Not so much
a door

but more the edge

of a cliff you
walk off

and trust

that something will hold you
up

live on and forever

be a skeptic and
distrust

Whit Howland © 2020

that I didn't know
who was knocking

all those years ago

it was such a squalid place
that room

more a cage
with a hamster wheel

and I thought your knock
was some wretched kids

about their work with
idle hands

and devilish pranks

but now in these later years
when I have seen

what has come to pass
I realize

it was you who came to call
with a message

a warning


Whit Howland © 2020

trees are beginning
to bud

it's like someone
took a brush

and added a hint
of subtle green

such minimal beauty
is the essence of

early Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

I woke up
and

saw my face
kaleidascoped

in a mirror

and asked myself

what's missing

several things
came

to me

on wings
of something other

than


Whit Howland © 2020

and I should see nothing
but I see everything

in my reflection

that should not be there

a vision

my face
it's wrinkles
furrows
lines

now syntax that's so easy
to read

yet with much to say
like a Sunday paper

Whit Howland © 2020

Maybe a snake coiled
on a rock

sunning itself

they say the sun will last
forever

as will our love
so long as it can coil itself

on a rock
and soak up the sun

Whit Howland © 2020

copper tubes coils
gauges dials gyroscopes

boosters and lifters
gears and cogs

with buttons to push and
levers to pull

sometimes it buzzes
hisses and blows
like  a tea kettle or blasts

like a train whistle

we've all seen contraptions
like these in our grandest visions and

our wildest dreams

Whit Howland © 2020

Is it an ugly green with
fangs and a face
pitted with scars and sores

will its claws cut you to ribbons
or turn you into strips of bacon

or does it look like you
and me but just frozen
on the inside

in The Day the Earth Stood Still
that robot was scary not because

it shrieked wailed
and maimed

but because it just stood there
and gave us nothing

to connect to or
hold on to

Whit Howland © 2020

Actually it's about a watch and fob
and how our lives

dance to the musical score
of the minutes

hours days
and years

it measures
and records

Whit Howland © 2020

Shall we go to the edge
of a universe

with a caustic moon
and

where stars no longer twinkle
but are angry ***** of fire

and expression is less
scatter bomb innuendo

with toxic double entendre
and more surgical

with word strikes as accurate
and deadly as lasers

Whit Howland © 2020

Picture if you will
a place where
the sun's rays
continuously scourge
the surface and
where strong
winds kick up deadly
red sandstorms
you may think I'm
describing Mars
but that would not be
the case it's a much
more desolate locality
where the only thinking
allowed is inside these
giant boxes called
thought modalities

Whit Howland © 2020

A lurid yellow
world

where light is pale
and sick

and those lives that are
saved

are no longer worth
living

I'd leave it at that but
for the sake of humanity

I'll talk you through this

tell her that yourself

and if God willing
you'll see her tomorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

Much smoke
but is there fire

bread crumbs and a half-eaten
sandwich

water
boiling on a stove

and more on the floor
either spilled

or ice cubes that melted

a shirt draped over
a chair

or is this my way of telling you
that life is made up of a bunch
of Maguffins

and it really doesn't
add up to much

all mystery is art
and the best is at best
impressionistic

absurd

or experimental

Whit Howland © 2020

so as minutes
jitter

and hours sweat and
drum

their fingers

there's just not enough
time

to say you're sorry
and even less to say

I love you

Whit Howland © 2020

slate gray lenses
with red curls that swirl
into dots

they're quite comical
these specs

although
they're only good for a laugh

because

I don't need any super
vision

I can already see

right through you

get it

Whit Howland © 2020

If we let our imaginations
run

amok

do we blame them for what we might

become

my blood

your blood

whose blood

on whose hands

Whit Howland © 2020

The future came and went
without

a squeak as it creeped
through

the back kitchen
door

we're old now
but

look at us then

what the heck
were we wearing

Whit Howland © 2020

cold

like a metal ***
                             or  dish

                         ­          and somewhat
nondescript
            because

we couldn't describe
            how we felt other than

scared

        but why
                   what did we fear

and
            
as time goes by it looks
                     and seems more
                
             goofy
then it did

plus

it's hard  
           to remember

what the turmoil
                   and maybe more
plainly

                                     what the fuss
                 was all about

Whit Howland © 2020

a backdrop of blue
with tiny dots for stars

and it swooshes away

from a saucer shaped
like a paper plate

this rocket ship
or clear

plastic pen
a pin-up girl inside

it's confusion

it's wonder

it's pulpy desire

Whit Howland © 2020

It might not be there but
you can hear it

as if you held a conch shell to your
ear

the whistle  blasting  the
locomotive huffing blowing

off steam

with wheels thundering like
hooves

your past catching up to you in this small
spare

room

Whit Howland © 2020

Solitary
and alone he

sits

on the curb with his back to the red

brick

buildings with the morning sun chasing the shadows
and making them go far and away

Whit Howland © 2020

we're on a wire

a tightrope to be
exact

stretched thin among love and
hate

necessity and
relevance

and to hate and
be hated

is to feel

obsolete

Whit Howland © 2020'

the weight

and what's riding on it's
back

the amount of money that
clatters

crinkles jingles
and changes hands

all of this

coupled with the risk
and the fear  

of one man's loss
being

the wrong man's
gain

Whit Howland © 2020

Me
where I am

where did I go
what did I do

but I cannot  say
and not

because I'm mute

I guess I'm just an artist
and one who values words

plus the lighting
the perspective

although
it could also be the timing

but most of all it's the correct
paint

Whit Howland © 2020

Though we cannot
grasp it

we have to label
this fantastic

bauble
of shiny knobs

bright bells and
whistles

to identify is to
trust

Whit Howland © 2020

A curt thank you
as I bite

into this spring
morning

of red and
orange

crossed with strands
of pink

you want more but
to give

would be to take

from the dry brittle
yet

pleasing taste
of this dispatch

Whit Howland © 2020

this is not
a confession
when I say
I find it hard
to reveal who
I really am
through picture
and verse most
of the time
I'm throwing language
like darts to pop
balloons and I'm never
happy with the noise I make

Whit Howland © 2020

Bright
eyed
we rise to
it talk to it
harness like
a horse
worship
and personify
it what is he/it
to me what
am I to him
if not a lier
and just a bit
sleepy

Whit Howland © 2020

It soothes the
soul

knowing

we can call it out
by name

extreme fear or
a child who causes
trouble and

is a nuisance

and to interpret or to bend and
stretch the meaning

like it's play dough or
silly putty

is our superpower


Whit Howland © 2020

back then
we were in the moment
jarring butterflies

as I am right now collecting
and letting

inspiration turn into syntax
as poorly constructed as it
might be

hello friend
it's nice to see you again
and don't worry I look different
too


Whit Howland © 2020

A look
to the future

while reflecting
on where we've been

how it all started
and why we started it

I got my start with
crude meaning simple
nursery rhymes

in order to salve
some deep cuts

either self-inflicted
or made by others

and then I  built from
the ground up

the structure
substance developing
overtime

Whit Howland © 2020

Many times we find
ourselves wading
through trash

to get to the treasure
and hope we can brave
the stench

and the muck
but most days
we quit when we are

three feet from the gold

I couldn't pass up
writing about a street
in LA about a couple

blocks shy of Hollywood
the most notable landmark
or loadstone

being
the Pink ***** Cat
theater

but with that said
I don't want this to be
about

the grit of urban life
too much of that has been
already chronicled

and maybe we should just
let the old man rest

my destination is more
meta

like how sometimes
the moon's nose is just inside
the tent

Whit Howland © 2020

I love these pieces
of bakelite they

call bones
full of wonder

and prophecy
as opposed

to shards of glass
that implies

wreckage

and careless living


Whit Howland © 2020

What's really left
is a so so plate
of lasagna

we can work from that
and go inward

and talk about
how this was one
of those boring

points in my and
maybe

everyone's life
where I made

a decision
that didn't necessarily
set the world

ablaze
but it was most

likely one of many
of the little ants
muling

morsels of food
for thought
that added up

to shape my

destiny


Whit Howland © 2020

Lately when I dream
there's just a lot of blue

sometimes it shimmers
like in a pool

other times
it hangs like a velvet

curtain on a stage

I'm here at this hour
on this earth

to ponder what's
absurd

the things in the mind
that need to be cleared

like junk in the attic
but before we toss

we revisit

this is one of those
things

I roped you in so
why don't you put

your feet up

and stay


Whit Howland © 2020

So
much before us
yet to be revealed

and much like a song
on the radio

memories come
flooding the way blood
rushes

to the head
when you are suspended

in space upside
down

but then the dust
settles so we can steal
a breath

and feel

that it always seems
much simpler
then

so we can cope
we can 

 heal

Whit Howland © 2020

When words fail
do actions really

speak louder than
words

and is seeing really
believing

I don't know but
right now

no artist with even
the most skilled hand

or the poet
possessing

the most surgical
of pens

could paint the current
storm

that is brewing

Whit Howland © 2020

Except for the amber light
in the yard

and for the light
over

our neighbors
garage

it is still dark

and the question

what makes a poem
a poem

and is it ok to just
sit and enjoy

this time of day
where one can feel

like they're comfortably
pickled

in an inky
plasma

and floating under
glass

Whit Howland © 2020

If you can see
the light at the end of the tunnel
and it's not an oncoming train

please fill me in
on what this all meant
because

lately,

I've been
stumbling and fumbling
for a poem

and can't seem to
find one

Whit Howland © 2020

Kind of like if a tree
falls

in the woods
and no one's around

does it really make
a sound

likewise
if something is yours

and only yours
is it really

all that
profound

Whit Howland © 2020

Light and simple
in its construction

and efficient
in the wind

as it catches
a current

and soars doing
loops

and arcs
before it crashes

to the floor
with yet

another failed pass  
at heaven

Whit Howland © 2020

Let us be comfortable
with the business of life

always rough
unfinished

but never chiseled
in stone

as we erase
revise

and embrace
our fingers

the amateur
cartographers
that they are


Whit Howland © 2020

Ice blue
and savage

in a shatterproof
bottle

and I think

so much has passed
from our lives

and so much was freely

and so easily

surrendered

Whit Howland © 2020

So much we know is
not our own

in fact it comes from
somewhere else

it's ****** hot
atop

this double decker
bus

that is red with the
Union Jack painted

on the side

jolting
and lurching

as we go by the
Bag of Nails pub

Whit Howland © 2020

Festive
red metal with thick
black wheels

it was the fire engine
I rode

and relied upon to put out
fires

and douse the glowing
smoldering embers

Whit Howland © 2020

My face
it disappears

then reappears

when the train's windows
flash

by my face

as I fumble
for pocket change

a thought

and then a poem

Whit Howland © 2020

"Among the rain
and lights
I saw the Figure 5"

When I reach
to take a drink

the water swirls

down the drain
like a giant hand

pulled the stopper
and then I am waist

deep again
as I reach for fruit

that is always out
of reach

Whit Howland © 2020

Again
I'm making this

a federal production
about

a bowl of silver
apples

and how these pewter
pieces of fruit

that if I'm not careful
can become

the cold and scary
central characters

all their own
in what is supposed to be

my  life

Whit Howland © 2020

A classic car
turquoise

blue
with chrome

WHOOSHES

by in futuristic
flurry

it's style and make
now

etched in my mind
as well as a desire

to go back to
a time

when things were
simple

and all it takes is
fifteen seconds

to make your claim
of fame

with me

Whit Howland © 2020

Something to hold
and not bits

of code for we
as humans speak

in words sentences
paragraphs
and yes

letters

with the feel
of rough enveloped paper

licked glued
and sealed with

a stamp

Whit Howland © 2020