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

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

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

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

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