I have to strain
to remember what
your voice still sounds like

your tone your cadence

I figure
if I dig around on the dial
for a little while

it will come through
scratchy

at best

whit howland © 2021

A clown's makeup
cascading down his face
under a hot spotlight

your call so long ago
a Dear John Letter
mostly in audio

a broken vase
with its ceramic pieces
fanned out across the floor

thumbing through
a high school yearbook
and a picture of me and you

no logic no rhyme
no major scoop
to stop the presses

life
just goes on
in one eternal loop

whit howland © 2021

Let's not assume
this to be about
exposing the truth

and how the naked light
makes the roaches
scatter

we're talking about
quotidian madness
and how one can float above it

and remain detached
and simplify the confusion
and complete the task

whit howland © 2021

No bright green trees
no description of the sun

no turn of phrase about sadness
or a melancholy mood

sorry

just rude granite
and colored geegaws

that resemble outcroppings
and stones

there for you
and only you

because in the end
it always is and always will be

all

you

whit howland © 2021

I could kid myself
and say that you are in me
but really

I am just trying
to force the issue by attempting
to conjure you

as well as delay the inevitable  

waterworks the aching
sickness
and the pain

so with that said
it is time to give you
and me the much needed

punctuation
we deserve
and just

end this!

whit howland © 2021

red

delectable
plump

augmented with a swirl
of whip cream


and life clicks by
like a carousel

way too fast

whit howland © 2021

drops of rain on the roof
sound like the pitter-patter

of little feet

you say there's water
collecting in the backyard

and we might need a French Drain
I say baby

we made it

whit howland © 2021

Something to remind me
of you

a bottle blue
that just sits
on the kitchen counter

I never touch the stuff
it could never do the things
that you used to do to me

whit howland © 2021

What is life
but one I never
knew

without
a stray bolt
or ball bearing

rattling
around
inside my head

whit howland © 2021

This poem
is about

a rouge
blushy
flushed
sunrise

and lots
of red
lipstick

and no cigarettes left
in the last
cigarette machine

known to

woman


it's six am
and yes

I am wide
awake

whit howland © 2021