What's the good word
some news would be nice

will you write
or call

because the pin cushion
I'm sitting on

will no longer
suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

he moves through
the mouse maze
with a neutral

expression
on his face
dodging

things that swing
punch and squirt
not

clumsily
nor effortlessly
but with average skill

and
at an average
speed

being just enough
of who he has to be
to keep

plodding along


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 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

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

a dozen deep

red roses with
crinkled
and blackened edges

wading in powdered
water

in a cheap crystal
vase

there's a story behind
the object the image

but it's not the same one
you've heard before

it's about things left
undone

and leaving it at that

because for reasons
known only to God

it's better left that way


Whit Howland © 2020

An art exhibit
for the mind

with
works inspired

by mostly those
with places to go

things to do
and people to see

but we're not losers
or misfits

we're here to put
voice

to their actions
and speak truth

to their power

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

When I was younger
I might've said rotting

but I've learned that gives
a certain impression

like maybe one of a decaying
barn or farmhouse

and I'd hate to paint and/or
for you all

to get the wrong picture

it's been a good life
no I didn't say perfect

I said good

Whit Howland © 2020

i love early fall
the time just inside
of september

the leaves still green
but there's finally a bit
of blush

in their complexion
that later will turn
to a pallor


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

it was so very hot
today

but i mowed the grass
anyway

all the while
fighting

the stinging sweat
that burned my eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

Its beauty best expressed
in its guttural

musicality
and that's how I want to remember it

as an ugly sounding place
where you could drink

cream soda
spouted from an elephant's trunk

an escape

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm sorry

I wish I had an answer
but if I did

I'd be a brain trust

and

uneasy is the head
that wears the crown of thorns

glasses clinking
a drink slides down to the end

a blue brocaded curtain
ripples

where did I come from

I've been here all along

I'll sit over there if you like

what time is it
the windows are blacked out

so

it might be morning

Whit Howland © 2020

A piece of art or
artifact

the pair of hedge clippers
dangles from a hook

on a pegboard in the
garage

and my hands are behind my
back

staring at it like it's
in a museum

as I consider it's color composition
the sharpness of the blades

and I come up with

nothing
unlike the red wheelbarrow

which coincidentally
has a flat tire

nothing much depends on these stinking
hedge clippers

or me

Whit Howland © 2020

Expressing
loose-jointed

grace

this silver spring
flips

over itself
like the first steps

of a newborn
much

like our marriage
when it was freshly

minted
that same

clumsy progress
slow and steady

down
one stair at a time

Whit Howland © 2020

What matters most
is

surprise

not their color

it's that they go
with me

when I leave

another empty
earthen *** to fill
again

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

The fiery exhale
of a dragon

or the rollercoaster
we rode

and what a lovely ride
I often think about

how it could have lasted
longer

but then I have to remind
myself

not to second guess
perfection

Whit Howland © 2020

The poem
I write over
and over
the dream
I have every
other night but
I'm not a crazy
person expecting
a different outcome
I'm just an optimist
and I can cede that
I might be a fool
who just hopes for
and wants the best
for everyone

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

Please don't ask me
to be luxuriant

what I see
is what you'll get

my eye washes away the color
and strips

the world to its naked
essence

because life and survival
depends on thinking clearly

with an unobstructed
vision

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

Focus on the comb
in a jar

suspended in icy
blue

gleaming chrome
red nogahyde chairs

and glinting silver
shears

she lives

he lives

I still live

for something that is ours
and only

ours


Whit Howland © 2020

no i did not see your
note

but like when i put on
a new shirt

it was the pins
it's always been the pins


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

like cotton *****
or cotton swabs

we float away
on puffy white clouds

we disconnect
no

we unplug

whit howland © 2020

a blue metal pole
platform and a spring

simple in its mechanics
with a basic purpose

in mind

for those who want to jump
and keep jumping

Whit Howland © 2020

That sunny summer
feeling the wooden slats

as we were pulled
in a rickshaw

along the boardwalk
awash

in the human din
the crashing waves

and wonky midway music
as we locked eyes

and marched in our own
parade

Whit Howland © 2020

Coda
or passage of time

and a rose by any other name
now brittle and dry

we well with tears
mostly sad

but sometimes aghast
at new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2020

and for lack
of a better metaphor

I will call it a
magnet

not one shaped like
a horse shoe

you might see in a
cartoon

but more of the refrigerator
variety

say
a rubber bumblebee

to remind me of the sting
of bad choices

Whit Howland © 2020

Solitary
and alone he

sits

on the curb with his back to the red

brick

buildings with the morning sun chasing the shadows
and making them go far and away

Whit Howland © 2020

Out here the still water does not run
deep

it is clear and shallow
and we can see the forest

for the trees
so don't worry my dear

getting lost for you
and I

is not never was
and never will be an option

Whit Howland © 2020

Once white now
gray greasy and

ragged with use
the more it cleans

it's an ugly world
and we always seem

to grow ugly with it

Whit Howland © 2020

Except for the amber light
in the yard

and for the light
over

our neighbors
garage

it is still dark

and the question

what makes a poem
a poem

and is it ok to just
sit and enjoy

this time of day
where one can feel

like they're comfortably
pickled

in an inky
plasma

and floating under
glass

Whit Howland © 2020

It's about time
and how we are almost
out of it

and also how our days
slip through our fingers
like sand in an hourglass

we can never come back from it
nor can I return to you
what was lost in the maelstrom

but I won't bore you with platitudes
about moving forward
or how life goes on

it doesn't
at least not in the way
it used to

Whit Howland © 2020

What purpose do I
serve

what is my function

do my legs fold out
and can people rest

their dinner
their drinks on my
stomach

I have a voice but
what's the use without
a talent or

something I'm good at

the more I sit here and cogitate about it
the more my mind

jumbles things like
black and white

and with a sweeping stroke
paints the sky
gray

Whit Howland © 2020

With a steady hand
I paint I draw I write

by the
numbers

I am careful
maybe too

cautious
not to color outside
of the lines

so little time

and I am constantly
looking
over my shoulder

Whit Howland © 2020

don't tell me what
and what does not make sense

a bulbous moon
like a clown's nose

and a wide-eyed owl
in the middle of the road

i don't see a problem

but you do

Whit Howland © 2020

Some mornings I wake up
hot

under the collar

to handle

to trot

for bacon and eggs

with the dice some cards
or a pool cue

and most of all
hot for you


Whit Howland © 2020

I'm so tired
of the mental chatter

the clutter the spatter
of spilled paint

it's a peace I seek
and order

over quiet but

nothing forced

just the structure
of natural patterns
color

and a staff of musical
notes

Whit Howland © 2020

It must be my reward
for getting older

memories no longer burn
like an angry sun
or bite

like a bitter lime

instead
they cascade

through the body
massaging every muscle
so now

when I hear the clack
clack clack
of a typewriter

it's no longer a jack hammer
trying to crack  
my tortoise shell

but a player piano
with spirited
ghostly keys



Whit Howland © 2020

Dear ???

twenty years have past
and it looks like you haven't
seen a wrinkle

nor have you skipped
a beat

silver microphone
gold saxophone and a  blue
rippling velvet curtain

don't fret any
we were just kids then
even at thirty-six

Whit Howland © 2020

And it goes something like
walking the line

balancing on the head
of a pin

and of equal weight
as the scale teeters

between comedy
and tragedy

Whit Howland © 2020

such as the casual wayward
glance

across the room
then

eyes locked

like padlocks
to a bridge in Paris


Whit Howland © 2020

and I only know
I'm there

because I'm told
I'm there

waiting for a bus
I'll never catch

a room I can never finish
packing

or a feast  I'll never
eat

each night the same things
just served
on a different platter

Whit Howland © 2020

He plays in a rain of paint globules
on a canvas

full of brooding mood
and melancholy music

heard only in our minds

busy
straining for meaning

when they should be saying
focus

on the strumming fingers
thinking far beyond the cloth

Whit Howland © 2020

lately it seems
our symphony has
turned to freeway
jazz as our minds
once a borg have
now gone on six
different tracks

would it do me
any good to sit
and watch this
record continue
to spin hoping
praying we'll
both come around
again

Whit Howland © 2020

Oiled
leather

loved
worried on
and

distressed

an artifact
from my past

serving

as a hieroglyph
signifying

the phantom pain
still

stinging
from the impact

of the ball so
long ago

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not confuse me
with someone who's in need

or want

I could've had them
any day

and maybe I should
but then again I shouldn't

pale squishy
and somewhat ****

who'd eat them anyway

Whit Howland © 2020