chirp is the word
for the sound it makes

most say it sings
while for others  

it spills the beans
we claw and peck for meaning

a few call themselves poets
everyone fights

for freedom

it flies


Whit Howland © 2020

Shadows pattern
the wall

once in a while
they swing and ding

I left you because I felt
trapped

and thought
there was more than this

there was

I should have listened to you
instead of that distracting

flute music

you've always held
the key

whit howland © 2020

but before you go
can I ask you

was there a rhyme
reason purpose or

meaning of the thing

I ask this

because they're playing and
singing

your anthem your
lullaby

that'll slip you into dreamland

Whit Howland © 2020

Black dots
they blot out the sun

almost
a Rorschach pattern

you call
I answer

we speak
in tongues

our cacophony

music
and a blessing

to someone's ears

whit howland © 2020

This is really
about the wire

a lightly
penciled line
in the air

the birds like
underscores
or arrows

it's what's
implied
unspoken

what's
almost erased
or slightly out of reach

© Whit Howland 2019

your voice
this morning
left me with questions

blustery gray
or blue and sunny

boxers
or briefs

and

autumnal gold
or blooming

flowers
in Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more than just waxen sticks
posted like sentries

on a thickly frosted cake
it's a celebration

of things that are growing
inside me

such as my love
of confessional poetry

for paintings of lonely
landscapes

and of how I've perfected my ability
to navigate

wastelands
physical emotional

or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2020

State of mind
maybe a destination
though definitely not
a place

it's been so long
since you've been gone
I miss you
but my tears have become

dry heaves

and it seems
I really should say is
but I'm still too
timid

but it seems that you
are much stronger
now
in death

then you ever
were ever
ever were
in life

Whit Howland © 2020

You think I did
but I didn't

A hat
A device
A lens we see through

No matter what
that's just something I'd never do

Whit Howland © 2020

Chekov said if there's
a gun

then it must go off
so

BANG

and if a body lies
on the floor

and no one's around
is it really dead

is the private eye always
a drunk and why

is the frosted glass on his office door
spider-webbed

did he hit it with his fist
or was it once

a bullet hole

lastly
where there is no damsel

was there ever any
distress


Whit Howland © 2020

A starless sky
with the sun
on the dark side

of everyone's crazy
uncle

and an oily flame
might be all

it would take
to cheat

this night of fog
and shadows

Whit Howland © 2020

Faces
sharp and angry

a set of expressionist
prints

that hung on our kitchen
wall

though not the warmest
pieces of décor

they embodied
an ugly beauty

something

only you and I
could see

share
and love

Whit Howland © 2020

Pulpy and juicy
to the touch

Rasberry to the taste
it bleeds

down my chin
and blossoms on my shirt

as my heart bleeds
for you

similar to this pen
that bleeds bad verse

all over the pages
like fall leaves

brittle
and ephemeral

Whit Howland © 2020

You say it's late
maybe too late

to save this and you add
it's a sinking ship

and that there was never
any luster

or gild on the lily
so what do I say

AHH

it's what I ask that's the real
kicker

how does a ship sink
when it's never left the bottle

whit howland © 2021

Delicate
and powdery
across your surface

special
precious
timely

flower you are
cultivated
for your beauty

pure
good
divine

what we produce
is better late
than never

whit howland © 2021

but not for Sal
you or

even me

these droopy white flowers
with dark

blackened blue
tasty berries in the middle

whit howland © 2021

I'm staring

at a blue bottle
with bubbles

in the wavy glass
that is as thick as

thick

the world ends
when we have no more

metaphors
and similes

to describe it

Blue Bottle
pocked with pits
                   and bubbles

broken before tossed

jagged sharp
its bottom was
                   until water salt

smoothed its edges
recoloring
                   the glass a creamy lighter blue

blue bottle
broken weathered discolored
                   the journey

its story
is the brittle crinkled
                paper message

that should've  been
lodged
              within

Whit Howland © 2019

slightly crooked
it hangs

but a painting
none the less

of a not-so-perfect
vessel

that carried us
down rivers

and out to sea
as we journeyed

far and wide

Blue

a mixture green
the color

of grass in summer

with yellow
like the summer sun

and that to me is something
that will never equal

sadness

Something to remind me
of you

a bottle blue
that just sits
on the kitchen counter

I never touch the stuff
it could never do the things
that you used to do to me

whit howland © 2021

That ever elusive
clear blue

water we chased
was actually

cloudy from rain and
agitation

goodbye friend
I feel I hardly knew
you

there's so much
to be said

but

no time
and not enough
language

to express
the proper sentiments

of such parting sorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

Through
the blue shimmering
water

I see the black **** 
across the face of the floor
where it was slashed

I traveled all day
to get here from there
because no one

was there
when I knocked
and yelled hello

© Whit Howland 2019

Staccato
chirpy
if we focus on the
song

and the music
the song
we must
even

though
it's loud
and splits the
ear it's

something
we cannot
afford to
ignore

Whit Howland © 2020

Though photo real
it's really oil and acrylic

bathed
in thin sky blue

chipped
with splintered feet

it leans
against the moss-covered stone

side of a building
with an open window

and rickety shutters
that are pinned back like ears

a potted cactus rose and fern
descend its rungs

while our eyes blink and squint
until a conclusion is reached

we are somewhere
nowhere yet everywhere

© Whit Howland 2019

Blue

why is it blue
is it because I miss you

and that the house is empty
when it's just me

or is it the bad weather
emotional or otherwise

or the losing battle I fight
with the lawn and the cleaning

it seems so much of life
is being

swallowed up
in a quotidian funnel cloud

whit howland © 2021

After the swirls
a glimpse into a crystal ball

your life
and what it could be

or should be
then

BAMMO

it's gone

back to the world
dyed melancholy

and blue

Baby blue
navy

bisect
or intersect?

there's
a difference

and I have to
get it right

this time
time

fleeting
or flying?

the window's
open

and in my hand
is an alarm clock

with two ringing
bells

like vibrating
mouse ears

I'm thinking I will
just sail it through

and that should
solve everything

whit howland © 2021

So many years ago
but you

are still fresh in my
mind

your face your eyes your shape
same full color

and still in Panavision

why did you go why
won't you ever call

Whit Howland © 2020

Give me some
if this is Heaven

red gold
petals

pressed against
solid blue sky

without a cloud
in sight

if this is Heaven
give me some

All it took
was a March
Chicago wind

to turn you
inside out
and show you

how fragile
you really were
but not us

not you
and not us
I'm not talking

about us

no

maybe I am
about how it will
take more than

a stupid icy wind
to tear us
asunder

whit howland © 2021

Right now
the wind does not
howl

instead it sounds
a lot like whale music
calling

from down deep
and beckoning me
to dig deeper

don't worry
what ever is broken
I promise

I'll fix

Whit Howland © 2020

Whale
baby blue

concrete

and like a magnet
I'm drawn to it

as though it might
swallow

me  right up

I feel

released

with my head above
the clouds

the weight the bundle
I was shouldering

lifted and I've now become
a leaf

maybe a little dry
and brittle

but free to embrace
the gusty

exuberance
blowing me

this way and
that

Whit Howland © 2020

That sunny summer
feeling the wooden slats

as we were pulled
in a rickshaw

along the boardwalk
awash

in the human din
the crashing waves

and wonky midway music
as we locked eyes

and marched in our own
parade

Whit Howland © 2020

That slatted promenade
the paper ducks the
shooting gallery

and the spools
upon spools
of cotton candy

was it Santa Cruz
or Atlantic City

it was so foggy then
it's foggy now

and much has happened
with you and I
along this stroll

up hills
through valleys
and everywhere in between

but if there's been one constant

it's how tightly we clasped
each other's hands
so hard and earnest

that our wedding bands
stamped our skin
like we were certified and registered mail

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something about it
as adults

that's what we always say
and for some reason

we can never find what
that something really is

we search and we search
but

are we really just drifting

Whit Howland © 2020

Short and heavy
it soars through the air

or does it slide into
the lock

it's what you do to me
crossing my wires

one minute I want to fly
be free

and the next
I want to slide in and lock this

us

up forever

whit howland © 2021

My poetic life these days
is all about taking sadness,
fear, angst,
and distilling them into a sour mash,
then creating an elixir for the soul.

In other words, poetry is not about purge,
but of purification,
of myself, my psyche -- how do I do that,
you ask?

Simple. I'm a man of few words,
and because
I am man of limited diction,
like Caleb did for Moses,
I let life and my universe speak for me.

For instance, take this barn near my house ...

It's timbers blighted, brittle, almost bone weary,
its middle sags,--
but its not sad, its belligerent, mean--

just one more gust of wind, it all comes crashing down,
and brother, sister,
if your around,
near it's wrath, lookout!

Or the motor court down the road ?

Paint peeling, windows broken--

but regardless of her looks-- her voice is angelic as she sings to you for another chance at supper and glory.

So you see poets,

the sun, moon,
stars, trees, structures,  streets, walls,
all laugh, scream
and weep for you --

you just have to tune your ear
to their frequency.

whit howland © 2019

Yellow green and blue
made by metal shavings

flower and bloom
in the pyre

as sparks rise
dancing

and whirling
in the dark

and melted chocolate
marshmallows

sandwiched between
graham crackers

for smores
are something sweet

to go with the pieces
and shards

of memories
from oh so long ago

did he
or did he not

write his great American novel
on a roll of toilet paper

so many questions so
many conversations

so little well
time

is what you make
of it

you and i had time
and then we didn't

whit howland © 2021

Chicken Soup
for the Soul

why

who knew the Soul
had a cold

I guess that explains
all those aches and pains

it was you it
always has been you

tugging
at my heartstrings

is if I were a violin bass
or steel guitar

whit howland © 2021

Still resonant on my
hollowed-out soul

do you think we paid too much
for this apartment

she asked
all those years ago

to some it's criminal
how I never

seem to learn
the lesson

you can try to knock some
sense

into my head
or knock me

off my heels

but I seem hard
to school and always

have a penchant for going
back

to what I know and
can do best

Whit Howland © 2020

i sweep
the floor

i drag your valises
up to your room

I park your
cars

i avail
or profit from your loss

i am your worst nightmare
as i stamp out all existence of you

whit howland © 2021

There not
broken if they're
sutured

with two rows
of  stitches
parallel to each other

and wide enough
to plant a column
of flowering trees


Whit Howland © 2020

Lately when I dream
there's just a lot of blue

sometimes it shimmers
like in a pool

other times
it hangs like a velvet

curtain on a stage

I'm here at this hour
on this earth

to ponder what's
absurd

the things in the mind
that need to be cleared

like junk in the attic
but before we toss

we revisit

this is one of those
things

I roped you in so
why don't you put

your feet up

and stay


Whit Howland © 2020

Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

They are at their best
and most beautiful

when hanging
on a nail

driven

into a wall
or the weathered wood

of a door

because then
they become an object

of nostalgia
which turns to inspiration

each day I find myself
more

and more

adopting your patterns
your rhythms

your pug tenacity
and dauntless courage

I miss you brother

I hope you never doubted that

Whit Howland © 2020

No need to think
beyond the box
the game is simple

a color wheel
melted

into thin
waxen sticks

ripe
low hanging fruit

you just point
and shoot at random

at the drop of a hat

don't cry over spilled milk

and you're judged
by the crayon you choose

with which to color your days
weeks months
and years

© Whit Howland 2019