The walled city
slick and wet but
preserved
by drizzle
salt and spray

came with a monastery
peopled with nuns
and monks

that worked wasn't
just for show

and
planted us firmly
on a rock and back
in time to give us gifts

before it launched  us forward
to a better sense of place

Take my wife
PLEASE

STAND UP

as in also
you  stand up
for

LOVE
SPOUSES
for

SISTERS
BROTHERS
for

MOTHERS
FATHERS
f­or

COUSINS
AUNTS UNCLES
for

NIECES
NEPHEWS
and also

United
WE STAND UP
for

EACH OTHER

but what you really
don't comprehend

was that you left
when we were on the mend

yes the wine is cheap
but apparently though

our love
was much cheaper than that

pitter
patter

rain taps glass
                                   the beat  changing
                   
                                  sometimes
  on a dime

                             then just a nickle
    all the way down
                         to a penny

    no rhyme or reason
just naked drops of raw

improvisation
              
                   soft

with thoughts
          
                            flowing freely

and happily        

while windshield wipers

                                                wipe

awa­y
                            any feelings

of sadness

                                                or consternation

Whit Howland © 2019

Solid
the color of steel
that much is clear

but an area
where things get
murky

how could that be
when overtime
it becomes the color

of our hair
when we turn wise
and able

to see the forest
for the trees

gray
the color of days
that are cold and rainy

and there's no
ambiguity
in that

I know that
if I am true to my art

my craft it will give
back and be true to me

truths are always that simple

every 44 to 120 minutes

Old Faithful
from its joyous maw

spits wet pure
celebration at our
spacious blue skies

simple direct
profundity

whit howland © 2019

Buttered boards

sturdy frame

in front
a gi-normous
unapologetic
Holstien

next to it
big boot shiny spur

lassoing huckster
towers above
elicits tautologies

it is what it is
what you see is what you get
and either the steak is good
or it ain't

to further impress

broad  bold brush strokes
sells the tickets
moves the iron
and always wins the day

whit howland © 2019

a box fan
whirring
shuddering

in a dark
corner
of the room

cold air
on my legs
bed sheets flaking away

then
claws
a cat

it's
sandpaper tongue
across my calves

© Whit Howland 2019

There will be blood
there will be sweat
and there'll be a fountain of tears

but the picture is worth
more words
than I 'll ever give you

the missing piece
find it

and you've finished
the puzzle

whit howland © 2021

Constructon paper
and a wet felt tip

I said

was all we ever
needed

to make
a million dollars

you believed in me

my dreams
my promises

I'm sorry I shattered
and broke them all

one by one
vase by vase

I hobble along
thinking

broken toe
blistered pad

these leaves back to back
they fall

flopping

on top of each
other

A ***** rag shines the mahogany
past the arm of my shabby coat
it nudges the smudged glass
with her face swirling in the amber

She laughs at me
and the world laughs
while I sit on this wobbly stool

Punched

Whit Howland ©2017

Woke this morning
to an empty
room

the curtains were
drawn
not painted

to
only slim speers
of sunlight

but this is not
a woe is me
poem about loss

and loneliness
quite the contrary
though

it is about being
alone
and how the mind

is inspired
by time solitude
and the devil's idle hands

© Whit Howland 2019

Buckets
of flashy yellow nuggets

by the bullion
it is there

if you are fool enough
to search for it

obscured by ink
only wide eyes
and an outline

lightning
popping
like hot flashbulbs

I fumble
in darkness
for a key

before
he
flies away



Whit Howland © 2019

Melting
as if dripping

off the table
silver beads rolling

across the floor
where

where have you been
all of my life

the Elks Club Toledo
Ohio

is this anything
if it is

it's all in the delivery
and timing

time they say time flies
flies

when you are having
fun

but you seem to have gone
by bus

whit howland © 2021

And I'm reminded
of that night

an argument

the never-ending loop that rip tide
we were caught in

our fingers
trying to break free

of the bamboo handcuff
that bonded us

and it's futile to ask
what happened or try

to make sense of what
it all meant

whit howland © 2021

I've got
many ways
to say no to you

but instead
watch

as I slam
the door off
it's hinges

feel the vibration
that's no

moving on

let's find an image
a metaphor that says
I love you

something
cliche

a rose plucked
crushed
into oil

bottle broken
potion spilled
all over your finest
blouse

I love you


© Whit Howland 2019

Do we close our  eyes
to imagine
the smells of Paladini Fish Company

and let our minds
launch and wander
to thoughts more abstract

or

perhaps we keep
them peeled and fixed
on the scale depth  and width

of Aliottos  
and Pompeis Grotto

or the current
human interest
both manicured
shabby and in between

but yet

maybe there's
a better way

faint lines
here and there

fuzzy and grainy
photographs

just the essence  
of a place
moment or time

a verse about
what we loved

and someday
what we will miss

Whit Howland © 2019

black
cast iron head

blonde
wooden handle

the magnet
you were

and I
was the steel

but too bad
it had to be the hammer

you thought to be
the only tool

you
ever needed

In his              
plaid sport coat

pulling tissues
from his paper sack head

flinging them

slinging
bathroom jokes

cackling
jigging

a comedic
unknown soldier

known only
to God

Grease drips
from gear and chain
but only in the mind

as do the wheels spin
with king and jack
slapping the spokes





Whit Howland © 2019

Cue the ticking
and then the ringing

as the metal trinket
vibrates

on the table
the  counter

eggs are done

or must we
put down the pen

as that  puts an end
to the test

and it's the pressure
the stress

of a time crunch
or crisis

that never fails us
when we swing

for the fences
swoosh for the stars

mixing and tripping
over our metaphors

in our relentless
pursuit of success

Peace

today
is what I've

made with age
and life

I love you

is what I wrote
this morning

on last night's
cocktail napkin

Chrome
almost mirrored

yes yes
that's what I remember

and the stainless steel counters
the Silver King

yes yes

and more chrome
on the stools

yes yes

bordering the festive red

of the yeah

seat pads

and boy

can I still
hear the rollers
of the shiny steel mop bucket

rolling across
the black and white
checker board floor

no not chess

checkers

a more primitive game

don't like something

jump it

oh  you mean like
ratty menus

burnt stale coffee
and leathery breath

no no sorry


I don't
remember such
****** things

just chrome
and more chrome

  Whit Howland © 2019

The tides rise
Piazza San Marco floods
perfection has a price

for Venice
being at the mercy
of her progeny and
their strength of mind

to save the memory
of her canals
cathedrals
steeples spires

her beauty
perfection

threatened and someday
defeated
by water and salt

red blue green
white

and weeping with
tinsel tears
of joy

we've made it baby
to easy street and parts
beyond

I have to strain
to remember what
your voice still sounds like

your tone your cadence

I figure
if I dig around on the dial
for a little while

it will come through
scratchy

at best

whit howland © 2021

I always try to remember the good stuff
but it’s hard
to block out and forget the cold

it was cold and rainy that day
hop skipping
and jumping

to keep up with you
on bridges
over canals

through alleyways
and bicycles
oh how we parried

to dodge the bicycles
and how I’ve tarried
so long

to think about and make sense
of what
it all meant

but like I said
I just try to remember
the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2019

pale
but bluer than
ashen

not dead just cold
maybe numb
sad

a little yes

but the ice
keeps the heart frozen
and in check

whit howland © 2021

To say you had claws
is an understatement

your cat talons
like little saws

could have cut away
a forest

and

the snaking scar
you made so long ago

still  runs down
my arm

and gives me devilish
inspiration

which is why
it's called

Old Scratch

The dream the intent
gone long ago
like all good things

whether it should have passed an unfortunate
unnecessary debate

but also
up for discussion
grabs

the importance
of form structure of a dream

and the worth of a historical
timeline of an automobile
from fin to future vision

Whit Howland © 2019

Copper
or maybe tin

on a ring like keys
to a kingdom

where life was once lived
in measured tones

and precise
rhythms

a sacrifice

whit howland © 2021

hands
no wind

we throw
caution to

hands
be they good

or bad

is something
we will never know

Plinking ivory keys
of a black lacquer piano

on the burnt and amber
swirled rug

smack in the middle
of economy class

roasted nuts
in a pewter mug

drinks in a cold glass
cloth napkins

and cash was king

we tend to overwrite
what we intend

to overbook
and sell

Our teachers sit pressed
against a cinder block wall
a couple of miles into their fifties

they look much older than that
as their faces crinkle like worn leather
puffing on Newports and Kools

life was much harder then

they watch us
run on the playing field
in our tough skins and smocks

our wise little adult faces scream and laugh
we're playing kissing bugs

we were much more innocent back then

as we cart wheel and crab roll in the dirt
staining our pant legs bruising our elbows
and skinning our knees

we were much tougher back then

we look back at our teachers
and then beyond the cyclone fence


© Whit Howland 2019

always right
before dawn
I am
young again

worrying that
I can't physically
see my face

this feeling
like a riptide

the more I fight
the farther I'm
pulled from shore

what always
saves me
an old television

wooden case
hissing remote

it's analog
so nothing other
then dots of snow
blips bleeps and

other delta
and divine waves

that never fail
to gift me years
and wisdom

that put me
right to sleep

© Whit Howland 2019

Once popping crackling
flashing

now burning down
to an orange ember

soon to be spritzed
followed by hissing

then sputtering
what just happened

we had so much
promise

whit howland © 2021

All night it rained
and water coursed

through the downspouts
like blood through our veins

this morning
a red leaf leftover from the fall

floats

in one of the many finger lakes
that was once our backyard

and does pirouettes
in a water ballet all its own

A curt goodbye
no good luck

just hard stares
and harder bargains

78 degrees today sun
cloudless

in our neighborhood
lawns freshly fertilized
cut
and green like dollar bills

walls stripped bare
now cold

papers shredded

family photos
trophies

some silver some
gold

all tucked
snug
in banker's boxes

whit howland © 2019

Orange
with a pinch of crimson

that's the sunrise
at 8 AM

I feel different than before

not so angry
restless
or confused

it’s only a spec
on this great canvas

a locomotive

puffing smoke

pulling a string of boxcars
through never-ending rows of corn

I’m moving forward now
not so fast mind you

just slow

steady progress

headed  out west
someplace

where it’s warm

Whit Howland © 2019

it was the one
that roped me in

the picture
you sent me long ago

the one with
your bright smile
and eyes wide
with anticipation

you are standing
among other revelers
on Spring Garden Road

there's a beer stein
in your hand

you must have
been celebrating
something big  that night

what was it
what was making
you so happy

that one thing
I could never crack

your happiness

anyway
I've kept this one around
even though I shouldn't
and

today I'm older
and right now

I'm standing in a
harbor side gift shop
in Catania Sicily

a new wife
and happy life

she just bought some
post cards of the city

pictures of side streets
and ally ways
scrubbed so clean
and shiny
they almost smile

I'll keep one
replacing yours

because it just hit me
like a blinding beacon

what you were doing
that night and why

you looked so happy

Amber liquid
ripples
in the blown glass globe

a top a pump
somewhere
outside of Oklahoma City

a roadster sedan
or wagon
topping off their tank

before
continuing to the coast

sun  sand

ocean spray

and good old fashioned
California fun

the route  chosen

a simian crease

though now
broken in many places
can still be connected

if one just
closes their eyes
and opens their mind

and journeys again
toward the ever constant light

Not where we drew blood
but under the bridge

is where we found you two
in the dark in a storm
like no other

and Poppy


I'd do the muddy slide
down the embankment
over and over again

just to rescue you

because it never grows old
to close my eyes
and hear you purr

as I watch you paint
murals on the walls
of my mind

and Percy

your prologue
meaning whatever went on before
did nothing to stunt your boundless joy

As  you jump
from constellation
to constellation

and tweak the moon's nose
each and every
starry starry night

Flashy
gold
and the taste of glue

Star of Wonder
Star of David
Morning Star

my life shoots across the night sky
before my very eyes
in a fit

of blurry futurism
but that star
stuck to my forehead

may it always remain
a constant and a symbol
of the best I ever was

whit howland © 2021

My poetic life these days
is all about taking sadness,
fear, angst,
and distilling them into a sour mash,
then creating an elixir for the soul.

In other words, poetry is not about purge,
but of purification,
of myself, my psyche -- how do I do that,
you ask?

Simple. I'm a man of few words,
and because
I am man of limited diction,
like Caleb did for Moses,
I let life and my universe speak for me.

For instance, take this barn near my house ...

It's timbers blighted, brittle, almost bone weary,
its middle sags,--
but its not sad, its belligerent, mean--

just one more gust of wind, it all comes crashing down,
and brother, sister,
if your around,
near it's wrath, lookout!

Or the motor court down the road ?

Paint peeling, windows broken--

but regardless of her looks-- her voice is angelic as she sings to you for another chance at supper and glory.

So you see poets,

the sun, moon,
stars, trees, structures,  streets, walls,
all laugh, scream
and weep for you --

you just have to tune your ear
to their frequency.

whit howland © 2019

torchlight dances
on the aquamarine
blue of a hotel pool
deep in 1963

when happiness
was still on the Hi Fi

coulda woulda shoulda


Whit Howland © 2019

That bleery sunrise
staring back at you

has nothing to do
with *****

but something else
something
you could not put down

something you
stayed with

all night rooting
and cheering

for the things
the people

and the world
you really cared about

Brass handle
     frosted glass
it swings

side to side
   a spotlight
warm fuzzy

two and fro
   a metronome
luminary

constant guide
  path to trail
up to road

truth
  to pupils
and pilgrims alike

Whit Howland © 2019