#blackmountainschool
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
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 8:40 AM UTC
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
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 3:10 PM UTC
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
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
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
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 2:52 AM UTC
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
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
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
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
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
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 6:41 PM UTC
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
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
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
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
Purple
dominates the frame
purple curls
and flourishes
the naked eye
turns to buds and stems
and although
at this moment
we are deep
in a bed of lavender
our mind
and our eye
spirits us beyond
these flowers
to modest
grass and trees of green
then lifts us
skyward and onward
to kingly royal blue
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
They're in a much better place
now
flying steady
against a steel gray sky
and soft white
clouds
and the more they
soar
the more they
shed to
just essence
ideas and current
flowing through
the telephone wires
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 1:02 PM UTC
Caught
between drops
and lines
in this storm
there is no
thunder
or lightning
just many questions
about
where rain ends
and brain worms and
whimsies begin
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 7:57 PM UTC
Black
or cream and sugar
stirred
so it swirls as the steam rises
drinking
morning coffee
what we do
without even seeing
or thinking
a habit
more a morning ritual
so to speak
something long ago
needing and
yearning to be
downgraded to a routine
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
Red with flourishes
and flowers
its long spout
an elephant’s trunk
it sits
at the end of a checkerboard cloth
almost as if
it is ready to be kinged
all while
the mind whistles and jumps over itself
at this early hour
the game calls for a cup of hot whimsy
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
Something
about a snowy night
changes a boy for life
that late hour where
the air
is lit by a dry white flare
with
branches bare of leaves
but kissed with snow
and his vision now
is spare clear cold
and calculated
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
At the heart
it’s what drives us all
I’ll tap dance by it
noodle around it
I’ll say it
without really saying it
playing cards
with names like
Boardwalk
or Marvins Gardens
bold yellows and blues
simple plain
but still appealing
to the eye
eliciting spinning
cherries and sevens
yet I’m still beating around
the bush
it’s not the root
of all evil
nor is it the love of it
but more the lust
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
Warmth is what we feel
and it comes from the heart
where there is a light
within
and that light
radiates out
to the sky
and the hills
skaters
are just figurines
more like set dressings
for this scene
what we feel precedes
what we see
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
blue waves
roll one
after the other
in the distance
a cluster
of tropical palms
although native girls
and outriggers
try to distract us
we are drawn
to the dormant but imposing
presence of Diamond Head
paradise is fleeting
and as always
time is ever short
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 12:31 AM UTC
We are stuck
in the middle of somewhere
just prairie grass and blue sky
with a ubiquitous buttery sun
front and center is a barn
big and red
its hue
meant to wake you up
and much like hot coffee
it burns the soul
leaving little time comfort
or room to philosophize
what we see
has always been what we get
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 6:47 PM UTC
Much
of what confused me
I see today unravel
the big ball of rubber bands
now being fileted and
the strands laid out in precise rows
in the forest
mist shrouds some trees
and tries to screen some others
but again
my eyes peel away
the cloudy layers
even though
there is a steady stream
of tears
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
crude
but the shape
of things to come
the Seine
Notre Dame
in pencil rubbings and erasures
the mind
a potter's wheel
with clay raw and ready to be tossed
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC
life made plain
and simple
the big blue marble
flattened
with a wooden
rolling pin
and the earth now
on a cookie sheet
for all to see
eat and digest
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 5:03 PM UTC
As though you were still here
I hear you
your voice
somewhere
between honey-laced tea
coffee
and burnt toast
it's almost
like we converse
in notes then
the rug
or an uptown taxi
you're gone
it's hard
but please
never let these late
night visits ever end
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 8:11 PM UTC
Much like Haiku
we are to let this flow
but
when we see
browns burnt orange
blues whites and pinks
our mind dumps
this box of color
out
onto a table like puzzle pieces
then
the work begins
of the painter
and the poet
drawing connecting
and composing
as we forget
once again this simple lesson
serenity comes
when you toss your brush
and put down
your paper and your pen
© Whit Howland 2019
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC