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

Now
a faded pair
of blue jeans

that served us well
as shadows set in
and pretty soon

there'll be nothing to see
and not much to tell
other than what we can glean

by the cold light
of a glinting sharp
silvery moon

whit howland © 2021

Why I never punctuate
is a poem in itself
and might speak very well of my
lack of patience and how I prefer
there to be few if no stops
along the way
like a silver comet or a bullet train

and that my friends and fellow poets
is sweet milk squeezed
from the source
of your choice


Whit Howland © 2020

lately it seems
our symphony has
turned to freeway
jazz as our minds
once a borg have
now gone on six
different tracks

would it do me
any good to sit
and watch this
record continue
to spin hoping
praying we'll
both come around
again

Whit Howland © 2020

E
we can see

thus we know it's there
and we feel safe

it's what we can't
discern
what is blurry

we fear
because we don't
understand

are you with me so far
good

because
from here on out
it gets kind of wiggy

if a tree falls in the forest
and no one's around

how big was the ax
that the woodsman used
to chop it down

Whit Howland © 2020

A slash of red
on white canvas

aggression maybe
war

might is right
so clear

and pure

lots of kicking and screaming
but

I know that now

whit howland © 2021

To God
only known
we are

unknown
to everyone else

you are seeing
what  no one else
can view

thus

you now know
what he can only
know

sublime

whit howland © 2021

it's when your mixing
paint
and metaphors

such as

being a bottle
lost in a sea
of eternal sunshine

then
all of a sudden

the light
on the projector
pops

and the world
simply

and beautifully
fades

to black

Whit Howland © 2020

Just a  speck
but I know it's there

across the sound
waiting for the tide

to recede
and the sand bar to appear

a bridge a connection
to the past

and a spark and a flame
to future enlightenment

A weeping willow
weeps for me

it wipes the ground
and washes my feet

a canary sings a chirpy
little tune

that might be melancholy
if I let it

but time is too short
it was the last thing

you had to teach
me

a sharp blade
carving

shaving
after shaving

from a gnarled wooden
stick

or is it the sound
of your gravelly singing

and the many guitars
you've  owned and played

or the feel of stubble
or the smell of cologne

I don't know

but I'll can and will say
at the risk of selfishness

is your day is
mine too

and a day
will never be enough

It's in their eyes
an expression

or mood

as if someone pulled on the switch
in the room or the mind

pastel baby blue

feelings over facts
abstract over concrete

whit howland © 2021

A wilting rose
suspended in red-tinged water
in a vase

fingers plinking
yellowed ivory keys
with reverb coming through the speakers

so much to be said but
let's not kid ourselves
nothing was ever said

and it doesn't matter anymore
no hard feelings
but that's not really true

if there's already
a hardened heart
and

a plastic smile
an off-key voice
equals

a jar full of crumpled
dollar bills

whit howland © 2021

so as minutes
jitter

and hours sweat and
drum

their fingers

there's just not enough
time

to say you're sorry
and even less to say

I love you

Whit Howland © 2020

Maybe a snake coiled
on a rock

sunning itself

they say the sun will last
forever

as will our love
so long as it can coil itself

on a rock
and soak up the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

filled
to the brim

with the tea I never
drank

you are like
found art and also

like all the other animals
once

in my life
that have now passed

finally

I'm finding
time to have a conversation

with you

and them

there's a little voice
or a bee

buzzing

inside my
head

saying
we have things we need to talk about

Whit Howland © 2020

ridges swirls
slashes
traces smudges

they are not much
but they're what we leave
behind of us

of what we create
the things we build
and the statements we make

everything counts
as evidence

whit howland © 2020

Red

the color that sets the world
ablaze

and begets
other idioms

like tongues
of flame

licking the walls
and poking
out of shattered windows

in a three alarm fire

Whit Howland © 2020

A mad flight
and rickety descent

down the back of a
beast

that clanks
and flakes rust from under

our feet
and as always the case

success usually comes

by the skin of our  
teeth

Whit Howland © 2020

through my window
floats
a bevy of blue ghosts

their cold light
intermittent  

like the message on my old
answering machine


Whit Howland © 2020

Eggs Benedict
ham on rye
with freshly squeezed

orange juice

and I'm reminded
of you
and our first breakfast

with that sizzling
bacon
we made together