shallow
not deep
simple
not complicated

there was fog
this morning
but it's burned off

so it seems

you say the things
i want to say

but lack the mustard
to voice

we are guided by crazy trumpet
playing

there's a method
but

even if it's deceptive
does that mean

there's
no madness

Whit Howland © 2020

Please pardon
the name dropping

but I first thought
maybe

I would dedicate this one
to A R Ammons

then I considered Raymond Carver
or Galway Kinnell

and there was a strong possibility
the honor might go to Gary Snyder

but most
if not all those men

have gone on to see things
better

and more beautiful
than the sky

trees
and streams

so what's there left to do
but dedicate another canvas

to me

and take this moment
to pledge

not to obsess about
small things

like a crumpled piece of paper
or bread crumb

but to see past those objects
and beyond in search

of the door that leads
to the clean and well-lighted path

Whit Howland © 2020

Cat's Cradle

eyes closed waiting
for

the shock

flash

the crash

Walking the dog

it never comes
on pins

and needles I wait
what is this

it's a ship arriving too late
to save a drowning witch

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

Every time I tried
to draw a straight edge

there was always a bump
in the road

I stopped so long ago
trying to be exact

it only takes one burn
that scars the hand
to never again

want to cook
or go near a stove


Whit Howland © 2020

the rain it
falls

at first
in tiny drops

so gentle on the face
arms

and thus the dilemma

do we stop
unravel the tarp

cover the field turn out the
lights

and seek the shelter of stairwells and
bathrooms

or do we play and
pray


the downpour never
comes



Whit Howland © 2020

and it's your definition
of idle

much like that of
wrong

that troubles me

but then again
I'm a poet

so all of this becomes
dully
academic

but since I'm a poet
and I'm not being falsely
humble

I'm really that  of
the dimestore
variety

and this is something
I've struggled with
all throughout my life
and verse

the question of what
work really looks like

and who decides on meanings
of words and other things

but now I  can proudly say
I have finally found it

the confidence that is

to tell both the Devil
and God and

I love one over
the other I swear

I do I do

**** out

that's as nice
and as Christianly
as I can put it

Whit Howland © 2020

For better or
worse

hallway vision
speak

nothing of a tunnel
the issue

is that of clearance
of cobwebs of clutter

a piece of mind at
any price

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

When I close my eyes
I always see

Paris sketched in hard
charcoal

I must have arrived
too late

in life for the dreamy
muted tones

of innocence romance
and youth

Whit Howland © 2020

It leans to the left
but before you get mired
in the double entendre

shall we say

there really was a lost child

but has been found long ago
and if the search was for that of art
it  also has been found

much like the plums
in the icebox
that were delicious

but back to what we are
seeing
more so what we are confronting

it sags
and there's not much to say about it
except that it is very short for this world

and when it topples
it will be gone forever
but we'll forget about it

much after we find the time
to grieve
and lament about the loss

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

for the longest time
your face rippled

like a reflection
in a wishing well

lately

I find myself at night having
conversations with the moon

in all its ubiquitous
full figured glory

the last time
I asked

you said no

I said I will never
ask again

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

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

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

The morning sky is streaked
with plum

your hair's as fine as
cornsilk

and your lips are sweet and
tangy

like tangerines

you always said words failed me
I set out to prove you wrong

how'd I do

Whit Howland © 2020

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

I'm out of the loop
an outsider

so they they say

and that's perfectly ok

last night
I dreamed of Dilbert

not in his cubicle
but onstage in a jazz club

playing
sultry saxophone

with enchanted blue smoke
rising up

around him

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

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

It's days like these
I want to tie myself with strings
to red balloons and float away on a windy day
and like Icarus
fly too close to the sun

outside my window            
a sunny yellow
checker cab
honks backfires and belches
a bouquet of acrid smoke

it almost
blots out the sun
and turns the sky
many shades
of charcoal gray

but I'll keep wishing praying
that a gust of wind
will pick me up
and like a red balloon I'll float away
somewhere tropical and sunny

© Whit Howland 2019

it's with casual
effect

i bless you
with my presence

you move me
and i'll move myself

every now and then
or if you will

from time to time
so as not to fade

or be washed out
by the sun

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

Safe to say
used

but better said
spent

on the wood of a deck
now peeling

it was cheap
and he claimed

that moniker
as well

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

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

A salty wind not
a breeze

blows through this
one

topping the crests  
of sandhills

filling my eyes
my craw

with grit

as I continue my shifting
and unstable walk

toward the timpani
of crashing waves

punctuated by gulls
cawing

gliding and
dive-bombing

there is nothing
really

to see here

except for
a lot of sweeping

bagging and
burning of trash

possibly some
stitching and

a little bit of
taping and

bandaging

Whit Howland © 2020

rain tapped my window
but I'm not

where you think i am
outside

the streets are slick
with an after storm sheen

a traffic light turns
green

cars honk
and a city bus heads

uptown

a knock can be heard
on my bowed and cracked door

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm talking to myself
again

these sudden bursts
of inspiration
gusting up

mentally
a marbled
gray wet whirlwind

now verbalized
into half-sentences

wholly raw
and truthful

Whit Howland © 2020

Must you always come
in the dead of night
when I'm fast asleep

the leaves are now
off the trees leaving
the branches bare and ashen

it's a simple question
with a not so simple answer

also the sky
is black
and starless

whit howland © 2020

slate gray lenses
with red curls that swirl
into dots

they're quite comical
these specs

although
they're only good for a laugh

because

I don't need any super
vision

I can already see

right through you

get it

Whit Howland © 2020

You
demand to know
where

we are going
but when we met
you said you liked surprises

I thought that included
the journey
too

but I guess I was
wrong
forgive me

at the next gas station
no

not the one with sage brush
rolling across the hot
asphalt

the other one
up ahead
in any case

I promise to get a map

Whit Howland © 2020

you say rip off
i say found art

a verse that's cobbled together
with twine bottles tin cans
and a rusty milk pail

sunday's jester thursday's harlequin
and monday's clown

I'll be your joker when you're down

you tap out a rhythm
and say it's a song

I say it's Morse Code

Whit Howland © 2020

Red
like a red rubber
playground ball

wet
from a late
October rain

it was a solitary galosh
that did me in floating
and suspended in thought

robbing me
of those early morning hours
of sleep

while you snored away
and I haunt the halls and rooms
of the house

to shoulder
yours
as well as mine

whit howland © 2020

There's something
I need to say to you

this morning

but when I try
words always fail me

and like a sneeze
that never happens

it lingers in my throat
and nose

not to mention
the eternal buzz

and the sting
of frustration and impotency


whit howland © 2020

I fear my change may only be fleeting
because
although like Pharoah

you've hardened my heart

you left me with a full set of teeth
to come back and take another bite at the apple

Whit Howland © 2020

Chicago windy
blustery cold

frantic
crowded human

silver  liquid amorphous
bean

cloud gate Chicago
beauty eye behold

love adore maybe
but some will drink

another
cup of tea


Whit Howland © 2019

if it is
it'd be a symphonic journey
of mostly sound
and visuals
might be things like
leaves and trees
that bud green
then go out with an eruption
of red and gold
to bare brittle filament
that in the bittersweet end
would blow away

Whit Howland © 2020

Deja vu
maybe

in any case
we've been here before

muddy waters
dull days

murky
uncertain future

a crossroads
and all that

Crazy

it's not google eyes
or maniacal laughter
nor is it someone who can't stop

the waterworks
of cascading tears
it's a deep sigh

and maybe one
of relief
replete with Mozart

playing in your head
on a scratchy phonograph
as your house goes up in flames

Whit Howland © 2020

picture a poem
about an obsession

with pictures
of ordinary things

or distant memories
of trips you've taken

to places you've never
been

as you searched for the voice
to put words to a phrase

a sentence and then to a poem
and you can hear it now

whoo whooing whooing
and the chugging

and you can almost feel the blast
of steam

the journey has begun
but it's hard to know

if it ever really ended

Whit Howland © 2020

that it's here
in it's gray cloudy

glory
and bluster

such wind
and bluster

yep

that's all that needs to be
said


whit howland © 2020

against an orange marbled
backdrop

amber glow now
fading

it served us well

once solid and cutting
the inky

ether from which we might've
plucked


Whit Howland © 2020

Oh how it howls
like through a glass
jar

dark is the sky
and days much
darker now

where did it go
you go
we go

when did the worm
turn it was a fat one
but for someone else

other than us

Whit Howland © 2020

and we tasted life
with its blend

of sickeningly sweet
flavored desires

such as
the earth the sky

the water and their
cornucopia of garish

reds oranges
electric blues

and we didn't have much
you and I

but what we had
we revered like we were

smelling and swirling
the finest of bouquets

Whit Howland © 2020

like a bird track
in the snow

even though
I felt you

your footprint was light
and your voice

distant

as if spirited off
by a stiff and bitter wind

whit howland © 2020

I look at you
and I

in pictures
and sometimes marvel and

sometimes blanch
at our hair and what we're wearing

good memories for sure
mixed with a few that are bad

but never any regrets about the places
we've been

and there's much excitement
about the brightness of the light

that illuminates the path
forward

Whit Howland © 2020