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

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

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

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

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

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

Not half full
but cheap

in fact
so cheap

it wouldn't even make
a sound

when it shattered

smudges
grudges

daily drudgery

and spots
lots of spots

whit howland © 2021

Once white now
gray greasy and

ragged with use
the more it cleans

it's an ugly world
and we always seem

to grow ugly with it

Whit Howland © 2020

trees are beginning
to bud

it's like someone
took a brush

and added a hint
of subtle green

such minimal beauty
is the essence of

early Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

Though hard to judge
I feel you

are no longer close

as I see you fading in my
rearview mirror

now just a smudge
on a painted horizon

Whit Howland © 2020

when a bruised
moon

turns to luminescent
liquid

then vapor
or spray

you drive me mad

your essence
ingested

and now you
an image
a mood

live freely
in my head

Whit Howland © 2020

With a distant lawnmower
      as the soundtrack

            he barks

and I watch from a green hilltop
           as he swipes

one more time for that brass ring

in the form of a fluttering
         monarch butterfly

just above his nose

Whit Howland © 2020

The temperature is rising
you give me fever

while bringing on thunder
flashes of lightning and rain

I credit that **** Dog Star
again

as well as a mad string
of bad luck

whit howland © 2021

We all do
search that is

for the sand
that slipped

through
the hour glass

so I don't fault you
for walking the halls

room to room
don't worry

we'll see him again
and each other

Of what I do not know
of who

I've never had the pleasure
to meet

something or someone
maybe

I've known
only in the abstract

and the more I grow to love it
or them

the farther out of reach
they

it

is for you I and me

Whit Howland © 2020

Almost a photo
as it looks so

real

you could easily write it off
with

a tautology

just choose one from
the list

but to do that
you'd have to ignore

the crinkles at its edges
quite

possibly from sweaty
palms

Whit Howland © 2020

but what you really
don't comprehend

was that you left
when we were on the mend

yes the wine is cheap
but apparently though

our love
was much cheaper than that

between
green and violet

as of the sky
or sea

on a sunny
day

but  i won't talk
about sadness

or melancholy
because this picture

was taken at a time
when you were the happiest

whit howland © 2021

I love these pieces
of bakelite they

call bones
full of wonder

and prophecy
as opposed

to shards of glass
that implies

wreckage

and careless living


Whit Howland © 2020

Like a soggy mop
or a ***** brillo

and a  head squarely
in the gutter

this man is so down
in the dumps

he doesn't care
whether or not

he mixes
his metaphors

we amble
caught

in a steady
pour

muddy gutters
sidewalk streams  

and a world
that could be

should be
would be dreary

but beauty can be
sometimes wet

sometimes mussed
sometimes bent

but much
depends

on the day
the glass

full
or half

maybe
just *****

Whit Howland © 2019

Touching
a smudge of sky a splash
of sun

two metal halves
that'll connect as one
go

up and down
up and down

boats
barges
reflections and shadows

all pass through
for me but not
for you

whit howland © 2021

Ideal

the satisfying
of one's perfect
truth

not the truth

but their perfect
one

an example or proof of
my truth

a house smack

in a cornfield
sandwiched
between

two haystacks

this truth is in the
art

but not so much in
the pudding

Whit Howland © 2020

and I only know
I'm there

because I'm told
I'm there

waiting for a bus
I'll never catch

a room I can never finish
packing

or a feast  I'll never
eat

each night the same things
just served
on a different platter

Whit Howland © 2020

Hotpoint
magnet
refrigerator
white

we pray
for rain but poetry
never comes

words
birthday suits only



whit howland © 2019

What we saw yesteryear
on the silver screen

threatens to become
quotidian

so before you say
this is the new normal

can you at least lookup
the word


Whit Howland © 2020

Though
tempted
to write about
how much I miss you

I want to create
from a place
of
enlightenment

songs of
loss
misery
sadness

are not
for those who
flew
all night

into
tomorrow
but for ones
who refuse

to
make
the
trip

© Whit Howland 2019

A false start
maybe I jumped the gun

or  told a lie
botched a story or an explanation

so the fixation continues
with these wadded up things

atop each other in a wastebasket
and I no longer fear them

nor do I welcome them
I guess I've merely made piece

with my failures epic
miserable or otherwise

and see them as impurities
in a vat of something molten

soon to forged into mighty weapons
like swords

or even more marvelous
things that were possibly made to

I don't know
the sky's the limit on this one

Whit Howland © 2020

Its beauty best expressed
in its guttural

musicality
and that's how I want to remember it

as an ugly sounding place
where you could drink

cream soda
spouted from an elephant's trunk

an escape

Whit Howland © 2020

You say too late
I say never better

you say etched in stone
I say Etch a Sketch

you lead
I'll follow with a leading question

life brutal crude
no organic messy

but splendid
with all it's pulpy parts

and clumsy yes very clumsy
dance steps

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm reading a book
on how to think

like Leonardo
Davinci

imagine something
so cold

it burns the mind

will turn this piece
of coal

into a diamond

Whit Howland © 2020

The walled city
slick and wet but
preserved
by drizzle
salt and spray

came with a monastery
peopled with nuns
and monks

that worked wasn't
just for show

and
planted us firmly
on a rock and back
in time to give us gifts

before it launched  us forward
to a better sense of place

A **** or string
What's the difference

I'm a dummy
Either way

With dribble
On my chin

As i gag
On all of your words

You so rudely
Shoveled

Into my mouth

You paint our love with
somber but noisy tones

rubbing charcoal
and flakes of ash on the canvas

what is it

I'm scratching my head
a warning

a cautionary tale
because all I see is gray

windswept beauty and I want
more

so give it to me

Whit Howland © 2020

Can you see what
I hear

the more we
talk

the more anguish
comes

in torrents
as we

continue
to search for

that ever-elusive
eye

Whit Howland © 2020

Still bare

the tree

branches
interlocked

backed up against
a gray dawn

with a trace of  bleeding
peach

and the grass
still wintered

frozen
and withered

but it's coming

soon

the budding
the rebirth

the explosion
of color

and most welcome

the relief




Whit Howland © 2020

a dead mouse floats
where water has puddled

in the driveway

and a  whiff of skunk
means

it must have taken port
from last night's storm

in the garage

a slow rusty drip
falls from the gutter

so many early morning
impressions

so many clues
and so many McGuffins

to distract

Cold today

so consequently
both coils glowed a fiery radiant heat

through the window
a gust of trumpeting wind
blew the rain sideways from the glass

and the sky
was a steel gray not ashen

strength's a must
warmth will push us through
and death was never an option


Whit Howland © 2019

still hot humid
at fifty
we've done
all we can do
our bodies strengthened
retrofitted
for the red yellow
leaves
frosted by autumn
our minds still warm
limber
hints of winter

only weeks away

© Whit Howland 2019