like in a barrel
or in a sink

we are the lambs the paper ducks
the canaries

in the goldmine
we are battered

next to chips
the food

for hungry
watering mouths to feed

sorry
it was nothing personal

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

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

but feels like a crazy eight
with one day off

that was all that was
in the cards

and last weeks
drama

is this week's life
affirmation

it's the things we do
to clutch at straws

when we really want to use them
to slurp soda

whit howland © 2021

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

A moon not pale
but robust

or

dare I say
voluptuous

it's still snowy
in Wintertime

through this mountain
pass

so long ago

and I'm still crying
over spilled milk

whit howland © 2021

before our very eyes
or face

like we are falling
or colliding

destiny
maybe

but definitely
a silver bucket

and a brand-new pair
of cleats

fire engine lips
big tongue
bulbous nose

free lunch

TANSTAAFL

surgical gloves
a steady hand to sew

through chaos
comes order

hence
the peach-colored sunset
behind a scaffold
of darkened branches

whit howland © 2020

They're in a much better place
now

flying steady
against a steel gray sky

and soft white
clouds

and the more they
soar

the more they
shed to

just essence
ideas and current

flowing through
the telephone wires

Whit Howland © 2019

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

The damage is done
my love

and I understand that your forgiveness
won't be forthcoming

and all I can say to explain
is this

what I did I did under
duress

and it may be hard to comprehend
that I only meant to protect you

it is a concept I fear will be forever
lost at sea


whit howland © 2021

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

Strength
expressed in
radiant beauty

a meadow
with clusters of
wildflowers

some pink
others white
with a blushing core

they sway to and fro
not chaotic
but martial with the wind

and they fight their battles
not with swords
and shields

but with rhythm
and dance

© Whit Howland 2019

i love early fall
the time just inside
of september

the leaves still green
but there's finally a bit
of blush

in their complexion
that later will turn
to a pallor


Whit Howland © 2020

That future was scattered
like all of the other bubbles

throughout the universe
quite similar to ours

you know the one
with a two-car garage
and a house by the lake

and where we would have grown old
together

bouncing our grandkids
on our knees

Whit Howland © 2020

Plastic players
you spin on a spit
in an attempt to knock

a plastic ball
into
the goal

you are we are
doings things
that are way beyond

our control

Tracks in the snow

a small game trail
deer path
or footprints

ciphers
symbols
signs

of steps
equals
forward motion

progress


whit howland © 2020

There's a much better poem out there
about you

it's one I probably wrote

like you
I found my niche

though not among Greek Isles
excavations
blue water and olive trees

but in the rough but
loving paintings

hung on walls
in places

seldom remembered
and mostly
forgotten

Whit Howland © 2020

Much
of what confused me
I see today unravel

the big ball of rubber bands
now being fileted and
the strands laid out in precise rows

in the forest
mist shrouds some trees
and tries to screen some others

but again
my eyes peel away
the cloudy layers

even though
there is a steady stream
of tears

© Whit Howland 2019

With a steady hand
I paint I draw I write

by the
numbers

I am careful
maybe too

cautious
not to color outside
of the lines

so little time

and I am constantly
looking
over my shoulder

Whit Howland © 2020

It's hard to top
a day in early spring

when I can smell
the crisp air sandwiched
in between

warm
and cold

hear again
the symphony of birds

and see the color return
to my mother's pale face

Whit Howland © 2020

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

He sits in a metal chair
creaking
under his weight
his shadow rocks
as he rocks peaking
around the corner
is a flaming red gas pump
with a dyspeptic glass globe
out there off in the distance
are four lanes of blacktop
his is the fifth and solitary
one something we and the rest
of the world never will be privy to

Whit Howland © 2020

The clock is set
to a time

that like many other
things

is something we
had to not only
bite

but bite down
hard

on the bullet
and settle on

similar

to how
your face your
hair my

mismatched eyes
reminds

us both
that

there is no such
thing

as the perfect
Christmas tree

Whit Howland © 2020

The night we called it 
a day

I remember that night

mostly the day

there've been a thousand of them
in a thousand lifetimes

cloudy gray
with raindrops
as dingy as mop water

so many times
have I been scrubbed
squeegeed and wiped out
of someone's mind

Whit Howland © 2020

and you are here
caught in my vortex

waiting with baited
and well

rancid breath

from the taste of
anchovies

while I ponder
where this is going

and what this all
meant

the mind a little slower
the older I get


whit howland © 2020

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

Were it a fly
we could talk

but it's not
it's a frog

I have more
in common with a fly

small restless
fickle in its tastes

with a mind that moves
much faster than I'd like

Whit Howland © 2020

My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

I remember that windy
February night

we sat cross-legged
on the hardwood floor

in the room of that hotel
on Michigan Avenue

popping corks
squirting cheese ****

talking in riddles
and circles

My flat cap
is on the hat rack

as I'm alone
tonight

in a big barn bed
outside

is the hum
of a ratty ******

and just before
I closed my eyes

I penned a note
to you on cheap

hotel stationery
hang in their baby

I'll be home soon
just one more drink

and I swear I'll be right
with the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

Of high value
but yet the most flimsy
or breakable

and in some cases
shatters in pieces
and scatters across the floor

was this truly legit
or just an impulse buy
in the checkout line

at the front
counter
in the Hallmark store

something like love
so precious and we still
kick it to the curb

or manhandle
and shove it roughly
out the door

Ice
on the trees

like ice crystals
on a bottle  

of vintage
soda

steam rises from a cup
of hot cocoa

and the home
is always warm

when the heat
radiates

from
the heart

Something comfortable
but with pizzazz

fine lines
a touch of leather

and brushed
nickel

we think aloud
in unison

we complete each other's
sentences

with relatively speaking
the same syntax

whit howland © 2020

If we let our imaginations
run

amok

do we blame them for what we might

become

my blood

your blood

whose blood

on whose hands

Whit Howland © 2020

We are

a silver hat,
or a silver shoe,

a still life
and one never fully realized

as we move around the board
so many times;

faces and names become
a blur.

"That was so long ago...

I barely remember yesterday"

she said.

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

Red hat
pulled over the  eyes

homespun clothes
and a white wavy beard

and every day as I walk by
I ask you

what's the good word

thinking someday
you will speak

and tell me how to find
the door

With a pointed hat
ruddy face
and a frosty beard

you take me back
to a past
of fried bologna

cheese Wonderbread
and mayonnaise and
in the end

I am left
with following
conclusion

you truly are
what you ate

all those years ago

Rows of bright
red roses

violets tulips
or tomatoes turnips

and carrots
too

in brown loamy
soil

is there structure
or is it a pallet

of assorted
smudges

grays
or flash and colors

Giverny
or a Victory Garden

we are
what we cultivate

and what and who
we feed

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

for the longest time
your face rippled

like a reflection
in a wishing well

lately

I find myself at night having
conversations with the moon

in all its ubiquitous
full figured glory

the last time
I asked

you said no

I said I will never
ask again

whit howland © 2020

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

If I had a pin I'd
poke your skin and

watch you flubber
and fly

across the room
until

you were a deflated
balloon

once full of futile human
wishes

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning
I brushed my teeth

my gums bled

and the sink
was spattered with
red

it's not how
why
or even where

it's that I was there
and it happened

Whit Howland © 2020

The propeller rotates
and chops

the air and
I feel the wind on my face

I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and

the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss

an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer

but she’s great and thank you
for asking

and though like you
she does not  understand it

she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude

Whit Howland © 2019

True friendship takes us
by the hand
and shows us
we are not alone

on the front lawn
in tandem
they do a loose-jointed
shuffle

I never wanted anything
more in life
except to be your
everything

perched on a roof
with eyes a google
they honk
like feathered *******

remember the joy
forget all the pain
and the tears and sadness
will wash themselves away

a steady stream
from a thick rubber hose
is all it takes to blast
those geese droppings
from the dock


whit howland © 2021

it was so very hot
today

but i mowed the grass
anyway

all the while
fighting

the stinging sweat
that burned my eyes

Whit Howland © 2020