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

ridges swirls
slashes
traces smudges

they are not much
but they're what we leave
behind of us

of what we create
the things we build
and the statements we make

everything counts
as evidence

whit howland © 2020

Wet rainy frogs
hopping
on the pavement

did we do this to ourselves
do what

the heart hardened the paint
splattered the sweeping
brush strokes

in various shades
of gray

whit howland © 2020

Must you always come
in the dead of night
when I'm fast asleep

the leaves are now
off the trees leaving
the branches bare and ashen

it's a simple question
with a not so simple answer

also the sky
is black
and starless

whit howland © 2020

red
with dabs of rust

on the bottom
and at the edges

a railing in the back
that he can grab onto

wheels
and a hitch

to couple with
other cars

everything exactly
to scale

we always recreate
what we see

only smaller

whit howland © 2020

yes they're eye candy
for the mind

the big blue marble the
universe

heaven
and beyond

so much to bite off
maybe more than we can chew

lest we forget those little
details

they also matter

whit howland © 2020

like a bird track
in the snow

even though
I felt you

your footprint was light
and your voice

distant

as if spirited off
by a stiff and bitter wind

whit howland © 2020

The shaky hand
of a wall clock

as it moves us past
the hour

the ticking
of a stopwatch

as we race
against ourselves

the wind
blows through the trees

already bare
winter setting in

we blinked

whit howland © 2020

and you know every time
I call

I see the old rotary dial on our phone
by the refrigerator
spinning

I'd leave it at that

but I like how the memory
stretches

like the long snaking cord
from the kitchen to the living room
and back again

whit howland © 2020

Red balloons
greenmail
without fail you always
excite me

yellow sun
blue sky birds chirping
red peppers
you set my senses ablaze

gray day
wet and rainy
red galoshes red raincoat
you are my protection

from the storm

whit howland © 2020

You are
front and center

as pale as the moon and with
obsidian eyes

I could maybe I
should

take heed

and if death
were not so absurd

I might be scared but
as it stands

I look at you and all I see
is a cigar

and you know what they say
about cigars

whit howland © 2020

autumn leaves blanket
a sweater and slippers

I look at you over bifocals
and puff my pipe

I have arrived

a little slower in life
but I have arrived

whit howland © 2020

When it becomes a bother
to bother with a mind

worried soft as
leather

i've become resigned to you
and all your quirks

and micro tensions
it's as if I float

on a carpet of cloud
through the stratosphere

lined with thin jet
and vapor trails

whit howland © 2020

Gleaming

refrigerator white
surrounded by black

your smile says

you've separated what others
can't

the degrees and shades
of gray

in this finely woven
tapestry


whit howland © 2020

the moon a faintly
traced crescent
admidst a backdrop of blue

an upward pull
the air increasingly thinner
and clearer now

your letter your news
came as quite a shock
but i'm better

and the pain was only
momentary as was
the chaos and confusion

whit howland © 2020

Last night a co worker
told me

he had to get out

play music
create or something

and then
he'll be happy

in my dreams
my house

hangs
on a string

the foundation's
cracked and sags

fix what's now
I tell him

leave the rest for later

whit howland © 2020

Oh the leaps our
mind makes from
one lilypad

to another
hip-hopping
across a pond

with water
black
as night

whit howland © 2020

It's what we pull
from the subconscious

the best parts of us
the cream

rising to the top
the parades

the celebrations the
moment

when he passed out
those cigars

whit howland © 2020

like cotton *****
or cotton swabs

we float away
on puffy white clouds

we disconnect
no

we unplug

whit howland © 2020

like in a barrel
or in a sink

we are the lambs the paper ducks
the canaries

in the goldmine
we are battered

next to chips
the food

for hungry
watering mouths to feed

sorry
it was nothing personal

whit howland © 2020

it's got nothing to do
with nothing

a tuft
of fur on a chain

swinging from a ring of keys
in the ignition

that's right

nothing


whit howland © 2020

October's slimy kiss
of wet

the air peels away
the layers

as it harvests this year's
summer crop

the soul

whit howland © 2020

Usually when I dream
the house never gets packed

the shuttle never arrives
to take me to the airport

and I have not studied
for that final exam

but last night into the early morning
that all changed

in the batting cage
as I felt the sting of swinging

hitting

and knocking all the fastballs
that came my way

out of the park
into the heavens and beyond

whit howland © 2020

Red
like a red rubber
playground ball

wet
from a late
October rain

it was a solitary galosh
that did me in floating
and suspended in thought

robbing me
of those early morning hours
of sleep

while you snored away
and I haunt the halls and rooms
of the house

to shoulder
yours
as well as mine

whit howland © 2020

my life
flashing
by
like
a fast car
going on the green
and headed out of town

some twists and turns
a lot of missed calls
some lucky pulls
but ultimately a dead end

whit howland © 2020

Frankly
I prefer the rippling white sheet

with eye holes
floating down the hall

instead of what tugs
at my conscience

like fingers pulling on that
tiny strand of hair

whit howland © 2020

Tethered
to a metal ring
in descending order

they clink they jingle
like bells or chimes
as they dangle

and swing
from your slender
fingers

I look through your window panes
and find the music
as I reach farther

than I ever did before

whit howland © 2020

just focus on the missing nose of the face
that looks like Groucho Marx

lost

and work from that

backwards or forwards

it doesn't really matter because
what is lost

is something that has been
confirmed

will not be found

Whit Howland © 2020

When evening sets in
and there's a bite

we put on sweaters
and shawls

because we feel it in our bones
of something we've never felt before

Whit Howland © 2020

Your note
handwritten
in pink pen

on coarse
and crumpled
scratch paper

"Are you okay
lately
you seem kinda distant"

if not then
I'll say it now

I'm so sorry
I must have been
lost

in the weeds of thought
and tangled
in overthinking

thank you for your
gentle hand
and firm grip

Whit Howland © 2020

Like my feet
without any wings

they clunk
and plod through mud

much like molasses

and the music
the thought jazz

has left under auspicious
no

I think you mean
suspicious circumstances

Whit Howland © 2020

A meditation about
a color

and substance
we often think of as black

but very rarely
red or electric blue

I was drawn
to you

because you were as
no other

I mean I had never seen anyone
or anything

like you

Whit Howland © 2020

What's the good word
some news would be nice

will you write
or call

because the pin cushion
I'm sitting on

will no longer
suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

Like the brother who said

you can have it

you slip out when I
slip in from the night shift

and our fingers only
slightly touch

but it's just enough
for a connection

to keep the ghosts
at bay

and drown out all the lonely songs
about about a pale and sad moon


Whit Howland © 2020

You paint our love with
somber but noisy tones

rubbing charcoal
and flakes of ash on the canvas

what is it

I'm scratching my head
a warning

a cautionary tale
because all I see is gray

windswept beauty and I want
more

so give it to me

Whit Howland © 2020

Floating orb in the
night

as black as gold
Texas Tea

oil that is

there's been darkness
enough to go around

and around
ribboning the world

with black

but no tunnel goes on
forever

and there are jokes and laughter
along the way

Whit Howland © 2020

Last night you slept
like a log

or was it a rock

as for me
I kept chasing

the merchant of sleep
into the early morning

like a wayward ice cream truck
but it's a new day

and the sun is an orange and juicy
tangerine in the sky

let's make a pact

Whit Howland © 2020

Cat's Cradle

eyes closed waiting
for

the shock

flash

the crash

Walking the dog

it never comes
on pins

and needles I wait
what is this

it's a ship arriving too late
to save a drowning witch

Whit Howland © 2020

you

me

old yellowed
stressed fractured
along the base

when did it come
to this

how did it come
to this

pipes clank
smell

drip drip
drip

so much promise so
little time

I wish I had known you
better

Whit Howland © 2020

Tonight the moon is full
and as always
it's a ball of green cheese

if we are lucky
it'll be here all week
so

in its honor

what say you and I
do a Chinese Fire Drill
on 42nd Street

because like Slinkys we must bend
and twist ourselves
to prove

and plead
that we are human
and should be called such


Whit Howland © 2020

The image a face
ripples

or contorts

when something
maybe a pebble

dares to disturb
it's universe

before it's restored
as though nothing

untoward ever
occurred


Whit Howland © 2020

Red and gold leaves
like feathers

are ruffled by the wind

lately, it seems
my world is upside down

it's hard to know
where things begin

and where they end

and that
has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

Some mornings I wake up
hot

under the collar

to handle

to trot

for bacon and eggs

with the dice some cards
or a pool cue

and most of all
hot for you


Whit Howland © 2020

What to do with a restless heart
and a restless mind

for inside
things must be burning

with flames so high
they kiss

the sky
and beyond

an unquenchable fire
or thirst

a question never
answered

an unrequited
love

Whit Howland © 2020

You mock me with a note
on a cocktail napkin

wet

from whatever you were drinking
and smudged

with ink

you love me

you love me not

and try as I try
forget you I cannot

I

kid you not

Whit Howland © 2020

A light
more a glow

the source
we do not know

should we
do we

dare
ask where

or why

my days are spent
trying

to read your ticks
your expressions

and I must do so
without fail

without question

it's the wire I walk
between two points

straddling



Whit Howland © 2020

This morning the air
bites like apple cider

and my mind is as clear
as a blue sky

with just a hint of cirrus
and stratus clouds

I have no regrets
nope

none whatsoever

Whit Howland © 2020

Why is the sky blue
I wish

I had an answer to that as well
as other questions

vexing you
but it's the seemingly

simple things with us
those innocent queries

such as

are piano keys really
ivory

and why are you so late
tonight

that has always tripped
me up

whit howland © 2020

You always take it too far
you say

I guess that's me
and why

every time I pull into
the garage

I stare down a bright green
tennis ball on a string

like both barrels
of a shotgun

whit howland © 2020

Shadows pattern
the wall

once in a while
they swing and ding

I left you because I felt
trapped

and thought
there was more than this

there was

I should have listened to you
instead of that distracting

flute music

you've always held
the key

whit howland © 2020