Sloopy no
those are shoes I can't fill and won't

because

we connect with people
by forging our own path

through an even denser forested
patch of land

and then looking up and
pulling our own truth  from the sky

and possibly making that sky
much bluer a little less cloudless

and the day
a little more bright

Peace

today
is what I've

made with age
and life

I love you

is what I wrote
this morning

on last night's
cocktail napkin

Maybe it's me
and my slothful ways

but something
and I mean something

has riled them
as they vault

somersault
and skitter in and out

of my bedroom
my cats

I feel their frustration
at my failure to launch

into this hot hazy Saturday
all my Friday weekend plans

rapidly evaporating
as if

on the freshly tarred sidewalk
outside my window

whit howland © 2021

My cat lies across my stomach
her eyes squint when I rub
the back of her head with
my thumb

when she's had enough
she jumps off my chest
makes for the table
and parks herself dead center

it was sunny today
but that is a mere distraction
right or wrong
better or worse

she's my child
my life
the center
of my universe

Whit Howland © 2020

It’s people that offend me
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

someone’s vision
of how a cat should look and be

calm
but wary

perched on your hind legs
and though relaxed you’re ready to strike

blue eyes seductive and yet
disapproving

I trust you
but at the same time

I don’t want to turn my back
I’ve been burned before

by people
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

your ears pricked back
like your perturbed

your mind
surface tension

Whit Howland © 2019

ceramic
with a childish image

of an ark filled
with simple happy pigs

giraffes
and elephants

sans
the smiting rain

and
biblical justice

I’m sorry
most days as hard as I try

I fail you
miserably

so right now
I need a God that forgives

with an abundance
of gopher wood

Whit Howland © 2019

Farther
much farther than we thought

beyond stretching
to limitless lengths

not just blue
or sad blue

but blue
from teal to sky

to azure to cyan
to deep cyan

farther
much farther than we thought

riding a wave
of blue

sliding up and up
the scale

past blue
way beyond heaven

past gold
straight to platinum

farther
much farther than we thought

© Whit Howland 2019

Such weak light
it sheds

over the table
I'm over you

and I had a good
run until we got

too deep in the dark
woods

of analysis metaphor and symbol
so much so we literally stopped saying

I love you

could we have
should we have

I guess we'll never know
and it no longer matters

such weak sauce

Whit Howland © 2020

It's all I have to go by

the lurch of
wheels

the clicking of
tickets

and the rolling scenery

sliding from city
to town

to country flat
to hills

back to flat
and hills again

now
a cymbal crash

and something
completely different

there's a raccoon
that often comes to my porch

I feed it
and after thinking

and smoking on the issue
I've decided to call him

SLUGGO


Whit Howland © 2020

What I might buy
for a dollar or a dime

some cheap petameter
or a bad rhyme

about

love passion
or betrayal

something
like that

maybe more lurid
and purple

on days like these
all we can muster

is a piece or a scrap
of morale in a glass

served with a joke
corny or crass

or even worse
a  bad pun

The sun beats down on the street
like a rented mule

not even a stormy Monday
for me

just hot
and getting hotter

maybe I'll thank you
somewhere down the road

but right now

the sun beats down on the street
like a rented mule

whit howland © 2021

beneath us
brown roiling water

moving rapidly
downriver

as we anxiously peer
around

a wooded
bend

Whit Howland © 2020

Red
Black
move
jump
KING

nothing to it

you are making this way too hard

but it is hard
for a square peg

in an ocean  
of round holes

white blossoms
                swaying in an April breeze

petals
          twirling to the ground

best of both worlds
                   fruit and flower

precious things
                    that never meet




Whit Howland © 2019

Gleaming

refrigerator white
surrounded by black

your smile says

you've separated what others
can't

the degrees and shades
of gray

in this finely woven
tapestry


whit howland © 2020

you say
you’re lonely in the Windy City

but you never return
my call

I fumble in the dark

searching

for a song that binds us

it can’t be anything
about Chicago

a town
where loneliness
hunts you down like a hawk

and

where raindrops

hit your face back and legs
like rubber bullets

Whit Howland © 2019

We TALK
and we WALK

through a GARDEN


not of stone
daffodils

or red roses
but of

GLASS glass
of all  MANIPULATIONS

and because of this
FLOWERS  trees and other

natural things
no longer satisfy

what I want is now
much

HIGHER
PLEASE believe me when I say

it is much
HIGHER

So much rain
                   these days
the streets
              the sidewalks
are overlaid
                  with a glaze
it seems everywhere
                               I turn
my world is slick
                           and smooth
last night I dreamed
                            your skin was
porcelain

Whit Howland © 2020

you’ll want more
you always do

but no poem
is ever perfect

like Christmas trees
on a lot

they’re either
too full on top

or
too slight below

and this poem is no exception
just the essence

of a loved
wooden hutch

with only traces
and outlines

of Nana’s
precious plates

saucers
and teacups

not enough
concrete  imagery

for critique
or analysis

but more than enough
for action

like maybe a phone call
to a mom or a dad

What is missing is something
I can't wrap my brain around

you always say I'm not subtle
and that is true

I just wish I could be more delecate
in my communication to you

but I'm too obsessed
with how things fit back to together

like plates and cups
and I love the smell of glue

Whit Howland © 2020

The fiery exhale
of a dragon

or the rollercoaster
we rode

and what a lovely ride
I often think about

how it could have lasted
longer

but then I have to remind
myself

not to second guess
perfection

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm here to bury
confusion

not to give it
voice

or a pulpit
from which to proselytize

we worship
truth

we practice
truth

we don't just spoon it
every now and then

into a cloudy cup
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

Messages
of common sense

coupled with dimestore
philosophy

slipped neatly
into sugary wafers

while the Great Wall
in faded gloss

exists far across
the dining room

in the beginning
there was light

albeit pale

and our mouths watered
but what we came for

never really transpired
and we left

wanting more

of what we do not
know

It's what we're drawn to
and what we draw

a teapot
painted face
a plain table

along with muddy light
from a ***** window

and the rest of the canvas
only there to encourage ownership

is it a dream
personal memory

or does the mind
surely jest

whit howland © 2021

Hello again
my old friend

just sending you
some yule and Christmas cheer

winter is here

but none of the white stuff
this time

only the steel gray like
our hair

that we pretend is silver
amongst the gold

red blue green
white

and weeping with
tinsel tears
of joy

we've made it baby
to easy street and parts
beyond

More a meditation
than a description
of a scene

a window
busy with Christmas
figurines

tinsel
ornaments
and streamers

a tiny tree with lights
stands next
to Mary Joseph and Baby Jesus

you’ve got me on a tight rope
walking gingerly
over troubled terrain

love on one side
hate
on the other

but I come with good news
and that news is
it's been mostly love


Whit Howland © 2019

The stationary space ship
or silver bullet train

of many youths

with incongruent and shiny
chrome

where they still serve
up

a healthy platter
of comfort

and warmth with a side
of truth

Whit Howland © 2020

Not even close
to something

as fine as
you

rolled
coffee brown

and neatly
trimmed

a sweet
Tobacco burst

of sunshine

I am talking about
a cigar

seriously

it is just
a cigar

whit howland © 2021

I'm watching

the rubbed charcoal gray
being

rinsed away by darker
then
whiter lighter blue

to be over taken by
the pink and orange

of a technicolor sunrise

Whit Howland © 2020

I woke up

this morning and saw you
brushing your hair in the mirror

I asked you if it’s Sunday
you said yes

I feel we’ve been here before
and like a revolving door

we have the same conversation
at different times
and in different places

the words and music
so familiar to my ear

as we continue
to turn

and reset the earth like a clock

Whit Howland © 2019

A polka dotted
Volkswagen

an impression
done in smudges

swipes

swaths

and such as life
they say

a journey
with little or no points of reference

or context

but that's what makes it
poetry

so they say

Streetlights seem
like blurry slides

flashing

before my eyes

to the atonal
Jazz of horns
screech of tires

against the backdrop
of silhouetted buildings
and darkness

Whit Howland © 2020

Tied
like meat
with a butcher's knot

a bundle of papers
sits on the side walk

the rain

pelting
the front page

smudging
running
the news

now
a steady stream of ink

feeding into the storm drain

© Whit Howland 2019

sliver
of light

often
line

between

soft eyes
hard stares


jokers faces
sad mugs

steady hands
restless feet

sweet dreams
choppy sleep

sliver
of light

sometimes
just enough

to mop
***** floors

wipe
grimy counters

and

sweep out
dusty corners


whit howland © 2019

Years ago at a college
reunion

       an old friend

said she didn't remember me

and to this day

   I still unpack and

           repack that memory

   of she

who took

all those seconds minutes

    hours  days

                              years

and scrubbed them from

every shelf cubby alcove
and wiped them off

                                 the front door
the counter
                               the cash register

     the stairs

swept them from

the basement

and dusted them from the  attic

   I try not to take

it personally

                              but there is no

other computer out

                                         there

on the market        

                                            that needs

these types of memories stored

                                                         ­                           in a mouse maze

                                               of how to dance

and how to smile and how to love

                                   and how to laugh

in order to function
                                                        ­                and drive the

vessel it is
                                                 commanding

and as tempted as I have been

                                                           ­         I have fought

the

                                                     pressures

internal                               external

to simplify and reorganze

                                        the trivia facts

figures                                bar and parlor tricks

                                    pool shots anachronistic cheese

                                                         ­                       
                                                                ­                           ***** humor
****** stories


that  are crammed into shelves


                                    and stacked floor to ceiling

there will be no hall of records

                                              and when they come


which they will surely do

                                          you have my word


I will not slip away quietly

into the night


   Whit Howland © 2019

maybe it takes
a stomach

for dirt and
grit

and an ear

for jazz

and an eye

as well as an ear

for onomatopoeia

to see

the music

hear

the city

and say

CUCKOO

SLAM

BOOM

BANG

CRASH


Whit Howland © 2020

As for myself
I tend to meld
and get lost

in the gray
charcoal color
rubbed for effect

on canvas or
paper

but that's ok

I mean I'm ok
with that

because I'm only
here for just a short
while

and

I came to watch
with a cool eye

and
you know

slip in and slip out

unannounced

Whit Howland © 2020

broken
reassembled

cubes squares
triangles

light refracted

I've studied it
from many angles

and my mind
always winds back

to the same truth

we paint
or verse

to create a feeling
or a mood

through a place dark
and dimly lit

so we can search for
enlightenment
that was never lost?

why?

what were we afraid of?

Whit Howland © 2020

For once
pale light is warm

the whistling wind
gentle

and even though
the air is cold

and the snow swirls
piling high along the curb


strings of lights
on shuttered storefronts

twinkle

and for 48 hours
all was never lost

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

All those year ago and you can
still

remember the color
of

your shoes they were
a green

pair of Keds

and it's

blurry
but you can see

there was a parade

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something missing
from my life

a part of me that floats
through the aisles

of dusty correspondence
and dispatches

something

a  piece
maybe a pawn or a knight

that never made it back

Whit Howland © 2020

Please know that I have mad love
for you

plus

tonight the moon is as robust
as Zorba the Greek

that is why I do the crazy things
I do

Whit Howland © 2020

Big brass
and shiny
it rang and swung

as the clapper
clanged
from side to side

as a line of doves
pointed
to the sky

and someone
was happy
someone

was very
very
happy

whit howland © 2020

Crazy

it's not google eyes
or maniacal laughter
nor is it someone who can't stop

the waterworks
of cascading tears
it's a deep sigh

and maybe one
of relief
replete with Mozart

playing in your head
on a scratchy phonograph
as your house goes up in flames

Whit Howland © 2020

autumn leaves blanket
a sweater and slippers

I look at you over bifocals
and puff my pipe

I have arrived

a little slower in life
but I have arrived

whit howland © 2020

Clarity is what I seek
as I declare

ivory keys
played with long

silk skinned fingers
is where I might find it

a rose petal
against the white

much like
a drop of blood

on flesh from
a pinprick

Whit Howland © 2020

Arm
moves broom

in a sweeping
motion

causing dirt
and dustball

to scurry
across the floor

creating

piles upon piles
of detritus

we become
the things we hover

and focus on
for far too long