Legal tender
coins banknotes

return to sender
address unknown

the expectation
of something great

my garbage
your gold

big league
raw deal

anticipation
moolah

your hell
my happy place

whit howland © 2021

a request
an urgent plea

not to focus
on minor details

to see the forest
for the trees

not to get
shall we say
lost

in the weeds

oh
what we can cobble
together

from all the  brush
we cut **** and clear

whit howland © 2021

Let's talk about
mustard and burnt orange

while we sprinkle a couple
of flakes

then let's move down
to brown

slugs snails

and after that

melt

fade
to black and white

blobs

but pity them not
they were here to destroy

our gardens our
trees

ok,
I'll stop beating around the bush

us

they came to destroy

us

whit howland © 2021

It's what we're drawn to
and what we draw

a teapot
painted face
a plain table

along with muddy light
from a ***** window

and the rest of the canvas
only there to encourage ownership

is it a dream
personal memory

or does the mind
surely jest

whit howland © 2021

pale
but bluer than
ashen

not dead just cold
maybe numb
sad

a little yes

but the ice
keeps the heart frozen
and in check

whit howland © 2021

White but dark
its face

is like
a sinister heart

and its eyes
are the black marbles

little kids shoot
in the ally behind the drugstore

friend or foe
can we even tell the difference

anymore



whit howland © 2021

The glow of the cigarette
still bright orange

but yet it droops
and blue smoke curls

upward causing
a set of pale blue

watery eyes
to blink rapidly

apathy
is a powerful force

that sets many wheels
in motion

whit howland © 2021

Screeching tires
and years of rubber left smoking
on the pavement

arms flail and sneakers scrape
the asphalt at an all-night basketball game
in the rain

a phone's rings
is like the staccato report
of a machine gun

a weatherman
through a scratchy transistor radio
forecasts a storm

fight

or flight

whit howland © 2021

But what made it so strange
were the things that vanished

from our sight and our lives
coupled with the notion of progress

becoming

more a hollowed-out promise
or a pipe dream


so it seems

whit howland © 2021

Tracks
in the snow now crunchy

big feet
and the pitter-patter

of little feet
crisis crossing each other

and no need to ask
what it all means

with no scheme
rhyme or reason to this thing

whit howland © 2021