Eventually, the sky weeps
chubby gloppy drops

(clown tears)

And things change.

The leaves, for instance
go from green

to red, yellow, orange, and blue...
Maybe

like gumballs in a glass globe?

(25 cents, a twist, and a clink,
they're free.

But only for seconds before they're shredded
by teeth and masticated?)

That is(leaves, we're back to leaves), before they turn brown and die.
I guess it's what you'd call the long goodbye,

to summer, romance, and whatnot...


And oh yes!

Did you know I flunked out
of clown college?

They said I was funny,
just not

honk honk funny...

Before
ghosts
echos

basically before
things

got weird

there were nights with
devlish grins
late runs for chips

twinkies
ding dongs

and other food
we didn't really want to eat

and maybe

just maybe
there were clues

you know

a flickering street lamp
buzzing soda machine
or other stuff

not quite right

but were we really
looking

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

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

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

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

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

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

An aquamarine strip
across the top

of the white porcelain sink
with

a few dabs
on the brushed nickel

the twinkles
in the blue solution

a galaxy far and away

my eyes glaze as I ponder my
escape

August
but crisp with bite

cold white sun

I remember that day
the lake

so far away
for me and others

wanting
and not knowing

why

it's pale light
still glows
with a low hum

the knobs still clink
when pulled and with
a dollars worth of quarters

popped into the slot
you can choose

happiness
sadness
or the candy bar

wrapped
in silver and gray
what was it called

Zero

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

Topographical
blue—
almost turquoise

mounted
on a leather desk
but ready to roll

as if the world were my marble
and I could shoot it back
down the alley

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

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

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

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

beneath us
brown roiling water

moving rapidly
downriver

as we anxiously peer
around

a wooded
bend

Whit Howland © 2020

A pick chops ice

the smell of bounty
caught

from the right side
of the boat

coins jingle
paper bills shuffle

God provides so
they say

as well as pirates

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

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

State of mind
maybe a destination
though definitely not
a place

it's been so long
since you've been gone
I miss you
but my tears have become

dry heaves

and it seems
I really should say is
but I'm still too
timid

but it seems that you
are much stronger
now
in death

then you ever
were ever
ever were
in life

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

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

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

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

Morning
began with a birdsong

nothing fancy
some rhythmic chirping

but it sufficed
and gave me the impetus to float

not slog
through the day

we are what we choose
to eat and digest

whether it be aural
or through mastication

whit howland © 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

where roads winded
and doubled back
on each other

and dark
gray clouds
roiled


a life
serpentine
and tempestous

but we edit as
we go

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

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

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

Dangling from the fence
freshly greased

drops falling
on the pavement

quiet but grimy
music

Sitting on a park bench
my feet hover

over the lush green grass
above the earth

and sometimes
above the fray

a small Christmas tree
with tinsel and ornaments
dangling from its branches

grows out of our living room
floor

what was once dead
now lives again

outside the morning fog
burned off

the sky is now
a baby blue

you may be down
but you are never out

we will survive
by reading and following
the directions

keeping our brushes
clean

and never
letting the paint dry

Whit Howland © 2019

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

Sometimes it's kicking
and screaming

suffering
or science

and in the pulling of
incisors

molars
that we find our common
yet secret voice

but it's worth
the pain and tears

if it strikes the flint
in each other's eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

it's like
being mugged by a mime
with a gun


who's trying
to make you believe
it's a finger

or the one about the jump rope
you'd rather

skip

better yet the submarine
with screendoors
or the pink flamingo

the lawn jockey
dogs playing poker
and the best for last

cats juggling

yes it's true
i  have a flavor
that takes a little getting used to

Whit Howland © 2020

You call me an enigma
I say you're a mystery

and like two pieces
of formless wax

we float
pickled in amber light

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

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

This morning
we woke

to a powdering
of snow

on the streets
the cars

and most beautifully

our lamppost
still lit

radiating

frosty
but warm light

Whit Howland © 2020

It's not that I'm getting
older

but that
I feel I missed out

on all the the great things
the iconic stuff

that I could wax poetically
about

like seeing Milton Berle
or Henny Youngman on stage

at  a Catskills Resort
a place like the Concord Hotel

mind you

not the older versions
of those legends

but the younger swinging
tuxedoed

swagger muffins

shouting jokes
into  those old-fashioned

silver microphones

the moon a faintly
traced crescent
admidst a backdrop of blue

an upward pull
the air increasingly thinner
and clearer now

your letter your news
came as quite a shock
but i'm better

and the pain was only
momentary as was
the chaos and confusion

whit howland © 2020

I love these pieces
of bakelite they

call bones
full of wonder

and prophecy
as opposed

to shards of glass
that implies

wreckage

and careless living


Whit Howland © 2020