rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
you and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
life

yours
and mine

you
and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

inkblots
ever-morphing
clouds

but now
conforming

"Everything
in life  is luck"

"Maturity of mind is the capacity to endure
Uncertainty."

into a gray black
black thunderhead

“Dig deep & pull the roots of confidence from the ground of your being, standing firm in the raging storm
until sunlight blossoms inside you.”

heavy slashing drops
of rain

pelt
a dull steel gray bucket

making the metal
CLANG

"I was born for a storm
and calm does not suit me."

whit howland © 2021

If  there are ghosts
they are of
the friendly variety

rippling
white sheets
and eyeholes

floating
down
the hall

but not you
and never again
will it be you

your face
erases
and grows fainter

each
and every
day

whit howland © 2021

a platter a piece
of ham

and eggs
that are green

but it's your definition
of green

that
worries me

for not only
do I have certain tastes

in my shades
of that color

I have my preferences
for how

I like my breakfast
served to me

and I prefer
a bit more truth

and a little less
power

whit howland © 2021

I think of Yertle
his thone his
wobbly kingdom

stacked
ten turtles high
and how absurd

we were back then
each wanting
our postage stamp

of space

for you it was
the small swatch
of faded Oriental rug

and I

fought
for the cuckoo clock
the one with the extra slow hands

that wavered
as if they had
St Vitus Dance

whit howland © 2021

Oh
heart-shaped box

you give me no
quarter

and no room
to think

beyond
your borders

whit howland © 2021

our memories
like petals

scattered
about the ground

far too many
to collect

we are losing
each other

I can feel the
slippage

but we'll keep
digging

whit howland © 2021

Not even close
to something

as fine as
you

rolled
coffee brown

and neatly
trimmed

a sweet
Tobacco burst

of sunshine

I am talking about
a cigar

seriously

it is just
a cigar

whit howland © 2021

And I'm reminded
of that night

an argument

the never-ending loop that rip tide
we were caught in

our fingers
trying to break free

of the bamboo handcuff
that bonded us

and it's futile to ask
what happened or try

to make sense of what
it all meant

whit howland © 2021

To be hell ridden
of the itch of worry

are words I wish
I wrote

but alas
they are what I've found

more vestiges
of you

for much of what
I own

poetically is
yours

and the best
I can do

loving spoonfuls
of sugar

a blessed shot
of cream soda

it swirls
in a glass and in
our mouths

we are nowhere
or everywhere

yet
do we even care

whit howland © 2020

It's an image
I can mass-produce
on cue

ladling syrupy
sentiments into a cup
like punch

depression glass
frosted
with flourishes

filled with candy
wrapped in flashy
gold cellophane

all because
I'm trying to
sell you what you want

whit howland © 2020

And snow falls
like God
shaking
out his hair

little flakes
on the back of the shirt
a few on the comb
after it ran through the strands

still covering
the dull pate
where did they go
where did we go

how did we get here
this state
where we own
almost embrace

our foibles
our chinks
in what is now tarnished
armor

Whit Howland © 2020

but there's still
a smell of cedar

after all these
years

and i am so thankful
it dodged the moths

that i will over look
the shrunken sleeves

so small
like they are cursed

and the once luxuriant
full-bodied red

now faded
and earthen colored

something
so sentimental

no longer has to serve
a function

whit howland © 2020

Red then green
then yellow
and red again

do you stop
do wait
do you go anyway

who are you
where are you
and why

the light the
threeway
stop

it's always
the crossroads

whit howland © 2020

Black dots
they blot out the sun

almost
a Rorschach pattern

you call
I answer

we speak
in tongues

our cacophony

music
and a blessing

to someone's ears

whit howland © 2020

swirling
in a bowl
of cold milk

red yellow
blue and green
life rings

have we gone too far
pushed the envelop
taken it to the edge

sugary
crunchy
frosted

whit howland © 2020

it's ok
I read you
I get you

I feel you

your nervous
desires
anxieties

your passionate pleas

but mostly
it's your hopes
and dreams

that are laid out
so plainly in panels
of sequential art

replete
with conversation
and think bubbles up above


whit howland © 2020

Black Eye Patch
baseball cap
pink and sugary gum

conjures
the twilight
games

of stickball
kick the can
and hide and seek

and I could ask
where they all went
those days

my brothers my pals

but life
is too complicated
for that kind of lament

and also
nostalgia
good memories

are meant to simplify
wipe cleanse
and finally

stitch together
the wounded
soul

whit howland © 2020

flying
then yawing

floating
spinning

thoroughly
pickled

i woke up this morning
not knowing

where you were
or even why

you
ever existed


whit howland © 2020

for the longest time
your face rippled

like a reflection
in a wishing well

lately

I find myself at night having
conversations with the moon

in all its ubiquitous
full figured glory

the last time
I asked

you said no

I said I will never
ask again

whit howland © 2020

fire engine lips
big tongue
bulbous nose

free lunch

TANSTAAFL

surgical gloves
a steady hand to sew

through chaos
comes order

hence
the peach-colored sunset
behind a scaffold
of darkened branches

whit howland © 2020

filled
to the brim

with the tea I never
drank

you are like
found art and also

like all the other animals
once

in my life
that have now passed

finally

I'm finding
time to have a conversation

with you

and them

there's a little voice
or a bee

buzzing

inside my
head

saying
we have things we need to talk about

Whit Howland © 2020

Spinning
the world is
spinning

out of control
I don't I don't
know

I focus on you
and only you
your deep blue eyes

black eyelashes
your offwhite porcelain
skin

Whit Howland © 2020

One side
of your rubber face

sags

but  you're still hot
and pink

with a carrot
inching ever closer

to your bucktoothed
mouth

and the plastic valve
in your **** is open

so I could lip lock
and just blow

my cheeks puffing out
like Dizzy Gillespie

Whit Howland © 2020

sticky with ****
resting

in its dish

the shower
running full blast

with the mirror
fogged and steamy

then

the hairdryer
blowing

more hot air

yes it's true
we've been having moments

but I'd like to think
of them

as growing pains

the stuff
that shapes and molds

Whit Howland © 2020

for thought

right now crows
fall

from the gray
and brittle

branches
of trees

and litter the ground
like fallen leaves

we are what we
eat

Whit Howland © 2020

hi honey
yes i did go
to the store

rosy blush
on the cheeks
of Coca Cola Santa

but it is with deep
regret
i lost the list

blue green
red strings
of Christmas lights

the ones
with big bulbs

you so
meticulously
penned for me



whit howland © 2020

A wave cracks like a whip
in the wind

blowing

across the wheat
in a never-ending field

did I mean to come here
or was I just out wandering

and do I mean to
stay

whit howland © 2020

Steam rises
from a sweetened

deal

and a once
bitter cup of coffee

now swirling
with Dorsett cream

we (you and I)

are talking about
coffee

we swear

it's so delicious
or shall we say

delectable

whit howland © 2020

Difficult
to explain

why you
and I

clicked

strange
odd

like something
from the Sunday Funnies

whit howland © 2020

I've always known you
to figure it out

something

usually works
it's simple

as it always
has been

whit howland © 2020

Big brass
and shiny
it rang and swung

as the clapper
clanged
from side to side

as a line of doves
pointed
to the sky

and someone
was happy
someone

was very
very
happy

whit howland © 2020

You say we worked it out
dodged a bullet

the big "D"and all that
and I'm so relieved

you see
that is why right now

I'm looking at a clear sky
with just a bit

of white marbling
amongst the blue

as opposed to something
pale and gray

whit howland © 2020

a dare to set forth and prove
the moon is literally

a ball of green cheese and
not some silly metaphor

that Santa  Claus was also real
we just stopped having faith

and life

on a wire between tall buildings
and you have only

your balance
and your grace

whit howland © 2020

dare I say it
a ****** not a clang

as a breeze tiptoes
through the valley

and the tulips
yes

we've had some
rough times

but I think
they're behind us now

I've finally figured
it out

whit howland © 2020

here
but for how long

no signpost up
ahead

or rest
for the befuddled

not to mention
why

whit howland © 2020

Although it's like
herding a bunch of cats

this is your life
the first day the rest and all that

dust

dirt

and bunnies

it counts
all of it


whit howland © 2020

we ask the question of what
why where

and who are we

going round round
and round

like a revolving door
in a department store

and it's all there
we just can't get to it

four strings and a prayer
is the best we can hope for

whit howland © 2020

The soul
no not really

try windowpanes
of frosted glass

at Christmas time
looking in on ugly seaters

eggnog cheap ornaments
and things we need to return

more a sleight of hand
a distraction

whit howland © 2020

The gray sky
and minimal sunlight

coupled
with the hard earth

seems so small
in Winter

and it makes me feel
so alone

almost like I'm trapped inside
of myself

whit howland © 2020

If I had brushes and a canvas
I'd paint it

a gathering
soiree or better yet

a ticker tape
parade

a celebration
of one's life well lived

and deserving of such
reverie

whit howland © 2020

For those who know
the plate glass window

looking out over Omaha
at night

the city lights twinkling
derisively

so to speak

whit howland © 2020

It never reaches its
zenith

bleak
the sun in winter

the day only half
realized

unfinished business
with the sky a diluted blue

and shadows ever
present

whit howland © 2020

He pulls up the stoop
the doors slide shut
the wheels turn

the silver cars lurch
the last whistle blasts

too late

there's no grousing
no second-guessing
and no need for tears

whit howland © 2020

or is it a slate
to scrawl on
with chalk

to draw to
solve to flesh out
life's riddles

to put together
the ultimate puzzle
one etch/ piece at a time

to diagram
the building the
sentence the story

to complete the circle

the beauty being
even though
it is slate

nothing is ever
written in stone
for it can be erased

and the canvas
is always
blank

whit howland © 2020

Black white
gray then black
again

then beige
and we are caught
in a vortex

a loop
of one color
and of one mind

so maybe throw
in some yellow
some blue

and let it mix
into green then
dark green

then lime
and back to green
again

from chaos
always comes
order

the world sees to it
and keeps it
that way

whit howland © 2020

red
but faded

slats  cover the path or
walkway

below
the river frozen and blanketed
with powdery snow

and icy branches crack
on the spotty wooded shores

it seems so long ago
when we were last here

the water gurgled the trees
were green and the paint
was bright and fresh

I'm so sorry I didn't
know
but I should have

whit howland © 2020

Rugged
splendor

lurching
back and forth

spacious
skies

air brakes
whistle blasts

Beacon rock
Gassman Coulee Trestle

locomotive
passenger cars

Snow spotted
peaks

lakes rivers
and clear water streams

long silver
streak

what we built
you and I

was gone
in a matter of minutes

in just one night

whit howland © 2020