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

For most poets
it's  an obsession
a nagging one

a golden thread
through out their whole
sartorial collection of verse

we poets wear
our art
like suits some

fit better than others
and
some garments

well some
just need to be shot
like lame horses

I'm being tangential
and sorry
for the cruel morbid simile

but for my obsession
motels
the art deco flea circus variety

lately though
motel
and hotel art

it could be that
I'm in a really good place
for once in my life

that I can just
binge and gorge
on still lives of

cheap grocery store roses  
and
whimsical pictures of prancing horses

Whit Howland © 2019

If you love cats

you’ll get lost
in the heaving

half- moon
that whistles from its nose
at the end of your couch

you’ve grown on me

your rhythm music
now

so near and dear

to my heart

Whit Howland © 2019

Will I remember this
day

ten years from
now

this lazy afternoon
where I slept late

because I was up
the night before

so much of my life
was spent

pushing the sun up
then shutting my eyes

to rise just in time
to see it bleed out

over the horizon

whit howland © 2021

A flashing light
and a painted
Elvis gyration

flippers
a silver ball
and the sounds

bing bing
bing **** bing
bing bing bing

Brother

I think about you often
how you were bounced
back and forth

between homes
schools
happiness and sadness


and the short stack
of quarters you turned
into

free game after
free game after
free game after

free game

Tweezers
buzz
"butterfingers"

and bulbous sneezer
that is touched
by a feather

to make it
sneeze
and tickle

the funnybone

Just flat gray
on a canvas

painted

sometimes
globbed in spots

with a thick
brush

some might say

dull

but it can't all be beautiful

can it

or some days
is it just best
to be

consistent

rather than always
try

to swoosh
to the stars

or swing for
the fences

Whit Howland © 2019

sliver
of light

often
line

between

soft eyes
hard stares


jokers faces
sad mugs

steady hands
restless feet

sweet dreams
choppy sleep

sliver
of light

sometimes
just enough

to mop
***** floors

wipe
grimy counters

and

sweep out
dusty corners


whit howland © 2019

Let's not make a federal production
out of this

it's just laundry

clean not *****

trousers shirts
socks and underthings

flapping like pennants
in a breeze

on a clear day
rubbed

with a pastel blue sky
and warmed by the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

ceramic
with a childish image

of an ark filled
with simple happy pigs

giraffes
and elephants

sans
the smiting rain

and
biblical justice

I’m sorry
most days as hard as I try

I fail you
miserably

so right now
I need a God that forgives

with an abundance
of gopher wood

Whit Howland © 2019

Prairie grass grows
again

on this treeless plain
and we’ve separated

the gold
from the dross

so much has been
restored

and there’s so much to be
grateful for

this plain stretches
past

what we can actually see

we are free to imagine

we are free

to dream

Whit Howland © 2019

Morning
sunshine

and clear eyes to see clearly
to pick up

the twigs
and branches

off the front lawn
of my neighbor's yard

whit howland © 2021

There used to be
a witching hour a last call

but now
this station never closes

an oasis in  the heart
of a pitch black night
for thirsty cars and drivers alike

just passing through
a state a place

and trying hard
not to lament

what appears
to be lost

with time
and age

©  Whit Howland 2019

bay
        wind
               more a gentle breeze

socks
       not caps
            as water rises to meet the hull

sun shines
             silver skyline
                       city by the bay

backdrop
              scene set
                another glorious day

Whit Howland © 2019

A Summer sun
turned lush green grass
to lunar dust

but the dogged day
clinched water tight

and wiped the stinging sweat
from its eyes and plowed
pell mell
through crushing heat

toward the dark and gray
of a violent dusk

where thunder ripped
from its nervous fingers
its earthly hopes and dreams

then pelted them
with heavy drops of rain

as it flushed away
all vestiges
of this ugly Summer day

Whit Howland ©2017

even though you think
our dots connect
in ways we only
understand

i've been there before
with a thousand
other clowns

who had
the same schtick

of trying too hard
to make a silk purse
from a piece of craypaper

No bright green trees
no description of the sun

no turn of phrase about sadness
or a melancholy mood

sorry

just rude granite
and colored geegaws

that resemble outcroppings
and stones

there for you
and only you

because in the end
it always is and always will be

all

you

whit howland © 2021

Slithering
gummy worms

a cricket
with a bad case
of the sniffles

and not a swatch
of tissue in sight

a marvelous tin windup
robot that squawks
DANGER

so loud it'll power wash the freckles
off your face

bubbly brown-colored soda
in a sweating glass
no

not a frosty mug
that says Pepsi

COKE

because
things always go better
with Coke


whit howland © 2021

an alabaster buddha
and a Navaho ***

a trumpeter swan
white like ivory soap

some chess pieces
from the franklin mint

intelligent design
no

better homes and gardens
not by a long shot

and they say

still waters run deep
but shallow

is clear sunny
and warm

Distant bells
jingle

getting louder
as he comes

a bright white
truck

rolling toward us
and if we hurry

we can scavenge through
kitchen drawers

and scrounge up
just enough change

for an ice cream
treat

we can make it work

we always do

the street you describe
I've never been there

but I have kicked a bedsheet
a time or two

and maybe I've reached
for cigarettes

I've been hot and cold
more cold blooded

you might say
in the true snake sense

A planted seed
watered

great things
to grow
and come

like roses

or deeds
that will be recorded
for posterity

and colorful
full fruit
but not from the poisonous tree

and study
for practice application
and surely

but edible
oh so delectable

not just for academic
and entertainment
purposes only

like wind
through
a creaking door

three messages
in three hours
and nothing

but cicadas
which are even worse
then crickets

Too much water

he said

we are taking on too much water

he said

as the outside patio bar flooded
and the hanging plants

so laden with rain
dropped

from there hooks
splashing

and smashing
onto the submerged concrete

the sky rages and weeps
and we are left to pick up

the pieces

Hotpoint
magnet
refrigerator
white

we pray
for rain but poetry
never comes

words
birthday suits only



whit howland © 2019

deep red logs
a perfect fit
buttered grout to fill the gaps

protective trees
wooden cask


floral garden
color splash

small troubles gone
worries in the wind


Whit Howland © 2019

wool
we sit in a park

on the grass
as the day turns

dark

we fail to see
but most of all

we  struggle

Pallet of green
brown
gray

obstructed
destruct
construct

strange things
kaleidoscopically
arranged

natural
literal
and metaphysical

Salt spray blue foam
pounding surf

and warm yellow sun
as tentacles of seaweed wash to shore

the sights and sounds
of which to see and hear

when I put my ear
to a conch shell

and remember you

Dear Granny

Not sure where you are
but I am positive I know
who you are with

Grandpa that is
again
somewhere  sailing
deep at sea
in the far far east

and like when you were here
I've ridden many waves

some with expert ease
and some so towering
I almost crashed myself
upon the rocks

but Granny
I am really writing
because
there was one thing
you once said
that now has hit the mark

sometimes there's no hurry

just float and see
life through many lenses
at all different angles
before you launch

plain word and verse

though over time
profound and most treasured

signed

Your Loving Grandson and Fellow Sojourner

Whit Howland © 2019

Ten Years
went by so fast

an anniversary
hard fought

and won

right now I'm sitting
with you
at a sidewalk cafe

the Left Bank
Paris

a dog barks
and pigeons warble
and scramble for

scraps on the cobblestones

the sun shines

may it always do so

on us now
when we first met
and in the days weeks and years to come

© Whit Howland 2019

To my ears go
your cute little snores

and to my eyes
your hair peeking out

from under the covers
I watch our cats(our kids)

eat from their labeled dishes
and I laugh

for hours

whit howland © 2021

Warmth is what we feel
and it comes from the heart

where there is a light
within

and that light
radiates out

to the sky
and the hills

skaters
are just figurines

more like set dressings
for this scene

what we feel precedes
what we see

© Whit Howland 2019

With a neutral-colored sky
who can tell whether it’s night or day
and

it doesn’t bother those who walk
with arms locked in monochromatic bliss
toward the grandeur of the Eiffel Tower

love is too precious
and somewhat crude and time
too fleeting

to worry
about precision color
spectrum and other
artist aches and pains

Whit Howland © 2019

mishap
maybe
but definately

not and act of God

no warning given
and no discernable
clues

just a hurling big canvas
painted with pastels
nonsensical

at best

Sweeping gray
swirling white

windswept
water blotches


rivulets
rain drenched canvas

dreams left
unattended

now
a forgotten watercolor moment


Whit Howland © 2019

pleasure
is my measure

stepping foot by foot
loose change falling

from my pockets
like manna

that dropped from the sky
so so long ago

whit howland © 2021

You speak to me
now
in apologetic verse

a lyric born
from
way beyond

your cadence

a bent soldier hunched
over cups
of scalding coffee

frosted donuts
sprinkled
with the shots

its very sepia
in its cinema
and

very
tormented
in its song


and yes
you’re still
alive still present

and yes
we're tethered
still forevermore

but no
we’ll never meet again
face to face

so let’s
just cling to what’s
concrete

the image

an orange
gritty
rise and shine


ordinary
though
resonant

with
a workmanlike
musicality


Whit Howland © 2019

Cracks
deep cracks

more like fissures
in the asphalt

and if you are like me
who

never got past this
first barrier

then you missed the treasure
at the end of this dusty rainbow

The most I can muster
is to exhume life
from a sentence

about death
and decay of the human spirit

pledging to myself
dear reader and
everyone else

to never let such
a blessed thing go
to neglect and

maintain my own
like a trusty automobile


Whit Howland © 2019

a small thin piece
of fur

maybe bunched
but just enough

to say
you were there

stayed awhile
and then slinked

off into the day
the wind

jingling
your tiny bells

an almost inaudible
announcement

of your
departure

whit howland © 2021

Snow covered branches frame

a barn

far off

and partially obscured
by blowing snow

did you get my note

I asked
if you were okay

you seemed so  distant

and so cold

© Whit Howland 2019

No spotlight
that disappeared
years ago

now

just you wearing a madras jacket
loud shirt
and a polyester tie

leaning
against a varnished wooden rail
speaking into an old radio mic


trying to talk
over the Rolling Stones
on a Wurlitzer Jukebox

to no one
in particular

Total
absence of light

roiling
boiling

churning black clouds
your wicked flowers

being watered with biting
drops of rain

Crisp blue
that fades to white
meets
the brown of fields and hills

puffy
gray green
thickets
in the distance

windless
cold

the clock ticks
a crisp clip
daylight already fading



© Whit Howland 2019

Maybe it's me
and my slothful ways

but something
and I mean something

has riled them
as they vault

somersault
and skitter in and out

of my bedroom
my cats

I feel their frustration
at my failure to launch

into this hot hazy Saturday
all my Friday weekend plans

rapidly evaporating
as if

on the freshly tarred sidewalk
outside my window

whit howland © 2021

Oh
heart-shaped box

you give me no
quarter

and no room
to think

beyond
your borders

whit howland © 2021

Not
a splintered sawmill
or a rotting waterwheel

but the bundle
you're muling


charred
useless wood

a bridge fire
lit
by a laconic spark

you were there
but you didn't
strike the match
so cork it

no weeping
no tears
no time
for lamenting

because
off-screen
the sky barks

here

just take my knife
cut the twine
let the timbers fall
and crumble

run

and don't worry about
a mess
the wind can blow away

© Whit Howland 2019

poem
lyrics
or just a screed

we rant
we rave
we rage against the machine

dandelions
daffodils
pear blossoms

and they say
to get gray
you must facilitate

the mostly holy
union
of bull and cow

colors
a spectrum of colors

reds
yellows

violets
and greens

succeeding
lightning rain

and gray clouds
beauty

along with the calm
after the storm