Like I remember
my mother

I know
what it used to be

the day dims
and grows silent

through the window
the TV glows

and house lights
blink like fireflies

when everything was new
and fresh


Whit Howland © 2020

i love early fall
the time just inside
of september

the leaves still green
but there's finally a bit
of blush

in their complexion
that later will turn
to a pallor


Whit Howland © 2020

you beg me
to write about
the sky and the grass
or better yet amber waves
of grain

the best i can do to
accommodate you
is paint the sunflowers
at the highway's edge

but not the ones on the
median
for some reason they seem
to have lost their luster

Whit Howland © 2020

We run we
want to escape

we try but we
can't hide

we're here and then
we desire to be there

the grass was already
a bright shade of green

why did we ever think
we needed it greener

Whit Howland © 2020

What I am to you
we are to each other

you are
a Monarch butterfly
being chased

by a barking dog
in a meadow in
late August

I am

that dog

Whit Howland © 2020

would not there be
a dry eye in the house
there wouldn't

this morning
cloud cover
dull and gray

it almost threatened rain
but
with some polish

and a little elbow grease
we shined it up
like silver

Whit Howland © 2020

Dear ???

twenty years have past
and it looks like you haven't
seen a wrinkle

nor have you skipped
a beat

silver microphone
gold saxophone and a  blue
rippling velvet curtain

don't fret any
we were just kids then
even at thirty-six

Whit Howland © 2020

you say rip off
i say found art

a verse that's cobbled together
with twine bottles tin cans
and a rusty milk pail

sunday's jester thursday's harlequin
and monday's clown

I'll be your joker when you're down

you tap out a rhythm
and say it's a song

I say it's Morse Code

Whit Howland © 2020

There was enough pink this morning
to say the sky blushed

then the day turned hazy

who should we believe
what is truth

and are there many
or is there only one that is divine

sometimes life can be a glossy magazine
with some of the pages stuck together

it's all spit and a prayer

we live in a world
of mist

Whit Howland © 2020

rain tapped my window
but I'm not

where you think i am
outside

the streets are slick
with an after storm sheen

a traffic light turns
green

cars honk
and a city bus heads

uptown

a knock can be heard
on my bowed and cracked door

Whit Howland © 2020

my first apartment
was so mall

it could be licked
and put on an envelope


Whit Howland © 2020

You ask
what is the tipping point
when does it all go away

I answer

close your eyes
and listen to the clock tick

it's only then you will see
it melting
and dripping in the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

The sky never was
the limit

that's what they wanted us
to think

so we'd stop searching
all heavenly things

are truth
waves thunder to the shore

a lone seagull caws
overhead

fighting
a stiff wind

by the grace of God
we'll make it

Whit Howland © 2020

it's canned meat
and depending on how one slices

the hammy blob
they might say it's tasty

while to others
it's irrelevant

quite like poetry where  i've learned
there are no lines

only smudges
someone wants you to believe

are flowers


Whit Howland © 2020

don't tell me what
and what does not make sense

a bulbous moon
like a clown's nose

and a wide-eyed owl
in the middle of the road

i don't see a problem

but you do

Whit Howland © 2020

chirp is the word
for the sound it makes

most say it sings
while for others  

it spills the beans
we claw and peck for meaning

a few call themselves poets
everyone fights

for freedom

it flies


Whit Howland © 2020

a soft pale glowing
sliver

over the bedpost
or through the bathroom door

for when we need
to be creatures of the darkness

it's nothing to bark at but more
to read by

a beacon
to guide us through the night

Whit Howland © 2020

Horned rimmed
and tortoiseshell
they rest just left of center
on my nose

and if I ***** my eyes
I can see the bifurcated line
where the focus changes

and it's the same one you
are seeing right now

I miss my mom
my grandmother my grandfather
and my brother

and I'm bracing myself
for the shape of things to come

Whit Howland © 2020

I fear my change may only be fleeting
because
although like Pharoah

you've hardened my heart

you left me with a full set of teeth
to come back and take another bite at the apple

Whit Howland © 2020

I wait
you hesitate

then wave me on
I start to go

but your body's
syntax

signals me to stop
I halt

but you go
then I  go again

and our worlds and passions
collide

Whit Howland © 2020

You call me an enigma
I say you're a mystery

and like two pieces
of formless wax

we float
pickled in amber light

Whit Howland © 2020

it's really about the hat
straw with a farmer's brim

we got them for free
at a baseball game

and made each other laugh
tilting them rakishly on our heads

it was the first time we had talked to each other
in days

Whit Howland © 2020

Wall or painting
and do I really care

they say every house settles
mine is no exception

and I've come to realize
maybe by kicking against the ******

that it's better to pin a gold star
on a mediocre pig

then chase a fast greasy one
and get dragged through the mud

Whit Howland © 2020

who are you
she demands

i answer her
with silent letters
and vowels

my voice
left years ago

on the last bus to
Pittsburgh

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

you once said
i had rapier whit
as exemplified

in my letters to you
one summer
when we were young

you are now long gone
but that gleaming silver knife
your gift to me

still sits on my desk
cutting sharper
than ever before

Whit Howland © 2020

still brown suede but now scuffed
they're older than our marriage
and I still look at them like they're new

staring at me from that plateglass window
down in rummy Pioneer Square

I won't let them go just like I'll never
let us go and I'll never abandon old Seattle

like Coney Island
it still exists in the mind

Whit Howland © 2020

darkness
interrupted only

by fits of garish
neon

rain in spots
bone dry in others

mostly country
on the dial

if anything at all

oh what I'd ****  
right now
 
to hear some smooth jazz
while complimented

by a glass of

you fill in that blank

Whit Howland © 2020

we are stuck
in the mud

that's practically
cement

filling
our shoes

making them
heavy

as a steady
down pour

pelts our
faces



Whit Howland © 2020

fact

i woke up this morning to 98 degrees
and steamy

it was so hot
that as the old saying goes

you could fry an egg on the pavement
for good measure

i added spam and bacon
to that mix

but the real issue
sizzling

on the front burner
is

when exactly will this
end

corollary

or
whether or not we want it to

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe
we found each other

or did we just
stumble onto one another

each time
the story unfolds

it's either big
small or medium length

before it folds back up
again


Whit Howland © 2020

bits of glass
in a puddle of milk

i'm sorry
i just can't  fix it

so we mop we sweep
we bag them up
and throw it in the trash


Whit Howland © 2020

and for lack
of a better metaphor

I will call it a
magnet

not one shaped like
a horse shoe

you might see in a
cartoon

but more of the refrigerator
variety

say
a rubber bumblebee

to remind me of the sting
of bad choices

Whit Howland © 2020

I thought I'd write about
clouds

the gray bulls that stampede
ahead of the thunder

as opposed to those
nebulous forms

hanging over us
when we are mad

or sad
nope

these
are the real McCoy

droplets of water
or ice crystals

now floating
catching their breath

outside as heavy rain
beats the pavement

while a frog hops then
stops

to wait out the
storm

Whit Howland © 2020

E
we can see

thus we know it's there
and we feel safe

it's what we can't
discern
what is blurry

we fear
because we don't
understand

are you with me so far
good

because
from here on out
it gets kind of wiggy

if a tree falls in the forest
and no one's around

how big was the ax
that the woodsman used
to chop it down

Whit Howland © 2020

you've been the eye
of my storm

and have taken great pains

to allay my fears that
we'll ever be apart

now the morning is here
and as the shadows vanish

I think of merry England
her history

namely
the old saw

of how the sun
never sets

on the British Empire

thank you so much
my love

for always confirming
that to be true

Whit Howland © 2020

The choice
between

throwing
and hurling

is no choice
at all

there are fast *****
curve *****

and soft tosses

words are always
tools

but never are they
and never will they be

weapons

Whit Howland © 2020

Do I have
a one-track mind

I sit and watch
the wheelbarrow

fill to the brim
with

and I search and search
but I never seem to find

you or ever come close
to hitting that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

i woke up
early

mostly because
i could

no longer sleep
i vacuumed

the living room floor
swept out the dusty corners

and instead of pointing
to the bluebird

in the backyard
perched

on the brittle branch
i'll steer you

toward the toby jug
sitting

on my mantle
it's more interesting

Whit Howland © 2020

your voice
this morning
left me with questions

blustery gray
or blue and sunny

boxers
or briefs

and

autumnal gold
or blooming

flowers
in Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

Your tone
should always be
conversational

but professional

highlight your
strengths

and when possible
weave dross into
strands of gold


tell the story
however
control the flow

of the river
so as to keep the narrative
on point

mostly though
you'll want to make it clear
for all to see

that you're a caterpillar
fast becoming
a big and beautiful

butterfly

Whit Howland © 2020

This stuff will **** you
if you let it

the silver bullet
I search for

or the daggers
to drive  

through the heart
of the matter

you keep asking

is this going to be
my thing

what will bring me
to the precipice

Whit Howland © 2020

Not a lot
to go off of

if there's anything
at all

the night is hot
and sweaty

a June bug
clinging to the screen

gets flicked
by my *******

with the busted
knuckle

into the starless void
of this late summer night

Whit Howland © 2020

beneath us
brown roiling water

moving rapidly
downriver

as we anxiously peer
around

a wooded
bend

Whit Howland © 2020

Turquoise blue
or coffee brown

or did it matter

as long as it spun
on its axis

and was life ever
really the same

when we unhitched it
like a wagon

and watched it bounce
down the stairs

only to have it collide
with other alien worlds

Whit Howland © 2020

With Spartan
sentences
and syntax

life stripped
down to only
what we need

it doesn't get
more luxuriant
than that


Whit Howland © 2020

it was so very hot
today

but i mowed the grass
anyway

all the while
fighting

the stinging sweat
that burned my eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

it's when your mixing
paint
and metaphors

such as

being a bottle
lost in a sea
of eternal sunshine

then
all of a sudden

the light
on the projector
pops

and the world
simply

and beautifully
fades

to black

Whit Howland © 2020

what was it we
drank

and before you
get too glib

it wasn't
the kool-aid

words matter  
words mean things

who said they didn't


Whit Howland © 2020