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

fast-moving train
leaving on a jet plane

don't know
but I do

a magic afternoon
Almost Heaven

I said I'd be home
by seven

I let you down
I know

it was never
my intention

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

Fine art you are encased
in glass

on a rack
with other bottles

of dark red plasma-like
liquid

or maybe in a store
in a box

cheap

like a painting on a stand
at a sidewalk art fair

in either case
celebrate

we must

life
at any price

whit howland © 2021

There's something about
being

functional
and nothing else

of being
able to fill a need

and nothing else

this poem like a shovel
a rake or ***

serves only to make
a garden grow

being
nothing else

In the moment
after the sparks

pops
and flashes

where tendrils of smoke
drift

off into the ink
that is squarely night

It rained last night

and the flood waters
washed away

a pair of kids
red rubber boots

a four square ball
and a lecture

no one needs to hear

Sage advice
once gleaned
from a poet's letters

compare you
to only you

that said

I'll go one more time
around the block
a brief stop

Goldy's Dime Store
some taffy and
a quick look at me

then at Goldy's
pictures
in his fighting prime

I'll leave
the bell jingling
when I shut the door

you have your
lonesome cities
and I have
my empty streets

© Whit Howland 2019

I'll see
your edges of memory
with again
my carousel of slides
clicking by
so fast
on a white screen
and like you
I'm old enough
now to ask
were we ever
really there


© Whit Howland 2019

old
chipped
and brown

green grass
has grown-up
all around it

the inscription
rubbed off so
so long ago

a still life a stiff breeze
people are  just dying
to get in here

respect
for the dead
is not what we are told

that it is

laughter
still lives here
and travels

to the beyond

whit howland © 2021

What I might buy
for a dollar or a dime

some cheap petameter
or a bad rhyme

about

love passion
or betrayal

something
like that

maybe more lurid
and purple

on days like these
all we can muster

is a piece or a scrap
of morale in a glass

served with a joke
corny or crass

or even worse
a  bad pun

Damage or
enlightenment

depends
on how you parse it

it was done
the work the deed

I could not go back
the food

the thought
the song

too sweet

Whit Howland © 2019

Silver
bubbling
in the sweltering
heat of the afternoon

pigeons
flocks of warbling
pigeons
eating morsels of bread

I know when we see
each other again
you won't remember me
and I won't recognize you

but I woke up this morning
looked in the mirror
and asked myself
what is missing from my life

I know

A little girl who deems
it necessary to
take it upon herself
to point out

all of my character flaws

whit howland © 2021

Arm
moves broom

in a sweeping
motion

causing dirt
and dustball

to scurry
across the floor

creating

piles upon piles
of detritus

we become
the things we hover

and focus on
for far too long

a swath of blue a few
ripples

here
and there

that lap what might be
sand

a slash of yellow
sun

you are here

but right now


I am there
my mind molding

fashioning
the perfect day

at the beach

and possibly
the perfect life

for us

whit howland © 2021

stark

raw

naked lunch

loss

just words

they stare at me
every day

and I am still here
but you are gone

yet you are everywhere
now a conundrum

a Gordian Knot

whit howland © 2021

I might rollover
and bring you
the morning paper

but my bark
is metallic
echoes

and sounds
as if it was made
in a metal drum

a noise
that will haunt you
forever

There are some things I want to say
to you
tough medicine
rough music if you 're so
inclined not the kind you snap
your fingers to on the radio
it's more primal than that but
like the radio
when you hear it
years from now you'll know
exactly where you were the first time
you listened
and more importantly the year
make and model of car
you were driving


Whit Howland © 2019

Yellow green and blue
made by metal shavings

flower and bloom
in the pyre

as sparks rise
dancing

and whirling
in the dark

and melted chocolate
marshmallows

sandwiched between
graham crackers

for smores
are something sweet

to go with the pieces
and shards

of memories
from oh so long ago

knee ****
or reflexive
response

by

visual
stimuli
designed

to get a reaction

you always
back
me into a corner

leaving no choice
but to push
to click or flip

whatever is convenient
immediate
expedient

or red

we sit atop a retaining wall
the kern river below
rippling over rocks

it was a twisty road
and it had made me sick
so Papa had stopped the bus

his voice is low and soft
as he assesses my aches and pains

through the windshield I can see my brother
has shifted
from the passenger to the driver's seat

he is steering the wheel
making jet noises

Magraw our blue tick hound
orbits

sniffing rutting and barking at phantoms
he is protecting us

this scene always lies
at the farthest edge of my galaxy of memories

and I pull at it on moonless  restless nights
when I pray for sleep
and thank God for my charmed and blessed life


© Whit Howland 2019

Yes
it is safe to say
things got weird

our paths diverged
like many rivers
headed to the same ocean

or many veins
carrying blood
from the same pumping heart

Not to be
confused with deference

an affected
ingratiating gesture

of regard
to another's wishes

but yet a disagreement
of opinion or something else of note

and
so we don't grow old

going around on this
conversational tilt-a-whirl

I'm willing to make a concession
and settle this issue

by deferring exclusively
to you

We sow it like the seeds
one would sow

if they were to grow
apple trees

but we do it to make
to make our lawns green

it seems we both want
the same thing

to run as fast as we can from barren land
and limp brown blades of grass

whit howland © 2021

Where have you been
all my life

I'd ask you the same
but the words fail me

as they always do

each year in the cold
under the red and green lights

our breath freezing
before our very eyes

we discover each other
all over again

Glops and swirls
of red white
and blue

it does not fly
or billow in the breeze
it hangs

a piece of art

something to start
a conversation
you know

just small talk

with no guarantees
but no fine print
and definitely

no dotted line
to sign on

either

False
like the front
of an old west saloon

not broken
like Mom's favorite vase
she told us oh yes she did

not to play
ball in the house
we promised

she promised
and we blinked
it was sleight of hand

and now she's gone
a swindle
or was it buyer beware

January
and there's a blood orange
sunset

glowing in the sky
at five o clock
which means

we are
on the downhill slide
of darkness

heading for days
of warmth
and nights of blinking

fireflies
but honey like I 've said
many times before

never defer happiness
grab it now and not
like a falling star

but a rising one
you catch
and hold onto

by its wispy
glittering
tail

Jazz Hands
and I don't know why

my life at twenty-nine
already was a ball of rubber bands

some wisdom and words
to live by

don't challenge the Grim Reaper
to a pillow fight

unless you are prepared
for reaper cushions

outside there are clouds
the sky is steel gray

there's a threat
albeit an existential one

of rain
but the parade goes on

whit howland © 2021

Unexpected
not something expected

and I would add to that
unplanned

my title
and good name

are all that I have
you have

let the images
play out in your mind

whit howland © 2021

Something to remind me
of you

a bottle blue
that just sits
on the kitchen counter

I never touch the stuff
it could never do the things
that you used to do to me

whit howland © 2021

I think of Yertle
his thone his
wobbly kingdom

stacked
ten turtles high
and how absurd

we were back then
each wanting
our postage stamp

of space

for you it was
the small swatch
of faded Oriental rug

and I

fought
for the cuckoo clock
the one with the extra slow hands

that wavered
as if they had
St Vitus Dance

whit howland © 2021

We could blur the lines
of meaning

hot water beating the skin
hard or soft

steam rising clouds
on the glass

perspiration
or passion

morning ritual/routine
or Summer rain

but let's keep it simple
and start this day

with some cleaning
lay a foundation

and wash off the soot
from last night's mental

and spiritual
chimney sweeping

whit howland © 2021

Not fit for a feast
just a functional meal

the glint lost long ago
now dull stainless steel

where refueling
is the aim

for a nameless cog
in the machine

that runs so quiet
and smoothly


whit howland © 2021

With a drab
gray
wooden handle

it leans
next to a scuffed
blue dust pan

not to sweep things
under a rug

both have another
albeit
plain function

sweep up dust

both saw and plaster

Whit Howland © 2020

Again
I'm making this

a federal production
about

a bowl of silver
apples

and how these pewter
pieces of fruit

that if I'm not careful
can become

the cold and scary
central characters

all their own
in what is supposed to be

my  life

Whit Howland © 2020

Burnt orange
conjures a polluted sunrise

brown and rust
evoke junk cars shattered

pieces of glass
long ago fallen to the ground


truth is in the eye
of the beholder

Whit Howland © 2019

swirling
in a bowl
of cold milk

red yellow
blue and green
life rings

have we gone too far
pushed the envelop
taken it to the edge

sugary
crunchy
frosted

whit howland © 2020

Three gas pumps long
it's clean

perhaps
well lighted

but with summer bugs
swarming the lamps

like a plague

and it's in between
here

and there
whatever

and wherever
there

maybe

with an ivory handle
and so sharp

you cut like a knife
through butter

your tongue

shaving off minutes
from my life

almost
two at a time

whit howland © 2021

gray streaks
mixed with rusty brown

on a stretched canvas
tacked on a plaster wall

cash
on the barrel

and it's yours

at odds
the agreement

you got me for cheap
the dotted line

where I signed
I must have been sleeping

whit howland © 2021

Sun
Summer

it is here

passive voice
and lazy days
in a hammock

as it is swinging


whit howland © 2021

I have the urge
to tweak
better yet

subvert
the dominant
paradigm

out on the open
ocean
is a boat

painted blue
like the water
which is calm
actually

it's placid

the yellow sun
reflects
off the water if

you were in that boat
you might get what is called
a blue water tan

we are happy
moreover
we are jubilant

not sad

Whit Howland © 2020

Cherry stained
rose wood
silver
jangly
thirty five
a rough year
money
like honey
sweet
but hard
to come by

© Whit Howland 2019

A short one filled
with three cubes
of ice

cracked from
a tray
metal not plastic

and what we
drink
is a mix of things

fruity
tarty
but mostly sweet

making us that
of many masks
and a thousand faces

whit howland © 2021

white blossoms
                swaying in an April breeze

petals
          twirling to the ground

best of both worlds
                   fruit and flower

precious things
                    that never meet




Whit Howland © 2019

it could be anything
shoe

or chest of drawers
just shovel in the dirt

light loamy
so there's drainage

water generously
with a hose can or pitcher

you pick

"Buy the ticket, take the ride"

"You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them."

the plunge the leap
roots of caution

flash flood

washed down the street
the journey sans the pendant

learning and the trip
is a medal or medallion

unto itself

whit howland © 2021

slightly crooked
it hangs

but a painting
none the less

of a not-so-perfect
vessel

that carried us
down rivers

and out to sea
as we journeyed

far and wide

Your eyes are the color
of old copper

brown
with a tint of light green

you are amongst many
shiny pennies in the jar

and the mirror
does not lie

whit howland © 2021

Meat sliced
by a stainless steel blade
and by the pound

prime
and choice

back then
cuts were cheap
but such

as life