Now
a faded pair
of blue jeans

that served us well
as shadows set in
and pretty soon

there'll be nothing to see
and not much to tell
other than what we can glean

by the cold light
of a glinting sharp
silvery moon

whit howland © 2021

Why I never punctuate
is a poem in itself
and might speak very well of my
lack of patience and how I prefer
there to be few if no stops
along the way
like a silver comet or a bullet train

and that my friends and fellow poets
is sweet milk squeezed
from the source
of your choice


Whit Howland © 2020

lately it seems
our symphony has
turned to freeway
jazz as our minds
once a borg have
now gone on six
different tracks

would it do me
any good to sit
and watch this
record continue
to spin hoping
praying we'll
both come around
again

Whit Howland © 2020

E
we can see

thus we know it's there
and we feel safe

it's what we can't
discern
what is blurry

we fear
because we don't
understand

are you with me so far
good

because
from here on out
it gets kind of wiggy

if a tree falls in the forest
and no one's around

how big was the ax
that the woodsman used
to chop it down

Whit Howland © 2020

A slash of red
on white canvas

aggression maybe
war

might is right
so clear

and pure

lots of kicking and screaming
but

I know that now

whit howland © 2021

To God
only known
we are

unknown
to everyone else

you are seeing
what  no one else
can view

thus

you now know
what he can only
know

sublime

whit howland © 2021

it's when your mixing
paint
and metaphors

such as

being a bottle
lost in a sea
of eternal sunshine

then
all of a sudden

the light
on the projector
pops

and the world
simply

and beautifully
fades

to black

Whit Howland © 2020

Just a  speck
but I know it's there

across the sound
waiting for the tide

to recede
and the sand bar to appear

a bridge a connection
to the past

and a spark and a flame
to future enlightenment

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

a sharp blade
carving

shaving
after shaving

from a gnarled wooden
stick

or is it the sound
of your gravelly singing

and the many guitars
you've  owned and played

or the feel of stubble
or the smell of cologne

I don't know

but I'll can and will say
at the risk of selfishness

is your day is
mine too

and a day
will never be enough

It's in their eyes
an expression

or mood

as if someone pulled on the switch
in the room or the mind

pastel baby blue

feelings over facts
abstract over concrete

whit howland © 2021

A wilting rose
suspended in red-tinged water
in a vase

fingers plinking
yellowed ivory keys
with reverb coming through the speakers

so much to be said but
let's not kid ourselves
nothing was ever said

and it doesn't matter anymore
no hard feelings
but that's not really true

if there's already
a hardened heart
and

a plastic smile
an off-key voice
equals

a jar full of crumpled
dollar bills

whit howland © 2021

so as minutes
jitter

and hours sweat and
drum

their fingers

there's just not enough
time

to say you're sorry
and even less to say

I love you

Whit Howland © 2020

Maybe a snake coiled
on a rock

sunning itself

they say the sun will last
forever

as will our love
so long as it can coil itself

on a rock
and soak up the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

filled
to the brim

with the tea I never
drank

you are like
found art and also

like all the other animals
once

in my life
that have now passed

finally

I'm finding
time to have a conversation

with you

and them

there's a little voice
or a bee

buzzing

inside my
head

saying
we have things we need to talk about

Whit Howland © 2020

ridges swirls
slashes
traces smudges

they are not much
but they're what we leave
behind of us

of what we create
the things we build
and the statements we make

everything counts
as evidence

whit howland © 2020

Red

the color that sets the world
ablaze

and begets
other idioms

like tongues
of flame

licking the walls
and poking
out of shattered windows

in a three alarm fire

Whit Howland © 2020

A mad flight
and rickety descent

down the back of a
beast

that clanks
and flakes rust from under

our feet
and as always the case

success usually comes

by the skin of our  
teeth

Whit Howland © 2020

through my window
floats
a bevy of blue ghosts

their cold light
intermittent  

like the message on my old
answering machine


Whit Howland © 2020

Eggs Benedict
ham on rye
with freshly squeezed

orange juice

and I'm reminded
of you
and our first breakfast

with that sizzling
bacon
we made together

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

Goggles
a lambskin helmet

scarf
and a wand

to leave a chemtrail of bubbles
as I go

I don't need much more
than that

because this life
has always been piloted

by the seat of my pants
with no real plan

except for
an occasional barnstorming

here and there

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

The pallet and paints
that came

out of nowhere
may have been freaky

Was it an accident?

could be
could be not

YOU ARE THE JUDGE
YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN

THE JUDGE

But what came after the paints
brushes, easel, and canvas

Was  The cornucopia

The repository
argosy

The treasure trove
That was

THE BOMB

an explosion of poetic
colors

red orange greens
Like a candy flake daydream

Of lush beuaty and Art

And art is truth, and truth comes
from the heart

And it's the heart
That gives your truth

its power

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