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

A rubber mallet to the knee
to watch it jump

reflexes

I'm only testing the reflexes
he says

but maybe maybe
he likes to bonk humanity

just to watch it dance

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

Slip slide and away
and so go the water weenies

after that last weekend
we shook hands

vowing
to pick up where we left off

when we met again
but we didn't

I guess
we made a pact

so you said

to come find each other
in our after life

sorry
I didn't get the memo

although you look familiar
and you seem nice

coffee?

You say we worked it out
dodged a bullet

the big "D"and all that
and I'm so relieved

you see
that is why right now

I'm looking at a clear sky
with just a bit

of white marbling
amongst the blue

as opposed to something
pale and gray

whit howland © 2020

A hardboiled egg
on the counter

dyed blue

staring at me
at six am

he is risen
and unfortunately

so did I

Find a solid
wood pole
possibly oak

and loop the rope
crossing the working end
over itself

then pass the working end
under
making a second turn

but be sure
not to cross any line
at this point

lastly
pass the working end
under the last line which crossed the pole

and
finally
tie the knot

start from the opposite end
and peel away the skin
in one piece

a simple art
and after that
it's really not hard

just eat
and heal

We echo we
repeat

the things that
resonate

like

a corner booth
Formica table

with a gray-suited
man

his nose down
in murky coffee

lost
in a solitary moment

life imitating art
maybe

vice versa

or again
echoes of

what we love

Whit Howland © 2020

A floppy hat
shades her face

while she sits
cross-legged

and alone
over coffee

with her thoughts
that should be private

except we see
through a plate glass
window

that she's waiting
for a train

to come down the track

Whit Howland © 2020

Rather than place

it's how we face life
and survive

the gospel
words
and music

we choose
to comfort and sort

through
the confusion

piles of it

and the sling and
smooth stones

we use
to more than scotch
the snake

Whit Howland © 2020

Cue the ticking
and then the ringing

as the metal trinket
vibrates

on the table
the  counter

eggs are done

or must we
put down the pen

as that  puts an end
to the test

and it's the pressure
the stress

of a time crunch
or crisis

that never fails us
when we swing

for the fences
swoosh for the stars

mixing and tripping
over our metaphors

in our relentless
pursuit of success

The color of your
ballpoint pen

I used to scrawl
on the Post-it note

Are we ok

I think
that's a fair question

don't you

We say we don't
but we do

things don't just fall from the sky
but they do

suction
the production

of a partial vacuum
by the removal of air in order to force

fluid into a vacant space
or procure adhesion

that night those things you said
where did they come from

whit howland © 2021

Wispy
angelic
filament
frail

associations
like
quicksilver

hard­
to imagine
what

happened
that awful day
in Echo Park

this poem is here
now but maybe
not for long


whit howland © 2019

Orange
with a pinch of crimson

that's the sunrise
at 8 AM

Rugged
splendor

lurching
back and forth

spacious
skies

air brakes
whistle blasts

Beacon rock
Gassman Coulee Trestle

locomotive
passenger cars

Snow spotted
peaks

lakes rivers
and clear water streams

long silver
streak

what we built
you and I

was gone
in a matter of minutes

in just one night

whit howland © 2020

we are stuck
in the mud

that's practically
cement

filling
our shoes

making them
heavy

as a steady
down pour

pelts our
faces



Whit Howland © 2020

Sage advice
once gleaned
from a poet's letters

compare you
to only you

that said

I'll go one more time
around the block
a brief stop

Goldy's Dime Store
some taffy and
a quick look at me

then at Goldy's
pictures
in his fighting prime

I'll leave
the bell jingling
when I shut the door

you have your
lonesome cities
and I have
my empty streets

© Whit Howland 2019

Not so much
a door

but more the edge

of a cliff you
walk off

and trust

that something will hold you
up

live on and forever

be a skeptic and
distrust

Whit Howland © 2020

but please believe me
when I say

not to worry

and assure you that
the Mind

the Soul

and the Body

know their craft well
and always do
their job

Whit Howland © 2020

Coda
or passage of time

and a rose by any other name
now brittle and dry

we well with tears
mostly sad

but sometimes aghast
at new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2020

sunset never fades
until a new

orange brighter dawn
takes its place

and sea gulls caw
in between

the perfect tempo
of the waves

that sun bronzed
surfers carve

as they ride poetically
to shore

and its all here
in images restored

with words and music
never more

visceral and true

Whit Howland © 2019

where roads winded
and doubled back
on each other

and dark
gray clouds
roiled


a life
serpentine
and tempestous

but we edit as
we go

Whit Howland © 2020

Hardly enough snow
to call it Winter

but dustings here
and there

made islands
in thought

which heightened our
awareness

and augmented our
quest

for a warm touch

and a personal
connection

Whit Howland © 2020

Still water runs deep
sitting here on top
of this hill

what are you
thinking

not really thinking
as much as crying
over spilled milk

whit howland © 2021

You call

I do not answer

a small voice a
cricket

somewhere in this tiny
room

I hurl everything
but the kitchen sink

it still calls


Whit Howland © 2020

as we level up
they rise under
our feet

these metal stairs
with ridges
moving us

higher and
higher

toward a more
ethereal

equilibrium

Whit Howland © 2020

Let us be comfortable
with the business of life

always rough
unfinished

but never chiseled
in stone

as we erase
revise

and embrace
our fingers

the amateur
cartographers
that they are


Whit Howland © 2020

always  

it seems that much of my memories
are played on a scratchy
transistor radio

where music and songs
shine
despite their audio flaws

but the tough
and salted ones

exist within
some painful pieces
of geography

places where words
phrases
and sentences

dare not go

Whit Howland © 2020

muscles twitch
moonlight radiates
though still soft

a voice

angelic
or otherwise

sings

When we say
evening

         we might
be

talking about
     the line between

late afternoon
              and twilight

        the sun still
alive    

      and lucid

a breeze that
blows

                  while
warming the skin

and ruffling

maybe
                               styling

the hair

Whit Howland © 2020

When evening sets in
and there's a bite

we put on sweaters
and shawls

because we feel it in our bones
of something we've never felt before

Whit Howland © 2020