Our eyes are no longer prone
to the things
that make them water

our limbs are stronger
and our faces shine
much brighter

we've gone around
so many times
on this wonder wheel

up and down
rocking back and forth
and if

we're not laughing we're
clutching the sides
of the gondola

hanging onto life
like we've always
done before

Whit Howland © 2020

Just flat gray
on a canvas

painted

sometimes
globbed in spots

with a thick
brush

some might say

dull

but it can't all be beautiful

can it

or some days
is it just best
to be

consistent

rather than always
try

to swoosh
to the stars

or swing for
the fences

Whit Howland © 2019

A sliver
I thought there would be more

light

at the end

after walking
over hot coals
on glass

yet light

so small
even less than a sliver

like a pinprick

they said
you’d give me what I need

but I want
I want

more light

no

more

of the words and music
that have always failed me

Whit Howland © 2019

Do I dare try
to record it all
capture it
before it disappears


these days it's tucked
back in the corner or
shoved to the side
by beltways and highways

it's called
the Golden Crest
but it could be any crest
in any town the gravy train keeps passing by


an art deco wonder
a hot number
when cars had fins
and

I wish I could
describe it more
but I was not there
and can only look

beyond
the chain link fence
for something a sign
of fire or just

a spark of what it once was
but do I dare try
to rekindle
something we might not ever come back from

© Whit Howland 2019

deep moody
red

compliments
his plain black suit

and black
broad-brimmed fedora

at his fingers
on the mahogany bar

just
slightly out of reach

a dry martini
with a drowning olive

it's a solitary scene
and we are lost

in somewhere else in
some other time

in a moment
maybe private or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2019

Almost as if
I need to put my fingers on his hands

and feel the prints
of the nails

last night
I remember my cat curled up

in her bed
a gray heaving ball of fluff

also my other one
a tabby

caterwauling
at another feline beyond the glass

whose face was pale
in the baleful moonlight

and if I try hard enough
I can still  hear and smell the burnt English

muffins popping up
in the toaster as well as

taste and feel the butter
in its nooks and crannies

there's so much
on the surface that needs

to be explored
I doubt I will ever be able

to get much deeper
then the night before

Whit Howland © 2019

The propeller rotates
and chops

the air and
I feel the wind on my face

I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and

the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss

an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer

but she’s great and thank you
for asking

and though like you
she does not  understand it

she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude

Whit Howland © 2019

They have memory
so the creases

from where I wipe
my eyes my face

still linger
and they’re two weeks old

now ripe
with a ***** whiff of must

the colors
red and yellow are mismatched

and
if I really tried

I could make them hang straight
but I lost you once before

and I vowed
never again because it’s myself

I have to save first before
I can rescue you

Whit Howland © 2019

Strength
expressed in
radiant beauty

a meadow
with clusters of
wildflowers

some pink
others white
with a blushing core

they sway to and fro
not chaotic
but martial with the wind

and they fight their battles
not with swords
and shields

but with rhythm
and dance

© Whit Howland 2019

We must
capture it all
before it disappears

these frothing waves
rumbling and rolling
onto shore

the clouds
that stamp and snort
and groan like restless bulls

the sun
despite the jeers and sneers
punches through the veil of nimbus puffs

and the wind
that billows sails
and drives the hulls of many tiny boats

so much raw power
so much clay and paint
and yet so little time



© Whit Howland 2019