It might not be there but
you can hear it

as if you held a conch shell to your
ear

the whistle  blasting  the
locomotive huffing blowing

off steam

with wheels thundering like
hooves

your past catching up to you in this small
spare

room

Whit Howland © 2020

hung up
actually
specifically
snagged

on language
more pointedly
tangled in the use
of words

sharply

hooked
on the gears and wheels
of the mind
and how it works

words

without them
we falter
blunder
we fail

as admirals as captains
to map out our journey
to chart our voyage
our trek

to plot our course

whit howland © 2021

a circle or
sphere

the visual
representation

of a comfortable
and safe space

as they say
less is more

and the best plan
is one that can be easily

explained to those
who have

to implement it

Whit Howland © 2020

With a neutral-colored sky
who can tell whether it’s night or day
and

it doesn’t bother those who walk
with arms locked in monochromatic bliss
toward the grandeur of the Eiffel Tower

love is too precious
and somewhat crude and time
too fleeting

to worry
about precision color
spectrum and other
artist aches and pains

Whit Howland © 2019

something
to break the ice
or instigate a February thaw

the impression of trees
the childish lollypop kind
and sky blue thumbprints

overhead
that meet the curves and crests
of chalky green

it's what's needed
to unfreeze the heart
and flow the tears

Whit Howland © 2019

Three cars long
a passenger a box
and a flatbed

pulled

by a stocky
blocky locomotive


the caboose

has long since given
way to the ellipses

Whit Howland © 2020

A wave cracks like a whip
in the wind

blowing

across the wheat
in a never-ending field

did I mean to come here
or was I just out wandering

and do I mean to
stay

whit howland © 2020

Short and
declarative

definitive
punctuation

it seems
I caught you
on your worst
day

but at your finest
hour

Whit Howland © 2020

against an orange marbled
backdrop

amber glow now
fading

it served us well

once solid and cutting
the inky

ether from which we might've
plucked


Whit Howland © 2020

it's with casual
effect

i bless you
with my presence

you move me
and i'll move myself

every now and then
or if you will

from time to time
so as not to fade

or be washed out
by the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

Down below
a lighthouse rusts
it's

not sad just
getting on in years

if there was an edge
of Earth this would
be it although

it is not the end but
much
like the beginning

and clearly seen

as a globe spinning
on its axis

Whit Howland © 2020

I feel different than before

not so angry
restless
or confused

it’s only a spec
on this great canvas

a locomotive

puffing smoke

pulling a string of boxcars
through never-ending rows of corn

I’m moving forward now
not so fast mind you

just slow

steady progress

headed  out west
someplace

where it’s warm

Whit Howland © 2019

picture a poem
about an obsession

with pictures
of ordinary things

or distant memories
of trips you've taken

to places you've never
been

as you searched for the voice
to put words to a phrase

a sentence and then to a poem
and you can hear it now

whoo whooing whooing
and the chugging

and you can almost feel the blast
of steam

the journey has begun
but it's hard to know

if it ever really ended

Whit Howland © 2020

A bite a kick like a glass
of sweet but ****
lemonade

we're older now and we kid
ourselves when we look
in the mirror

and at others our age
we don't think we look like that
but we do

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the sum of all its
parts

the spark plug belts
fuel

and water pumps
filters pistons and the many valves

but most of all the
silent

and greasy hand
that made the magic happen

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a cozy arrangement
we both share

they stand in their glazed
earthen jar

never thirsty and never
dying

and my end of the bargain

ignoring the pesky little fact
that they were never alive



Whit Howland © 2020

With Spartan
sentences
and syntax

life stripped
down to only
what we need

it doesn't get
more luxuriant
than that


Whit Howland © 2020

and I should see nothing
but I see everything

in my reflection

that should not be there

a vision

my face
it's wrinkles
furrows
lines

now syntax that's so easy
to read

yet with much to say
like a Sunday paper

Whit Howland © 2020

We run we
want to escape

we try but we
can't hide

we're here and then
we desire to be there

the grass was already
a bright shade of green

why did we ever think
we needed it greener

Whit Howland © 2020

A salty wind not
a breeze

blows through this
one

topping the crests  
of sandhills

filling my eyes
my craw

with grit

as I continue my shifting
and unstable walk

toward the timpani
of crashing waves

punctuated by gulls
cawing

gliding and
dive-bombing

there is nothing
really

to see here

except for
a lot of sweeping

bagging and
burning of trash

possibly some
stitching and

a little bit of
taping and

bandaging

Whit Howland © 2020

the sky is rinsed
colorless

the sun fades unnoticed
but

was it really there

the grass that browned
in Fall

is still littered with brittle
leaves

and we float above
it all

knowing

the world is not necessarily
us


Whit Howland © 2020

In the spotted mirror
popping quarters

to make the bed
rumble

as the shower sputters
steam rises

and freshly chopped ice
fills a vinyl bucket

you are everywhere
that was so long ago

What purpose do I
serve

what is my function

do my legs fold out
and can people rest

their dinner
their drinks on my
stomach

I have a voice but
what's the use without
a talent or

something I'm good at

the more I sit here and cogitate about it
the more my mind

jumbles things like
black and white

and with a sweeping stroke
paints the sky
gray

Whit Howland © 2020

as I've told you many times
before

so much depends on the words we
forage for
and our ability to whittle down

those pieces of wood
and fashion a workable phrase

the structures we choose
to build

and that has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

Spinning
the world is
spinning

out of control
I don't I don't
know

I focus on you
and only you
your deep blue eyes

black eyelashes
your offwhite porcelain
skin

Whit Howland © 2020

electric blue ink

rolling straight lines

some light and thin
others

thick with pressure
applied

kicking and screaming
pulling teeth

I never thought
I'd say this

I miss all of you

I know none of us
look the same

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Light and simple
in its construction

and efficient
in the wind

as it catches
a current

and soars doing
loops

and arcs
before it crashes

to the floor
with yet

another failed pass  
at heaven

Whit Howland © 2020

Close my eyes
let go of fear?

I fear

if I do,

I will look up above
and see

a black anvil
hanging  by a  thread

over me.

whit howland © 2021

Gauze
or some tape

to cover a scrape
or scratch

that we tell ourselves
is only a temporary solution

but then
ends up another

permanent accessory
to our makeshift lives

Focus on the comb
in a jar

suspended in icy
blue

gleaming chrome
red nogahyde chairs

and glinting silver
shears

she lives

he lives

I still live

for something that is ours
and only

ours


Whit Howland © 2020

It's the small acts of magic
like the floating bar napkin

the dime for every quarter
or the clean separation

of two straws
tangled as lovers

matched
somewhere south of heaven

these little sleights of hand
turning heads everyday

and changing minds
forever

White but dark
its face

is like
a sinister heart

and its eyes
are the black marbles

little kids shoot
in the ally behind the drugstore

friend or foe
can we even tell the difference

anymore



whit howland © 2021

What do I know about death
not much

except that I almost died
three times

the first time was the hardest
the other two were pretty easy

ghostly pale wide-eyed with a lanky face
nocturnal and it hunts

on buoyant wingbeats in fields
and meadows

so what do I know about death
not much except that I almost died three times

Whit Howland © 2020

A funny bone
a gag reflex

and an innocent
question

would you go out
with me

was all it took
for you to spit

Coke
through your nose

all those years
ago

Leather oil
and smell

figures into it


and crack  of the bat
sound

as well as
the other senses

and food
food is for action

not for thought
as we grasp at straws

and other metaphors
we appropriate mix

and call
American

even for
the non aficionado

when you say
such trite things as

step up to the plate

knock it out of the park

they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat

smell the oiled
leather of the glove

and hear the crack

as the ball soars
higher into the sky

past the cheap seats
and beyond

and I wonder

how could I
have dismissed

these words
and turns of phrases

so raw
golden
sweet and bardic

Whit Howland © 2019

Legal tender
coins banknotes

return to sender
address unknown

the expectation
of something great

my garbage
your gold

big league
raw deal

anticipation
moolah

your hell
my happy place

whit howland © 2021

Oiled
leather

loved
worried on
and

distressed

an artifact
from my past

serving

as a hieroglyph
signifying

the phantom pain
still

stinging
from the impact

of the ball so
long ago

Whit Howland © 2020

I fear my change may only be fleeting
because
although like Pharoah

you've hardened my heart

you left me with a full set of teeth
to come back and take another bite at the apple

Whit Howland © 2020

Black Eye Patch
baseball cap
pink and sugary gum

conjures
the twilight
games

of stickball
kick the can
and hide and seek

and I could ask
where they all went
those days

my brothers my pals

but life
is too complicated
for that kind of lament

and also
nostalgia
good memories

are meant to simplify
wipe cleanse
and finally

stitch together
the wounded
soul

whit howland © 2020

This poem
is about

a rouge
blushy
flushed
sunrise

and lots
of red
lipstick

and no cigarettes left
in the last
cigarette machine

known to

woman


it's six am
and yes

I am wide
awake

whit howland © 2021

It's not that words
have failed

it's just
there are none

all dreams

crushed
like aluminum cans

dingy *****
is their world

real or fictitious
as they watch

and cheer
these battling Maxos

built
like Roman Statues

duke it out

their faces being
opened

like tomato cans

Whit Howland © 2020

Between these two points
it usually comes down

to where I've been in my life
when I've arrived

mostly in late August
a hazy day

on a trip
and last hurrah

staring at the bend
in the highway

as crooked as
a drinker's elbow

Whit Howland © 2020

I look at you
and I

in pictures
and sometimes marvel and

sometimes blanch
at our hair and what we're wearing

good memories for sure
mixed with a few that are bad

but never any regrets about the places
we've been

and there's much excitement
about the brightness of the light

that illuminates the path
forward

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm so tired
of the mental chatter

the clutter the spatter
of spilled paint

it's a peace I seek
and order

over quiet but

nothing forced

just the structure
of natural patterns
color

and a staff of musical
notes

Whit Howland © 2020

Your note
handwritten
in pink pen

on coarse
and crumpled
scratch paper

"Are you okay
lately
you seem kinda distant"

if not then
I'll say it now

I'm so sorry
I must have been
lost

in the weeds of thought
and tangled
in overthinking

thank you for your
gentle hand
and firm grip

Whit Howland © 2020

Horned rimmed
and tortoiseshell
they rest just left of center
on my nose

and if I ***** my eyes
I can see the bifurcated line
where the focus changes

and it's the same one you
are seeing right now

I miss my mom
my grandmother my grandfather
and my brother

and I'm bracing myself
for the shape of things to come

Whit Howland © 2020

It could be thunder
or sunshine
yet you always remain
at your desk

looking out the window
musing

about quotidian things
like chirping birds
and if they know you exist

and the stuff
they might say about you
behind your back

that is if you're not too busy
typing up pages
of the emotional weather report

Whit Howland © 2020