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

With tendrils
swaying

it washes

much like we
who are in this together

wash each other's feet

someday this will end
and as we like to say

it'll all be over

but the weeping


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

you once said
i had rapier whit
as exemplified

in my letters to you
one summer
when we were young

you are now long gone
but that gleaming silver knife
your gift to me

still sits on my desk
cutting sharper
than ever before

Whit Howland © 2020

Thundering hooves
a sheen of sweat

grunting

and it seems only yesterday for you and me
that the sky was the limit

and every night was a victory lap
replete with a garland of flowers

Whit Howland © 2020

Down below
a lighthouse rusts
it's

not sad just
getting on in years

if there was an edge
of Earth this would
be it although

it is not the end but
much
like the beginning

and clearly seen

as a globe spinning
on its axis

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

Black as the ink colored
feather in my cap

an eye
opaque and shiny

streaks make the body
an abstract impression

where the mind connects
the dots

and gives form and meaning
to the thing

and if and when it can't
we can't

then we **** it

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something about it
as adults

that's what we always say
and for some reason

we can never find what
that something really is

we search and we search
but

are we really just drifting

Whit Howland © 2020

My face
it disappears

then reappears

when the train's windows
flash

by my face

as I fumble
for pocket change

a thought

and then a poem

Whit Howland © 2020

Stuck at six
and ten

the second's hand
convulses

every man
has the patience

to wait two thousand lives
for  that vindication

and just one minute
of fame

Whit Howland © 2020

and it was not that I was ever really asleep

maybe
just half asleep and in a waking dream

but rest assure
my eyes are fully and truly open

still stinging
from the onion mist

and I now walk with a swinging lantern in my hand

you got my attention
and I finally see you

but probably much better than you see yourself

Whit Howland © 2020

I miss it
the sense of wonder

of inspiration

to run a string
from house to house

two coffee cans
on each end

and

our muted voices
trumpeting

through the tin
saying

HELLO

wanting to know
if there’s life

out there
somewhere
beyond

the stars
past the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

my first apartment
was so mall

it could be licked
and put on an envelope


Whit Howland © 2020

I wait
you hesitate

then wave me on
I start to go

but your body's
syntax

signals me to stop
I halt

but you go
then I  go again

and our worlds and passions
collide

Whit Howland © 2020

we search
and search and

search

for a voice
anywhere

we can find it
be it

on billboard signs

advertising
aftershave

nursery rhymes
knock

knock jokes
we throw

spit wads
against the wall

hoping someone
will hear us

and that we are
distinct

Whit Howland © 2020

A false start
maybe I jumped the gun

or  told a lie
botched a story or an explanation

so the fixation continues
with these wadded up things

atop each other in a wastebasket
and I no longer fear them

nor do I welcome them
I guess I've merely made piece

with my failures epic
miserable or otherwise

and see them as impurities
in a vat of something molten

soon to forged into mighty weapons
like swords

or even more marvelous
things that were possibly made to

I don't know
the sky's the limit on this one

Whit Howland © 2020

You call

I do not answer

a small voice a
cricket

somewhere in this tiny
room

I hurl everything
but the kitchen sink

it still calls


Whit Howland © 2020

They're the stuff
we shoot for
the lights that twinkle
like dare I say

no, I won't, but I will say
dreams come and dreams go

even the ones made of cheap
slick shiny gold material
that taste bad
when you lick them

Whit Howland © 2020

a smooth stone
pulled back

and shot
from a sling

with an arch
meticulously

imagined

i'm thinking of you
and what should have been

as opposed to why
it wasn't

Whit Howland © 2020

cold

like a metal ***
                             or  dish

                         ­          and somewhat
nondescript
            because

we couldn't describe
            how we felt other than

scared

        but why
                   what did we fear

and
            
as time goes by it looks
                     and seems more
                
             goofy
then it did

plus

it's hard  
           to remember

what the turmoil
                   and maybe more
plainly

                                     what the fuss
                 was all about

Whit Howland © 2020

I took a risk today
and trimmed the stems

on a bouquet
of roses

then I put them
in a vase I filled with water

before presenting
them

to my wife
thus proving

the poetry is in the making
of

and not in the actual
pudding itself

Whit Howland © 2020

ridges swirls
slashes
traces smudges

they are not much
but they're what we leave
behind of us

of what we create
the things we build
and the statements we make

everything counts
as evidence

whit howland © 2020

I'm watching

the rubbed charcoal gray
being

rinsed away by darker
then
whiter lighter blue

to be over taken by
the pink and orange

of a technicolor sunrise

Whit Howland © 2020

A stiff wooden arm
with metal fingers

which flex and
dutifully bend

and we count on it
as an effective tool

to clean up the mess
the yard

as we bag pile
and process

then properly
dispose

of all the frail twigs
and leaves that are dead

Whit Howland © 2020

Take a morning that's
ashen

paint faint
blood-red streaks across
its horizon

a simple picture
maybe more a Post It note

just an affirmation that
you are still here

and the sun is rising

Whit Howland © 2020

My apologies for regaling
you again

but when things like this
happen

it usually means something
is afoot

I've seen this phenomenon
on other websites

instead of a formal
announcement of changes

and new policies
they just implement them

with the attitude of
if you don't like it

there's the door

with that said
I will be off for a while

thanks to all who have followed
me

I will be posting new poems over on
All Poetry and My Poetic Side

I know every site has its issues
but HP's have become untenable for right now

I trust that they will correct course
in due time

but for now and I do hope it's temporary
I see the door and I am walking through it.

darkness
interrupted only

by fits of garish
neon

rain in spots
bone dry in others

mostly country
on the dial

if anything at all

oh what I'd ****  
right now
 
to hear some smooth jazz
while complimented

by a glass of

you fill in that blank

Whit Howland © 2020

bits of glass
in a puddle of milk

i'm sorry
i just can't  fix it

so we mop we sweep
we bag them up
and throw it in the trash


Whit Howland © 2020

I'm reading a book
on how to think

like Leonardo
Davinci

imagine something
so cold

it burns the mind

will turn this piece
of coal

into a diamond

Whit Howland © 2020

We think we go
deep

but most of the time
we skim

the surface of things

notions ideas
philosophies

and other wise

the night might've been
ink from the base

of the well but
the moon

cast a silver light
that accentuated

the checkerboard pattern
of branches

notice I said checkers
and not chess


Whit Howland © 2020

Where did you go
I looked and you were gone

almost as if you melted
into the shadows cast

by the trees
leafed out in Summer

I hardly knew you
yet I feel your absence

like one more piece
of the puzzle

lost


Whit Howland © 2020

The journey
the place
the deed

it's nothing that happened
overnight

like all other things
it was a slow-growing ****

or maybe I got caught
watching the paint dry

but do not judge me
for the things I have done

I only did
what I had to do

Whit Howland © 2020

only in my mind
do I put pen to paper

when I'm anchored
in a port

or parked on a street
of long long ago

and yesterdays need
to be filed

and cases need to be
closed

Whit Howland © 2020

First steam
then electricity

it's what we worshiped
most

connection

power
movement


wheels in motion
transportation

of  thoughts
to prayers

turning inspiration

into action and
progress


Whit Howland © 2020

Avocado
green

paint for walls

potato brown
for table
chairs
and sofa

through
the plate glass
window

an olive sedan

backed by
shapeless hills

simple math

obvious answer

you are here

but it's the same
as there

Whit Howland © 2020

and it's something I've
stumbled upon

this feeling of
being

trapped

between things that
flash

by my face

and stuff that happens
gradually

like receding hair
and little by little
loss

of those who helped
and showed me the way

Whit Howland © 2020

barber's poles
               or candy canes

water taxis
               or water bugs

gondolier's song
              maybe flamenco music

time was short
            is short

too short
         for pencil sketches

of memories that blur
           and  evanesce

in water black
           and oily


Whit Howland © 2019

In the mind it still
rusts

the metal skeleton
of my youth

as I plunge
again and again
into memories

with images
flashing
behind my eyes

and I struggle
only to remember

the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2020

Today feels more
certain
than yesterday

last night I
dreamt
I found the puzzle piece

I've been searching
for

and I no longer
have to force
the wrong ones

into its space

today feels more
certain
than yesterday


Whit Howland © 2020

the street's been glazed
with a fresh coat of rain

the sky's still gray
but our lawns are green

and while the day might get drabber more
dreary

before it marches toward darkness
at least we can say we paused

and thought

Whit Howland © 2020

Wall or painting
and do I really care

they say every house settles
mine is no exception

and I've come to realize
maybe by kicking against the ******

that it's better to pin a gold star
on a mediocre pig

then chase a fast greasy one
and get dragged through the mud

Whit Howland © 2020

I was once just a smudge
in a painted picture  
of Metropolis

but not today

as the buildings
seem like scale
models

when my fingers
grip the plastic
superhero

and guide its  flight
through the city

Whit Howland © 2020

Battered Fedora
press tag
corduroy coat

elbow patches
leather satchel
note pad

Stop the presses
Hold the phones
I gotta scoop that'll blow this town apart

newsprint
rough pulp
jagged edges


yellow slander
libel
***** broken thumb

ink-stained wretch

Whit Howland © 2020

In days to come

they'll turn to *****
mounds

on the sidewalks
and patches of scraggly
grass

Spring is near

ugly before beauty
then ugly again


Whit Howland © 2020

Short and
declarative

definitive
punctuation

it seems
I caught you
on your worst
day

but at your finest
hour

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the dark side
that's scary

the fear

that this

is all there is

Whit Howland © 2020

I speak
but nothing
I say

filters through
and is strained
as if it's dross

we talk around
and over ourselves
like there's red sand

between each other's
toes

Whit Howland © 2020

First

the future shock
and rude awakening

then the rapid flowing current
and the flailing

followed by the scourging
and the shaming

lastly

reconciliation
that you're a robot

your birth your life
all

just a hoax

Whit Howland © 2020