The glass of my mask
is clear though foggy

at the edges

as I often dream
of turquoise waters

where I splash dive
and roll with

zany  shelled creatures
paddling by my nose

as white sand between my toes
floats up to the surface

it's hard to know where life
is going

I am told there's a plan
and a God who executes it

and with a vision like this
could it be

he's telling me to trust
what I see when I'm fast asleep

and that the plan is something
not to overthink

it's possible

whit howland © 2021

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

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

What I might buy
for a dollar or a dime

some cheap petameter
or a bad rhyme

about

love passion
or betrayal

something
like that

maybe more lurid
and purple

on days like these
all we can muster

is a piece or a scrap
of morale in a glass

served with a joke
corny or crass

or even worse
a  bad pun

inner space
between the ears

wind blowing
through a screen door

maybe chimes
in the distance



whit howland © 2021

sprinkled with the petals
of roses

much like ours that have crossed
throughout the span of time

the paths are dirt
where they diverge

with some flourish here and there
but mostly hardscrabble

making travel bumpy
and rough

A child's garden
of simple verse

tone rhythm
cadence

so magic but
slowly

moving
into shorter days

longer
nights

whit howland © 2021

The sun shines so early
this morning

but your face reads cloudy
with a chance of smiting rain

what do we do where
do we go from here

I've taken this journey
with you before

almost
to the point of no return

whit howland © 2021

To my ears go
your cute little snores

and to my eyes
your hair peeking out

from under the covers
I watch our cats(our kids)

eat from their labeled dishes
and I laugh

for hours

whit howland © 2021

This morning
outside my window

a hummingbird

****** nectar into its beak
as if through a straw
from the feeder hanging from
the edge of my house

Peter Frampton
sings "I'm in You"
coming from the tinny speaker
of an old phonograph on an oak desk in my den

these are not my clothes
hanging in my closet
that smells of cedar bark
they are not my size and they are not

my style

whit howland © 2021