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

this is not
a confession
when I say
I find it hard
to reveal who
I really am
through picture
and verse most
of the time
I'm throwing language
like darts to pop
balloons and I'm never
happy with the noise I make

Whit Howland © 2020

as we level up
they rise under
our feet

these metal stairs
with ridges
moving us

higher and
higher

toward a more
ethereal

equilibrium

Whit Howland © 2020

and I should see nothing
but I see everything

in my reflection

that should not be there

a vision

my face
it's wrinkles
furrows
lines

now syntax that's so easy
to read

yet with much to say
like a Sunday paper

Whit Howland © 2020

glass
though not so much
a bowl

than it is
a Coke bottle lens
so we can view

the wreck
with its splintered
mast and

splintered hull
with a pair of
goldfish

gliding
in out of the holes
and around

the diving bell
but make no mistake
we are talking

about fish
who are not
just to be clear

really gold and more
a brilliant
orange

and yes maybe
we are talking
about us

perhaps how
us and the fish
look at each other

Whit Howland © 2020

Stainless
steel and dull

because luster
and shine

does not matter
or add

to its function
and workaday

poetry
while it scoops up

rocks and lumps
of coal

you snooze you
lose

and

first come first
serve

Whit Howland © 2020

Your voice sounds
scratchy
sometimes
tinny

as if it's coming from an old
record player
with a diamond needle
prone to skipping

and that's my honest truth
maybe nothing
you want to hear
but

we can go on record
as saying
clearly
that's your gold

from which with you
like my truth
can most surely
bank on

Whit Howland © 2020

the floor

sags under your weight

that plush rug
pulled

from under your feet

in the dark
the blinding light

of

a locomotive
coming at you

head on

Whit Howland © 2020

There's  nothing

incongruent
about a bright
yellow sun

shaking hands
with

an ashen and
washed-out
moon

just close your
eyes

and think

HAPPY NEW YEAR


Whit Howland © 2020

Maybe a snake coiled
on a rock

sunning itself

they say the sun will last
forever

as will our love
so long as it can coil itself

on a rock
and soak up the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

Back then
we muled our heavy loads

in scuffed leather or floral print
valises

which weighed even heavier
on our hearts and minds

as opposed to nudging them along on
wobbly wheels

desperately hoping for that
sucker

PT Barnum so sincerely
promised us

Whit Howland © 2020

So close
I can smell your
breath

a *** potpourri
of whisky and decay

so close we can almost
say

good
bad

up
down

zenith
or  nadir

though

the debate
could rage
for days

but we're so close
the swans  
are tuning their trumpets

but maybe
not near enough
to call it a

Whit Howland © 2020

the night  falls
and lamps now glow

like early summer
fireflies

as a restless breeze
makes the leafless branches dance

soon to be budding

and yellowed grass
will rise again green

with hope

as we are optimistic
like my neighbor
who swings

a golf club at an imaginary ball
before he slowly fades
to black

Whit Howland © 2020

When we say
evening

         we might
be

talking about
     the line between

late afternoon
              and twilight

        the sun still
alive    

      and lucid

a breeze that
blows

                  while
warming the skin

and ruffling

maybe
                               styling

the hair

Whit Howland © 2020

There not
broken if they're
sutured

with two rows
of  stitches
parallel to each other

and wide enough
to plant a column
of flowering trees


Whit Howland © 2020

A curt thank you
as I bite

into this spring
morning

of red and
orange

crossed with strands
of pink

you want more but
to give

would be to take

from the dry brittle
yet

pleasing taste
of this dispatch

Whit Howland © 2020

to some it's criminal
how I never

seem to learn
the lesson

you can try to knock some
sense

into my head
or knock me

off my heels

but I seem hard
to school and always

have a penchant for going
back

to what I know and
can do best

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe it takes
a stomach

for dirt and
grit

and an ear

for jazz

and an eye

as well as an ear

for onomatopoeia

to see

the music

hear

the city

and say

CUCKOO

SLAM

BOOM

BANG

CRASH


Whit Howland © 2020

This is not about distilling
an image

or capturing time
in an imaginary bottle

it's about seeing a world
wither away

before our very
eyes

and us being powerless
to stop it

Whit Howland © 2020

where the fire truck is going
no one will ever know

it comes so quickly
vanishes even faster

and when it passes we feel lost
unsure

why the city has to be so dark
and misty

Whit Howland © 2020

Red

the color that sets the world
ablaze

and begets
other idioms

like tongues
of flame

licking the walls
and poking
out of shattered windows

in a three alarm fire

Whit Howland © 2020

We echo we
repeat

the things that
resonate

like

a corner booth
Formica table

with a gray-suited
man

his nose down
in murky coffee

lost
in a solitary moment

life imitating art
maybe

vice versa

or again
echoes of

what we love

Whit Howland © 2020

This is the time
between lurches

and the hisses of
airbrakes

that much of life's
conundrums

get solved

and

where the new and beautiful
reveals itself

during the blare
of the horn

as the bus
with lumbering grace
weaves and ducks

slowly
unraveling

the urban snarl

Whit Howland © 2020

Time does not freeze
it flows

like the water under the milky ice
we use to skate on

that our toe picks chipped
away  

when we needed to stop
or

slow down

time that is

Whit Howland © 2020

I think about you every day
and every day I see you

walk away

from me for the last time and our last words
phrases and sentences

for the life of both of us
I can't

even remember
because I just never thought I'd have to

much of what exists about you
for me

are feelings but what
I still see

when I close my eyes is your gleam
that would very rapidly spark

a flame of either playful derision
or best of all

mad inspiration

I miss you every day

but I have got to cut this one off
because

I'm out to get some lunch
so

if you'll excuse me



Whit Howland © 2020

Always something more
then it appears to be

and it's not he who swats
***** like they're bugs

or roses in a flower bed
it's us

our minds the busy
boxes

they've become
missing

the panorama the
beauty

of what made us who
we are

Whit Howland © 2020

we're on a wire

a tightrope to be
exact

stretched thin among love and
hate

necessity and
relevance

and to hate and
be hated

is to feel

obsolete

Whit Howland © 2020'

To say
the silence is deafening

would be a cliche

so let me posit you with
an image

one that is still

and small

a yard
blanketed with snow
and the moon

reflecting upon it
thus

the night is white

and though it's cold

the path is clear

Whit Howland © 2020

You can ignore
what they say

because I have never seen you
more beautiful

then when you are
windswept

and fighting the elements
to hold on to your big

bright red umbrella
as you dodge puddles

and splashes from buses
and mad taxis

Whit Howland © 2020

So much we know is
not our own

in fact it comes from
somewhere else

it's ****** hot
atop

this double decker
bus

that is red with the
Union Jack painted

on the side

jolting
and lurching

as we go by the
Bag of Nails pub

Whit Howland © 2020

I guess it makes me think

of you

if only I knew
what I know today

things would be less
monochromatic

because

what I could not save
might have been

salvageable
in magnificent dreams

of swirls color
and texture

Whit Howland © 2020

We woke up one day
and the world had changed

not almost but overnight
and somewhere

there was a letter never
delivered

or a memo never
read

in the end
and we are truly there

the struggle boiled down to
specific names

titles
and addresses

Whit Howland © 2020

despite a sky
rubbed gray
and trees being bare

we are in a February thaw

although
we didn't get here by accident

it was something we didn't wait for
but decided upon

sometimes thinking isn't
thinking at all

it's listening
and trusting the message

in concert
with the search
for the highest expression

against council
and my better judgment

I have deleted many
of my cherished poems

some I would call
my darlings

Whit Howland © 2020

It could be a perfect
world

if we worked at it

it could be void
of words

like worry
confession or
betrayal

with sentences
less dark

and stormy

of where the gun never
smokes

and the unvieled damsel  
is never

in distress

and where shadows
give way

to transparency
and sunlight

Whit Howland © 2020

They cross the road
swimming

like a school of fish
in the liquid night

and I'm caught
between several things

day and dusk
clarity confusion
calm and storms

but they cross the road
moving

with martial purpose
instinctively to

an unseen light

Whit Howland © 2020

we are lost
and

our stories our
souls

are stranded
on the highways

like the lines
broken

on the palms of our
hands

Whit Howland © 2020

Festive
red metal with thick
black wheels

it was the fire engine
I rode

and relied upon to put out
fires

and douse the glowing
smoldering embers

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes I write
and the words

jump off the page
and dance

it's these short
bursts of imagination

that keeps the ink
pumping

and flowing
from the heart

Whit Howland © 2020

They're just
decor

copper coffee
tins

more cans
hanging

from hob
nails

over the stove
***** reminders

of the front porch light
still

bright
after all these years

Whit Howland © 2020

Blustery
and gray

branches rock back
and forth

wind whirling
leaves

and blowing through
chimes

uncluttered
and

words
sentences
unnecessary
where

paint and brush
will suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

Plastic axles
connect
to plastic wheels
then the chassis
and last
but not least
comes the body
then finally
the paint and detail

life
model
a poem

written to scale

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes the sky
is blue

other times  
it's gray

it can be black
depending upon
the hour

is that something with which
we can all
agree on

if so
then it's not yours
or mine

it's the

and thus it
becomes

ours

Whit Howland © 2020

Outside

a wrecking ball swings
to and fro

pretty soon
the building
will be nothing but rubble

you're not as subtle as you think
you are

in fact
you wear your thoughts
and feelings

like an ill fitting suit

Whit Howland © 2020

Is it an ugly green with
fangs and a face
pitted with scars and sores

will its claws cut you to ribbons
or turn you into strips of bacon

or does it look like you
and me but just frozen
on the inside

in The Day the Earth Stood Still
that robot was scary not because

it shrieked wailed
and maimed

but because it just stood there
and gave us nothing

to connect to or
hold on to

Whit Howland © 2020

Not so much
a door

but more the edge

of a cliff you
walk off

and trust

that something will hold you
up

live on and forever

be a skeptic and
distrust

Whit Howland © 2020

But they do

and not for nothing
or to make matters

worse

sunlight always feels
cold

in a breeze

that ruffles feathers
and rustles

leaves

Whit Howland © 2020

Ball bearings
friction

and
locomotion

back then I let
my fingers do

the skating
as my tongue

did somersaults
and other crude

feats of linguistic
gymnastics

Whit Howland © 2020

slow and steady
nice

and easy
the turtle moves

scrub

undo
unlearn
unpack
wash

and reorganize

the finish line
being

reeled in with
a rope on a squeaky pulley

on a rope
with a squeaky pulley


Whit Howland © 2020

"Among the rain
and lights
I saw the Figure 5"

When I reach
to take a drink

the water swirls

down the drain
like a giant hand

pulled the stopper
and then I am waist

deep again
as I reach for fruit

that is always out
of reach

Whit Howland © 2020

I woke up
and

saw my face
kaleidascoped

in a mirror

and asked myself

what's missing

several things
came

to me

on wings
of something other

than


Whit Howland © 2020