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

as if every day
is a blood orange sunrise

sometimes we muddy the waters
just to see the silt finally settle

whit howland © 2021

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

It's all I have to go by

the lurch of
wheels

the clicking of
tickets

and the rolling scenery

sliding from city
to town

to country flat
to hills

back to flat
and hills again

now
a cymbal crash

and something
completely different

there's a raccoon
that often comes to my porch

I feed it
and after thinking

and smoking on the issue
I've decided to call him

SLUGGO


Whit Howland © 2020

Murky

like someone
poked a stick

in some pond water
and stirred up mud

the past is swirling
and

murky

They're tacked along
an outcropping of wall

and one droops because
of a missing tack

and after all these years
we've never fixed it

I guess politics
is war

and war begats wounds
which turn to scars

and then

badges

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

Pulpy and juicy
to the touch

Rasberry to the taste
it bleeds

down my chin
and blossoms on my shirt

as my heart bleeds
for you

similar to this pen
that bleeds bad verse

all over the pages
like fall leaves

brittle
and ephemeral

Whit Howland © 2020

I set at the edge of the bed
with a blue floral spread

waiting

for the sun to blush
the sky

as the minute hand on the wall clock
quivers

the ice bucket
sweats

and breakfast  

will be soon
but is it really breakfast

if you haven't slept

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

Like a knock
on wood or a tree

it was a thing
a circumstance

causing annoyance
your lack of faith

in me
your distrust

was something
unpleasing to my ear

you might still remember me
but you would not recognize

my self today

I'm not the same guy
you once knew

who tolerates an incessant noise
or that kind of rudeness

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

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

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

it's really about the hat
straw with a farmer's brim

we got them for free
at a baseball game

and made each other laugh
tilting them rakishly on our heads

it was the first time we had talked to each other
in days

Whit Howland © 2020

Last month it was
sultry

but today the air
bites

no notice
no transition
and definitely


no warning


just like people
who rarely say goodbye

or herald their changes
and maybe  I shouldn't

and maybe it's not
necessary

but
I'll tell you anyway


I've growing terse
in my old age

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

But I think the best was when
one end of the twine

was tied to my molar
and the other end to the ****

as the door slammed and wrenched
my tiny but gnarly tooth free

when one door slams  another
doesn't necessarily open

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

these big flakes
reminding me of
soap

no longer the frozen
powder of before

but sudsy
foamy
slushy stuff

for the simple work of
scrubbing

rinsing
and drying

nothing deep
or to see here

it's just the mind
checking off items

on a to-do list

Whit Howland © 2020

Tonight the moon is full
and as always
it's a ball of green cheese

if we are lucky
it'll be here all week
so

in its honor

what say you and I
do a Chinese Fire Drill
on 42nd Street

because like Slinkys we must bend
and twist ourselves
to prove

and plead
that we are human
and should be called such


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

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

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

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

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

Through my writing
is how I reveal

much of who I am
but that said

I am still an enigma
and better yet

a contradiction
as you might think

I'm pensive
a man of thoughts

shall we say
but simple observation

will show that I have
nervous fingers wrapped

tightly around a pen
or furiously pecking

like a hen at a keyboard
or a touchscreen

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

In a chair he sits
with

sunlight on his
face

yet it's
still opaque

the twitch
of his eye

only
a MacGuffin

so don't expect
a revelation

because as someone
once

long ago said

what remains in the heart
must be obscure

Whit Howland © 2020

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 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

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

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

We stare at the explosion
the mess of paint
glopped onto the canvas
thinking of what could've been

a driver's cap
a bundle of newspapers
a can of soda
hot and chewy pretzels

meat
cut into red juicy strips
wrapped in thick wax paper
tied with twine

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?

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

Hardly enough snow
to call it Winter

but dustings here
and there

made islands
in thought

which heightened our
awareness

and augmented our
quest

for a warm touch

and a personal
connection

Whit Howland © 2020

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

What we saw yesteryear
on the silver screen

threatens to become
quotidian

so before you say
this is the new normal

can you at least lookup
the word


Whit Howland © 2020

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

Though hard to judge
I feel you

are no longer close

as I see you fading in my
rearview mirror

now just a smudge
on a painted horizon

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

A classic car
turquoise

blue
with chrome

WHOOSHES

by in futuristic
flurry

it's style and make
now

etched in my mind
as well as a desire

to go back to
a time

when things were
simple

and all it takes is
fifteen seconds

to make your claim
of fame

with me

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

a backdrop of blue
with tiny dots for stars

and it swooshes away

from a saucer shaped
like a paper plate

this rocket ship
or clear

plastic pen
a pin-up girl inside

it's confusion

it's wonder

it's pulpy desire

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

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

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