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

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

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

One side
of your rubber face

sags

but  you're still hot
and pink

with a carrot
inching ever closer

to your bucktoothed
mouth

and the plastic valve
in your **** is open

so I could lip lock
and just blow

my cheeks puffing out
like Dizzy Gillespie

Whit Howland © 2020

At this hour
the world is an
inkwell

ripe  
for a feather to *****
and draw blood

from

where am I what
am I

if I'm trapped between
morning
and evening

searching
chasing

answers

Whit Howland © 2020

a soft pale glowing
sliver

over the bedpost
or through the bathroom door

for when we need
to be creatures of the darkness

it's nothing to bark at but more
to read by

a beacon
to guide us through the night

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

It's what we pull
from the subconscious

the best parts of us
the cream

rising to the top
the parades

the celebrations the
moment

when he passed out
those cigars

whit howland © 2020

In the not so distant
future

the yard

now brown

will be green again

and shortly after that

Dandelions
and Butter Cups

will pop up
like planets

and once more

orbit
an invisible moon


Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

for thought

right now crows
fall

from the gray
and brittle

branches
of trees

and litter the ground
like fallen leaves

we are what we
eat

Whit Howland © 2020

shallow
not deep
simple
not complicated

there was fog
this morning
but it's burned off

so it seems

like in a barrel
or in a sink

we are the lambs the paper ducks
the canaries

in the goldmine
we are battered

next to chips
the food

for hungry
watering mouths to feed

sorry
it was nothing personal

whit howland © 2020

This melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

my baby left town
and left me nothing
but my sneakers and her wedding gown

this melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

my cat is scratching  at my bedroom door
I can't give her any more
than I gave her last night or before

this melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

whit howland © 2021

Difficult
to explain

why you
and I

clicked

strange
odd

like something
from the Sunday Funnies

whit howland © 2020

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

Liquid moon
full

clouds
cloudis obscuris

you like that I don't
shame you

but yet
you shame me

black white tail swish
musk

did I just go through that
stop sign

I can't remember
and it was only seconds ago

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Tonight
the sky is strewn with stars

like diamonds
that have long stopped twinkling

and now

cut

Just one red candle
******* into a log with peeling bark

burns

with fresh wax
dripping

down the sides

so much could have been said
should've been said

but now's not
the time

As opposed to
10 dollars

we say something's better
when

you get it for cheap

but it's all about
the depreciation
over time

of the mind
not the thing

you bought on
impulse

10 cents

was it  a click
or a flip

of the dime
over the counter



Whit Howland © 2020

Shadows pattern
the wall

once in a while
they swing and ding

I left you because I felt
trapped

and thought
there was more than this

there was

I should have listened to you
instead of that distracting

flute music

you've always held
the key

whit howland © 2020

Were it a fly
we could talk

but it's not
it's a frog

I have more
in common with a fly

small restless
fickle in its tastes

with a mind that moves
much faster than I'd like

Whit Howland © 2020

red
with dabs of rust

on the bottom
and at the edges

a railing in the back
that he can grab onto

wheels
and a hitch

to couple with
other cars

everything exactly
to scale

we always recreate
what we see

only smaller

whit howland © 2020

The parades get shorter the older
I grow

due to lots of sweeping
and discarded baggage

as I've made a policy
for myself

and maybe a promise
as well

no wasted tears

there's just not enough time
for any of that



Whit Howland © 2020

For those who know
the plate glass window

looking out over Omaha
at night

the city lights twinkling
derisively

so to speak

whit howland © 2020

I was so angry that day
crazy
from the heat

it's in the eyes
the grimace
on my face finally

leathered and lined
with crow's feet
you captured me with your lens

at my most naked and exposed
my stoic plaster mask
now smashed

swept away
in whitewater and rapids
you captured me


and I've loved you ever since

Whit Howland © 2020

You think I did
but I didn't

A hat
A device
A lens we see through

No matter what
that's just something I'd never do

Whit Howland © 2020

All the things
I see
in fiction  
the mental jetsam
of dreams

I can no longer say
this isn't happening to me
that this

is the stuff
of others

this is real

and I am here for
a little while longer
maybe just another hour

© Whit Howland 2019

A lurid yellow
world

where light is pale
and sick

and those lives that are
saved

are no longer worth
living

I'd leave it at that but
for the sake of humanity

I'll talk you through this

tell her that yourself

and if God willing
you'll see her tomorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

He sits in a metal chair
creaking
under his weight
his shadow rocks
as he rocks peaking
around the corner
is a flaming red gas pump
with a dyspeptic glass globe
out there off in the distance
are four lanes of blacktop
his is the fifth and solitary
one something we and the rest
of the world never will be privy to

Whit Howland © 2020

To understand
what I'm driving at
you must go beyond

words sentences
paragraphs

and let all

the punctuation
float away
like dandelion seeds

then think
and speak

about the symmetry
of the thing

like say

a leaf

is it a heart

or is it a diamond

and ask yourself
why I'm looking
at you

wanting you

to see



Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

just focus on the missing nose of the face
that looks like Groucho Marx

lost

and work from that

backwards or forwards

it doesn't really matter because
what is lost

is something that has been
confirmed

will not be found

Whit Howland © 2020

Brass bell
         musical notes
a big nose

hanging
          on a wall
in a hotel room
               over a desk

with a lamp
and
          nondescript
shade

and we are
             far from home
looking out
            a plate glass window

laughing at some
                   joke
inside
          our head
                    
                 or
standing
                      aghast
at nothingness

Whit Howland © 2020

Between these two points
it usually comes down

to where I've been in my life
when I've arrived

mostly in late August
a hazy day

on a trip
and last hurrah

staring at the bend
in the highway

as crooked as
a drinker's elbow

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Yes

I found your journal
deep

in the attic
the black one

with a gold lock
I pried open

but
what I wonder

is

do I dare
try and decipher

your hen scratches

I guess the bigger question
do I dare

disturb the universe

Frankly
I prefer the rippling white sheet

with eye holes
floating down the hall

instead of what tugs
at my conscience

like fingers pulling on that
tiny strand of hair

whit howland © 2020

when a bruised
moon

turns to luminescent
liquid

then vapor
or spray

you drive me mad

your essence
ingested

and now you
an image
a mood

live freely
in my head

Whit Howland © 2020

It could be thunder
or sunshine
yet you always remain
at your desk

looking out the window
musing

about quotidian things
like chirping birds
and if they know you exist

and the stuff
they might say about you
behind your back

that is if you're not too busy
typing up pages
of the emotional weather report

Whit Howland © 2020

Gleaming
white it shines in the cold sun

of this early Spring day
with the corrugated door

rolled up
the uniformed driver

dollying packages
down the silver ramp

a Fed Ex truck
parked outside my window

Red and gold leaves
like feathers

are ruffled by the wind

lately, it seems
my world is upside down

it's hard to know
where things begin

and where they end

and that
has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

swirling green
blue on black

proof
in the finished product

edges smoothed
now cloudy glass

it's not the destination
but the journey


Whit Howland © 2019

We are arm and arm
leaning
against a street sign

Jack Kerouac Blvd

we are smiling
triumphant
it might seem

because that year
you almost lost me

but don't worry my love
I'd have gone down swinging
and would have taken a few with me

Whit Howland © 2020

You say too late
I say never better

you say etched in stone
I say Etch a Sketch

you lead
I'll follow with a leading question

life brutal crude
no organic messy

but splendid
with all it's pulpy parts

and clumsy yes very clumsy
dance steps

Whit Howland © 2020

I thought I'd write about
clouds

the gray bulls that stampede
ahead of the thunder

as opposed to those
nebulous forms

hanging over us
when we are mad

or sad
nope

these
are the real McCoy

droplets of water
or ice crystals

now floating
catching their breath

outside as heavy rain
beats the pavement

while a frog hops then
stops

to wait out the
storm

Whit Howland © 2020

See anything you like
let me know if you want the keys

low mileage on that one
she's a cream puff

red yellow green blue
and white pennants

limp
in the hot stolid air

awkward

tension

knife

kick the tires

we can fix that

we're doing crazy deals

your job is your credit

Whit Howland © 2020