balding head
crows feet
wisdom lines

this life my life
is light years away
as I sit on the edge of the boat

with feet on the dock
staring at it like Mars
Jupiter or maybe the moon

my mom my grandmother
and grandfather
still in tow

whit howland © 2021

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

a request
an urgent plea

not to focus
on minor details

to see the forest
for the trees

not to get
shall we say
lost

in the weeds

oh
what we can cobble
together

from all the  brush
we cut **** and clear

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

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

Red hat
pulled over the  eyes

homespun clothes
and a white wavy beard

and every day as I walk by
I ask you

what's the good word

thinking someday
you will speak

and tell me how to find
the door

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

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

you beg me
to write about
the sky and the grass
or better yet amber waves
of grain

the best i can do to
accommodate you
is paint the sunflowers
at the highway's edge

but not the ones on the
median
for some reason they seem
to have lost their luster

Whit Howland © 2020

Delicate
and powdery
across your surface

special
precious
timely

flower you are
cultivated
for your beauty

pure
good
divine

what we produce
is better late
than never

whit howland © 2021

Rattling
shaking
rumbling

convulsions
and unbalanced load

unbalanced



whit howland © 2021

Not even close
to something

as fine as
you

rolled
coffee brown

and neatly
trimmed

a sweet
Tobacco burst

of sunshine

I am talking about
a cigar

seriously

it is just
a cigar

whit howland © 2021

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

You are no longer
here

but in my mind
you're the one point

I focus on to stop
the dizziness

when world spins
like a top

heading for the edge
of the table

whit howland © 2021

Screeching tires
and years of rubber left smoking
on the pavement

arms flail and sneakers scrape
the asphalt at an all-night basketball game
in the rain

a phone's rings
is like the staccato report
of a machine gun

a weatherman
through a scratchy transistor radio
forecasts a storm

fight

or flight

whit howland © 2021

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

You say we worked it out
dodged a bullet

the big "D"and all that
and I'm so relieved

you see
that is why right now

I'm looking at a clear sky
with just a bit

of white marbling
amongst the blue

as opposed to something
pale and gray

whit howland © 2020

A concrete
melted

and a shattered coke bottle
with glass scattered

across the floor

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

loving spoonfuls
of sugar

a blessed shot
of cream soda

it swirls
in a glass and in
our mouths

we are nowhere
or everywhere

yet
do we even care

whit howland © 2020

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

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

God
always shows up
in lonely places

                   a motel room
                    frayed curtains
                                  and a naked bulb

          walls of clowns juggling
            stove pipe hats
           leap frog and pogo sticks

throw caution to the wind
absurdity over logic
and there he is


Whit Howland © 2019

HONK
HONK

it jolts
the synapses

but oh yes
PEARS

and BANANAS

whit howland © 2021

Since I've never had
a green thumb

I chose to write
a poem

that's like a rock garden
no water needed

and no fear of drowning
or of being wrapped

in the winding sheet of
metaphor

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

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

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

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

Sometimes we ponder or stand
aghast

and sometimes we refract
redirect

or outright ignore
the light

Whit Howland © 2020


Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

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

copper tubes coils
gauges dials gyroscopes

boosters and lifters
gears and cogs

with buttons to push and
levers to pull

sometimes it buzzes
hisses and blows
like  a tea kettle or blasts

like a train whistle

we've all seen contraptions
like these in our grandest visions and

our wildest dreams

Whit Howland © 2020

white
thick over skim

not quite full
so no surface tension

in a cold sweat
I am connected

to you
I flow freely

for you with
you

whit howland © 2021

wind rushes
my face
so close
not a sign
of relief but
a warning and
painter's brush
with death

© Whit Howland 2019

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

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

flying
then yawing

floating
spinning

thoroughly
pickled

i woke up this morning
not knowing

where you were
or even why

you
ever existed


whit howland © 2020

inner space
between the ears

wind blowing
through a screen door

maybe chimes
in the distance



whit howland © 2021

A small thing
oblong

in nature
and

just a trickle
down a pale cheek

but is it really
there

and if not

do we dry our eyes
at nothing


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

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

A flag billows
gently

in a warm breeze
as a jet

silently makes it's way
across a blue sky

graying
at the edges of perception

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

What is it about
us

we sail
without charts

we run
between the drops of rain

and we fly
not only by the seat

but sometimes
with no pants at all

charmed yes
we are very charmed

though it's hard
not to wonder

if there isn't someone
out there

who's
keeping score

whit howland © 2021

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

E
we can see

thus we know it's there
and we feel safe

it's what we can't
discern
what is blurry

we fear
because we don't
understand

are you with me so far
good

because
from here on out
it gets kind of wiggy

if a tree falls in the forest
and no one's around

how big was the ax
that the woodsman used
to chop it down

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Blue

why is it blue
is it because I miss you

and that the house is empty
when it's just me

or is it the bad weather
emotional or otherwise

or the losing battle I fight
with the lawn and the cleaning

it seems so much of life
is being

swallowed up
in a quotidian funnel cloud

whit howland © 2021