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

Is she staring out or looking
inward as she sits

in a spare room all
neat and efficient squares

and rectangles
her red dress

offsetting the flesh tones
the hospital gray of walls and floors

will she stay

or will she take the plunge
into the night

that's like murky water
but clear enough to see

the outlines of buildings
resembling the splintered planks

and masts of the ship that wrecked
so long ago.

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a flickering candle
in the night

burning despite
the hot steady drizzle

creating a sheen of beer
sweat

on the street

its the last light
for the last call
and the last man

making his way home

Whit Howland © 2020

A classic scene

outside it blinks
maybe amber

or electric blue
and just for effect

it might accentuate
droplets eventually

forming rivulets
on the glass

where are we
we are here

we are anywhere we
are up

and open

all night we are
peering in on

some point in
every man's life

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a beacon in the night
and that clean well-lighted place
we all strive for

with medicines on display
although no soda **** or lunch
counter

but posters on the glass
advertising more affordable elixirs
for the body mind and soul

Whit Howland © 2020

Someday I would like
to say

I'm a patient man
of the mind

to take my time
and not respond

in haste

but work it through

with a method
gentle

quiet thoughtful

but solid and sound



Whit Howland © 2020

not subtle
but blunt

not pretty
but useful

not pleasant
the noise

in fact it's
downright

annoying

these words
rhymes
repetitions

going down
hard

as nails
being driven

permanently

into the wood

Whit Howland © 2020

Even the smallest
of minds

is an incredible thing

for instance

one look at Rialto bridge
over the Grand Canal

as water taxis flit


it comes to us
our small mind that is

in crude but evocative
language and prose

this is a place
a world

we can visit

but never
ever will we or should we

stay

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe grainy
a little blurry

and the color
might be faded

they were oh so
long ago

jottings
snapshots

and though
I might not know where

she is
after much traveling

and searching

I now know who
she's with

Whit Howland © 2020

Ball bearings
friction

and
locomotion

back then I let
my fingers do

the skating
as my tongue

did somersaults
and other crude

feats of linguistic
gymnastics

Whit Howland © 2020

Stainless
steel and dull

because luster
and shine

does not matter
or add

to its function
and workaday

poetry
while it scoops up

rocks and lumps
of coal

you snooze you
lose

and

first come first
serve

Whit Howland © 2020

A stiff wooden arm
with metal fingers

which flex and
dutifully bend

and we count on it
as an effective tool

to clean up the mess
the yard

as we bag pile
and process

then properly
dispose

of all the frail twigs
and leaves that are dead

Whit Howland © 2020

The stationary space ship
or silver bullet train

of many youths

with incongruent and shiny
chrome

where they still serve
up

a healthy platter
of comfort

and warmth with a side
of truth

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm here to dream
and not to know

because dreaming of
a Golden Age

that never was
without the toil

the blood sweat and
gallon jug

of tears

may someday make it
so

Whit Howland © 2020

A mad flight
and rickety descent

down the back of a
beast

that clanks
and flakes rust from under

our feet
and as always the case

success usually comes

by the skin of our  
teeth

Whit Howland © 2020

Its an imaginary
  line

I've drawn for you
  and I

that will tilt as we
  revolve

on what we think
  is us

and that's okay because
  time

is too short for you
  and I to worry

about appearances

Whit Howland © 2020

A call in the middle of the
night

much like a ride
on a roller coaster

the torturous climb
to the top
then the terror

and panic of the drop
then

the gentle coast
into the station

and the tears that could go
either way

Whit Howland © 2020

And it goes something like
walking the line

balancing on the head
of a pin

and of equal weight
as the scale teeters

between comedy
and tragedy

Whit Howland © 2020

Flapping
like a pennant

on opening day

it propels
the little skiff

oversea
and chop

topping white
caps

offshore
in crisp Spring

so with that

may the wind be
always

at our backs
and never

from our sail

Whit Howland © 2020

A gray wet plume
rising

from the bottom of  black
cast iron

blowing off steam

releasing pent up
and strong emotions

and yet
we are still called human

as we continue to be such
marvelous machines

Whit Howland © 2020

as we level up
they rise under
our feet

these metal stairs
with ridges
moving us

higher and
higher

toward a more
ethereal

equilibrium

Whit Howland © 2020

The flashing
red

amber and
green

the visceral
images language

and poetry
of those

who move and
shake

with places to go
things to do

and people to
see


Whit Howland © 2020

This is the time
between lurches

and the hisses of
airbrakes

that much of life's
conundrums

get solved

and

where the new and beautiful
reveals itself

during the blare
of the horn

as the bus
with lumbering grace
weaves and ducks

slowly
unraveling

the urban snarl

Whit Howland © 2020

I go back and forth
about who I want
to be

most of the time
I try to figure that out

through observation
of people passing

so briefly in and out
of my life

over a newspaper
and coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

As for myself
I tend to meld
and get lost

in the gray
charcoal color
rubbed for effect

on canvas or
paper

but that's ok

I mean I'm ok
with that

because I'm only
here for just a short
while

and

I came to watch
with a cool eye

and
you know

slip in and slip out

unannounced

Whit Howland © 2020

You can ignore
what they say

because I have never seen you
more beautiful

then when you are
windswept

and fighting the elements
to hold on to your big

bright red umbrella
as you dodge puddles

and splashes from buses
and mad taxis

Whit Howland © 2020

In a chair he sits
with

sunlight on his
face

yet it's
still opaque

the twitch
of his eye

only
a MacGuffin

so don't expect
a revelation

because as someone
once

long ago said

what remains in the heart
must be obscure

Whit Howland © 2020

A floppy hat
shades her face

while she sits
cross-legged

and alone
over coffee

with her thoughts
that should be private

except we see
through a plate glass
window

that she's waiting
for a train

to come down the track

Whit Howland © 2020

I can get no
traction

so I guess
it's best to let

the mind flow
and I've come

to understand
that sometimes

life
may or may
not  go

sideways

I'm ok with
that

Whit Howland © 2020

A salty wind not
a breeze

blows through this
one

topping the crests  
of sandhills

filling my eyes
my craw

with grit

as I continue my shifting
and unstable walk

toward the timpani
of crashing waves

punctuated by gulls
cawing

gliding and
dive-bombing

there is nothing
really

to see here

except for
a lot of sweeping

bagging and
burning of trash

possibly some
stitching and

a little bit of
taping and

bandaging

Whit Howland © 2020

It may not take
        your breath away

the trees the piped in pond
of gray-green water
          as bland as
the idioms
          or
tautologies that inspired
them

        and

as equally flat
as the former fields
         of
tasteless feed corn

but maybe it's not
        beauty we need

just space
         to keep the crickets
 at bay

and oil the hinges
          on the screen door

making it less creaky

Whit Howland © 2020

To this day
I am not

sure if I was
ever really there

so much of it
was just sleep walking

voices taking
at each other
with

lots of TV snow
and

background
noise

but also some
truth

coming through
all that fuzz

Whit Howland © 2020

Ideal

the satisfying
of one's perfect
truth

not the truth

but their perfect
one

an example or proof of
my truth

a house smack

in a cornfield
sandwiched
between

two haystacks

this truth is in the
art

but not so much in
the pudding

Whit Howland © 2020

Do I dare
write

do I have the courage do
I defy

myself to go
beyond

the box and better yet
stomp

and break it down
to its cardboard

nothingness

and to never feel
the compulsion

to stand aghast

you opened up poetry

like I've taken to
cracking words

like eggs
and reconciling

and being satisfied
with the yokey mess

Whit Howland © 2020

But they do

and not for nothing
or to make matters

worse

sunlight always feels
cold

in a breeze

that ruffles feathers
and rustles

leaves

Whit Howland © 2020

such as the casual wayward
glance

across the room
then

eyes locked

like padlocks
to a bridge in Paris


Whit Howland © 2020

An early morning
revelation

carefree love is a myth
and

all we really
are

is just an amateur hand
at mock surgery

in a never ending game
of Jack Straws

always trying ever so diligently
not to

flip up the rake

Whit Howland © 2020

A starless sky
with the sun
on the dark side

of everyone's crazy
uncle

and an oily flame
might be all

it would take
to cheat

this night of fog
and shadows

Whit Howland © 2020

The clock is set
to a time

that like many other
things

is something we
had to not only
bite

but bite down
hard

on the bullet
and settle on

similar

to how
your face your
hair my

mismatched eyes
reminds

us both
that

there is no such
thing

as the perfect
Christmas tree

Whit Howland © 2020

What's left

no I won't
say

the word

only two syllables
yet so

powerful and so
interchangeable

and right now
the gate

keeper and arbiter
of what's sane

and what is not

Whit Howland © 2020

The right words
of appreciation

that is the rub
because

they must
be economical

while pure and
clear

your book of poems
tattered yet

loved

you words verse
short and sweet

though they
call out the demon

by name

Whit Howland © 2020

At this hour
the world is an
inkwell

ripe  
for a feather to *****
and draw blood

from

where am I what
am I

if I'm trapped between
morning
and evening

searching
chasing

answers

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the texture
we need

something less
course

and
abrasive

more soft
and velvety

to the touch

sentences
and if necessary

paragraphs

can  still be short
and quipped

but polish them
into

the smooth and
colorful

stones
we know

they can be

Whit Howland © 2020

I feel

released

with my head above
the clouds

the weight the bundle
I was shouldering

lifted and I've now become
a leaf

maybe a little dry
and brittle

but free to embrace
the gusty

exuberance
blowing me

this way and
that

Whit Howland © 2020

Except for the
wind

creaking
the hinges

of the door

there is silence

but I can hear

and I feel closer to you
now

your hand
is no longer

ghostly
and invisible

Whit Howland © 2020

where roads winded
and doubled back
on each other

and dark
gray clouds
roiled


a life
serpentine
and tempestous

but we edit as
we go

Whit Howland © 2020

It's hard to top
a day in early spring

when I can smell
the crisp air sandwiched
in between

warm
and cold

hear again
the symphony of birds

and see the color return
to my mother's pale face

Whit Howland © 2020

Short and
declarative

definitive
punctuation

it seems
I caught you
on your worst
day

but at your finest
hour

Whit Howland © 2020

The world
turned
on its end

then
spun
backwards

as if it were
a globe
on a wooden stand
and axis

pray for me
as I pray for a gentle
rain

that will water
and make green

trees
fields and meadows

Whit Howland © 2020

They're just
decor

copper coffee
tins

more cans
hanging

from hob
nails

over the stove
***** reminders

of the front porch light
still

bright
after all these years

Whit Howland © 2020