Goggles
a lambskin helmet

scarf
and a wand

to leave a chemtrail of bubbles
as I go

I don't need much more
than that

because this life
has always been piloted

by the seat of my pants
with no real plan

except for
an occasional barnstorming

here and there

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

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

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

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

shallow
not deep
simple
not complicated

there was fog
this morning
but it's burned off

so it seems

Whether it be a lonely
guitarist

or

a woman on a storm swept
street

her black blue mascara
running down her cheek

possibly between the bilgey
rain drops

and I'll cut this short
because

this piece this
canvas

is about more
we

are about more

Whit Howland © 2020

Blows notes
and simple chords

little gold
plastic

to be exact

jump in


the water's nice
no

the water's cold


Cold or nice
you take your pick

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

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

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

Red balloons
greenmail
without fail you always
excite me

yellow sun
blue sky birds chirping
red peppers
you set my senses ablaze

gray day
wet and rainy
red galoshes red raincoat
you are my protection

from the storm

whit howland © 2020

Only partial sunlight
but that's by design

just enough illumination
for us to see

yet
keep our focus inward

but if we could
would we dare

throw a brick
or a stone

at the frosted glass
louvered slats

and make them
shatter

and if we could leave
where would we go

and would we be equipped
to handle

the scenery the splash
of color

or might it cause
a sensory overload

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

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

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

The sky is blue—
blue

like a cloudy marble

imagery
I love it

especially when it has nothing
to do with

nothing

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

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

Why is the sky blue
I wish

I had an answer to that as well
as other questions

vexing you
but it's the seemingly

simple things with us
those innocent queries

such as

are piano keys really
ivory

and why are you so late
tonight

that has always tripped
me up

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

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

Puerto Rico
named after Rico

who, on his pinky, donned
a diamond ringo

and pined for Lola
a showgirl

with yellow feathers in her hair
and a dress of ruby red
cut so low

blood and a single
gunshot

who could ask for more
oh Puerto Rico

you are my
LOLA

but with moxy
and yet you mock me

like you are constantly
boxing

my ears

as if I were a big
donkey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Water drips on them
like Chinese Water Torture

as a film of food slime
coats the ceramic

and you have to ask yourself
one question

was it worth it

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

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

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

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

Although it's like
herding a bunch of cats

this is your life
the first day the rest and all that

dust

dirt

and bunnies

it counts
all of it


whit howland © 2020

Are we men
or

are we ants
bees termites

there have been numerous times
I questioned

my presence and role
as a human

most of those came
from living

in a place
of grimy corridors

lined with naked bulbs
emitting

weak
and pasty light

Whit Howland © 2020

And the sun is sunny
side up

with a yoke begging
to be broke

and lapped up with a nice greasy
piece of toast

no rain today because
I said so

what we project is all we will ever be
to those

who  will never take the time
to  really know us

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

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

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

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

Better yet
why

am I here

rays

of sunlight

refract

through
the frosted glass

of

a louvered window

Whit Howland © 2020

A wave cracks like a whip
in the wind

blowing

across the wheat
in a never-ending field

did I mean to come here
or was I just out wandering

and do I mean to
stay

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

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

hi honey
yes i did go
to the store

rosy blush
on the cheeks
of Coca Cola Santa

but it is with deep
regret
i lost the list

blue green
red strings
of Christmas lights

the ones
with big bulbs

you so
meticulously
penned for me



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

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