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

No one cares  about
what happened
after

the dark and stormy
night

about what was tossed
and lost
by the wind

pelted by the rain

it all gets written off
as disposable

words matter

choose them wisely

and spend the money

Whit Howland © 2020

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

They are at their best
and most beautiful

when hanging
on a nail

driven

into a wall
or the weathered wood

of a door

because then
they become an object

of nostalgia
which turns to inspiration

each day I find myself
more

and more

adopting your patterns
your rhythms

your pug tenacity
and dauntless courage

I miss you brother

I hope you never doubted that

Whit Howland © 2020

what was it we
drank

and before you
get too glib

it wasn't
the kool-aid

words matter  
words mean things

who said they didn't


Whit Howland © 2020

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

What do I know about death
not much

except that I almost died
three times

the first time was the hardest
the other two were pretty easy

ghostly pale wide-eyed with a lanky face
nocturnal and it hunts

on buoyant wingbeats in fields
and meadows

so what do I know about death
not much except that I almost died three times

Whit Howland © 2020

It's an image
I can mass-produce
on cue

ladling syrupy
sentiments into a cup
like punch

depression glass
frosted
with flourishes

filled with candy
wrapped in flashy
gold cellophane

all because
I'm trying to
sell you what you want

whit howland © 2020

Classic red

a sturdy chassis

plain

front and back axles

tough rubber wheels

and a functional
metal black handle

simple
perfect in design

a blue print
and a vision

only for
the naked eye

©  Whit Howland 2019

it was the one
that roped me in

the picture
you sent me long ago

the one with
your bright smile
and eyes wide
with anticipation

you are standing
among other revelers
on Spring Garden Road

there's a beer stein
in your hand

you must have
been celebrating
something big  that night

what was it
what was making
you so happy

that one thing
I could never crack

your happiness

anyway
I've kept this one around
even though I shouldn't
and

today I'm older
and right now

I'm standing in a
harbor side gift shop
in Catania Sicily

a new wife
and happy life

she just bought some
post cards of the city

pictures of side streets
and ally ways
scrubbed so clean
and shiny
they almost smile

I'll keep one
replacing yours

because it just hit me
like a blinding beacon

what you were doing
that night and why

you looked so happy

through a streaked window pane
I watched life

get washed like flotsam and jetsam
into a storm sewer

and realized  again
that

it's all about days like these
and  the quotidian truths

they reveal

What is missing is something
I can't wrap my brain around

you always say I'm not subtle
and that is true

I just wish I could be more delecate
in my communication to you

but I'm too obsessed
with how things fit back to together

like plates and cups
and I love the smell of glue

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not make this
a rumination about
or
a referendum
on a state of mind

the day is clear
cold
the sky an icy blue

trees are bare
leaves are dry and piled

the path is
unobstructed

and crisp spare
internal prose
will win the day



Whit Howland © 2020

Murky

like someone
poked a stick

in some pond water
and stirred up mud

the past is swirling
and

murky

Sometimes it's kicking
and screaming

suffering
or science

and in the pulling of
incisors

molars
that we find our common
yet secret voice

but it's worth
the pain and tears

if it strikes the flint
in each other's eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

It's hard to say goodbye
to a place

when I've never said hello
as the cliche goes

and this isn't really a poem
as much as it is a meditation

about what could have been
and why it really was

or was it ever really
and why should it have happened

that way
we could go on and on

doing loop dee loops
somersaults

cartwheels bonsai dives
belly flops

but all this is procrastination
with a dash of Egyptian denial

and it's time to connect
the dots

it's real easy if you merely
sit and think about it

wake up
smell the jo

see the gate and close it
behind you

move
toward go to

the blinding beam of
light

and more over

there's the bridge

Whit Howland © 2020

Glasses clink
the piano dies

and the bartender
begins his sweeping

who am I
who are you

maybe
someone

who hates long goodbyes
and probably prefers

we just shake hands
and go?

Plug

I get could get
lost

in you


you're so ugly

you're beautiful

I'll fall into you
and fall fast

for you

you'll turn me
upside down

and shake me
for change

then drop me

so I'll land face down
in the gutter

lapping up
puddles

upon puddles
of street-water

Whit Howland © 2020

On paper its a child's
sun

it is bright yellow
there are green lollipop

trees
an expanse

of blue for water
a crude

forgery no doubt
of a classic he once saw

and was so moved

Whit Howland © 2020

With blind
trust

as though
through the Chunnel

under the English Channel
we will travel in darkness

to greet
the new year

meet
and pump the hand
of fate


and it will seem
as normal as the day

before
more of the same

jokes songs
and stories

but there will
be a feeling that
we cannot shake

a momentum
pulling us forward
causing us

to look one last time
and salute all the things
that served us well

then bob for other apples
and trust
they’re more juicy crisp and new

Whit Howland © 2019

It was the gray
and blue wrapper
so ugly

that made it
the Zero

the candy bar

nobody ever wanted
and because of that
nobody ever knew

how it tasted

but yet I miss it
just like the ability
to pull a lever

and hear
the crinkling sound
of candy coming down

the shoot

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

It's the bubbles
in the clear green glass

that pull me away
from the day

lost in more than thought
abstractions

and absurdities

the graveyard
where the mind is laid to rest

Your flavor
a candy-flake daydream

so sweet

but no
you did not complete  me

and it wasn't for trying
I chewed on all of your words

your every word
that inevitably

I know that now

lost their taste
in a matter of minutes

Today the sky
was a glossy postcard blue

the sand
a fine and ivory white

the water
that

an outrigger slid across
as a conch shell horn
blew it into shore

was so clear
you could dive straight
to the bottom

off in the distance
Diamond Head rippled
like a pennant
in the warm subtle breeze

you are here

decades may come
and decades may go

but you will always be

Whit Howland © 2020

Silhouetted trees
against a dusky sky

and it's only been a week
but already

too long

but hey
what can I say

we got a little hot
and things got a little weird

but no it's not
at least

I don't think
it's too late

that is

A dream
buzzards
fly overhead
eyes like spotlights
cars bumper to bumper
I know you are out there
and you know I'm still
that guy it's just that
he's buried deep inside
you are going to have
to dig deep to find him
but do try to reclaim

whit howland © 2019

You say it's late
maybe too late

to save this and you add
it's a sinking ship

and that there was never
any luster

or gild on the lily
so what do I say

AHH

it's what I ask that's the real
kicker

how does a ship sink
when it's never left the bottle

whit howland © 2021

I'm here to dream
and not to know

because dreaming of
a Golden Age

that never was
without the toil

the blood sweat and
gallon jug

of tears

may someday make it
so

Whit Howland © 2020

Black white
gray then black
again

then beige
and we are caught
in a vortex

a loop
of one color
and of one mind

so maybe throw
in some yellow
some blue

and let it mix
into green then
dark green

then lime
and back to green
again

from chaos
always comes
order

the world sees to it
and keeps it
that way

whit howland © 2020

We all do
search that is

for the sand
that slipped

through
the hour glass

so I don't fault you
for walking the halls

room to room
don't worry

we'll see him again
and each other

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

The soul
no not really

try windowpanes
of frosted glass

at Christmas time
looking in on ugly seaters

eggnog cheap ornaments
and things we need to return

more a sleight of hand
a distraction

whit howland © 2020

a fleshy formless blob
pickled in plasma
under glass

I've long ago stopped wondering
where the time went
stopped

planning
dreaming
stopped

things meant to come will come
things meant to be
will be

stopped

a fleshy formless blob
pickled in plasma
under glass

whit howland © 2021

sticky with ****
resting

in its dish

the shower
running full blast

with the mirror
fogged and steamy

then

the hairdryer
blowing

more hot air

yes it's true
we've been having moments

but I'd like to think
of them

as growing pains

the stuff
that shapes and molds

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm here to bury
confusion

not to give it
voice

or a pulpit
from which to proselytize

we worship
truth

we practice
truth

we don't just spoon it
every now and then

into a cloudy cup
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

the sky darkens at noon
the wind whips through the trees

like they are nothing but
toothpicks

making the pending rain
almost a relief

and the biggest myth
is that there ever was a calm

Whit Howland © 2020

I'll attach it to your coat
with a metal clip

this note

you keep saying
I should open up to you

and this brevity
on yellow scratch paper


should tell you
everything

you need to know

My flat cap
is on the hat rack

as I'm alone
tonight

in a big barn bed
outside

is the hum
of a ratty ******

and just before
I closed my eyes

I penned a note
to you on cheap

hotel stationery
hang in their baby

I'll be home soon
just one more drink

and I swear I'll be right
with the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

A look
to the future

while reflecting
on where we've been

how it all started
and why we started it

I got my start with
crude meaning simple
nursery rhymes

in order to salve
some deep cuts

either self-inflicted
or made by others

and then I  built from
the ground up

the structure
substance developing
overtime

Whit Howland © 2020

Do I miss you
I can't say that I do

but make no mistake
this is still a love poem

but about loving different
things

about opening my eyes
and smelling

a much different flavor
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

State of mind
maybe a destination
though definitely not
a place

it's been so long
since you've been gone
I miss you
but my tears have become

dry heaves

and it seems
I really should say is
but I'm still too
timid

but it seems that you
are much stronger
now
in death

then you ever
were ever
ever were
in life

Whit Howland © 2020

we run we pivot
then we run again

stopping so briefly
to sit

in the window
and peer

at the freshly minted
moon

then we take off running
wondering

if one day we'll ever
muster the courage

to stop and challenge
what seems to be

chasing us

Whit Howland © 2020

The morning sky is streaked
with plum

your hair's as fine as
cornsilk

and your lips are sweet and
tangy

like tangerines

you always said words failed me
I set out to prove you wrong

how'd I do

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes we ponder or stand
aghast

and sometimes we refract
redirect

or outright ignore
the light

Whit Howland © 2020


Whit Howland © 2020

It's a deep cough
a wet

or is it a dry
whooping cough

maybe
it's more of a hack

so much tissue
oh so little time

life is such
a struggle

but
would we have it

any
other way

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

I go back and forth
about who I want
to be

most of the time
I try to figure that out

through observation
of people passing

so briefly in and out
of my life

over a newspaper
and coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

A hardboiled egg
on the counter

dyed blue

staring at me
at six am

he is risen
and unfortunately

so did I