Silver never seemed so close

those quarters
filched from my pocket
by Tahoe's
invisible hand

but at 13
a baker's dozen
from repeated dives
I found out otherwise

water clear
aquamarine and shallow
near the dock I was fishing off

yet so cold it almost choked me out
I had to let the quarters go

like Uzzah knows and
I once said

the world speaks

sometimes it says BLANK OFF

put down your cameras  put down your pens
for the love of God no pictures and
most definitely

no poems

whit howland © 2019

Skin and teeth play
into this

Milpitas California

uprooted
culture shock
our lives changed

but instead
we opted
one more time

for wheat
cows and corn

and today
window men

cutting  the eyes
from their sockets

new windows for our home
not our soul

more curbside appeal
and better outward vision

whit howland © 2019

Touching
a smudge of sky a splash
of sun

two metal halves
that'll connect as one
go

up and down
up and down

boats
barges
reflections and shadows

all pass through
for me but not
for you

whit howland © 2021

Foamy Cola
and ice cream treats

complete
with a maraschino cherry

topped like an angel
on a Christmas Tree

and wedges of lemon meringue pie
under a glass dome

as red and silver stools
line a Formica counter

never

never

we are never off
the clock

always

in a race against time
on a  hamster wheel

that and along with other
absurdities

gets stitched together
to make life's quilt

that was never

never
and I mean never

supposed to make
any sense

Failures
mine or those that I own

your assignment
lean

lean into the storm
roll

roll with the waves
the punches

and let the metaphors run
like blood and tears

down your cheek

and mix like paint
and mix like paint

Baby blue
navy

bisect
or intersect?

there's
a difference

and I have to
get it right

this time
time

fleeting
or flying?

the window's
open

and in my hand
is an alarm clock

with two ringing
bells

like vibrating
mouse ears

I'm thinking I will
just sail it through

and that should
solve everything

whit howland © 2021

you’ll want more
you always do

but no poem
is ever perfect

like Christmas trees
on a lot

they’re either
too full on top

or
too slight below

and this poem is no exception
just the essence

of a loved
wooden hutch

with only traces
and outlines

of Nana’s
precious plates

saucers
and teacups

not enough
concrete  imagery

for critique
or analysis

but more than enough
for action

like maybe a phone call
to a mom or a dad

A blast of the whistle
and a slide down the dinosaur

it's quitting time

for life to  begin
again

We must
capture it all
before it disappears

these frothing waves
rumbling and rolling
onto shore

the clouds
that stamp and snort
and groan like restless bulls

the sun
despite the jeers and sneers
punches through the veil of nimbus puffs

and the wind
that billows sails
and drives the hulls of many tiny boats

so much raw power
so much clay and paint
and yet so little time



© Whit Howland 2019

Something we need
to explain

the symbol
or significance of the thing

on a chart diagram
or schematic

but those who were
truly

the "GOAT"

needed no map
at all

Found an old picture of you
and me nothing
I could paint or recreate today

so we'll call it found art
that triggers memories
of things we shared

such as  a love
of  Frank Sinatra

so here is a question Ol' Blue Eyes
might ask

What's new in your world
today something

I need to know something
that will set
the record straight

When you speak
go deep  
down
to the pool

of still blue
water
most people
think brain

when it comes
to clarity
but it's really
about

uncovering
and unpacking
how you feel
over what you think

the thinking
comes later
once you  have
walked the ruins

and seen what
was where and
who was what
and where the

bodies
could've
been
buried

Whit Howland © 2019

Left a year's
worth of rubber
five miles back

somewhere
in Oklahoma
and the sky is now orange

glowing like a long
freshly lit
cigarette

angel
or devil on my shoulder
God only knows

black
as an asphalt nightmare

splashes of gray
vomits of rust

and fast cars
up and down the street

with fits of passion
make it all a blur

the world turns on it's
not your axis

and life swings to and fro
at its own tempo

protestations
notwithstanding

whit howland © 2021

For once
pale light is warm

the whistling wind
gentle

and even though
the air is cold

and the snow swirls
piling high along the curb


strings of lights
on shuttered storefronts

twinkle

and for 48 hours
all was never lost

Why didn’t we do this years ago
all that time now gone for good

it’s green it hangs
flaccid on a door jamb

it's beauty only apparent
in action and the act of shopping

and its fabric
rough to the touch though strong and trusty

but seriously why didn’t we do this years ago
all the time spent now dried up and blown away so

why didn’t we

flush out all the  purple and excess verbiage
and flense the fat and grizzle

my goodness

so many plastic bags
and not enough manure to fill them with

Whit Howland © 2019

Do I have
a one-track mind

I sit and watch
the wheelbarrow

fill to the brim
with

and I search and search
but I never seem to find

you or ever come close
to hitting that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

What is it about your shoes?

No matter how hard I try,
they never seem to fit.

Every time I attempt to be you,
I get lost

in an ocean of problems
with no solution...

Note to self:
must cancel out the noise,

and go my own way.

whit howland © 2021

A funny bone
a gag reflex

and an innocent
question

would you go out
with me

was all it took
for you to spit

Coke
through your nose

all those years
ago

Orange
reflecting
channel
markers

making
passage
one way
and

dependent
on men
to wave us
on

and yet this
is where
the road
diverges

literal
and symbolic
is
the fork

it's hot today
so right now
well travelled
looks pretty good

to me
so so sorry
frost
and W.D.

deep in the mountains
a small town

the smell
of evergreen

Mainstreet
a square

a geodesic dome
undulating

on a crisp
sunny day but

was I really there
or was I lost in thought

a conversation
endless and breathless

whit howland © 2021

Pop crackle flash
white red and blue
flowering

glimpses of liberta

and anxious
fresh-faced youth

with only dreams  
about the future

© Whit Howland 2019

and no net
as they swing
under a striped tent

grabbing reaching
for other trapezes
lifelines
       hanging
                swaying like knives

audience
breath baited
waiting for the big shoe to drop

it never does


Whit Howland © 2019

What comes to mind
is death
and the afterlife

and unraveling
the mystery
of what it's like

red white
white red
red white

vegetable
beef
vegetable

sometimes
just a dab of silver
to let you know they are cans

whit howland © 2021

you say
old flames can be rekindled

I say

with a little spit
and a pinch of the fingers

they can be snuffed

whit howland © 2021

Ten jokes a day
greasy bacon and runny eggs

at wit's end
of the string already frayed

tattoos and needle scars
cigarette ash and stains

on the table
***** mop water a rag

and ten jokes a day
from pain and heartache

is where the laughs
come from

your's mine
and everyone else's

in between

And with skies
the color of stainless steel
you confound me

hot

then cold then hot
again

blooming pink flowers
with snow falling and sticking
to the grass

streets now slick
with ice
and tomorrow ice

melting
in the sun

maybe

and with the skies
the color of stainless steel
you still confound me

whit howland © 2021

we stretch
we yawn
looking  out
at life so still
while
lazing
our way
through the day
then rising
eyes keen
ready
to wrestle
demons unseen

© Whit Howland 2019

Messages
of common sense

coupled with dimestore
philosophy

slipped neatly
into sugary wafers

while the Great Wall
in faded gloss

exists far across
the dining room

in the beginning
there was light

albeit pale

and our mouths watered
but what we came for

never really transpired
and we left

wanting more

of what we do not
know

A gray wet plume
rising

from the bottom of  black
cast iron

blowing off steam

releasing pent up
and strong emotions

and yet
we are still called human

as we continue to be such
marvelous machines

Whit Howland © 2020

Purple streaks across
sky no white
canvas

flowers
smudged against blue
and brown

bronze blobs descending
down the wall on a chain
supposed to be a rope

they say madness
is never expressed
with wide eyes and crazy laughter

but always with a constantly
flushing toilet
and endless sobs

coming from the room
next door
to the rhythm of bad bed springs

whit howland © 2021

Lines of pepper
lines of salt

with cream sugar
and by design

a happy face

it's just what the doctor ordered
as well as getting lost in coffee

and the pulpy verse of Beetle Baily
Funky Winkerbean and other funnies


Whit Howland © 2020

something
to break the ice
or instigate a February thaw

the impression of trees
the childish lollypop kind
and sky blue thumbprints

overhead
that meet the curves and crests
of chalky green

it's what's needed
to unfreeze the heart
and flow the tears

Whit Howland © 2019

a sheen of sweat
on glass
watery vision

sun again and
steam  
also rises



Whit Howland © 2019

Through
the blue shimmering
water

I see the black **** 
across the face of the floor
where it was slashed

I traveled all day
to get here from there
because no one

was there
when I knocked
and yelled hello

© Whit Howland 2019

Flameless
more like angry slashes

black and red
xs and crosses

the rest is
scattered flecks of paint

question
what is fire and do I feel it

now
when and where it counts

somewhere deep
beyond the soul

I'm searching in you
dear artist

for a poem
or at least a spark of one

and like you
it's not about the flames

eternal
or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2019

A full moon shines though
a louvered window

as I eat ice cream
over the sink

while thinking about
the many times

I've been burned when someone
has told me

IT

tastes like chicken
fried or otherwise

whit howland © 2021

they're emerald green
they're icicles that drip

but only in the mind

the title of the work
Green Ice

meant to suggest
frozen glassy daggers
dead of winter

and the color green

but location is everything

hanging on what otherwise would've been bare

in a lonely room
where through the plate glass window
is the dead of night

with lights twinkling
like strewn cheesy emeralds

and the mind
now rudderless drifts far and away
to my bubblegum years

in the car
sitting in the backseat

on a cross country road trip
over his shoulder

I'm seeing a glossy green cover
with a comely pair of legs
all tangled up in fish nets and garters

sandwiched in between
the front and the back
rough and sand-papery

purple but steamy prose

and then
I'm weighted maybe anchored
to a question

how could something
so abstract
evoke an image so concrete

where purity
and lurid collide
to make a perfect storm

© Whit Howland 2019

Red with flourishes
and flowers

its long spout
an elephant’s trunk

it sits
at the end of a checkerboard cloth

almost as if
it is ready to be kinged

all while
the mind whistles and jumps over itself

at this early hour
the game calls for a cup of  hot whimsy

Whit Howland © 2019

We're no longer young
or wet behind the years

are jokes are old
and they groan

like hunger pains
from someplace

down deep

but what is it
we hunger for

and will we find it
before it's time

to lay down
and go to sleep

not much for you
by way of kind words

but i have to say
i love the silver beads

of morning dew
on lawns

green  
with summer


Whit Howland © 2020

Like beginnings
endings are just as hard

knowing what
is finished looks

like nothing
you started out with

so many twists
turns and evolutions
along the way

© Whit Howland 2019

Ships
or ships in a bottle

if the latter
however  would we pass

each other in the night
perhaps

or maybe

we were meant to sidestep
completely

that worn-out
cliche

and be destined
for better things

indeed

A child's garden
of simple verse

tone rhythm
cadence

so magic but
slowly

moving
into shorter days

longer
nights

whit howland © 2021

Some say the TeCh#
is not what it should be -

and they might be right

                                    but w/o

hELL0      pOEtry

weLL (I don't want to speculate)

All I want T@ saY is that
this sight and all my friendS on iT!

MEAN more
                                     to ME

Than you WIll EvER

Know!!!!!!

It starts with a dark and stormy
night

then you are everywhere
but nowhere

bus depot
airport train station

I suspect you are alone
I could be wrong but I know I'm not

if you can hear me
riddle me this

what do you call
an exploding monkey

a baboom

you are everywhere out there
somewhere

and I will keep sending up
flares

whit howland © 2021

Like good help
a smooth glide  is hard to find

that perfect pen that rolls
with  the flow

of your words and music
across the paper

This morning
outside my window

a hummingbird

****** nectar into its beak
as if through a straw
from the feeder hanging from
the edge of my house

Peter Frampton
sings "I'm in You"
coming from the tinny speaker
of an old phonograph on an oak desk in my den

these are not my clothes
hanging in my closet
that smells of cedar bark
they are not my size and they are not

my style

whit howland © 2021

A weeping willow
weeps for me

it wipes the ground
and washes my feet

a canary sings a chirpy
little tune

that might be melancholy
if I let it

but time is too short
it was the last thing

you had to teach
me