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Sweetheart I don’t need paradise because I have you.
She in her red dress,
We are listening to the orchestra,
I sit by the lake at Night,
Like these were my memories.
Scent and music
Both shortcuts to long term memory
Fragrance imbedded in my mind
Fragrance of a very special kind
Aroma of food or the scent of freshly mowed grass
Like parfume of the cherry blossoms
Rising up to heaven
Walking through the streets
memories of what used to be
connected with all senses.
A long lost melody
bringing  everything back to life right before my eyes.
Pleasure, pain and delight.
All feelings
like a long forgotten song
Stays  forever in the mind.


Shell✨🐚
Precious memories stay forever with us. That’s a beautiful thing.
I'm not anything that I ever thought
I'm not a boy or a man
I'm not young or old
I'm not tall or short
I'm not happy or depressed
I'm not confident or shy
I'm not smart or dumb
I'm not handsome or ugly
I'm not better or worse
So often wanting to be the right thing
at the right time
But time is always moving
and no thing is always right all the time
And really, time is just a belief
Is it half past 9 or half before 10?
Does one sound right, and the other sound wrong?
They say the same thing
Just a matter of perspective
Balanced on the source of perception
Not moving, not changing
Always here
a girl kissed a boy
and told him not to tell
he grew up to be a poet
with a promise kept so well
till he wrote one day a poem
that she’s found reading, but forgot
and wondered if it’s really him
and thinking that it’s not
but buried within these pages
and hidden within the rhyme
were words dripping from his lips
caressing every line
so she came in a little closer
and read it to the end
and found him in the poem
and kissed his lips again
Now it’s your turn not to tell
10,000 steps to a poem

<~>
walk to save my visions, my subterfuge-self, trying to
encapsulate the moments, seconds of nano-instances of a
tableau of histories, of actions becoming interactions,
a physical mitosis, ground into one human paste of word-cells
by a singular mortar and pestle that more than blends, but condenses

walk in Whitman’s footsteps, prowl old cobbled
streets seeing them anew, listening to the patois
of each skyward pathway, a commingling of
catechisms, Tefilot, Salah, Stuti Karana, into a stampede becoming a tornado funnel of a multivariate alphabets singularity - a prayer|poem returning to birth-mother

rush homeward desperate to retain the holy mess of verbal music,
before aged eyes release the visions, into a heavenly lost but found
depot of single lefty gloves, snatches and refrains, hymnals, phrases,
10,000 preservation band steps keeping but scraps, weeping
for the so much lost, yet blessing-uttering thankful for this one,
to a one


who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to
this moment, to this season.


4/4/21
1:50pm
~writ by night, daylight born~
Passover/ Easter Sunday
A handheld bakelite
transistor radio

cream colored
the music coming through

on a small speaker
yes

that's the first time
I heard it

where is she now
does she still know who I am

sometimes goodbye
does mean forever

whit howland © 2021
An impressionistic word painting. An original.
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