As opposed to
10 dollars

we say something's better
when

you get it for cheap

but it's all about
the depreciation
over time

of the mind
not the thing

you bought on
impulse

10 cents

was it  a click
or a flip

of the dime
over the counter



Whit Howland © 2020

Like beginnings
endings are just as hard

knowing what
is finished looks

like nothing
you started out with

so many twists
turns and evolutions
along the way

© Whit Howland 2019

We're no longer young
or wet behind the years

are jokes are old
and they groan

like hunger pains
from someplace

down deep

but what is it
we hunger for

and will we find it
before it's time

to lay down
and go to sleep

Tried to push
back
against
the knives

outside
skinny
cats
screech
and scratch


the sun is coming

time
to paint
a pink blush

on another
early
morning
chagrin

© Whit Howland 2019

I'm here to dream
and not to know

because dreaming of
a Golden Age

that never was
without the toil

the blood sweat and
gallon jug

of tears

may someday make it
so

Whit Howland © 2020

gray streaks
mixed with rusty brown

on a stretched canvas
tacked on a plaster wall

cash
on the barrel

and it's yours

at odds
the agreement

you got me for cheap
the dotted line

where I signed
I must have been sleeping

whit howland © 2021

Snow covered branches frame

a barn

far off

and partially obscured
by blowing snow

did you get my note

I asked
if you were okay

you seemed so  distant

and so cold

© Whit Howland 2019

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

Grease drips
from gear and chain
but only in the mind

as do the wheels spin
with king and jack
slapping the spokes





Whit Howland © 2019

The water lapping the shoreline
makes me think of your words

my life is on an even keel

and it's your voice that still
echoes through my dreams

my songs and poems
it must be because

you made pain
loss

and sorrow look
so easy


at a point in my life
when it was hard enough

just to pick up the phone
and deliver the news

it's been thirty years now
and her voice

is still yours I hear
when I pull your book

from my shelf
one more time

my life is on an even keel

Whit Howland © 2020

The right words
of appreciation

that is the rub
because

they must
be economical

while pure and
clear

your book of poems
tattered yet

loved

you words verse
short and sweet

though they
call out the demon

by name

Whit Howland © 2020

These frosty panes

like stained glass scenes
capturing the Christmases of my youth
the taste the sounds

the tree wrapped in strings of lights
the tinsel draped like gleaming
dripping icicles

but mostly the hanging shiny red
yellow green ornaments
with their blinding glare

Whit Howland © 2020

we stretch
we yawn
looking  out
at life so still
while
lazing
our way
through the day
then rising
eyes keen
ready
to wrestle
demons unseen

© Whit Howland 2019

A strong name
to some

but to others
it doesn't mean

well
you know the rest

it took a lot
of it and giant-sized marbles

to get where I am today
though apologies

to those I might have stepped on
and hurt

along the way
I regret it now

and understand that
you meant jack

and more
than I ever knew

Actually it's about a watch and fob
and how our lives

dance to the musical score
of the minutes

hours days
and years

it measures
and records

Whit Howland © 2020

No not a gust
but more a light touch

nothing that moves
like a whirlwind

or such
just a tiny perturbation

a tickle

Happy Birthday
and junk

Whit Howland © 2020

Maybe
a scrap of paper
with a name number or address

that slipped down
river
and over the falls

memories
leaving one by one

until there's nothing left
but a hollow wind
blowing

into some glass bottles
perched
on a split rail fence

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

we run we pivot
then we run again

stopping so briefly
to sit

in the window
and peer

at the freshly minted
moon

then we take off running
wondering

if one day we'll ever
muster the courage

to stop and challenge
what seems to be

chasing us

Whit Howland © 2020

as summer
lopes
with days
more doggy
than ever

it seems
keen sight
has given way

to acute hearing
of things

like a clock ticking
and putting down

bottom
to the soundtrack
of my life

and when i hear
my cat's meow
and see the red

yellow green
pop and flash
behind my eyes

outstanding

I tell him
as he limps
on his clubfoot

by me
into the haze
of this magic afternoon

Whit Howland © 2020

Again
I'm making this

a federal production
about

a bowl of silver
apples

and how these pewter
pieces of fruit

that if I'm not careful
can become

the cold and scary
central characters

all their own
in what is supposed to be

my  life

Whit Howland © 2020

So
much before us
yet to be revealed

and much like a song
on the radio

memories come
flooding the way blood
rushes

to the head
when you are suspended

in space upside
down

but then the dust
settles so we can steal
a breath

and feel

that it always seems
much simpler
then

so we can cope
we can 

 heal

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not make this
a rumination about
or
a referendum
on a state of mind

the day is clear
cold
the sky an icy blue

trees are bare
leaves are dry and piled

the path is
unobstructed

and crisp spare
internal prose
will win the day



Whit Howland © 2020

and no net
as they swing
under a striped tent

grabbing reaching
for other trapezes
lifelines
       hanging
                swaying like knives

audience
breath baited
waiting for the big shoe to drop

it never does


Whit Howland © 2019

Even the smallest
of minds

is an incredible thing

for instance

one look at Rialto bridge
over the Grand Canal

as water taxis flit


it comes to us
our small mind that is

in crude but evocative
language and prose

this is a place
a world

we can visit

but never
ever will we or should we

stay

Whit Howland © 2020

I go back and forth
about who I want
to be

most of the time
I try to figure that out

through observation
of people passing

so briefly in and out
of my life

over a newspaper
and coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

amongst the faded
and yellowed green

of wintered
grass

and slightly
beyond the horizon

a spec

slowly
coming into focus

it's moving parts
becoming

more visible more
mechanical

whit howland © 2021

Much smoke
but is there fire

bread crumbs and a half-eaten
sandwich

water
boiling on a stove

and more on the floor
either spilled

or ice cubes that melted

a shirt draped over
a chair

or is this my way of telling you
that life is made up of a bunch
of Maguffins

and it really doesn't
add up to much

all mystery is art
and the best is at best
impressionistic

absurd

or experimental

Whit Howland © 2020

Pink and orange
smear
the gray clouds

as though a ***** mop
swabbed

the darkness
and the night away

it's over now
I forgive you

why

I do not know

I just will
I just am
and it'll just be

Whit Howland © 2020

I no longer have
the knack I once had

for removing one side
of the doll house
then stepping back

and looking in
at all the stuff
that is both our lives

seeing each thought
and feeling
in every room

as a figurine

life it seems

so suddenly
pulled me under

stripped me of the title
making me a player
an understudy of sorts

for 23 years
we've been friends

until one day

or shall I say

one night

the notion throttled me

you were gone
and not coming back

Whit Howland © 2019

It's those long days
spent

with you
that play out

like a 24 hour
solo

on the saxophone
and summon all the cliches

"where have you been
all my life"

is the first one
coming to mind

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

Long
shadows cast

and sunlight goes
pale

so little time
yet

so much left
to do

Slats
planted in the sand

lashed together
with rusty wire

while scraggly reeds peak in out
And up around them

I am there and yet

I never was

Morning
sunshine

and clear eyes to see clearly
to pick up

the twigs
and branches

off the front lawn
of my neighbor's yard

whit howland © 2021

A wheel that
spins

a gear that meshes

a lever and a
fulcrum

push pull
tug

and I fail
over and over

to see
the relevance

of knowing

how I came
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

On paper its a child's
sun

it is bright yellow
there are green lollipop

trees
an expanse

of blue for water
a crude

forgery no doubt
of a classic he once saw

and was so moved

Whit Howland © 2020

What are you
going to do

the last ones
in the joint

the chairs
pushed into tables

the bartender cleaning
glasses

a night cap
or resignation

that things
are what they are

as you let
those angelic questions turn to tautologies

if you
listen closely

the phone is ringing
it might serve you well to answer the call

© Whit Howland 2019

At this hour
the world is an
inkwell

ripe  
for a feather to *****
and draw blood

from

where am I what
am I

if I'm trapped between
morning
and evening

searching
chasing

answers

Whit Howland © 2020

All angles
and rectangles
of natural

geometry
the antithesis
of mystery

fiction
but rather
orderly

clean
and efficient

Whit Howland © 2020

And if all the world's a stage
I'll always find myself

in the third act a nondescript
dot or blob on the backdrop

and if there are shadows
I'll choose the largest one

and move with it
my contribution to you

my gift

Whit Howland © 2020

Damage or
enlightenment

depends
on how you parse it

it was done
the work the deed

I could not go back
the food

the thought
the song

too sweet

Whit Howland © 2019

First gray clouds
then a rumble

a crash
and a flash

then torrent
after torrent of waterworks

followed by birds
chirping

sunshine
heat and steam rising

what's left to do but remove
the speck

from our own eye
so we can see clearly

to remove it from
others

whit howland © 2021

No one cares  about
what happened
after

the dark and stormy
night

about what was tossed
and lost
by the wind

pelted by the rain

it all gets written off
as disposable

words matter

choose them wisely

and spend the money

Whit Howland © 2020

We knuckle down
you and I

in a circle that can't be
broken

and it's a give and take
as we shoot

each other's mibs out
of the ring

collecting much more
of you

and me with each and every
game

What are you but
a statuette

and quite possibly
a matter of fact

yes you are here
and something to be touched

or for which a certain feeling
and perhaps

a specified action could be
directed at

but alas

this
and our relationship

can only go so far
because whatever attention

affection
or any other emotion

I may toss your way
you cannot reciprocate

my apologies if you object
to this assessment

Whit Howland © 2020

old
chipped
and brown

green grass
has grown-up
all around it

the inscription
rubbed off so
so long ago

a still life a stiff breeze
people are  just dying
to get in here

respect
for the dead
is not what we are told

that it is

laughter
still lives here
and travels

to the beyond

whit howland © 2021

we fear what do not
understand

a man in the dark
leaning against a lampost

an orange glow and a curl
of smoke

rising toward the pale
and sickly light

whit howland © 2020

hello
it's me again

with the same sad repartee
and refrain

we were somewhere
I swear

even if you thought it
was nowhere

and I'm sorry it's
always so gray and rainy

if we could just meet
one more time over

coffee and scones
I'm sure

it will all clear up
soon


Whit Howland © 2020

Quick
like quick

silver
winged feet

messenger
too fast to ****

whit howland © 2021