not much for you
by way of kind words

but i have to say
i love the silver beads

of morning dew
on lawns

green  
with summer


Whit Howland © 2020

Right now
the wind does not
howl

instead it sounds
a lot like whale music
calling

from down deep
and beckoning me
to dig deeper

don't worry
what ever is broken
I promise

I'll fix

Whit Howland © 2020

Today
worry hangs on me
like a mill stone

yesterday
I was flooded
with guilt

which felt more
like an albatross

maybe tomorrow
I'll wear a barrel of Brandy
around my neck

trust me
I'd be okay
with rope burns

Whit Howland © 2020

So much of it
is looking at that
half glass

and wondering

which way the day
the week the year
your life will go

some advice

paid for I know
with a song

just drink the water

it will flush
all that troubles you

Whit Howland © 2020

It could be thunder
or sunshine
yet you always remain
at your desk

looking out the window
musing

about quotidian things
like chirping birds
and if they know you exist

and the stuff
they might say about you
behind your back

that is if you're not too busy
typing up pages
of the emotional weather report

Whit Howland © 2020

Only partial sunlight
but that's by design

just enough illumination
for us to see

yet
keep our focus inward

but if we could
would we dare

throw a brick
or a stone

at the frosted glass
louvered slats

and make them
shatter

and if we could leave
where would we go

and would we be equipped
to handle

the scenery the splash
of color

or might it cause
a sensory overload

Whit Howland © 2020

No one's coming to
save us

this and other
steaming cups

of fresh coffee

I must bring myself
to smell

note to self
awakenings so far

have not been glorious
on the contrary

they've been quite  
rude


Whit Howland © 2020

We woke up one day
and the world had changed

not almost but overnight
and somewhere

there was a letter never
delivered

or a memo never
read

in the end
and we are truly there

the struggle boiled down to
specific names

titles
and addresses

Whit Howland © 2020

Why are they
here

why are we
here

am I really
here

mysterious
could be a word

but whatever name
or term

they're most beautiful
when much is left

to an unbridled
imagination


Whit Howland © 2020

as I've told you many times
before

so much depends on the words we
forage for
and our ability to whittle down

those pieces of wood
and fashion a workable phrase

the structures we choose
to build

and that has made all the difference

Whit Howland © 2020

A life like
mine

spent
scuttling

from point
to point

every once in awhile
a light

a respite



Whit Howland © 2020

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

Let's not make a federal production
out of this

it's just laundry

clean not *****

trousers shirts
socks and underthings

flapping like pennants
in a breeze

on a clear day
rubbed

with a pastel blue sky
and warmed by the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

a smooth stone
pulled back

and shot
from a sling

with an arch
meticulously

imagined

i'm thinking of you
and what should have been

as opposed to why
it wasn't

Whit Howland © 2020

for most  
it's a big overstuffed suitcase
and not one with rollers

it's something we lug
through airports bus stations
and at midnight

because we never travel by day
it always the last coach
or a redeye flight

Whit Howland © 2020

A false start
maybe I jumped the gun

or  told a lie
botched a story or an explanation

so the fixation continues
with these wadded up things

atop each other in a wastebasket
and I no longer fear them

nor do I welcome them
I guess I've merely made piece

with my failures epic
miserable or otherwise

and see them as impurities
in a vat of something molten

soon to forged into mighty weapons
like swords

or even more marvelous
things that were possibly made to

I don't know
the sky's the limit on this one

Whit Howland © 2020

Please pardon
the name dropping

but I first thought
maybe

I would dedicate this one
to A R Ammons

then I considered Raymond Carver
or Galway Kinnell

and there was a strong possibility
the honor might go to Gary Snyder

but most
if not all those men

have gone on to see things
better

and more beautiful
than the sky

trees
and streams

so what's there left to do
but dedicate another canvas

to me

and take this moment
to pledge

not to obsess about
small things

like a crumpled piece of paper
or bread crumb

but to see past those objects
and beyond in search

of the door that leads
to the clean and well-lighted path

Whit Howland © 2020

picture a poem
about an obsession

with pictures
of ordinary things

or distant memories
of trips you've taken

to places you've never
been

as you searched for the voice
to put words to a phrase

a sentence and then to a poem
and you can hear it now

whoo whooing whooing
and the chugging

and you can almost feel the blast
of steam

the journey has begun
but it's hard to know

if it ever really ended

Whit Howland © 2020

no i did not see your
note

but like when i put on
a new shirt

it was the pins
it's always been the pins


Whit Howland © 2020

Whether it be a lonely
guitarist

or

a woman on a storm swept
street

her black blue mascara
running down her cheek

possibly between the bilgey
rain drops

and I'll cut this short
because

this piece this
canvas

is about more
we

are about more

Whit Howland © 2020

It's hard to say goodbye
to a place

when I've never said hello
as the cliche goes

and this isn't really a poem
as much as it is a meditation

about what could have been
and why it really was

or was it ever really
and why should it have happened

that way
we could go on and on

doing loop dee loops
somersaults

cartwheels bonsai dives
belly flops

but all this is procrastination
with a dash of Egyptian denial

and it's time to connect
the dots

it's real easy if you merely
sit and think about it

wake up
smell the jo

see the gate and close it
behind you

move
toward go to

the blinding beam of
light

and more over

there's the bridge

Whit Howland © 2020

With a steady hand
I paint I draw I write

by the
numbers

I am careful
maybe too

cautious
not to color outside
of the lines

so little time

and I am constantly
looking
over my shoulder

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

We think we go
deep

but most of the time
we skim

the surface of things

notions ideas
philosophies

and other wise

the night might've been
ink from the base

of the well but
the moon

cast a silver light
that accentuated

the checkerboard pattern
of branches

notice I said checkers
and not chess


Whit Howland © 2020

It's all I have to go by

the lurch of
wheels

the clicking of
tickets

and the rolling scenery

sliding from city
to town

to country flat
to hills

back to flat
and hills again

now
a cymbal crash

and something
completely different

there's a raccoon
that often comes to my porch

I feed it
and after thinking

and smoking on the issue
I've decided to call him

SLUGGO


Whit Howland © 2020

Though hard to judge
I feel you

are no longer close

as I see you fading in my
rearview mirror

now just a smudge
on a painted horizon

Whit Howland © 2020

I took a risk today
and trimmed the stems

on a bouquet
of roses

then I put them
in a vase I filled with water

before presenting
them

to my wife
thus proving

the poetry is in the making
of

and not in the actual
pudding itself

Whit Howland © 2020

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

My flat cap
is on the hat rack

as I'm alone
tonight

in a big barn bed
outside

is the hum
of a ratty ******

and just before
I closed my eyes

I penned a note
to you on cheap

hotel stationery
hang in their baby

I'll be home soon
just one more drink

and I swear I'll be right
with the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

Focus on the table
the chair

and how the suns rays
warm

both pieces
not too hot but

just enough
to feel the heat on the back

of your legs
which will then draw

your gaze to the window
with its crosspatch

pattern of lines
on the glass

and now that you
know the source of the warmth

you'll feel it even more

as our feelings guide our
observations

and vice versa

Whit Howland © 2020

i'm watching it all fade
before my very eyes

as the light
what little left there is

flickers


Whit Howland © 2020

There's something missing
from my life

a part of me that floats
through the aisles

of dusty correspondence
and dispatches

something

a  piece
maybe a pawn or a knight

that never made it back

Whit Howland © 2020

A diamond

four triangles coming together
my life

now squared  away

and my mind
as quiet as a pool hall

for surgeons of the game
with only

the rhythmic focused
cracking

of solids that scatter

like dandelion seeds
riding a gentle breeze

on a fine summer day

Whit Howland © 2020

Are we men
or

are we ants
bees termites

there have been numerous times
I questioned

my presence and role
as a human

most of those came
from living

in a place
of grimy corridors

lined with naked bulbs
emitting

weak
and pasty light

Whit Howland © 2020

dingy *****
is their world

real or fictitious
as they watch

and cheer
these battling Maxos

built
like Roman Statues

duke it out

their faces being
opened

like tomato cans

Whit Howland © 2020

Down the street
a dog barks

it's afternoon
so there's no moon

to howl at

my neighbor
waters the yard

with a steady stream
but there's no rainbow

in the spray

it's August
and there's a hot whiff

but it's not fragrant
because

it comes from the sewer plant

we are where our mind is
so desperate to hop

another plane

to point B
knowing full well

it won't

but still hoping
it will be different

from point A

Whit Howland © 2020

As we got older
the windows

stayed open for only
a brief moment

then they shut
for a very long while

seconds mattered
and so did accuracy

Whit Howland © 2020

A sovereign head of state
usually a king or queen

but you could probably get away
with saying

potentate

through the grimy
plastic blinds is Franklin Avenue

Hollywood
and it's raining buckets

this is the era in Los Angeles

where the air is dingy
with smog

it's like living
and dancing on the head
of a cigarette

so a dreary wet slimy
day is embraced

with outstretched
arms or

should I say wings

Whit Howland © 2020

If I went through life
always happy

I'd deprive myself
of the aural pleasures

of the sad and complimentary
melancholy music

of a purging cry with cascading
tears

or better yet
a delightfully long and cleansing

fit of sneezing

Whit Howland © 2020

It's not that there's anything new to say
about them
they just never get old

these orange blue
and purple swirls
I look at them

as they swallow up what was night
and let the mind add it's own
cohesion

I've been blessed in life

to always see
how the colors seem to get more brilliant
and stay with me in thought

rather than bleed out
and either dry up or  
fade away

the point being in particular  
that my brain hasn't failed me yet
or each morning to connect

these marvelous dots

Whit Howland © 2020

and it was not that I was ever really asleep

maybe
just half asleep and in a waking dream

but rest assure
my eyes are fully and truly open

still stinging
from the onion mist

and I now walk with a swinging lantern in my hand

you got my attention
and I finally see you

but probably much better than you see yourself

Whit Howland © 2020

In a pinch
I always retreat
to my Grandmother's kitchen

that's not only a room
but also a 3 D polaroid
of 1971

turning to sepia before
my very eyes and
right now

I'm spinning on one of the mustard
yellow
nogahyde chairs

so fast I'm getting dizzy
but then I remember something
I learned that year in school

about ballerinas

to keep their balance
and grace they
focus on one thing

so I fix my gaze
on the ornate cuckoo clock
hanging on the far wall at eye-level

with its dark brown flourishes
carved curly cues horn-blowing hunters
and the piece de resistance

the hart's head with
fanning antlers
it wears for a crown

I wish I could remember more
and I always tell myself
details make the case

but they too
have been washed out
by time

Whit Howland © 2020

against an orange marbled
backdrop

amber glow now
fading

it served us well

once solid and cutting
the inky

ether from which we might've
plucked


Whit Howland © 2020

the guts are still there
a template a memory

a structure of the feeling the
sensation

of throwing yourself to the wind
and gusting snow

down a hill guided by an appendage
other than your hand

into arms a maw
something

you do not know
but somehow trust

Whit Howland © 2020

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

a small window
with squeaky clean panes
of glass

pulls in raw sunlight

into a small room
with a slatted wooden floor

where I sit in the corner
on a hardbacked chair

it scrubs and scours
my face

I'm constantly told
not to be so rough on myself

but there are a few things in life
I  can no longer ignore

one being that only the ruthless
survive

Whit Howland © 2020

We often think
quiet

thoughts
of the tiniest things

contrary
to the loud voices

in our head

YELLING

NO THAT IS NOT
WHAT THE SIGN SAYS

it reads

GO BIG

AND INSPIRE AWE

BE A KING

OR A QUEEN

Whit Howland © 2020

My apologies for regaling
you again

but when things like this
happen

it usually means something
is afoot

I've seen this phenomenon
on other websites

instead of a formal
announcement of changes

and new policies
they just implement them

with the attitude of
if you don't like it

there's the door

with that said
I will be off for a while

thanks to all who have followed
me

I will be posting new poems over on
All Poetry and My Poetic Side

I know every site has its issues
but HP's have become untenable for right now

I trust that they will correct course
in due time

but for now and I do hope it's temporary
I see the door and I am walking through it.

Hi guys!

Could I respectfully ask you to
fix the glitches on this site?!

Hello Poetry means the world to
many of us, even if we do not and can't
contribute financially.

I love to see my friends work.

through my window
floats
a bevy of blue ghosts

their cold light
intermittent  

like the message on my old
answering machine


Whit Howland © 2020