take me to your hidden stream,
your shortcut through the trees
to the place where
a bird might flutter and land on your hand,
chirping in some ultra violet scene
about dreams and schemes.
take me to your street,
through concrete plans, past unwashed windows,
to the house that was never a home,
to the garden where innocence danced
and the bedroom it still haunts.
take me
to your favourite coffee place,
the one where the coffee isn't quite as good
but they have the long wooden stirrers
and you refuse to use the plastic kind
because you can't help trying to save the world,
take me with a look, take me
for a fool
take me with your fingertips,
your collarbones, your well-versed lips
and whisper to me
of secret things.

rain
sunshine
change

Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

It’s the end of the world, as we know it
So hurry, hold me close and we can slow it

Beneath a burning sky, lets hold the other
Forget the fights and heartaches, my lover

Meet me down that alley, where we first met
where the fire hasn’t spread there yet

Let us speak the things that remain unsaid
and sit our hearts down, inside our head

Can I call you ‘my wife’, before the end?
There may not be a morrow, but we can pretend

Let’s find a church before they’re burned to the ground
Make our vows before the sky falls down

Take my hand and run through the streets
Sing our love before the chaos proceeds

Play the tune that we’ll always remember
dance beneath a red moon, now or never

The world may think we're a little mad
yet, it’s the best of days we’ve ever had

You and I, my love, are forever
it’s not over till we’re over

Mouth wide open;
Hair tossed back;
Feeling the flight of care;
Living the glory of the moment;
Unaware of stares;
Childlike freedom of self;
With release of worry;
Abandonment of dignity.
Reckless disregard of strangers.
Caught in the wonder of
Life's remedy.

(Wishing)
Not on stars, or skies
Not on rocks, or trees
Not on mountains, or valleys
Or on rivers, or streams

Not on daylight, or night
Not on waking, or sleep
Not on coins, or on clovers
But on prayer that you will see
(Me)

I want to write poetry
like a confession that I’m bleeding
like blood that I’m crying
like a heart’s cry that I’m singing
like it’s a love song that I’m feeling
like it’s a feeling that I’m fighting
like it’s a fight I’m welcoming
like it’s a welcome I’m inviting
like it’s an invite I’m opening
like I’m open and amazing
I want to write amazing poetry
like I’m reading some famous poet
and that poet in me

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and there fell a poem
into my head
like a song…

“One day you will ask me
which is more important?
My life or yours?
I will say mine
and you will walk away
not knowing
that you are my life.”

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and my dreams were filled
in my heart was a song
a longing so sweet
a desire too strong
till the museum guard came
and moved me along