there

across the sound
waiting for the tide

to recede
and the sand bar to appear

a bridge a connection
to the past

and a spark and a flame
to future enlightenment

muscles twitch
moonlight radiates
though still soft

a voice

angelic
or otherwise

sings

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

pink and sugary
your words
so lyrical

and yet
so fleeting
they dissolve

in my mouth

I don't want to believe
but I do believe

you sold me
a bill of goods
though I'm not bitter

how could I be
with such sweet
salesmanship

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

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

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

Stacked three high
with the fourth turned upright

and resting atop
like the star on a Christmas tree

tires

that's what they are
what we are

functional

a part of the wheel a part
of a forward motion

unstoppable
uncontrollable

we celebrate

Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

Hello again
just to say
I got lucky again
and what a joy
it was
waking up to a sky
finger- painted
baby blue




© Whit Howland 2019

These silver-colored nuggets
in a glass bowl

plopped
on the counter

metallic gleaming
under the fluorescent light

I just finished a tin of spam
and now I'm closing my eyes

to dream about jackrabbits
cactus rattlesnakes  tumbleweeds

and other things
you can sing about

while strumming
an old guitar

He thought your face had a nice
color

that mad professor with a tomato-red
complexion all his own

and that was years ago
when he said that

as we sat over a plate of steak and eggs
they called a moo and peep

back then I thought we'd still be treking
this thing together

but I know now through words so rudely spoken
by destiny and life

that a tandem journey for you and me
was never meant to be

on this leg

Still there in a drawer
with other

baubles
knickknacks and what nots

I find you every time I look

and you
are still there

even though
the mirror tries to tell me otherwise

but like the needle

I have to look past and through
the creases the wrinkles

and through all the other junk
I've collected along the way

but you too
are

still there

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

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

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

Perfect
in my head

but when
it exits and hits the air

then it becomes foreign
to your ear

a language so
ancient

that makes life a struggle
to be relatable

suitable
for your palate

and  mass consumption

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

A jar of jelly beans
red yellow purple
and green

follow
follow
follow
follow

follow the bouncing
red ball

gray  clouds
rain showers
a goldfish flopping

on the wet pavement

whit howland © 2021

The street glistens
from a recent hard rain

tires splash
thru muddy puddles

neon flickers
and buzzes with the din

of dining
and drinking

to whom it may
concern

I am flattering you
as I paddle this plastic
ball across the net

and back at myself

in my dream I can play all-day
the sounds keeping  perfect beat
and time

melts away
like that ubiquitous
stopwatch dripping off the table

he said you were not the best
but you were his
and now that I've read you  

I think that you are mine
as well

whit howland © 2021

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

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

Small
portraits
of life the universe

and everything
in between
and so sweet

when you lick them
before
you paste them

but save them
you must
because

we humbly ask
for so little
and a pittance

is what we get

whit howland © 2021

glossy
and mostly
sepia-toned

and now more
then a touch of gray
as we grow old

so much stuff
has happened along
the way

the smell of burnt hair
on a curling iron
still lingers in the hall

you sleep and snore
in the room
next door

and I'm grateful
for the two times
I got smart in our lives

plip plop
ploppitty
plop

the late
March rain
taps against our roof

whit howland © 2021

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

No not stone
but one

shaped like a ***
filled with ***** and *****

of multicolored yarn
figurative

of course
more the stories that shape

the way a man feels and teaches
him the why and how

to love

Much like Haiku
we are to let this flow

but
when we see

browns burnt orange
blues whites and pinks

our mind dumps
this box of color

out
onto a table like puzzle pieces

then
the work begins

of the painter
and the poet

drawing connecting
and composing

as we forget
once again this simple lesson

serenity comes
when you toss your brush

and put down
your paper and  your pen

© 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

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

You always take it too far
you say

I guess that's me
and why

every time I pull into
the garage

I stare down a bright green
tennis ball on a string

like both barrels
of a shotgun

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

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

Silver paint
on particle board

made
to look vintage

Times Roman Font
painted on sheet metal

water lapping at the shore
speed boats growling

clouds moving in then
moving out

sun
piercing through

I'll stop talking

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

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

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

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

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