the sun's staring eye
looked through my west window
with a fixed gaze

I love watching the night sky,
it's like every star is waiting calmly
to share its story with the glistening Milky Way

told her that next I will do the stairs down 

when she asked what that meant

i explained it was how my mother spoke

her language 

to do meant to clean

thus

to do the stairs down

was to sweep then wash them

from top to bottom

she did the bedrooms on thursday

the lounge on monday

et cetera

she cleaned the home a lot

my mother

then in the afternoon if fine

would wash and change and go 

out often to town on the bus

if she was well and buy herself something

she was a size 12 at the top

14 lower down

if she was ill she went to bed early

now I may understand 

too late

so today I may do one of the rooms here 

reminiscing

Do you ever feel
that there is a greater story
living inside you than the one
you wake up to
each day,
one richer,
more prismatic,
where you can dress
in your bohemian voice,
open oak paneled doors
once denied you,
become all the radiant
seasons speckled
in russets
and autumn golds,
pale peonies,
and Titanium whites?  

Do you ever imagine
the mirror's reflection
as the real you
standing beyond your
mind's limitations?  
What would it take
to awaken
on the opposite
side of your thoughts,
to dream in excess
& possibility beyond
the confines of this
reality to a world
where you become
all that you can imagine?

..by which time
  the river has run its course

  by which time
  winter has smothered
  the last autumn rose

  by which time
  all leaves have turned grey
  the barren garden has nothing to pose

by which time
the stars have grown weary
not a single light--beam glows

by which time
love has its farewell bade
all feelings wither and close

Crazy

it's not google eyes
or maniacal laughter
nor is it someone who can't stop

the waterworks
of cascading tears
it's a deep sigh

and maybe one
of relief
replete with Mozart

playing in your head
on a scratchy phonograph
as your house goes up in flames

Whit Howland © 2020