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

oily
has been used

and it’s too stark
foreboding
and so cold

for something
that flowery

about weather
so orcish

as opposed to
emotions

Whit Howland © 2020

That future was scattered
like all of the other bubbles

throughout the universe
quite similar to ours

you know the one
with a two-car garage
and a house by the lake

and where we would have grown old
together

bouncing our grandkids
on our knees

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

Let us be comfortable
with the business of life

always rough
unfinished

but never chiseled
in stone

as we erase
revise

and embrace
our fingers

the amateur
cartographers
that they are


Whit Howland © 2020

I get

is to broom away
the dust
from corners

and light the room
in a way that's clean

but yet I fear
that when I clear

away

the detritus
I just might not be

comfortable
with what I see

Whit Howland © 2020

hours
I've spent

my adult life
in search

of that perfect
image

it's bordered
on obsession

I'm up against
a wall

being built before
my very eyes

beyond that a land
they call no return

Whit Howland © 2020

As for myself
I tend to meld
and get lost

in the gray
charcoal color
rubbed for effect

on canvas or
paper

but that's ok

I mean I'm ok
with that

because I'm only
here for just a short
while

and

I came to watch
with a cool eye

and
you know

slip in and slip out

unannounced

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the dark side
that's scary

the fear

that this

is all there is

Whit Howland © 2020

The sky never was
the limit

that's what they wanted us
to think

so we'd stop searching
all heavenly things

are truth
waves thunder to the shore

a lone seagull caws
overhead

fighting
a stiff wind

by the grace of God
we'll make it

Whit Howland © 2020

If we let our imaginations
run

amok

do we blame them for what we might

become

my blood

your blood

whose blood

on whose hands

Whit Howland © 2020

The mask is
plaster

with a face that
droops

and the one that laughs
drips

with joy
at the pain

and misery of the drooping
plaster

face

Whit Howland © 2020

dishes clacking
glasses crashing

silverware
strewn and scattered

water
on the floor

i didn't mean for it
to get this way

my intentions were
always good

and i'm wracking
my brain

to figure out
where it all went

bad


whit howland © 2020

If I went through life
always happy

I'd deprive myself
of the aural pleasures

of the sad and complimentary
melancholy music

of a purging cry with cascading
tears

or better yet
a delightfully long and cleansing

fit of sneezing

Whit Howland © 2020

Someday I would like
to say

I'm a patient man
of the mind

to take my time
and not respond

in haste

but work it through

with a method
gentle

quiet thoughtful

but solid and sound



Whit Howland © 2020

An early morning
revelation

carefree love is a myth
and

all we really
are

is just an amateur hand
at mock surgery

in a never ending game
of Jack Straws

always trying ever so diligently
not to

flip up the rake

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a flickering candle
in the night

burning despite
the hot steady drizzle

creating a sheen of beer
sweat

on the street

its the last light
for the last call
and the last man

making his way home

Whit Howland © 2020

Can you see what
I hear

the more we
talk

the more anguish
comes

in torrents
as we

continue
to search for

that ever-elusive
eye

Whit Howland © 2020

Though naked
it gave us soft light

the swinging bulb
deep in the basement

that we kids would ping
to make it brighter

until it burned out
forever

almost like we had
killed the mother goose

that laid the golden
eggs

Whit Howland © 2020

No one's coming to
save us

this and other
steaming cups

of fresh coffee

I must bring myself
to smell

note to self
awakenings so far

have not been glorious
on the contrary

they've been quite  
rude


Whit Howland © 2020

a piece
of notebook paper

composed of lines
of various sizes

and what started out
as elegant

cursive turned quickly
to claw marks

and scratches
desperation

or a cipher

someone knows
but can't say

Whit Howland © 2020

It may not take
        your breath away

the trees the piped in pond
of gray-green water
          as bland as
the idioms
          or
tautologies that inspired
them

        and

as equally flat
as the former fields
         of
tasteless feed corn

but maybe it's not
        beauty we need

just space
         to keep the crickets
 at bay

and oil the hinges
          on the screen door

making it less creaky

Whit Howland © 2020

Often I wonder
not what is on the other side

but why there has to be
one

inexorably

one side is bound
to be bad

while the other
struggles to remain good

in the face of all that
badness

so why not just
eliminate the one side
all together

and end the struggle

Whit Howland © 2020

On cue
I'll tell you about
myself

my story
as only I can tell it

but before you give me
your verdict your
foregone conclusion

will you at least listen
to the arrangement the music
plucked

on the metal comb

please please

please  listen
before we both

run out of spring

Whit Howland © 2020

A stick poking
in a pond

creating a muddy
under water ruckus

against

a red and chrome
blender mixing

whipping
eggs

sugar

and flour
into a batter


Whit Howland © 2020

There's only one
    photographer
I know who could
    capture
what they're saying

her use of light and
         perspective
would spell it out

in cartoon think
         bubbles

are we done
        growing
is this all there is

not a lot of tears
to be had

but more than a
       fair share of salt

Whit Howland © 2020

A classic scene

outside it blinks
maybe amber

or electric blue
and just for effect

it might accentuate
droplets eventually

forming rivulets
on the glass

where are we
we are here

we are anywhere we
are up

and open

all night we are
peering in on

some point in
every man's life

Whit Howland © 2020

It was once but
not now

my desire to drink
again

from a garden hose

the pages
glossy the book

a Sears catalogue
much more

gratifying
than gazing at the

night sky

Whit Howland © 2020

I can write this one I
got this one

I know the guy quite well

smoke curls from his lips
the same ones that

blow

night after night

a dented horn
sunglasses

black suit
and funeral shoes

it seems I'm caught in a loop
hearing that same old

haunted refrain


Whit Howland © 2020

trying
the same thing over
and over

expecting
a different result

and in this case
thinking you’ll stop

at a different station
in a different town

but who am I to say
differently

I’m definitely not
a thief

or someone to rob you
of your dreams

besides
it could possibly be

this thin strip
of crazy glue

that is holding it all
in check

Whit Howland © 2020

Tabloid
or tablet

either way
the truth will
always

rise
like cream
in a cup of hot coffee

and that's fact

rather than opinion

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning
I brushed my teeth

my gums bled

and the sink
was spattered with
red

it's not how
why
or even where

it's that I was there
and it happened

Whit Howland © 2020

More importantly
than the car

it’s about
where I was
why I was there
and who I was
with and were they

my first

I might
have been able
to illustrate that
by talking about

the spider-webbed
windshield
the rusted maroon
paint job
the missing hubcaps
and the fuzzy dice
and thinking

but do I know
you and do I trust

that you’ll
get the flow
of my thoughts
and how they
spill into a lake
clear enough
to see the bottom

Whit Howland © 2020

Could it be
I heard another

record drop
on the turntable

then a ghostly needle
scratch the vinyl

as it began to play
silent music

for so long
I've felt I've been
without

a voice
hands folded

yelling as though
from some other

dimension
where the words
and sentences

are blocked by static
and white noise

Whit Howland © 2020

Not a lot
to go off of

if there's anything
at all

the night is hot
and sweaty

a June bug
clinging to the screen

gets flicked
by my *******

with the busted
knuckle

into the starless void
of this late summer night

Whit Howland © 2020

Just something simple
a coil

of copper wire wrapped
around a spool

married
to other mongrel parts

anything
to receive
and broadcast

the word

the song

the good news

Whit Howland © 2020

Shall we go to the edge
of a universe

with a caustic moon
and

where stars no longer twinkle
but are angry ***** of fire

and expression is less
scatter bomb innuendo

with toxic double entendre
and more surgical

with word strikes as accurate
and deadly as lasers

Whit Howland © 2020

Not necessarily troubled
more of a quibble

which could be avoided
altogether

with a creative but basic use
of a piece of plywood

Whit Howland © 2020

A candy wrapper
or
a cocktail napkin

it's always a wonder
what becomes

your bottle
your net

greatness always rides
atop

rumpled and humble wings


Whit Howland © 2020

Time to begin
again

so let me once
more

write about the
wind

how it gusts and
how

it blows the leaves
around

forming them
into

a little funnel
cloud

yes

it's a quiet little
image

but quiet is the way to
be

and humble
too

when one wants to
start

fresh and anew

Down the street
a dog barks

it's afternoon
so there's no moon

to howl at

my neighbor
waters the yard

with a steady stream
but there's no rainbow

in the spray

it's August
and there's a hot whiff

but it's not fragrant
because

it comes from the sewer plant

we are where our mind is
so desperate to hop

another plane

to point B
knowing full well

it won't

but still hoping
it will be different

from point A

Whit Howland © 2020

What I loved and what  I'll
miss

is the sloshing
and swimming of fish

in a tin can that lurches
back and forth and

northbound

with the din and
conversation

much like the friction
between

the wheels and the
track



Whit Howland © 2020

The world
turned
on its end

then
spun
backwards

as if it were
a globe
on a wooden stand
and axis

pray for me
as I pray for a gentle
rain

that will water
and make green

trees
fields and meadows

Whit Howland © 2020

The muse calls

for a painting
a poem

capturing the orange
of this sunset
slowly fading out

and the lights of fireflies

floating
and blinking
on and off

or could it be another voice

lately
I've been trying not to come

every time she blows the whistle
only I can hear

I'm not a dog folks

Whit Howland © 2020

Copper
with a handle and a spout

I could always tell
when it was about to blow

at first
you’d hear what I call

pressure pops

like someone snorting
to suppress a laugh
or a sneeze

then came a low whistle
soon
to crescendo into a squeal

finally
the bubbling over

the troubling concept
of steam

and how one releases it

Whit Howland © 2020

So much rain
                   these days
the streets
              the sidewalks
are overlaid
                  with a glaze
it seems everywhere
                               I turn
my world is slick
                           and smooth
last night I dreamed
                            your skin was
porcelain

Whit Howland © 2020

Streetlights seem
like blurry slides

flashing

before my eyes

to the atonal
Jazz of horns
screech of tires

against the backdrop
of silhouetted buildings
and darkness

Whit Howland © 2020

Picture if you will
a place where
the sun's rays
continuously scourge
the surface and
where strong
winds kick up deadly
red sandstorms
you may think I'm
describing Mars
but that would not be
the case it's a much
more desolate locality
where the only thinking
allowed is inside these
giant boxes called
thought modalities

Whit Howland © 2020

back then
we were in the moment
jarring butterflies

as I am right now collecting
and letting

inspiration turn into syntax
as poorly constructed as it
might be

hello friend
it's nice to see you again
and don't worry I look different
too


Whit Howland © 2020

A kiss
on the moon
backed

by marbled blue
and white clouds

inside
a sentimental verse
or rhyme

something to remind me

that there’s a time
and a place
for everything

and now’s the time
to switch hats

from a Gatsby
to that of simple straw
and not

give more
then the world is willing to take

Whit Howland © 2020