Not new
but new to you

your first Nikon
my father gifted

when he saw
your countless
flowers

it was six years old

but it was like
a wrecking ball

concrete blocks
and mason's tools

******* in an
ethereal sky blue
ribbon

which sparked
your desire for art
and commerce

coupled with my need
to find again
the line and verse

adrift
in the harbor fog

and record it
for posterity

that ultimately
leveled and rebuilt

reclaiming
in what felt like
three days

a  beautiful thing

that will
and should never

cease and desist

Whit Howland © 2019

Frankly
I prefer the rippling white sheet

with eye holes
floating down the hall

instead of what tugs
at my conscience

like fingers pulling on that
tiny strand of hair

whit howland © 2020

Could it be
I heard another

record drop
on the turntable

then a ghostly needle
scratch the vinyl

as it began to play
silent music

for so long
I've felt I've been
without

a voice
hands folded

yelling as though
from some other

dimension
where the words
and sentences

are blocked by static
and white noise

Whit Howland © 2020

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

A lurid yellow
world

where light is pale
and sick

and those lives that are
saved

are no longer worth
living

I'd leave it at that but
for the sake of humanity

I'll talk you through this

tell her that yourself

and if God willing
you'll see her tomorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

Though we cannot
grasp it

we have to label
this fantastic

bauble
of shiny knobs

bright bells and
whistles

to identify is to
trust

Whit Howland © 2020

white
thick over skim

not quite full
so no surface tension

in a cold sweat
I am connected

to you
I flow freely

for you with
you

whit howland © 2021

It may not take
        your breath away

the trees the piped in pond
of gray-green water
          as bland as
the idioms
          or
tautologies that inspired
them

        and

as equally flat
as the former fields
         of
tasteless feed corn

but maybe it's not
        beauty we need

just space
         to keep the crickets
 at bay

and oil the hinges
          on the screen door

making it less creaky

Whit Howland © 2020

Turquoise blue
or coffee brown

or did it matter

as long as it spun
on its axis

and was life ever
really the same

when we unhitched it
like a wagon

and watched it bounce
down the stairs

only to have it collide
with other alien worlds

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning your eyes sparkled
as you talked

to the birds that chirped
through the screen

then you shimmied up
your scratching post

I wish I could take back what happened
to you three weeks ago

and found you before it was
too late

my cross to bear but
bear it I will

A light
more a glow

the source
we do not know

should we
do we

dare
ask where

or why

my days are spent
trying

to read your ticks
your expressions

and I must do so
without fail

without question

it's the wire I walk
between two points

straddling



Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

green
with four leaves

they take over
these clovers

the lawn
and everything

in between
so I ask you please tell me

what is good
and where is the fortune

in that

Bright
eyed
we rise to
it talk to it
harness like
a horse
worship
and personify
it what is he/it
to me what
am I to him
if not a lier
and just a bit
sleepy

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Keds and Converse
scrape the court
bathed in harsh light

the ball

bouncing
echoing

off the concrete

then arcing
toward the hoop
every shot now

counts

whit howland © 2021

colors once bright
              now off
pale

one year
         and the paint
fades flakes

and the American Flag
            is  nearly washed away
by  snow rain dirt and dust

yet it waits
       patiently
for summer

and sun
      to summon
painters cleaners

the worker bees
      to scramble rally
around its cause

trust for you
     trust for me
trust we  can

still once more
     strike a match
ignite the torch

and keep it lit


Whit Howland © 2019

barber's poles
               or candy canes

water taxis
               or water bugs

gondolier's song
              maybe flamenco music

time was short
            is short

too short
         for pencil sketches

of memories that blur
           and  evanesce

in water black
           and oily


Whit Howland © 2019

First steam
then electricity

it's what we worshiped
most

connection

power
movement


wheels in motion
transportation

of  thoughts
to prayers

turning inspiration

into action and
progress


Whit Howland © 2020

Solid
the color of steel
that much is clear

but an area
where things get
murky

how could that be
when overtime
it becomes the color

of our hair
when we turn wise
and able

to see the forest
for the trees

gray
the color of days
that are cold and rainy

and there's no
ambiguity
in that

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

it's what we expect them
to say

or paint

vertical slashes
swirls and dabs of gray

with such windswept
and abstract beauty

but nobody
and i mean nobody

ever anticipates the flush
of sun

in the right-hand
corner

whit howland © 2020

Sweeping gray
swirling white

windswept
water blotches


rivulets
rain drenched canvas

dreams left
unattended

now
a forgotten watercolor moment


Whit Howland © 2019

I hobble along
thinking

broken toe
blistered pad

these leaves back to back
they fall

flopping

on top of each
other

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

Deja vu
maybe

in any case
we've been here before

muddy waters
dull days

murky
uncertain future

a crossroads
and all that

I was so angry that day
crazy
from the heat

it's in the eyes
the grimace
on my face finally

leathered and lined
with crow's feet
you captured me with your lens

at my most naked and exposed
my stoic plaster mask
now smashed

swept away
in whitewater and rapids
you captured me


and I've loved you ever since

Whit Howland © 2020

It's the bubbles
in the clear green glass

that pull me away
from the day

lost in more than thought
abstractions

and absurdities

the graveyard
where the mind is laid to rest

a platter a piece
of ham

and eggs
that are green

but it's your definition
of green

that
worries me

for not only
do I have certain tastes

in my shades
of that color

I have my preferences
for how

I like my breakfast
served to me

and I prefer
a bit more truth

and a little less
power

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

we're on the other side
of the fence

and yes
it is what they say it was

but not quite what we thought
it was going to be

people tend to exaggerate
and fabricate

building suspension
and tension

when they are waiting
for something

they should have seized
long ago

A kiss
on the moon
backed

by marbled blue
and white clouds

inside
a sentimental verse
or rhyme

something to remind me

that there’s a time
and a place
for everything

and now’s the time
to switch hats

from a Gatsby
to that of simple straw
and not

give more
then the world is willing to take

Whit Howland © 2020

When every day's
a struggle

to keep your head
above water

may solace be found
in words so preciously

penned
by a printing press

with sprinkles
and milky images

It's politeness
blocking

us from its core
and

preventing us from
pulling

the common thread
so the cloak

unravels
and

the more we tarry
or

dilly dally
the more complex

the thing grows
so for Pete sake

can we just skip

hello

Whit Howland © 2020

silver tin can
on thick

rubber wheels
frayed velvet seats

raw deal
memories

regrets
are plenty

nowhere
to go no sense

of place
or belonging

whit howland © 2021

The moon is full
but your lips
were much fuller

as your reflection
rippled
in the amber

it's half past midnight
and all I can do
is stare at an empty glass

and ask
what the hell was  I
thinking

Sturdy
cardstock
with glitter and a gauzy
image on the front

and no metaphors
to describe the feelings inside
only words

plain heartfelt words

read
and spoken
over
and over again

whit howland © 2021

Beige walls
with painted blue anchors

yellowed light

a gray rug
worn

but still good

do you
or don't you


everybody does
has a story to tell

that is

black
cast iron head

blonde
wooden handle

the magnet
you were

and I
was the steel

but too bad
it had to be the hammer

you thought to be
the only tool

you
ever needed

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

such as the casual wayward
glance

across the room
then

eyes locked

like padlocks
to a bridge in Paris


Whit Howland © 2020

a bauble
or a geegaw

something to spark
the imagination

to relieve the stress
a release valve

so to speak
mine you

was something
bounced off the wall

stretched
like Stretch Armstrong

and molded like playdough
you were there

but not really
often just a figment

of a magic afternoon
where both of us danced

with crickets lizards
and whirligigs

but now you are gone
one day I cut you loose

by choice and necessity
though you still haunt me

on sleepless
and moonless nights

A life like
mine

spent
scuttling

from point
to point

every once in awhile
a light

a respite



Whit Howland © 2020

like a bag of bricks
my conscience

you must have felt it too
and my breath

even from a far
when our eyes locked

and you knew you were being

pursued

so sorry
it was a heavy load I bore

for it was urgent
business

whit howland © 2020

I climb in and out of you
like a jungle gym
slide down your slide
spin on your merry go round

what makes you tick

passion and intensity
is something I get

but the other part
is just so foreign to me

whit howland © 2021

it's really about the hat
straw with a farmer's brim

we got them for free
at a baseball game

and made each other laugh
tilting them rakishly on our heads

it was the first time we had talked to each other
in days

Whit Howland © 2020

We are always out of time
as we drive by

running from our own trolls
and demons

to stop and see
what animatronic terrors

await us

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

No not stone
but one

shaped like a ***
filled with ***** and *****

of multicolored yarn
figurative

of course
more the stories that shape

the way a man feels and teaches
him the why and how

to love