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

These silver-colored nuggets
in a glass bowl

plopped
on the counter

metallic gleaming
under the fluorescent light

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

In his              
plaid sport coat

pulling tissues
from his paper sack head

flinging them

slinging
bathroom jokes

cackling
jigging

a comedic
unknown soldier

known only
to God

This is just
a friendly reminder
to take out the trash before you leave

love you

a plate of eggs
bacon
sausage

and ham

so fast
it moved it was a blur
and so loud it howled

throughout the night

whit howland © 2021

louvered windows refract the sun's rays

I see life through  a glass *****

This year looks much different than last

We are what our eyes judge our first impression of things to be.

My eggs are runny

Your last and for the sake
of love
and charity

I'll say it was a good one
and I'll venture even farther
contesting

it was likely your best
with air probably the richest
a man could ever breath

and the lofty wind
that whistled through your nose
gave you the resolve

to launch
above and beyond
to things only you

now can understand

Whit Howland © 2020

I went searching
for myself

but found you among
the clouds

where the air is thin
clear and my mind is light

much like my heart

I'll tell your story
so I can someday write mine

Whit Howland © 2020

Wet rainy frogs
hopping
on the pavement

did we do this to ourselves
do what

the heart hardened the paint
splattered the sweeping
brush strokes

in various shades
of gray

whit howland © 2020

red
but faded

slats  cover the path or
walkway

below
the river frozen and blanketed
with powdery snow

and icy branches crack
on the spotty wooded shores

it seems so long ago
when we were last here

the water gurgled the trees
were green and the paint
was bright and fresh

I'm so sorry I didn't
know
but I should have

whit howland © 2020

Leather
wrinkled with age

but trusty

case in point
without the fluff

we are talking about a grip
that's been through it all

seen it all
and stood the test of time

This morning
we woke

to a powdering
of snow

on the streets
the cars

and most beautifully

our lamppost
still lit

radiating

frosty
but warm light

Whit Howland © 2020

moon imagery
never grows old

but the older
I grow

the crazy love affair
I once had
with ten-dollar words

starts to wane

images are now
only digestible
in bite-sized
green cheese flavored
morsels

I've been at this
so long

that much of what
gets done is under
weak and pale light

and by fingertip
feel

and finally

most people
want you to speak to them
directly about sadness

rather than
take them down
a moonless
wet and lonely street

Whit Howland © 2020

Dear John,

the Bagnall Dam Zone
is just your speed

lots of people crowded in bars
gone to seed

but places
where you could tend
serve drinks and dispense

your brand
of dimestore philosophy

we all need

Stuck at six
and ten

the second's hand
convulses

every man
has the patience

to wait two thousand lives
for  that vindication

and just one minute
of fame

Whit Howland © 2020

Open
with a red-orange sunrise

then
crack that sunrise like an egg

and let the yoke and white slop
into a mixing bowl

question
do we then beat that egg

scramble it
or do we fry it or

maybe poach
perhaps

we just leave that broken sunrise
in the bowl on the counter

someone else's gift
or curse

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
you and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
life

yours
and mine

you
and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

We celebrate
our separation

from the mother ship
our first

independent breath
we are the seed

in pickled in animation
soon to have

dangling roots

whit howland © 2021

It's hard to say goodbye
to a place

when I've never said hello
as the cliche goes

and this isn't really a poem
as much as it is a meditation

about what could have been
and why it really was

or was it ever really
and why should it have happened

that way
we could go on and on

doing loop dee loops
somersaults

cartwheels bonsai dives
belly flops

but all this is procrastination
with a dash of Egyptian denial

and it's time to connect
the dots

it's real easy if you merely
sit and think about it

wake up
smell the jo

see the gate and close it
behind you

move
toward go to

the blinding beam of
light

and more over

there's the bridge

Whit Howland © 2020

With a drab
gray
wooden handle

it leans
next to a scuffed
blue dust pan

not to sweep things
under a rug

both have another
albeit
plain function

sweep up dust

both saw and plaster

Whit Howland © 2020

Somewhere
between red and yellow

Albuquerque and Amarillo
we've run the gamut

you and I
the spectrum

hot and cold
happy and sad

and now
we've settled in the middle

just west of melancholy
with a little bit of rust

around the edges

Your flavor
a candy-flake daydream

so sweet

but no
you did not complete  me

and it wasn't for trying
I chewed on all of your words

your every word
that inevitably

I know that now

lost their taste
in a matter of minutes

loving spoonfuls
of sugar

a blessed shot
of cream soda

it swirls
in a glass and in
our mouths

we are nowhere
or everywhere

yet
do we even care

whit howland © 2020

Go to the Farmers Market
buy pears and cucumbers

wash the dishes
fold the laundry

water the plants
iron your pants

have
a rootbeer float


and more

items
on the list

taped

to a plastic bucket
from the Silver Legacy Casino

the jackpot never came
but the odd quarter

here and there
along with pennies

pinched

and stepped over
to get to dollars

in the end
added up to something big

folks

life was good
and don't let anyone kid you

the small stuff
did matter

To be hell ridden
of the itch of worry

are words I wish
I wrote

but alas
they are what I've found

more vestiges
of you

for much of what
I own

poetically is
yours

and the best
I can do

Bulbs

in their day
they banded

read

No Vacancy

but not now

today
one lit
the other
burned out

as if to say
some days good

but on balance
mostly bad

In the remaining
dregs of the day

we wheel our trash
to the curb

it was hot
but the wind now
gusts up

leaves swirl
it will rain

Whit Howland © 2020

flying
then yawing

floating
spinning

thoroughly
pickled

i woke up this morning
not knowing

where you were
or even why

you
ever existed


whit howland © 2020

the crack that started
as a chip
is fast running
up the side

and there's a rattle
in the hub cap
like a ball bearing
going round and round

good problems
so they say

whit howland © 2021

Warbling pigeons
in the park crazy

from the heat

a dizzying spin
on a paint-chipped

merry-go round

a greased slide down
hot metal

into a gravel pit

a burning sunset
but don't rub your eyes

For those who know
the plate glass window

looking out over Omaha
at night

the city lights twinkling
derisively

so to speak

whit howland © 2020

We stare at the explosion
the mess of paint
glopped onto the canvas
thinking of what could've been

a driver's cap
a bundle of newspapers
a can of soda
hot and chewy pretzels

meat
cut into red juicy strips
wrapped in thick wax paper
tied with twine

Whit Howland © 2020

what once was brown
with hairs and crawled on the ground

became

not before our very eyes
but

when we were not looking
a kaleidoscopic

butterfly

things don't change
they just evolve into

what they already
were becoming

whit howland © 2021

The bristles
on my toothbrush

are ragged
and that's a fact

as well as my chipped tooth
that sometimes slices

my tongue

whit howland © 2021

a swath of blue a few
ripples

here
and there

that lap what might be
sand

a slash of yellow
sun

you are here

but right now


I am there
my mind molding

fashioning
the perfect day

at the beach

and possibly
the perfect life

for us

whit howland © 2021

It starts with a dark and stormy
night

then you are everywhere
but nowhere

bus depot
airport train station

I suspect you are alone
I could be wrong but I know I'm not

if you can hear me
riddle me this

what do you call
an exploding monkey

a baboom

you are everywhere out there
somewhere

and I will keep sending up
flares

whit howland © 2021

red
with dabs of rust

on the bottom
and at the edges

a railing in the back
that he can grab onto

wheels
and a hitch

to couple with
other cars

everything exactly
to scale

we always recreate
what we see

only smaller

whit howland © 2020