I have drawn no
conclusions

or lines

and one might
conclude

that this is
skullduggery

or outright theft

but for now
I can only know you

by speaking your words
even if I have to

steal them from your mouth
or

from the page

it was sunny today
almost muggy and warm

again
I'm pilfering

your moment

your thunder

and the description
of a place

that not I and only
you

have ever been

Whit Howland © 2020

Let's talk about
mustard and burnt orange

while we sprinkle a couple
of flakes

then let's move down
to brown

slugs snails

and after that

melt

fade
to black and white

blobs

but pity them not
they were here to destroy

our gardens our
trees

ok,
I'll stop beating around the bush

us

they came to destroy

us

whit howland © 2021

pink and sugary
your words
so lyrical

and yet
so fleeting
they dissolve

in my mouth

I don't want to believe
but I do believe

you sold me
a bill of goods
though I'm not bitter

how could I be
with such sweet
salesmanship

Usually spooled
pink fluffy

sugary stuff
it's there

in your mouth
then it dissolves

here
then we're not

parting
is never sweet sorrow

senseless
maybe

Cotton whites

sock shirts
and drawers

still fresh with the scent
of laundry soap

flapping

in a crisp March wind
on a gray weathered rope

they say pictures
last forever

but not this one

fading fast between
the plastic and acidic pages

It's a deep cough
a wet

or is it a dry
whooping cough

maybe
it's more of a hack

so much tissue
oh so little time

life is such
a struggle

but
would we have it

any
other way

You speak to me
now
in apologetic verse

a lyric born
from
way beyond

your cadence

a bent soldier hunched
over cups
of scalding coffee

frosted donuts
sprinkled
with the shots

its very sepia
in its cinema
and

very
tormented
in its song


and yes
you’re still
alive still present

and yes
we're tethered
still forevermore

but no
we’ll never meet again
face to face

so let’s
just cling to what’s
concrete

the image

an orange
gritty
rise and shine


ordinary
though
resonant

with
a workmanlike
musicality


Whit Howland © 2019

we search
and search and

search

for a voice
anywhere

we can find it
be it

on billboard signs

advertising
aftershave

nursery rhymes
knock

knock jokes
we throw

spit wads
against the wall

hoping someone
will hear us

and that we are
distinct

Whit Howland © 2020

still brown suede but now scuffed
they're older than our marriage
and I still look at them like they're new

staring at me from that plateglass window
down in rummy Pioneer Square

I won't let them go just like I'll never
let us go and I'll never abandon old Seattle

like Coney Island
it still exists in the mind

Whit Howland © 2020

6 am
and my head feels like it was used
as a snare drum

or maybe

it throbs
because of that avocado
green refrigerator

that thing
I was chasing in my dream
dropped on me

from up high
on a towering cliff
as it blew a raspberry

and sped off

I've come to love

and know
the color blue to mean
not a Blue Monday
Blue Note or joke
and don't much care to sing the Blues

or for that matter
give them
because truth be told
most of the time

I want to caucus
with those
pumping and stumping
for a Blue Hawaii
or the warm blue waters

pickling poetically
the clam shell white bottom

of Palancar Reef

Whit Howland © 2019

August
but crisp with bite

cold white sun

I remember that day
the lake

so far away
for me and others

wanting
and not knowing

why

but what we need
maybe just one little
thing

like a crayon
magenta
then

viola

a picture

the loaves
the fishes
to feed the soul

with seven baskets
left over

A phonograph
or
an object

more poetic
say
a Victrola

a metronome
accordion
a Dictaphone

whatever the device
you're in there
pulling wires

plunking keys
blowing wolf tones
anything to skunk up the works

and if I were smart
I'd brace myself
for your ghostly visit

your
attempt to cramp
my style

to drag me clawing
gnashing
to the junkyard of naked language

to make me face
the paint and music
like you always did

but there's a problem
it's small
but very significant

I don't believe in ghosts
nor do I think you
to be one

and if you do come
it won't to by the light
of a beastly moon

nor will you be bathed
in spooky green
glowing paint

but
with a presence
better than the one I knew you by

one with
even more depth
and perception

and you will
bear
just a soft

new brush
fresh cans
of paint

simple
nothing more
nothing less

© Whit Howland 2019

a soft pale glowing
sliver

over the bedpost
or through the bathroom door

for when we need
to be creatures of the darkness

it's nothing to bark at but more
to read by

a beacon
to guide us through the night

Whit Howland © 2020

A curt thank you
as I bite

into this spring
morning

of red and
orange

crossed with strands
of pink

you want more but
to give

would be to take

from the dry brittle
yet

pleasing taste
of this dispatch

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning the air
bites like apple cider

and my mind is as clear
as a blue sky

with just a hint of cirrus
and stratus clouds

I have no regrets
nope

none whatsoever

Whit Howland © 2020

Wall or painting
and do I really care

they say every house settles
mine is no exception

and I've come to realize
maybe by kicking against the ******

that it's better to pin a gold star
on a mediocre pig

then chase a fast greasy one
and get dragged through the mud

Whit Howland © 2020

Perhaps
not an impasse

maybe
at two opposite ends

I find myself writing
the same poem

over and over
again

because no matter
what bus I seem to take

and even though
I mean to go crosstown

to get to you

it always drops me off
at the same stop

usually
in the dead of night

Whit Howland © 2020

Without it
we are pedestrians

at a crosswalk with a redlight
that never changes

awash in petty laws
and ordinances

always afraid to risk
the tightrope of absurdity

but with it
the sky's the limit

and we can shed things
like old and tired cliches

the way we do clothes
that have long gone out of fashion

whit howland © 2021

Black as the ink colored
feather in my cap

an eye
opaque and shiny

streaks make the body
an abstract impression

where the mind connects
the dots

and gives form and meaning
to the thing

and if and when it can't
we can't

then we **** it

Whit Howland © 2020

what was it we
drank

and before you
get too glib

it wasn't
the kool-aid

words matter  
words mean things

who said they didn't


Whit Howland © 2020

In a pinch
I always retreat
to my Grandmother's kitchen

that's not only a room
but also a 3 D polaroid
of 1971

turning to sepia before
my very eyes and
right now

I'm spinning on one of the mustard
yellow
nogahyde chairs

so fast I'm getting dizzy
but then I remember something
I learned that year in school

about ballerinas

to keep their balance
and grace they
focus on one thing

so I fix my gaze
on the ornate cuckoo clock
hanging on the far wall at eye-level

with its dark brown flourishes
carved curly cues horn-blowing hunters
and the piece de resistance

the hart's head with
fanning antlers
it wears for a crown

I wish I could remember more
and I always tell myself
details make the case

but they too
have been washed out
by time

Whit Howland © 2020

twice a day
and I'm such a broken man

unwind
rewind

set back
turn back

be a dad
what a joke

pull my finger
my string

yank
my chain

whit howland © 2021

This is as much about me
as it is you

our erratic rhythms
giving original meaning

to a Harlequin Romance
as we both run

like hamsters on a wheel
or better

around like rats in a crazy box
trying to navigate life

whit howland © 2021

No surface tension
as it is filled
just below the lip

and it rests
on a coaster
sitting on a T. V. tray

what is there more to say
except
that when you met me

you thought
I was a tall
cool drink of water

of which you never sipped
let alone
ever even drank

On the shelves they sit
this way and that

an untidy mass

some discernable
others abstract

conversations
with myself

or those
who are no longer here

cup a stein
a mug

a ballerina
folded hands

things to see things
to feed

our desire
to know more see more

metal army men
a die-cast VW Van

a dime a dozen a blessing
in disguise

a spacesuit
doll clothes

"Beware of looking for goals;
look for a way of life."

a cupie doll a shrunken
head

as someone once said

we are the things we gather
or in some cases

scatter

whit howland © 2021

More than just a flower
with white petals

you were and still are
life

the kind
that's a hot breath

in the face

with just a little drool
on the kitchen floor

whit howland © 2021

In the not so distant
future

the yard

now brown

will be green again

and shortly after that

Dandelions
and Butter Cups

will pop up
like planets

and once more

orbit
an invisible moon


Whit Howland © 2019

Except for the amber light
in the yard

and for the light
over

our neighbors
garage

it is still dark

and the question

what makes a poem
a poem

and is it ok to just
sit and enjoy

this time of day
where one can feel

like they're comfortably
pickled

in an inky
plasma

and floating under
glass

Whit Howland © 2020

Total
absence of light

roiling
boiling

churning black clouds
your wicked flowers

being watered with biting
drops of rain

the night  falls
and lamps now glow

like early summer
fireflies

as a restless breeze
makes the leafless branches dance

soon to be budding

and yellowed grass
will rise again green

with hope

as we are optimistic
like my neighbor
who swings

a golf club at an imaginary ball
before he slowly fades
to black

Whit Howland © 2020

Water water
everywhere?

Water
nowhere...

And nothing to drink
but liquid

as thick as molasses
and no relief...

After a  long slog
through the mud;

soon to be
cement...

Through my writing
is how I reveal

much of who I am
but that said

I am still an enigma
and better yet

a contradiction
as you might think

I'm pensive
a man of thoughts

shall we say
but simple observation

will show that I have
nervous fingers wrapped

tightly around a pen
or furiously pecking

like a hen at a keyboard
or a touchscreen

Whit Howland © 2020

The street glistens
from a recent hard rain

tires splash
thru muddy puddles

neon flickers
and buzzes with the din

of dining
and drinking

to whom it may
concern

Yes
it is safe to say
things got weird

our paths diverged
like many rivers
headed to the same ocean

or many veins
carrying blood
from the same pumping heart

There are many ways of looking
at a glass

but in this case
it comes down to two

a refusal to accept

or a deprivation of all that  you have
coming to you

Soap flake snow
and a plastic
candy cane path

to the gingerbread house
and velvet throne
where he sat

cheeks rosy
and oh so so jolly
with a little help

from a magic flask
and it goes without saying
those were the days

risky yes
but that was most of the fun
feeling so free

riding our Christmas bikes
without helmets
pretending we were pilots

flying without charts
barnstorming
hook or by crook

or

our chinny chin chin
and by the worn-out seat
of our corduroy pants

He pulls up the stoop
the doors slide shut
the wheels turn

the silver cars lurch
the last whistle blasts

too late

there's no grousing
no second-guessing
and no need for tears

whit howland © 2020

We cry about it in Paris
every spring

we used to say
before we lamented

what has left our lives
forever

even though I can't see you
I know you're there

I cling to that
always

Whit Howland © 2020

I passed
gas a while back

it was an old Sinclair station
trapped

in a decade long gone

now I'm running on fumes

in the panhandle
a place where stumpy palm trees

line the on-ramps to highways
leading out of town

Destin Florida
Fort Walton Beach

you can see your future
from here

Road closed ahead
so the digital sign says

as lightning illuminates
the orange reflective pylons

placed to force traffic
off the highway

it's weird

this lightning flashing
with snowflakes

whipping all around

Solid metal
painted bold bold colors

and details

like wheels
with whitewall tires

making it ready

to go to yesterday
and better points beyond

Not to be
confused with deference

an affected
ingratiating gesture

of regard
to another's wishes

but yet a disagreement
of opinion or something else of note

and
so we don't grow old

going around on this
conversational tilt-a-whirl

I'm willing to make a concession
and settle this issue

by deferring exclusively
to you

Chrome
almost mirrored

yes yes
that's what I remember

and the stainless steel counters
the Silver King

yes yes

and more chrome
on the stools

yes yes

bordering the festive red

of the yeah

seat pads

and boy

can I still
hear the rollers
of the shiny steel mop bucket

rolling across
the black and white
checker board floor

no not chess

checkers

a more primitive game

don't like something

jump it

oh  you mean like
ratty menus

burnt stale coffee
and leathery breath

no no sorry


I don't
remember such
****** things

just chrome
and more chrome

  Whit Howland © 2019

The writing's always
on the wall

usually
something scrawled

about a good time
and who to call for it

or maybe
a more ominous message

about how in ten years
the world will have exhausted

its supply of ding dongs
so you better

stock up now

Tweed and not too
formal

lighting
muted and soft

mirthy
and small conversation

and quiet
plinks
on a piano

ambience
is what it's all about

escape
and just enough to keep

the wild things
at bay

Whit Howland © 2020

I took a risk today
and trimmed the stems

on a bouquet
of roses

then I put them
in a vase I filled with water

before presenting
them

to my wife
thus proving

the poetry is in the making
of

and not in the actual
pudding itself

Whit Howland © 2020

Perfect
in my head

but when
it exits and hits the air

then it becomes foreign
to your ear

a language so
ancient

that makes life a struggle
to be relatable

suitable
for your palate

and  mass consumption

Water drips on them
like Chinese Water Torture

as a film of food slime
coats the ceramic

and you have to ask yourself
one question

was it worth it