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

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

We can't

keep them straight
we

mean well but
in time

our hand
cramps and quivers

and

we do whatever
makes the discomfort

stop

hence the squiggle
the curve

or the corner
cut

Whit Howland © 2020

The glass of my mask
is clear though foggy

at the edges

as I often dream
of turquoise waters

where I splash dive
and roll with

zany  shelled creatures
paddling by my nose

as white sand between my toes
floats up to the surface

it's hard to know where life
is going

I am told there's a plan
and a God who executes it

and with a vision like this
could it be

he's telling me to trust
what I see when I'm fast asleep

and that the plan is something
not to overthink

it's possible

whit howland © 2021

No need to think
beyond the box
the game is simple

a color wheel
melted

into thin
waxen sticks

ripe
low hanging fruit

you just point
and shoot at random

at the drop of a hat

don't cry over spilled milk

and you're judged
by the crayon you choose

with which to color your days
weeks months
and years

© Whit Howland 2019

A pastiche
decades

of childhood
blurring

locusts

buzzing

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

In a pinch
I always retreat
to my Grandmother's kitchen

that's not only a room
but also a 3 D polaroid
of 1971

turning to sepia before
my very eyes and
right now

I'm spinning on one of the mustard
yellow
nogahyde chairs

so fast I'm getting dizzy
but then I remember something
I learned that year in school

about ballerinas

to keep their balance
and grace they
focus on one thing

so I fix my gaze
on the ornate cuckoo clock
hanging on the far wall at eye-level

with its dark brown flourishes
carved curly cues horn-blowing hunters
and the piece de resistance

the hart's head with
fanning antlers
it wears for a crown

I wish I could remember more
and I always tell myself
details make the case

but they too
have been washed out
by time

Whit Howland © 2020

In retrospect
do I have any
regrets

I'd say not

the particulars were sparse
coupled

with an atmosphere cold
and clear


thus
the choice was stark

in life
we make the best decisions
given what we know

say nothing of the stonewalls

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

Like fresh skin
the sun pushes

through the clouds
as they burn off

and flake away
once the truth

is realized
it takes no time at all

Whit Howland © 2020

I'll love you

if you want
our lives
can be inter-twined

no beginning
no end

and our earth will be
round

not flat

and our happiness

and our sadness

will whip up the most spectacular
storms

complete with churning
clouds

and waving sheets
of rain

that will water us

and make it grow

Whit Howland © 2020

The writing's always
on the wall

usually
something scrawled

about a good time
and who to call for it

or maybe
a more ominous message

about how in ten years
the world will have exhausted

its supply of ding dongs
so you better

stock up now

maybe grainy
a little blurry

and the color
might be faded

they were oh so
long ago

jottings
snapshots

and though
I might not know where

she is
after much traveling

and searching

I now know who
she's with

Whit Howland © 2020

All those year ago and you can
still

remember the color
of

your shoes they were
a green

pair of Keds

and it's

blurry
but you can see

there was a parade

Whit Howland © 2020

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

A mad flight
and rickety descent

down the back of a
beast

that clanks
and flakes rust from under

our feet
and as always the case

success usually comes

by the skin of our  
teeth

Whit Howland © 2020

If I had a pin I'd
poke your skin and

watch you flubber
and fly

across the room
until

you were a deflated
balloon

once full of futile human
wishes

Whit Howland © 2020

You don't hear me
anymore

my voice

as if buried
among many

yellow
pressed

and crinkled
notes

on your old
bulletin board

Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

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

Faces
sharp and angry

a set of expressionist
prints

that hung on our kitchen
wall

though not the warmest
pieces of décor

they embodied
an ugly beauty

something

only you and I
could see

share
and love

Whit Howland © 2020

More than just a flower
with white petals

you were and still are
life

the kind
that's a hot breath

in the face

with just a little drool
on the kitchen floor

whit howland © 2021

We were dreaming
were we not

this didn't happen
did it not

a garden with an apple
tree

a woman

a snake

charcoal smudges
and erasures

we were dreaming
were we not

Whit Howland © 2020

Big brass
and shiny
it rang and swung

as the clapper
clanged
from side to side

as a line of doves
pointed
to the sky

and someone
was happy
someone

was very
very
happy

whit howland © 2020

Night or day
you pick

star as wonder
star as pinprick

of light

as diamond
in a crown of lesser
jewels

you'll see
what you want to see

until the sight
of it

serves you

no more

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

beneath us
brown roiling water

moving rapidly
downriver

as we anxiously peer
around

a wooded
bend

Whit Howland © 2020

As we got older
the windows

stayed open for only
a brief moment

then they shut
for a very long while

seconds mattered
and so did accuracy

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe
we found each other

or did we just
stumble onto one another

each time
the story unfolds

it's either big
small or medium length

before it folds back up
again


Whit Howland © 2020

Clarity is what I seek
as I declare

ivory keys
played with long

silk skinned fingers
is where I might find it

a rose petal
against the white

much like
a drop of blood

on flesh from
a pinprick

Whit Howland © 2020

electric blue ink

rolling straight lines

some light and thin
others

thick with pressure
applied

kicking and screaming
pulling teeth

I never thought
I'd say this

I miss all of you

I know none of us
look the same

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

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

After the swirls
a glimpse into a crystal ball

your life
and what it could be

or should be
then

BAMMO

it's gone

back to the world
dyed melancholy

and blue

filled
to the brim

with the tea I never
drank

you are like
found art and also

like all the other animals
once

in my life
that have now passed

finally

I'm finding
time to have a conversation

with you

and them

there's a little voice
or a bee

buzzing

inside my
head

saying
we have things we need to talk about

Whit Howland © 2020

it hangs
on the hat rack

something I've always
threatened to eat

it laughs
it taunts

always reminding me
of how I talk

a really big game

Just faint light
enough to trace
the outline of the waves

as they roll and spill
onto shore

it's said
they're powered by the moon

some also say
the moon will drive you mad

but right now
all I see
is a steady lunar hand

riding heard


© Whit Howland 2019

With masterful strokes
the brush moves
then

a red crest

a wave

see it hear it ride it

and find out where
ear and eye collide

music
plus painting

equals

noodling and doodling
jazz for the mind


© Whit Howland 2019

So lovely a moniker
for one in a fleet

of many silver bullets
on rails and tracks

and while this world
is ever-changing

please
we plead let this and other

chrome and art deco
wonders

continue to be
constants and treasures

in our lives

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

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

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

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

we amble
caught

in a steady
pour

muddy gutters
sidewalk streams  

and a world
that could be

should be
would be dreary

but beauty can be
sometimes wet

sometimes mussed
sometimes bent

but much
depends

on the day
the glass

full
or half

maybe
just *****

Whit Howland © 2019

Deep
in the tall grass
and long ago
defunct

and yet
it seems as if
they left us
way too soon

but now they rust
or have rusted
and are dwindling
in the blistering heat

and sun
on this hazy
dusty
afternoon

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

A sleight a hand
trick of light

now you see me now
you don't you

fell for that one
got played for a chump

can I be honest

not if you're going to continue
insulting me

More a meditation
than a description
of a scene

a window
busy with Christmas
figurines

tinsel
ornaments
and streamers

a tiny tree with lights
stands next
to Mary Joseph and Baby Jesus

you’ve got me on a tight rope
walking gingerly
over troubled terrain

love on one side
hate
on the other

but I come with good news
and that news is
it's been mostly love


Whit Howland © 2019