it's what we expect them
to say

or paint

vertical slashes
swirls and dabs of gray

with such windswept
and abstract beauty

but nobody
and i mean nobody

ever anticipates the flush
of sun

in the right-hand
corner

whit howland © 2020

like a bag of bricks
my conscience

you must have felt it too
and my breath

even from a far
when our eyes locked

and you knew you were being

pursued

so sorry
it was a heavy load I bore

for it was urgent
business

whit howland © 2020

and you are here
caught in my vortex

waiting with baited
and well

rancid breath

from the taste of
anchovies

while I ponder
where this is going

and what this all
meant

the mind a little slower
the older I get


whit howland © 2020

dishes clacking
glasses crashing

silverware
strewn and scattered

water
on the floor

i didn't mean for it
to get this way

my intentions were
always good

and i'm wracking
my brain

to figure out
where it all went

bad


whit howland © 2020

There's something
I need to say to you

this morning

but when I try
words always fail me

and like a sneeze
that never happens

it lingers in my throat
and nose

not to mention
the eternal buzz

and the sting
of frustration and impotency


whit howland © 2020

that it's here
in it's gray cloudy

glory
and bluster

such wind
and bluster

yep

that's all that needs to be
said


whit howland © 2020

Of glass that sweats
and labels that peel

in all shapes
and sizes

colors of liquid
from root to birch

onto creamy
and tangy

we can live again
love again

and we can definitely
come home

whit howland © 2020

Tracks in the snow

a small game trail
deer path
or footprints

ciphers
symbols
signs

of steps
equals
forward motion

progress


whit howland © 2020

A once bright and
red

now

a little deflated
wrinkled and faded

and it's an arm wrestle
or a battle for the soul

but the scissors are there
sitting

on the counter

to lead you to where
the air is much clearer

whit howland © 2020

My cat coiled beside me
on the couch

both he and I
creatures of the night

him
by choice

we are bonded
by the glow

of an amber globe
that looks like

it floats
in the front yard

whit howland © 2020

Something comfortable
but with pizzazz

fine lines
a touch of leather

and brushed
nickel

we think aloud
in unison

we complete each other's
sentences

with relatively speaking
the same syntax

whit howland © 2020

Often
I  ponder

about the purpose
of dreams

and why the mind
isn't merely wiped clean

and reprogrammed
every night

when moonbeams
breach our windowpanes

and
kiss the skin

whit howland © 2020

We cry about it in Paris
every spring

we used to say
before we lamented

what has left our lives
forever

even though I can't see you
I know you're there

I cling to that
always

Whit Howland © 2020

like a face
its expression changes

mostly
on a dime

reacting
to the moment

a decision at the
snap

is it fight
or is it flight

Whit Howland © 2020

Coda
or passage of time

and a rose by any other name
now brittle and dry

we well with tears
mostly sad

but sometimes aghast
at new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2020

Clarity is what I seek
as I declare

ivory keys
played with long

silk skinned fingers
is where I might find it

a rose petal
against the white

much like
a drop of blood

on flesh from
a pinprick

Whit Howland © 2020

For better or
worse

hallway vision
speak

nothing of a tunnel
the issue

is that of clearance
of cobwebs of clutter

a piece of mind at
any price

Whit Howland © 2020

Between these two points
it usually comes down

to where I've been in my life
when I've arrived

mostly in late August
a hazy day

on a trip
and last hurrah

staring at the bend
in the highway

as crooked as
a drinker's elbow

Whit Howland © 2020

Those ceramic eyes
do not have a price

and should not
be among the racks

of moldy clothes
and old toys

with dayglo stickers
affixed to them

in life we all have
to stand on something

let this artifact of kitsch
and love for all that is feline

be my rock
if not

the most delightful hill
to die on

Whit Howland © 2020

Black as the ink colored
feather in my cap

an eye
opaque and shiny

streaks make the body
an abstract impression

where the mind connects
the dots

and gives form and meaning
to the thing

and if and when it can't
we can't

then we **** it

Whit Howland © 2020

They're the stuff
we shoot for
the lights that twinkle
like dare I say

no, I won't, but I will say
dreams come and dreams go

even the ones made of cheap
slick shiny gold material
that taste bad
when you lick them

Whit Howland © 2020

Like we are  traveling
by rail
through bucolic scenes of villages
hamlets and vineyards

with the sun bright-eyed
and fresh
in a sky that's marbled
and blue

it's the concerto
we hear when we
close our eyes
plug our ears

and write the
music
to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

and we tasted life
with its blend

of sickeningly sweet
flavored desires

such as
the earth the sky

the water and their
cornucopia of garish

reds oranges
electric blues

and we didn't have much
you and I

but what we had
we revered like we were

smelling and swirling
the finest of bouquets

Whit Howland © 2020

and I ask you

when did it all start
to droop

the pants come down
the flower squirt

and was it worth it
to hang on so long for dear life

or should we have just
wadded it all up

and shot it out of a bright
purple polka-dotted cannon

Whit Howland © 2020

My wife calls me
her big block of cheese

no wonder why
my mouth waters

at the sight
of a full moon

thank you very much
I'll be here all night

and maybe into
the next day

Whit Howland © 2020

State of mind
maybe a destination
though definitely not
a place

it's been so long
since you've been gone
I miss you
but my tears have become

dry heaves

and it seems
I really should say is
but I'm still too
timid

but it seems that you
are much stronger
now
in death

then you ever
were ever
ever were
in life

Whit Howland © 2020

but before you go
can I ask you

was there a rhyme
reason purpose or

meaning of the thing

I ask this

because they're playing and
singing

your anthem your
lullaby

that'll slip you into dreamland

Whit Howland © 2020

Like a knock
on wood or a tree

it was a thing
a circumstance

causing annoyance
your lack of faith

in me
your distrust

was something
unpleasing to my ear

you might still remember me
but you would not recognize

my self today

I'm not the same guy
you once knew

who tolerates an incessant noise
or that kind of rudeness

Whit Howland © 2020

A piece of art or
artifact

the pair of hedge clippers
dangles from a hook

on a pegboard in the
garage

and my hands are behind my
back

staring at it like it's
in a museum

as I consider it's color composition
the sharpness of the blades

and I come up with

nothing
unlike the red wheelbarrow

which coincidentally
has a flat tire

nothing much depends on these stinking
hedge clippers

or me

Whit Howland © 2020

Crazy

it's not google eyes
or maniacal laughter
nor is it someone who can't stop

the waterworks
of cascading tears
it's a deep sigh

and maybe one
of relief
replete with Mozart

playing in your head
on a scratchy phonograph
as your house goes up in flames

Whit Howland © 2020

it's like
being mugged by a mime
with a gun


who's trying
to make you believe
it's a finger

or the one about the jump rope
you'd rather

skip

better yet the submarine
with screendoors
or the pink flamingo

the lawn jockey
dogs playing poker
and the best for last

cats juggling

yes it's true
i  have a flavor
that takes a little getting used to

Whit Howland © 2020

I went searching
for myself

but found you among
the clouds

where the air is thin
clear and my mind is light

much like my heart

I'll tell your story
so I can someday write mine

Whit Howland © 2020

That sunny summer
feeling the wooden slats

as we were pulled
in a rickshaw

along the boardwalk
awash

in the human din
the crashing waves

and wonky midway music
as we locked eyes

and marched in our own
parade

Whit Howland © 2020

Safe to say
used

but better said
spent

on the wood of a deck
now peeling

it was cheap
and he claimed

that moniker
as well

Whit Howland © 2020

Pulpy and juicy
to the touch

Rasberry to the taste
it bleeds

down my chin
and blossoms on my shirt

as my heart bleeds
for you

similar to this pen
that bleeds bad verse

all over the pages
like fall leaves

brittle
and ephemeral

Whit Howland © 2020

You say too late
I say never better

you say etched in stone
I say Etch a Sketch

you lead
I'll follow with a leading question

life brutal crude
no organic messy

but splendid
with all it's pulpy parts

and clumsy yes very clumsy
dance steps

Whit Howland © 2020

Lines of pepper
lines of salt

with cream sugar
and by design

a happy face

it's just what the doctor ordered
as well as getting lost in coffee

and the pulpy verse of Beetle Baily
Funky Winkerbean and other funnies


Whit Howland © 2020

It's about time
and how we are almost
out of it

and also how our days
slip through our fingers
like sand in an hourglass

we can never come back from it
nor can I return to you
what was lost in the maelstrom

but I won't bore you with platitudes
about moving forward
or how life goes on

it doesn't
at least not in the way
it used to

Whit Howland © 2020

The sun is up
with a splash of orange

they say
if you live long enough

you get to see yourself
young again

at least that's what they say
and I've been here all day and night

it almost feels like
a lifetime

and I saw a lot of things
like the sky go from blue to dusk

only to have it gush with morning
and bleed out again


Whit Howland © 2020

You
demand to know
where

we are going
but when we met
you said you liked surprises

I thought that included
the journey
too

but I guess I was
wrong
forgive me

at the next gas station
no

not the one with sage brush
rolling across the hot
asphalt

the other one
up ahead
in any case

I promise to get a map

Whit Howland © 2020

Oh how it howls
like through a glass
jar

dark is the sky
and days much
darker now

where did it go
you go
we go

when did the worm
turn it was a fat one
but for someone else

other than us

Whit Howland © 2020

Deep
in the tall grass
and long ago
defunct

and yet
it seems as if
they left us
way too soon

but now they rust
or have rusted
and are dwindling
in the blistering heat

and sun
on this hazy
dusty
afternoon

Whit Howland © 2020

Does it or does it not
do I or don't I

do you or do you
not

we can dance this dance
all night or

if you prefer

hold tightly
to the gold maned horse

on a mad carousel
in the sky

I'm good with that
how about you

Whit Howland © 2020

Such weak light
it sheds

over the table
I'm over you

and I had a good
run until we got

too deep in the dark
woods

of analysis metaphor and symbol
so much so we literally stopped saying

I love you

could we have
should we have

I guess we'll never know
and it no longer matters

such weak sauce

Whit Howland © 2020

Battered Fedora
press tag
corduroy coat

elbow patches
leather satchel
note pad

Stop the presses
Hold the phones
I gotta scoop that'll blow this town apart

newsprint
rough pulp
jagged edges


yellow slander
libel
***** broken thumb

ink-stained wretch

Whit Howland © 2020

Brooklyn Brawler
Greased lightning
Southpaw

stick and move
beat to the punch
on the ropes

broccoli
cauliflower
tomato can

Glass Jaw
Bayonne Bleeder
Gin Blossom

leather gloves hanging
from a hobnail
on a cracked wooden door

Whit Howland © 2020

not life
just the town

in its scale model glory
a whistlestop

where every joke has
a punchline

and business is finished
on the day it's initiated

and nothing dangles
like a pesky past participle

Whit Howland © 2020

What is missing is something
I can't wrap my brain around

you always say I'm not subtle
and that is true

I just wish I could be more delecate
in my communication to you

but I'm too obsessed
with how things fit back to together

like plates and cups
and I love the smell of glue

Whit Howland © 2020

Out here the still water does not run
deep

it is clear and shallow
and we can see the forest

for the trees
so don't worry my dear

getting lost for you
and I

is not never was
and never will be an option

Whit Howland © 2020

Thundering hooves
a sheen of sweat

grunting

and it seems only yesterday for you and me
that the sky was the limit

and every night was a victory lap
replete with a garland of flowers

Whit Howland © 2020