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

Tweed and not too
formal

lighting
muted and soft

mirthy
and small conversation

and quiet
plinks
on a piano

ambience
is what it's all about

escape
and just enough to keep

the wild things
at bay

Whit Howland © 2020

Action

though footfalls might be
silent

if prayers are
palpable

the gospel crashes like
a cymbal

Whit Howland © 2020

So close
I can smell your
breath

a *** potpourri
of whisky and decay

so close we can almost
say

good
bad

up
down

zenith
or  nadir

though

the debate
could rage
for days

but we're so close
the swans  
are tuning their trumpets

but maybe
not near enough
to call it a

Whit Howland © 2020

Still bare

the tree

branches
interlocked

backed up against
a gray dawn

with a trace of  bleeding
peach

and the grass
still wintered

frozen
and withered

but it's coming

soon

the budding
the rebirth

the explosion
of color

and most welcome

the relief




Whit Howland © 2020

With tendrils
swaying

it washes

much like we
who are in this together

wash each other's feet

someday this will end
and as we like to say

it'll all be over

but the weeping


Whit Howland © 2020

and it's something I've
stumbled upon

this feeling of
being

trapped

between things that
flash

by my face

and stuff that happens
gradually

like receding hair
and little by little
loss

of those who helped
and showed me the way

Whit Howland © 2020

when a bruised
moon

turns to luminescent
liquid

then vapor
or spray

you drive me mad

your essence
ingested

and now you
an image
a mood

live freely
in my head

Whit Howland © 2020

Red

the color that sets the world
ablaze

and begets
other idioms

like tongues
of flame

licking the walls
and poking
out of shattered windows

in a three alarm fire

Whit Howland © 2020

Blustery
and gray

branches rock back
and forth

wind whirling
leaves

and blowing through
chimes

uncluttered
and

words
sentences
unnecessary
where

paint and brush
will suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

the sky is rinsed
colorless

the sun fades unnoticed
but

was it really there

the grass that browned
in Fall

is still littered with brittle
leaves

and we float above
it all

knowing

the world is not necessarily
us


Whit Howland © 2020

As opposed to
10 dollars

we say something's better
when

you get it for cheap

but it's all about
the depreciation
over time

of the mind
not the thing

you bought on
impulse

10 cents

was it  a click
or a flip

of the dime
over the counter



Whit Howland © 2020

No one cares  about
what happened
after

the dark and stormy
night

about what was tossed
and lost
by the wind

pelted by the rain

it all gets written off
as disposable

words matter

choose them wisely

and spend the money

Whit Howland © 2020

What do I really see
in dreams

sometimes
all I am

is on a stage
with

our life our love
mimed

in gestures
motions
and

every now and then
a silent scream

Whit Howland © 2020

Tabloid
or tablet

either way
the truth will
always

rise
like cream
in a cup of hot coffee

and that's fact

rather than opinion

Whit Howland © 2020

It's not you
me

or about a place

but more to do
with what exists
beyond

the structure
and can we trust
each other

until we earn
the right and the ticket
to ride

Whit Howland © 2020

we paint
or verse

to create a feeling
or a mood

through a place dark
and dimly lit

so we can search for
enlightenment
that was never lost?

why?

what were we afraid of?

Whit Howland © 2020

In retrospect
do I have any
regrets

I'd say not

the particulars were sparse
coupled

with an atmosphere cold
and clear


thus
the choice was stark

in life
we make the best decisions
given what we know

say nothing of the stonewalls

Whit Howland © 2020

Take a morning that's
ashen

paint faint
blood-red streaks across
its horizon

a simple picture
maybe more a Post It note

just an affirmation that
you are still here

and the sun is rising

Whit Howland © 2020

a dozen deep

red roses with
crinkled
and blackened edges

wading in powdered
water

in a cheap crystal
vase

there's a story behind
the object the image

but it's not the same one
you've heard before

it's about things left
undone

and leaving it at that

because for reasons
known only to God

it's better left that way


Whit Howland © 2020

I'm so tired
of the mental chatter

the clutter the spatter
of spilled paint

it's a peace I seek
and order

over quiet but

nothing forced

just the structure
of natural patterns
color

and a staff of musical
notes

Whit Howland © 2020

Someone
once told me

that the law
could be pared down to  one
simple fact

there is a limited supply
of wealth and

an overabundance
of desperate souls
clawing

for that wealth

thus
the need for laws

another simple fact

the world

outside

is a sturdy
limitless canvas

and

you can paint anything
you want on it

I recommend
miles and miles

of virile savage
purple grapes


and bright orange
citrus groves

Whit Howland © 2020

despite a sky
rubbed gray
and trees being bare

we are in a February thaw

although
we didn't get here by accident

it was something we didn't wait for
but decided upon

sometimes thinking isn't
thinking at all

it's listening
and trusting the message

in concert
with the search
for the highest expression

against council
and my better judgment

I have deleted many
of my cherished poems

some I would call
my darlings

Whit Howland © 2020

I have the urge
to tweak
better yet

subvert
the dominant
paradigm

out on the open
ocean
is a boat

painted blue
like the water
which is calm
actually

it's placid

the yellow sun
reflects
off the water if

you were in that boat
you might get what is called
a blue water tan

we are happy
moreover
we are jubilant

not sad

Whit Howland © 2020

we live
and move
through

blue skies
fog
and rain

our minds
taking what's
solid

concrete

chopping
pureeing
blending

baking

an expressive
edible feast

Whit Howland © 2020

Can you see what
I hear

the more we
talk

the more anguish
comes

in torrents
as we

continue
to search for

that ever-elusive
eye

Whit Howland © 2020

they're incongruent
concepts

comfort

curiosity

responsibility

but in
instances like these
I can reconcile

with any inconsistencies
and see life

as ten frames of bowling

with strikes aplenty

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm talking to myself
again

these sudden bursts
of inspiration
gusting up

mentally
a marbled
gray wet whirlwind

now verbalized
into half-sentences

wholly raw
and truthful

Whit Howland © 2020

The poem
I write over
and over
the dream
I have every
other night but
I'm not a crazy
person expecting
a different outcome
I'm just an optimist
and I can cede that
I might be a fool
who just hopes for
and wants the best
for everyone

Whit Howland © 2020

electric blue ink

rolling straight lines

some light and thin
others

thick with pressure
applied

kicking and screaming
pulling teeth

I never thought
I'd say this

I miss all of you

I know none of us
look the same

Whit Howland © 2020

The journey
the place
the deed

it's nothing that happened
overnight

like all other things
it was a slow-growing ****

or maybe I got caught
watching the paint dry

but do not judge me
for the things I have done

I only did
what I had to do

Whit Howland © 2020

Through the window
I heard

a bluebird chirp

no

it didn't sing

it chirped

Whit Howland © 2020

but please believe me
when I say

not to worry

and assure you that
the Mind

the Soul

and the Body

know their craft well
and always do
their job

Whit Howland © 2020

always  

it seems that much of my memories
are played on a scratchy
transistor radio

where music and songs
shine
despite their audio flaws

but the tough
and salted ones

exist within
some painful pieces
of geography

places where words
phrases
and sentences

dare not go

Whit Howland © 2020

The muse calls

for a painting
a poem

capturing the orange
of this sunset
slowly fading out

and the lights of fireflies

floating
and blinking
on and off

or could it be another voice

lately
I've been trying not to come

every time she blows the whistle
only I can hear

I'm not a dog folks

Whit Howland © 2020

I'll love you

if you want
our lives
can be inter-twined

no beginning
no end

and our earth will be
round

not flat

and our happiness

and our sadness

will whip up the most spectacular
storms

complete with churning
clouds

and waving sheets
of rain

that will water us

and make it grow

Whit Howland © 2020

trying
the same thing over
and over

expecting
a different result

and in this case
thinking you’ll stop

at a different station
in a different town

but who am I to say
differently

I’m definitely not
a thief

or someone to rob you
of your dreams

besides
it could possibly be

this thin strip
of crazy glue

that is holding it all
in check

Whit Howland © 2020

and it's your definition
of idle

much like that of
wrong

that troubles me

but then again
I'm a poet

so all of this becomes
dully
academic

but since I'm a poet
and I'm not being falsely
humble

I'm really that  of
the dimestore
variety

and this is something
I've struggled with
all throughout my life
and verse

the question of what
work really looks like

and who decides on meanings
of words and other things

but now I  can proudly say
I have finally found it

the confidence that is

to tell both the Devil
and God and

I love one over
the other I swear

I do I do

**** out

that's as nice
and as Christianly
as I can put it

Whit Howland © 2020

I like to think of
life

as drops of rain

and how those drops
eventually

form patterns

on the surface
of things

like window glass
and tabletops

and how events
both good

and bad
become sequential

leading to one
grand reveal

or master plan

Whit Howland © 2020

only in my mind
do I put pen to paper

when I'm anchored
in a port

or parked on a street
of long long ago

and yesterdays need
to be filed

and cases need to be
closed

Whit Howland © 2020

Ghosts
are what they used to be

memories

like white sheets
with eye holes
floating
through the mind

but the older I get
the more

I have learned to see
the beauty

in flawed arrangements
and poor executions

and I let the music
play

sometimes loud
sometimes muted

but always brassy
if not

just a little out of tune

Whit Howland © 2020

Let words dance

nothing choreographed
but more

interpretive
and spontaneous

then let order
form

from the chaos that is
the free verse

and dance
again

like water

flowing

Whit Howland © 2020

Often I wonder
not what is on the other side

but why there has to be
one

inexorably

one side is bound
to be bad

while the other
struggles to remain good

in the face of all that
badness

so why not just
eliminate the one side
all together

and end the struggle

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the dark side
that's scary

the fear

that this

is all there is

Whit Howland © 2020