It's not that there's anything new to say
about them
they just never get old

these orange blue
and purple swirls
I look at them

as they swallow up what was night
and let the mind add it's own
cohesion

I've been blessed in life

to always see
how the colors seem to get more brilliant
and stay with me in thought

rather than bleed out
and either dry up or  
fade away

the point being in particular  
that my brain hasn't failed me yet
or each morning to connect

these marvelous dots

Whit Howland © 2020

like a face
its expression changes

mostly
on a dime

reacting
to the moment

a decision at the
snap

is it fight
or is it flight

Whit Howland © 2020

If you can see
the light at the end of the tunnel
and it's not an oncoming train

please fill me in
on what this all meant
because

lately,

I've been
stumbling and fumbling
for a poem

and can't seem to
find one

Whit Howland © 2020

My cat coiled beside me
on the couch

both he and I
creatures of the night

him
by choice

we are bonded
by the glow

of an amber globe
that looks like

it floats
in the front yard

whit howland © 2020

The future came and went
without

a squeak as it creeped
through

the back kitchen
door

we're old now
but

look at us then

what the heck
were we wearing

Whit Howland © 2020

There's a much better poem out there
about you

it's one I probably wrote

like you
I found my niche

though not among Greek Isles
excavations
blue water and olive trees

but in the rough but
loving paintings

hung on walls
in places

seldom remembered
and mostly
forgotten

Whit Howland © 2020

Tonight I'm into your
colors

that might've been
black and white

but in time
and based on much

of what you've seen
in  your life

have been mixed and stirred
into shades of gray

there's an owl
at your window

and it's my sincerest hope
that he's just an owl

Whit Howland © 2020

You try it on for size
this

temporary
or second life

and the city streets
you drive

your canvas your
secret laboratory

and what doesn't work
or is an epic fail

can easily be painted
over

or disposed of
as experimental

and scientific waste

error analysis
optional

but not recommended

Whit Howland © 2020

In the remaining
dregs of the day

we wheel our trash
to the curb

it was hot
but the wind now
gusts up

leaves swirl
it will rain

Whit Howland © 2020

the sky is rinsed
colorless

the sun fades unnoticed
but

was it really there

the grass that browned
in Fall

is still littered with brittle
leaves

and we float above
it all

knowing

the world is not necessarily
us


Whit Howland © 2020

When bad happens
let me always say

I love this stuff

and when thunder
booms

lightning
flashes

storms rage
floods come

let me stand
smile
and take a bow

and
as I let a dandelion always
be my flower

may
smiting drops of rain
always be

my song

Whit Howland © 2020

We run we
want to escape

we try but we
can't hide

we're here and then
we desire to be there

the grass was already
a bright shade of green

why did we ever think
we needed it greener

Whit Howland © 2020

You mock me with a note
on a cocktail napkin

wet

from whatever you were drinking
and smudged

with ink

you love me

you love me not

and try as I try
forget you I cannot

I

kid you not

Whit Howland © 2020

it

marches

marches on

at first

uneasy
wobbly
shaky

then

it marches on

Whit Howland © 2020

It's about being
ruthless

with the weeds
not much grass

anymore

these days I find
myself

on defense always blocking
life's punches

and attempting to level out  
the ubiquitous uneven cut

ready with eyes
darting

this way and that
watching

for the next battle
sight unseen

or dandelion

Whit Howland © 2020

Of what I do not know
of who

I've never had the pleasure
to meet

something or someone
maybe

I've known
only in the abstract

and the more I grow to love it
or them

the farther out of reach
they

it

is for you I and me

Whit Howland © 2020

Like my feet
without any wings

they clunk
and plod through mud

much like molasses

and the music
the thought jazz

has left under auspicious
no

I think you mean
suspicious circumstances

Whit Howland © 2020

What do I really see
in dreams

sometimes
all I am

is on a stage
with

our life our love
mimed

in gestures
motions
and

every now and then
a silent scream

Whit Howland © 2020

Does it or does it not
do I or don't I

do you or do you
not

we can dance this dance
all night or

if you prefer

hold tightly
to the gold maned horse

on a mad carousel
in the sky

I'm good with that
how about you

Whit Howland © 2020

To this day
I am not

sure if I was
ever really there

so much of it
was just sleep walking

voices taking
at each other
with

lots of TV snow
and

background
noise

but also some
truth

coming through
all that fuzz

Whit Howland © 2020

Such weak light
it sheds

over the table
I'm over you

and I had a good
run until we got

too deep in the dark
woods

of analysis metaphor and symbol
so much so we literally stopped saying

I love you

could we have
should we have

I guess we'll never know
and it no longer matters

such weak sauce

Whit Howland © 2020

Kind of like if a tree
falls

in the woods
and no one's around

does it really make
a sound

likewise
if something is yours

and only yours
is it really

all that
profound

Whit Howland © 2020

When I say add  
sugar

you'll just scoop and tip
the spoon

and watch it sprinkle
into the bowl

very few if no questions
are ever asked

the good news is that we'll all
basically want to go to the same places

in life

and we are willing to write the poems
sing the songs
and dance the dances that will get us there

Whit Howland © 2020

Please excuse me
while I wrestle

with this blessing
one rung

at a time an
object

versus symbol
of the thing

to climb to
reach

to go to higher
ground

to pierce through
the clouds to

blinding sunlight

the journey now
complete

Whit Howland © 2020

a dare to set forth and prove
the moon is literally

a ball of green cheese and
not some silly metaphor

that Santa  Claus was also real
we just stopped having faith

and life

on a wire between tall buildings
and you have only

your balance
and your grace

whit howland © 2020

and sounds
I like the way it sounds

what Hobart what
sounds

I don't know
the dark

dark what do you mean
dark

I mean ink
like a velvet cloth

ink I see

Hobart

yes

what did you do today

I helped an old lady
across the street

was she grateful

I think so
though she didn't really say

in fact
she said nothing at all

Whit Howland © 2020

You ask
what is the tipping point
when does it all go away

I answer

close your eyes
and listen to the clock tick

it's only then you will see
it melting
and dripping in the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

always  

it seems that much of my memories
are played on a scratchy
transistor radio

where music and songs
shine
despite their audio flaws

but the tough
and salted ones

exist within
some painful pieces
of geography

places where words
phrases
and sentences

dare not go

Whit Howland © 2020

A parlor trick
for dimes or
quarters

I am coiled
then rolled out
on the end of a string

running this way
and that I work
I perform I fight

someday
this war is going to
end

Whit Howland © 2020

moon imagery
never grows old

but the older
I grow

the crazy love affair
I once had
with ten-dollar words

starts to wane

images are now
only digestible
in bite-sized
green cheese flavored
morsels

I've been at this
so long

that much of what
gets done is under
weak and pale light

and by fingertip
feel

and finally

most people
want you to speak to them
directly about sadness

rather than
take them down
a moonless
wet and lonely street

Whit Howland © 2020

A light
more a glow

the source
we do not know

should we
do we

dare
ask where

or why

my days are spent
trying

to read your ticks
your expressions

and I must do so
without fail

without question

it's the wire I walk
between two points

straddling



Whit Howland © 2020

it's 50 degrees
the sky is steel gray

in the middle of May
and I love you

but I will never be in love
with you

if you don't understand that
then you are the one

who has the problem with
literalism

Whit Howland © 2020

but there's still
a smell of cedar

after all these
years

and i am so thankful
it dodged the moths

that i will over look
the shrunken sleeves

so small
like they are cursed

and the once luxuriant
full-bodied red

now faded
and earthen colored

something
so sentimental

no longer has to serve
a function

whit howland © 2020

They had their day
in the sun

and now

they're
having one more

among the hard
brown

hills and
dusty

desert floor

they sit
battered

bruised
with rust

each blinded
in one eye

one more heave

one more gasp

one more time

holding off

that last
breath and twitch

My wife calls me
her big block of cheese

no wonder why
my mouth waters

at the sight
of a full moon

thank you very much
I'll be here all night

and maybe into
the next day

Whit Howland © 2020

and I ask you

when did it all start
to droop

the pants come down
the flower squirt

and was it worth it
to hang on so long for dear life

or should we have just
wadded it all up

and shot it out of a bright
purple polka-dotted cannon

Whit Howland © 2020

Some will  say it didn't go
anywhere

and I'll say they're
right

two electric trains
one going east
and another going west

which way you ask
will the smoke go

it won't go anywhere
I say
but up your nose

just like it always has

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more than just waxen sticks
posted like sentries

on a thickly frosted cake
it's a celebration

of things that are growing
inside me

such as my love
of confessional poetry

for paintings of lonely
landscapes

and of how I've perfected my ability
to navigate

wastelands
physical emotional

or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2020

they can pluck a poem
not from the blue

but purple heavens
with

their lofty words
and erudite thoughts

as if their heads
are already in the clouds

and mine is under
a pillow

or in a pewter dish
gnoshing on

plastic grapes
and apples

Whit Howland © 2020

Past the point of no return
the boat

on a track
guided by a greasy chain

goes under
the flashing sign

and the faces
of comedy
tragedy

and the masks
of love and hate

what's beyond
for now

lies in a long
dark tunnel

and for now
silent as a snowflake

a tomb

you pick

this murky journey's yours
it's what you wished for

it's what you love

Whit Howland © 2020

Right now
the wind does not
howl

instead it sounds
a lot like whale music
calling

from down deep
and beckoning me
to dig deeper

don't worry
what ever is broken
I promise

I'll fix

Whit Howland © 2020

In a dream
I see

your tears dry up
the ones

that watered the flowers
in the window box

and happiness now
grows

on you like another
appendage

although I don't
think

your mind is the same
as it forms

yet a thicker
armor

so to speak

Whit Howland © 2020

So many years ago
but you

are still fresh in my
mind

your face your eyes your shape
same full color

and still in Panavision

why did you go why
won't you ever call

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a cozy arrangement
we both share

they stand in their glazed
earthen jar

never thirsty and never
dying

and my end of the bargain

ignoring the pesky little fact
that they were never alive



Whit Howland © 2020

does he love her
or does he not

ralph and alice
and other shades of gray

what would their lives have been like

if when he blew into that trumpet
he'd hit that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

Staccato
chirpy
if we focus on the
song

and the music
the song
we must
even

though
it's loud
and splits the
ear it's

something
we cannot
afford to
ignore

Whit Howland © 2020

a toy boat with a
makeshift
sail

floating maybe

gliding

on an earthy colored
and glassy
pond

surrounded
by tangled
greenery

there's a breeze

though
it's more an
invisible hand

nudging
the vessel to

but mostly
far

and away

Whit Howland © 2020

savage heat slanting
rain

night and day
sleep dream and

wake

clouds faces
anvil heads

people I love

and hate

sorry to say
I thought out here

that would go

away

Whit Howland © 2020

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

This stuff will **** you
if you let it

the silver bullet
I search for

or the daggers
to drive  

through the heart
of the matter

you keep asking

is this going to be
my thing

what will bring me
to the precipice

Whit Howland © 2020