White with specks
of magenta

on the edges of
the petals

the stamen lodged
firmly

at the center of
the bud it's

a still and precious
appreciation

of a life
meaningful

though
not too deep

Whit Howland © 2020

Oiled
leather

loved
worried on
and

distressed

an artifact
from my past

serving

as a hieroglyph
signifying

the phantom pain
still

stinging
from the impact

of the ball so
long ago

Whit Howland © 2020

Expressing
loose-jointed

grace

this silver spring
flips

over itself
like the first steps

of a newborn
much

like our marriage
when it was freshly

minted
that same

clumsy progress
slow and steady

down
one stair at a time

Whit Howland © 2020

We can be
folded

or

broken
down

so easily

wrapped
up

put
in a box

tied
with twine

just like
that

in a moments
notice

fight or flight

it never fails

we'll always
choose

flight

Whit Howland © 2020

we are lost
and

our stories our
souls

are stranded
on the highways

like the lines
broken

on the palms of our
hands

Whit Howland © 2020

a toy boat with a
makeshift
sail

floating maybe

gliding

on an earthy colored
and glassy
pond

surrounded
by tangled
greenery

there's a breeze

though
it's more an
invisible hand

nudging
the vessel to

but mostly
far

and away

Whit Howland © 2020

In order
to contain
the paste
within
the dimpled
metal tube
I'll rub cream
over the area
of the ugly
thing and I'll
do my best to avoid
picking at it
as well as
feeding trolls or
fire breathing
dragons

Whit Howland © 2020

slow and steady
nice

and easy
the turtle moves

scrub

undo
unlearn
unpack
wash

and reorganize

the finish line
being

reeled in with
a rope on a squeaky pulley

on a rope
with a squeaky pulley


Whit Howland © 2020

It could be a perfect
world

if we worked at it

it could be void
of words

like worry
confession or
betrayal

with sentences
less dark

and stormy

of where the gun never
smokes

and the unvieled damsel  
is never

in distress

and where shadows
give way

to transparency
and sunlight

Whit Howland © 2020

He's there
just like he's
here

and everywhere
we need him
to be

in a form open to
interpretation

mixed with much
creativity
and imagination

Whit Howland © 2020

When we say
evening

         we might
be

talking about
     the line between

late afternoon
              and twilight

        the sun still
alive    

      and lucid

a breeze that
blows

                  while
warming the skin

and ruffling

maybe
                               styling

the hair

Whit Howland © 2020

At it night it
moves

in silence

leaping
tall buildings

past
the weak

light of street lamps

faster
than
the
speed

of a thought

Whit Howland © 2020

There not
broken if they're
sutured

with two rows
of  stitches
parallel to each other

and wide enough
to plant a column
of flowering trees


Whit Howland © 2020

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

flowers bloom
then petals blow away

trees leaf
leaves fall

grass greens
before

it fades again
to brown

and we're all
auteurs

artists
in our own right

with style
and cadence found

everyday
in the mundane

Whit Howland © 2020

All angles
and rectangles
of natural

geometry
the antithesis
of mystery

fiction
but rather
orderly

clean
and efficient

Whit Howland © 2020

Three cars long
a passenger a box
and a flatbed

pulled

by a stocky
blocky locomotive


the caboose

has long since given
way to the ellipses

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes it's kicking
and screaming

suffering
or science

and in the pulling of
incisors

molars
that we find our common
yet secret voice

but it's worth
the pain and tears

if it strikes the flint
in each other's eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

Dull
gray skies

churning clouds
and biting rain

either we run
from it

or into it

there's no escape

and it's all a
he said

she said
a comedy of errors

made more
absurd

by using animals
as metaphors

Whit Howland © 2020

rising

it's
silvery

reflection
glints

off the calm
ocean water

the night is still young
and crazy

but it will get older
wiser

as we will
with it

Whit Howland © 2020

Light and
enlightenment
this
is not that poem

because

the stuff
that is important
is what’s not

there

and

what is here
is really gone
granted

we can still
see it but
only

when we are
not taking it for
granted

Whit Howland © 2020

I picture more of an
eye

though I do
like seeing it as

spaces
between

the arms of
calamity

the calm is never
before or after

it's always in

Whit Howland © 2020

glass
though not so much
a bowl

than it is
a Coke bottle lens
so we can view

the wreck
with its splintered
mast and

splintered hull
with a pair of
goldfish

gliding
in out of the holes
and around

the diving bell
but make no mistake
we are talking

about fish
who are not
just to be clear

really gold and more
a brilliant
orange

and yes maybe
we are talking
about us

perhaps how
us and the fish
look at each other

Whit Howland © 2020

They cross the road
swimming

like a school of fish
in the liquid night

and I'm caught
between several things

day and dusk
clarity confusion
calm and storms

but they cross the road
moving

with martial purpose
instinctively to

an unseen light

Whit Howland © 2020

Made from a rug
or material that
was mostly available

it's what cats claw
score and mark

but never strike
or line out with
a pencil or a pen

Whit Howland © 2020

We can't bring it back

can we

I know I've asked this
before

it's a  nagging question

that like a hamster
goes round and round
on an exercise wheel

and it's caused by
knowing
that what we had

we now love miss
and don't have  
anymore

though simple math
it's no less frustrating

Whit Howland © 2020

Plastic axles
connect
to plastic wheels
then the chassis
and last
but not least
comes the body
then finally
the paint and detail

life
model
a poem

written to scale

Whit Howland © 2020

That ever elusive
clear blue

water we chased
was actually

cloudy from rain and
agitation

goodbye friend
I feel I hardly knew
you

there's so much
to be said

but

no time
and not enough
language

to express
the proper sentiments

of such parting sorrow

Whit Howland © 2020

Down below
a lighthouse rusts
it's

not sad just
getting on in years

if there was an edge
of Earth this would
be it although

it is not the end but
much
like the beginning

and clearly seen

as a globe spinning
on its axis

Whit Howland © 2020

the night  falls
and lamps now glow

like early summer
fireflies

as a restless breeze
makes the leafless branches dance

soon to be budding

and yellowed grass
will rise again green

with hope

as we are optimistic
like my neighbor
who swings

a golf club at an imaginary ball
before he slowly fades
to black

Whit Howland © 2020

Once white now
gray greasy and

ragged with use
the more it cleans

it's an ugly world
and we always seem

to grow ugly with it

Whit Howland © 2020

a circle or
sphere

the visual
representation

of a comfortable
and safe space

as they say
less is more

and the best plan
is one that can be easily

explained to those
who have

to implement it

Whit Howland © 2020

What purpose do I
serve

what is my function

do my legs fold out
and can people rest

their dinner
their drinks on my
stomach

I have a voice but
what's the use without
a talent or

something I'm good at

the more I sit here and cogitate about it
the more my mind

jumbles things like
black and white

and with a sweeping stroke
paints the sky
gray

Whit Howland © 2020

Back then they were no
angels

just Rorshach blots
in the snow

wingless
sometimes headless

never more than just an abstract
musing

coming going
in cold

sunlight
with a stiff wind

Whit Howland © 2020

So much rain
                   these days
the streets
              the sidewalks
are overlaid
                  with a glaze
it seems everywhere
                               I turn
my world is slick
                           and smooth
last night I dreamed
                            your skin was
porcelain

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes I write
and the words

jump off the page
and dance

it's these short
bursts of imagination

that keeps the ink
pumping

and flowing
from the heart

Whit Howland © 2020

Your voice sounds
scratchy
sometimes
tinny

as if it's coming from an old
record player
with a diamond needle
prone to skipping

and that's my honest truth
maybe nothing
you want to hear
but

we can go on record
as saying
clearly
that's your gold

from which with you
like my truth
can most surely
bank on

Whit Howland © 2020

Staccato
chirpy
if we focus on the
song

and the music
the song
we must
even

though
it's loud
and splits the
ear it's

something
we cannot
afford to
ignore

Whit Howland © 2020

savage heat slanting
rain

night and day
sleep dream and

wake

clouds faces
anvil heads

people I love

and hate

sorry to say
I thought out here

that would go

away

Whit Howland © 2020

to say I'm grateful
would be an
understatement

I've seen my life
three times

carved in three
different
versions

on three panels
I love you

honey

I'm a man kissed by
fortune

Whit Howland © 2020

Hardly enough snow
to call it Winter

but dustings here
and there

made islands
in thought

which heightened our
awareness

and augmented our
quest

for a warm touch

and a personal
connection

Whit Howland © 2020

In the mind it still
rusts

the metal skeleton
of my youth

as I plunge
again and again
into memories

with images
flashing
behind my eyes

and I struggle
only to remember

the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2020

In days to come

they'll turn to *****
mounds

on the sidewalks
and patches of scraggly
grass

Spring is near

ugly before beauty
then ugly again


Whit Howland © 2020

I mean if it were metal
it would rust

but it's plastic so the snow won't
hurt it

with that in mind what does
it mean

and I'm not writing to you
to say nothing

I've cashed those chips in
long ago

we've captured something
a moment a scene
could it be just

a part
to a bigger whole

the snow is getting deeper
the box

harder to see

in a minute or two
we'll have nothing

but  a stupid
conundrum

that's better than something

isn't it

Whit Howland © 2020

bottles the essence
of them

the texture of wavy glass
with pits

and scattered bubbles
of air

intended
to slap the face

break the cycle
and pry us
from this loop

and move the ball
down the field

Whit Howland © 2020

these big flakes
reminding me of
soap

no longer the frozen
powder of before

but sudsy
foamy
slushy stuff

for the simple work of
scrubbing

rinsing
and drying

nothing deep
or to see here

it's just the mind
checking off items

on a to-do list

Whit Howland © 2020

A wheel that
spins

a gear that meshes

a lever and a
fulcrum

push pull
tug

and I fail
over and over

to see
the relevance

of knowing

how I came
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

We were dreaming
were we not

this didn't happen
did it not

a garden with an apple
tree

a woman

a snake

charcoal smudges
and erasures

we were dreaming
were we not

Whit Howland © 2020

We echo we
repeat

the things that
resonate

like

a corner booth
Formica table

with a gray-suited
man

his nose down
in murky coffee

lost
in a solitary moment

life imitating art
maybe

vice versa

or again
echoes of

what we love

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes the sky
is blue

other times  
it's gray

it can be black
depending upon
the hour

is that something with which
we can all
agree on

if so
then it's not yours
or mine

it's the

and thus it
becomes

ours

Whit Howland © 2020