Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Charles Barnett Jul 2014
I'm sorry if this seems long-winded but everything I write is short
because I'm not used to speaking without you cutting me off mid-sentence and I must get these weights off my chest before they crush my lungs
like the pressure that surrounds me as if I'm a deep sea diver
and you are the ocean. I used to liken you to things like that.
The ocean, the color blue, famous women that have courted my heart
from their places in the history books:
Jeanne d'Arc, Bonnie Parker, Amelia Earhart.
But the wars you wages in my name were lost and my name could never rally the troops like God's.
And the banks we robbed never satiated your expensive taste when everything I could offer you was more brass than gold
and for that I am sorry.
I never wanted you to get lost in the ocean. Your plane crashing somewhere in the vicinity of Howland Island where you sent out your last cry for help
and it choked for life in the static of my busted ******* stereo.
I know that this is coming out in pieces and my stream of consciousness
lacks the stillness that Nature tries to instill like a watchful mother
but I can't help the way all of these words and sentences keep bringing
you back to life and I know now that I will never stop
because what can Nature tell me about the way your lips moved
when you whispered my name.
Whit Howland Aug 2021
A shiny ribbon
some glitter

paper folded
precisely

edges taped
concealment

mystery
suspense

the best gift
you ever gave us

was and always will be
each other

whit howland © 2021
An impressionistic word painting. An original.
noura Jan 2022
I am tired, and I am tired of making it beautiful.  Petals flung over the edge do not soften the fall. Adjectives do not halt decay. Spinning corpses in sugar is a sticky, pointless ordeal. If I let the moonlight paint me in all her violet shades they begin to look more like bruises. A single star, a gunshot wound. I think about how small I must look from all the way up there. I think about how I won’t live past twenty.

It’s such a dramatic scene, a fanciful notion ripped from the history books by a girl who doesn't know how she’ll fit into them. There was one like her before, who dug her palms into the rails and stared out at her burning Versailles, and she wondered how it could be so cold when there was so much light. Another kisses her daughter and son’s shining cheeks goodnight, sits on the tiled floor of the kitchen with her head in the oven. There was the one who painted and broke, loved and broke, painted and loved and shattered and broke. The other flies all her life and goes down at Howland, sinks for its remainder. All of them, statues with shards of rose colored glass transfixed in their eyeball sockets.

Maybe we were made to be romantic and lovely and tragic. Maybe we have no choice but to carry these diamonds and bleed from the backs of our ankles, streak the pavement rose red. Maybe we were destined to scar everything we touch, for what is beauty without pain?

I’ll paint my nails and bite them to the beds, I’ll **** boys who are cruel by design. I’ll spin endless corpses, spin relentless circles in this frigid corner of mine.
Whit Howland Mar 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
An abstract word painting. An original.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
I've come to love

and know
the color blue to mean
not a Blue Monday
Blue Note or joke
and don't much care to sing the Blues

or for that matter
give them
because truth be told
most of the time

I want to caucus
with those
pumping and stumping
for a Blue Hawaii
or the warm blue waters

pickling poetically
the clam shell white bottom

of Palancar Reef

Whit Howland © 2019
Charles Barnett Feb 2011
Yesterday you were swallowed by the sea.
Gasping and screaming air bubbles
and smoke.
Flailing and laughing your laugh
that made the room raise their
eyebrows in suspicion.

Yesterday the sky swallowed you.
Somewhere in the vicinity of
Howland Island.
Without a trace, without a sound
save for a single cry for help.

Yesterday the earth swallowed you
cracking and splitting like a
peanut out of its shell.
Suffocating and squeezing the
taste of soil and decay down
your throat and into your lungs.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
We walk uphill
almost parallel  
with the sky

but like all our other
adventures

we are out
to conquer different things

mine is to take this hill
one paced but ragged

breath upon breath
foot over foot
to plant my flag

yours is to shutter
to and fro

distilling object
place and time
and what is now

into an orderly
chronicle of us

Whit Howland © 2019
A WIP.
Whit Howland Mar 2021
red

delectable
plump

augmented with a swirl
of whip cream


and life clicks by
like a carousel

way too fast

whit howland © 2021
An impressionistic word painting. An original.
Whit Howland Aug 2017
Malta

I've seen you
only in sepia tones
on a cardboard postcard

you're a little turquoise bay
rimmed with toy houses
and piers with matchstick boats

that dangle on strings
as they rise and fall
with the tide

Malta
we've never met

but I feel
we're kissing cousins
and like Saucelito

I'll dig you

and I'll envelope myself
in your streets your cafes
your denizens

and though I may
never know you
I feel I finally understand
what true love is

as I continue to mold you
like you are rich
river bottom clay

  Whit Howland © 2017
Whit Howland Sep 2019
Though
tempted
to write about
how much I miss you

I want to create
from a place
of
enlightenment

songs of
loss
misery
sadness

are not
for those who
flew
all night

into
tomorrow
but for ones
who refuse

to
make
the
trip

© Whit Howland 2019
Not so much the message, but about the function of poetry in general.
Whit Howland Sep 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
Whit Howland Nov 2019
your face
in abstract shades

solid features like
eyes ears and nose

fell prey
to brush and blender

transformed now
into degrees of moon glow

Whit Howland © 2019
Abstract Word  Painting. De-personification of the moon.
Whit Howland Jul 2018
it is with deepest regret
that i don't have something better
to tell you about love

about being a sugar cube
you stir into a cup of coffee
to make it less bitter

its never worked that way for me
and I've always had to think

of something tired and stripped
of all its varnish  and dignity

something I've already asked
way too much of and yet
is still there for me  
night after night

when my voice  and words
have long since failed

@ 2018  Whit Howland
Whit Howland Sep 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
Whit Howland Aug 2017
Your circus friends
the roustabouts trapeze girls
and all the other clowns

they've seen the light
and that's why they'll never call
and you know they'll never write

because of this
you swim in pity

to the joy of thousands
of  hollow fans

Whit Howland ©2017
Whit Howland Nov 2019
time
to disappear

become

red jade orange
gray
dots or points on a paper or a fabric

and the ocean

blue splashes
capped
with white

as the summer sun burns
at its brightest
before it drips and melts down to its wick


© Whit Howland 2019
Impressionistic Word Painting
Whit Howland Feb 2021
A swatch of sky
literally blue

a patch of green
light to dark

swirls and flourishes
impressions of flowers

red brick
and the color of stone

eyes ears hands feet
and a nose

is it deep
it is not

and it isn't really that
complicated

it just takes time
and patience

whit howland © 2021
A word painting with a straight forward message.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
gentle water
lapping the hull

bossa nova
clinking glasses
a tickle
of the piano's ivory keys
and you're lost

in giant strawberries
of a daiquiri
dribbling down your chin
onto your palm frond top
and shorts while you

swing and sway
poolside

tomorrow Ocho Rios Jamaica
but today sun and sea

tonight the crown stars
and a ruby juicy
fingernail moon

Whit Howland © 2019
Whit Howland Feb 2021
just one minute
in the microwave

and watch it bubble and
sizzle

greasy

slabs of fat
and all

Lord please

let me be forever
guilty

and gladly  and
eternally

doing
my penance


whit howland © 2021
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
We're all in the lunar module
And full of addictions:
Whit, Bill, and me

Not one of us
Knows how to land this thing
So I guess we'll see
Where this ride takes us

One small step for insanity
One giant 'this is all
Elizabeth Leone Laird's fault!'
See Elizabeth Leone Laird's Clarity poem challenge.
Whit Howland Aug 2021
Sun's rays
pierce

the bronchial
latticework

of the bare trees
in late Fall

leaving me with
windless and limp sails

whit howland © 2021
A word painting. An original.
Whit Howland May 2021
i sweep
the floor

i drag your valises
up to your room

I park your
cars

i avail
or profit from your loss

i am your worst nightmare
as i stamp out all existence of you

whit howland © 2021
An abstract word painting.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
Not the first day of the rest
of your life

nor a chance to revel
in new beginnings

trains have already
left their stations and ships
their ports

some advice my grandmother
once gave

just write a note

I've treasured our time
sorry it couldn't have lasted longer

but alas

it was perhaps 
as long as it needed to be

whit howland  ©  2019
The idea of not knowing what it all meant and why it had to go.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
past simile
past metaphor
we longed again
for clanking

fact

the shrieking
so bad
we could no longer
turn our backs
or shut the door

we called

a plumber worked
into the night

violently
snaking the drain

his pound of cure
could only repair


whit howland  © 2019
Whit Howland Feb 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
A word painting with a straight forward message. An original.
Whit Howland Oct 2019
London Eye
                you spin
                     you twirl

all circular motion
                    so high
                       above a city

Big Ben though silent
                you still keep time
                               so fast
            
slipping through the gaps
                    my hand
                          sifting sand

the guard
       changing

life
    flowing

the Thames
         steady moving
              crossing bridges

London
              when we come

Whit Howland © 2019
More Abstract Word Art with word play. Imagistic stream of consciousness.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
Not new
but new to you

your first Nikon
my father gifted

when he saw
your countless
flowers

it was six years old

but it was like
a wrecking ball

concrete blocks
and mason's tools

******* in an
ethereal sky blue
ribbon

which sparked
your desire for art
and commerce

coupled with my need
to find again
the line and verse

adrift
in the harbor fog

and record it
for posterity

that ultimately
leveled and rebuilt

reclaiming
in what felt like
three days

a  beautiful thing

that will
and should never

cease and desist

Whit Howland © 2019
Whit Howland Nov 2019
The little brush
used to dab over words
typed or misspoke

and that made globules
of white paint
on the page

outside
someone's whiting out a canvas
painting

over images and words
that have grown stale
and no longer serve them well

Whit Howland © 2019
A word painting
Whit Howland Nov 2019
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
Word Painting.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
even for
the non aficionado

when you say
such trite things as

step up to the plate

knock it out of the park

they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat

smell the oiled
leather of the glove

and hear the crack

as the ball soars
higher into the sky

past the cheap seats
and beyond

and I wonder

how could I
have dismissed

these words
and turns of phrases

so raw
golden
sweet and bardic

Whit Howland © 2019
Whit Howland Jul 2021
The cool aquamarine water
ripples

as it kisses the skin
and we move like fish

fumbling

in self-induced darkness
to the cadence

Marco
Polo

accidents
collisions

as well as serendipitous
discovery

whit howland © 2021
An impressionistic word painting.
Whit Howland Oct 2019
terracotta pink
sun-washed peach
they tumble down

tumble they do
to the sea  

Positano
the Amalfi coast
its steep and
slanted streets

Positano
where wisteria
grows on hotel walls

though paint does peel
stucco crumbles
and awnings fade

Positano
even in its sometimes
tattered state
it's  still a weathered beauty

Whit Howland © 2019
Sentimental word art. A little more Rod Mckuenish than I'd like, but oh well.
Whit Howland Apr 2021
It's what it's not

your last nerve
frayed

or  your life like a baby tooth
hanging by a thread

or the train wreck or
the accident on the highway

you cannot
look away from

and it is not and never will be
staring into the abyss

with no light
at the end of the tunnel

whit howland © 2021
For everyone. Love all of you.
Whit Howland Jan 2021
did he
or did he not

write his great American novel
on a roll of toilet paper

so many questions so
many conversations

so little well
time

is what you make
of it

you and i had time
and then we didn't

whit howland © 2021
An abstract word painting. An original.
Whit Howland May 2021
Now
a faded pair
of blue jeans

that served us well
as shadows set in
and pretty soon

there'll be nothing to see
and not much to tell
other than what we can glean

by the cold light
of a glinting sharp
silvery moon

whit howland © 2021
a word painting
Whit Howland Aug 2021
The damage is done
my love

and I understand that your forgiveness
won't be forthcoming

and all I can say to explain
is this

what I did I did under
duress

and it may be hard to comprehend
that I only meant to protect you

it is a concept I fear will be forever
lost at sea


whit howland © 2021
Daisy King Jul 2017
Going to and from somewhere not far,
I pass a couple of children on scooters
shouting, Ice Cream!
from across the street.

When I dare to raise my eyes to look out
instead of down at my shoes as I walk
I instantly see faces of strangers,
crying- Eyesore. I know they are right.

But nobody is selling what I want.
It does not seem producible.

It is not a house on a corner, the size and charm
of a dormitory, with window treatments.
It is not those shoes my sister likes with the red soles
or sunglasses my mother likes with the diamonds
or the endorphins or the caffeine or the career ladder.
I do not covet Ice Cream, the biggest or best thing,
and I don’t have romance for pipe dreams either.

That is someone's else’s dream,
unexceptional, formless, but probably fulfilling.
I hope I am never fulfilled.

In my hand there’s a digital map that orients me
in a roundabout. I am a breathing oscillating blue dot.
I can’t get anywhere from here.

Why do I not want Ice Cream or summer dresses?
Why do I not want to be out on the town, meeting new people?
Why do I not participate?

I watch people on television, traveling.
I am so scared.

I listen to Neil Armstrong radioing from the moon.

I scan the transcripts over and over of
Earhart circling Howland Island:
We are unable to hear you
to take a bearing.


Intermittent despair- what can you make from that?

I look up to see the sun caught in the tail end trail
of a jet. I wave:
Do you hear my signals.
Please acknowledge.


And then all my thoughts are frostwork and blue
with parachutes and windows on walls
and I am filled with clouds and I can’t see.

We cannot see you.

Now I know I begin and end with images,
how far across this field can my voice spread out,
extend and reach in singing, in screaming?
Whit Howland Mar 2021
To God
only known
we are

unknown
to everyone else

you are seeing
what  no one else
can view

thus

you now know
what he can only
know

sublime

whit howland © 2021
An abstract word painting.
Whit Howland Sep 2019
Tied
like meat
with a butcher's knot

a bundle of papers
sits on the side walk

the rain

pelting
the front page

smudging
running
the news

now
a steady stream of ink

feeding into the storm drain

© Whit Howland 2019
Straight up imagery with a touch of surrealism.
Whit Howland Sep 2019
Still life
like silver apples
sitting

pop art in
a front yard
rust now rolling

up on once apple
green paint



© Whit Howland 2019
A poem based on words and images with textures.
Whit Howland Dec 2019
I woke up

this morning and saw you
brushing your hair in the mirror

I asked you if it’s Sunday
you said yes

I feel we’ve been here before
and like a revolving door

we have the same conversation
at different times
and in different places

the words and music
so familiar to my ear

as we continue
to turn

and reset the earth like a clock

Whit Howland © 2019

— The End —