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

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

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

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

It was fun watching
my toy ship and squeezy duck

succumb
to the soap-bubble undertow

made
by raging bathwater


from the faucet
into the tub

days gone by

or shall we say
submerged