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

inner space
between the ears

wind blowing
through a screen door

maybe chimes
in the distance



whit howland © 2021

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

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

and you are here
caught in my vortex

waiting with baited
and well

rancid breath

from the taste of
anchovies

while I ponder
where this is going

and what this all
meant

the mind a little slower
the older I get


whit howland © 2020

A canopy of green
beginning

to turn pink
as twigs and dry leaves
crunch

below my feet

a gray stone bench
dead

ahead
where I will sit
and silence

the senses

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

Rattling
shaking
rumbling

convulsions
and unbalanced load

unbalanced



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

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

Sometimes we ponder or stand
aghast

and sometimes we refract
redirect

or outright ignore
the light

Whit Howland © 2020


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's what you do
rather

than what you say
two scoops

in a waffle cone

thunder

lightning

rain drops
pelt the window

your face

insanity never felt
or tasted

so good

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

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

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

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

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

as if every day
is a blood orange sunrise

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

whit howland © 2021

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

Numbers faded
under caged glass

hands shake
but they move

progress slow
yet steady

Murky

like someone
poked a stick

in some pond water
and stirred up mud

the past is swirling
and

murky

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

A pastiche
decades

of childhood
blurring

locusts

buzzing

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

© Whit Howland 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Way back in the dark ages
this might be coming from

Cleveland
these words that can

only be said on a piece
of cardstock

but they come courtesy
of a fiery Jovian afternoon

my remarks are very brief

even though the future
was not all that it was

cracked up to be
there is someone up here
in space

that still loves you

could we try again

Whit Howland © 2020

Cold
Clear

it moves
powered by the moon
seeping

into cracks into
crevices

Water
Wet

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