At night
The moon whispers
To my mind
Sending it off to
Find its fate

While I lay empty
Waiting at the gate

The sun impedes
Wiping away
A dreamers
Escape

A diamond

four triangles coming together
my life

now squared  away

and my mind
as quiet as a pool hall

for surgeons of the game
with only

the rhythmic focused
cracking

of solids that scatter

like dandelion seeds
riding a gentle breeze

on a fine summer day

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm trailer trash
And you're the tattered wheels

Run me over
Vilipended shrew

This place is full of
Rabid raccoons
And collect calls

Someone's got to pay

Maybe we can milk
A cash cow
Or plant a money tree
Between grandma
And the shed

A game of miniature golf
Always helps my mind
Get back on par
(More or less)

Then it's back to the bus stop
And be done with you

warmth
from kisses that were as sweet as wine
kisses of myrrh
kisses of honey-velvet and vermilion

as the ivory twilight glows forlorn
i smoke on the residue of love
under the fleeting light
of a chemical sun

warmth
she ran through my hands
like golden drops on thirsty lands
left me in a vast expanse
of sheer
mercurial
cold