With a distant lawnmower
      as the soundtrack

            he barks

and I watch from a green hilltop
           as he swipes

one more time for that brass ring

in the form of a fluttering
         monarch butterfly

just above his nose

Whit Howland © 2020

The rain drives sideways
so

be careful

on the road they call
"Trucker's Alley"

A call in the middle of the
night

much like a ride
on a roller coaster

the torturous climb
to the top
then the terror

and panic of the drop
then

the gentle coast
into the station

and the tears that could go
either way

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a beacon in the night
and that clean well-lighted place
we all strive for

with medicines on display
although no soda **** or lunch
counter

but posters on the glass
advertising more affordable elixirs
for the body mind and soul

Whit Howland © 2020

Something to hold
and not bits

of code for we
as humans speak

in words sentences
paragraphs
and yes

letters

with the feel
of rough enveloped paper

licked glued
and sealed with

a stamp

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

Ghosts
are what they used to be

memories

like white sheets
with eye holes
floating
through the mind

but the older I get
the more

I have learned to see
the beauty

in flawed arrangements
and poor executions

and I let the music
play

sometimes loud
sometimes muted

but always brassy
if not

just a little out of tune

Whit Howland © 2020

when you
walk through the door

I stare intently

because who you are
and whom I'm supposed be

is stitched in needle point
so plainly

on your face



Whit Howland © 2020

trees are beginning
to bud

it's like someone
took a brush

and added a hint
of subtle green

such minimal beauty
is the essence of

early Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

Someone
once told me

that the law
could be pared down to  one
simple fact

there is a limited supply
of wealth and

an overabundance
of desperate souls
clawing

for that wealth

thus
the need for laws

another simple fact

the world

outside

is a sturdy
limitless canvas

and

you can paint anything
you want on it

I recommend
miles and miles

of virile savage
purple grapes


and bright orange
citrus groves

Whit Howland © 2020

Rather than place

it's how we face life
and survive

the gospel
words
and music

we choose
to comfort and sort

through
the confusion

piles of it

and the sling and
smooth stones

we use
to more than scotch
the snake

Whit Howland © 2020

Yours and
unquestionably
mine

but as we watch
not

just sand but everything
of ours crushed

into a fine powder
sift

through glass

could yours
and mine

all have been a lie
if so

how were we to
know

Whit Howland © 2020

the guts are still there
a template a memory

a structure of the feeling the
sensation

of throwing yourself to the wind
and gusting snow

down a hill guided by an appendage
other than your hand

into arms a maw
something

you do not know
but somehow trust

Whit Howland © 2020

I don't need to consider
this moonless night

to realize a tomorrow
of cake donuts

with pink frost
and sprinkles

there's a storm coming
it will be here later this morning

if there's pain then pleasure
is right around the corner

or under a burned out
streetlamp

just keep looking
you'll find it

Whit Howland © 2020

If I had it to do
all over again

it would be 1991
and I would be writing
poetry then

instead
of three years later

because there's this nagging
feeling

much like a gnat buzzing
in my ear

that something is missing

Whit Howland © 2020

so as minutes
jitter

and hours sweat and
drum

their fingers

there's just not enough
time

to say you're sorry
and even less to say

I love you

Whit Howland © 2020

Even the small ceramic elephant
on the dresser

I  remember so vividly
with it's warped drawers

was way too big for
the space

Whit Howland © 2020

It's that childish sense
of wonder I covet

and circle back to
in musings

and remembrances
of those times

when something new
was revealed

behind a curtain
or a numbered door

and how hopes and dreams
were pieces

of flesh colored putty
that bounced from floor

to ceiling
and off the wall

it was

almost as if the mind
was a sparkler

flashing and popping

before my very
eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

It's the same full moon
I saw as a child

when I swore to myself
Santa Claus was floating
in mid-air

and what some people
might describe as pale and
       crazy

I saw as bright
full of hope and wonder

I'm almost 50 and I still
stare at it like I'm five

not in a childlike gullible
way but like that

of a petulant inventor
obsessed with never letting the dream
               die

we were not  just destined to
              tweet

we  have a domed spaceport
in us I see it

smack in the middle
of the Sea of Tranquility

I'll get there I know it
I can feel it

Whit Howland © 2020

Bright
eyed
we rise to
it talk to it
harness like
a horse
worship
and personify
it what is he/it
to me what
am I to him
if not a lier
and just a bit
sleepy

Whit Howland © 2020

Ideal

the satisfying
of one's perfect
truth

not the truth

but their perfect
one

an example or proof of
my truth

a house smack

in a cornfield
sandwiched
between

two haystacks

this truth is in the
art

but not so much in
the pudding

Whit Howland © 2020

Its an imaginary
  line

I've drawn for you
  and I

that will tilt as we
  revolve

on what we think
  is us

and that's okay because
  time

is too short for you
  and I to worry

about appearances

Whit Howland © 2020

Though we cannot
grasp it

we have to label
this fantastic

bauble
of shiny knobs

bright bells and
whistles

to identify is to
trust

Whit Howland © 2020

A white beam of light
stirs the night

like ink

probing
for a thought
a word

then a sentence
to support the image
the thought

and to justify the search

Whit Howland © 2020

bottles the essence
of them

the texture of wavy glass
with pits

and scattered bubbles
of air

intended
to slap the face

break the cycle
and pry us
from this loop

and move the ball
down the field

Whit Howland © 2020

a circle or
sphere

the visual
representation

of a comfortable
and safe space

as they say
less is more

and the best plan
is one that can be easily

explained to those
who have

to implement it

Whit Howland © 2020

like I was caught
sleeping

when I thought
I was awake

still looking through a window
1972

a blue sky
California Summer sun

and your face
attached to your body

rising from the water
dragging seaweed

as though you're some lovely creature
from beneath

Whit Howland © 2020

Dull
gray skies

churning clouds
and biting rain

either we run
from it

or into it

there's no escape

and it's all a
he said

she said
a comedy of errors

made more
absurd

by using animals
as metaphors

Whit Howland © 2020

A starless sky
with the sun
on the dark side

of everyone's crazy
uncle

and an oily flame
might be all

it would take
to cheat

this night of fog
and shadows

Whit Howland © 2020

that I didn't know
who was knocking

all those years ago

it was such a squalid place
that room

more a cage
with a hamster wheel

and I thought your knock
was some wretched kids

about their work with
idle hands

and devilish pranks

but now in these later years
when I have seen

what has come to pass
I realize

it was you who came to call
with a message

a warning


Whit Howland © 2020

Almost a photo
as it looks so

real

you could easily write it off
with

a tautology

just choose one from
the list

but to do that
you'd have to ignore

the crinkles at its edges
quite

possibly from sweaty
palms

Whit Howland © 2020

A silver thing
with a washer
spring

and a button
to click

I  feel hardly knew thee

a life where  even pens had
moving and mechanical
parts

but much like
everything else
I thought I could rely on

it too has been erased

by an executioner
also
obsolete

Whit Howland © 2020

I like to think of
life

as drops of rain

and how those drops
eventually

form patterns

on the surface
of things

like window glass
and tabletops

and how events
both good

and bad
become sequential

leading to one
grand reveal

or master plan

Whit Howland © 2020

we paint
or verse

to create a feeling
or a mood

through a place dark
and dimly lit

so we can search for
enlightenment
that was never lost?

why?

what were we afraid of?

Whit Howland © 2020

Many times we find
ourselves wading
through trash

to get to the treasure
and hope we can brave
the stench

and the muck
but most days
we quit when we are

three feet from the gold

I couldn't pass up
writing about a street
in LA about a couple

blocks shy of Hollywood
the most notable landmark
or loadstone

being
the Pink ***** Cat
theater

but with that said
I don't want this to be
about

the grit of urban life
too much of that has been
already chronicled

and maybe we should just
let the old man rest

my destination is more
meta

like how sometimes
the moon's nose is just inside
the tent

Whit Howland © 2020

I feel

released

with my head above
the clouds

the weight the bundle
I was shouldering

lifted and I've now become
a leaf

maybe a little dry
and brittle

but free to embrace
the gusty

exuberance
blowing me

this way and
that

Whit Howland © 2020

They say I'll never
outgrow you intellectually

on balance, you'll always
be my better

but for a time, a short time
only

I'll have a seat at your table
although

before we sit down
I'll pull

your chair out
for you.

a field of pink
and magenta
flowers

with a path cutting
quietly through
the middle

at the end
a house

and more
pink flowers

so that's that and
it is what it is

what you see
is what you get

and I guess
I’ll have to settle
for honest and sincere
brushstrokes

if I can’t have
haystacks

and a quaint
cottage

if not lily pads

just a place
from where to hang
my hat

and care only about
the times I pulled
the chain

and the light bulb
shined

in all its naked
beauty

Whit Howland © 2020

If I've wanted to be anything
in this life

it's consistent

I've never done well
with

shifting sands
or mercurial weather

and I've always found solace
in a steady hand

on the wheel


Whit Howland © 2020

Still bare

the tree

branches
interlocked

backed up against
a gray dawn

with a trace of  bleeding
peach

and the grass
still wintered

frozen
and withered

but it's coming

soon

the budding
the rebirth

the explosion
of color

and most welcome

the relief




Whit Howland © 2020

Yet
let me again

tell you about
the moon

how it's
full and muscular

and how the bare
branches

make it look
vascular

I've been searching
all of my poetic life

for an apt description
of this magnitude

and it came


when a January
fog

was shrouding
the morning

no reason
and not much rhyme

but no less
angelic

Whit Howland © 2020

we live
and move
through

blue skies
fog
and rain

our minds
taking what's
solid

concrete

chopping
pureeing
blending

baking

an expressive
edible feast

Whit Howland © 2020

There was enough pink this morning
to say the sky blushed

then the day turned hazy

who should we believe
what is truth

and are there many
or is there only one that is divine

sometimes life can be a glossy magazine
with some of the pages stuck together

it's all spit and a prayer

we live in a world
of mist

Whit Howland © 2020

When words fail
do actions really

speak louder than
words

and is seeing really
believing

I don't know but
right now

no artist with even
the most skilled hand

or the poet
possessing

the most surgical
of pens

could paint the current
storm

that is brewing

Whit Howland © 2020

So much of it
is looking at that
half glass

and wondering

which way the day
the week the year
your life will go

some advice

paid for I know
with a song

just drink the water

it will flush
all that troubles you

Whit Howland © 2020

The choice
between

throwing
and hurling

is no choice
at all

there are fast *****
curve *****

and soft tosses

words are always
tools

but never are they
and never will they be

weapons

Whit Howland © 2020

Those ***** little
tiles
that made the sign

and  
the corresponding
wall

the thin slice
of concrete
for the platform

the flash
of blue lights
and the timpani

of  an on-rushing
train

these sketchy details

was I really there

if not
then where

why the face

why mind

the language
the syntax
the cadence

the lyrics
the music

of caution
of danger

Whit Howland © 2020

If I could snap
my fingers
or turn the earth
and bring it all
back I would

the spark
the hope
the cadence
the language

before the lights
were snuffed
and our world
went dark

it was so close
we could almost
reach out
and grab it

but now we
fumble about
speaking in tongues
our arms reaching

for something to
hold onto lest we
float off
into oblivion

Whit Howland © 2020

flowers bloom
then petals blow away

trees leaf
leaves fall

grass greens
before

it fades again
to brown

and we're all
auteurs

artists
in our own right

with style
and cadence found

everyday
in the mundane

Whit Howland © 2020

Unlike
some moments
that should be precious

they're never dull

stainless
steel
sheers

necessary
possibly
unpleasant

impl­ements
needed

to prune
and trim
to grow

Whit Howland © 2020