it's the dark side
that's scary

the fear

that this

is all there is

Whit Howland © 2020

Copper
with a handle and a spout

I could always tell
when it was about to blow

at first
you’d hear what I call

pressure pops

like someone snorting
to suppress a laugh
or a sneeze

then came a low whistle
soon
to crescendo into a squeal

finally
the bubbling over

the troubling concept
of steam

and how one releases it

Whit Howland © 2020

The night we called it 
a day

I remember that night

mostly the day

there've been a thousand of them
in a thousand lifetimes

cloudy gray
with raindrops
as dingy as mop water

so many times
have I been scrubbed
squeegeed and wiped out
of someone's mind

Whit Howland © 2020

When lonely's
comfort food
and
misery loves
the company
of other
stranded and wounded
souls
huddled
for shelter
and warmth

Whit Howland © 2020

He sits in a metal chair
creaking
under his weight
his shadow rocks
as he rocks peaking
around the corner
is a flaming red gas pump
with a dyspeptic glass globe
out there off in the distance
are four lanes of blacktop
his is the fifth and solitary
one something we and the rest
of the world never will be privy to

Whit Howland © 2020

Fire engine
ripped
Naugahyde
cigarette burns
crusted
yellow
yoke
where am I
I woke up
and you were gone
still drowsy from sleep

Whit Howland © 2020

Melting
broken
twice right
cat's eyes
swishing tail
stuttering
stammering
seconds
making
solid minutes

Whit Howland © 2020

What matters most
is

surprise

not their color

it's that they go
with me

when I leave

another empty
earthen *** to fill
again

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning
we woke

to a powdering
of snow

on the streets
the cars

and most beautifully

our lamppost
still lit

radiating

frosty
but warm light

Whit Howland © 2020

If I had it to do
all over again

it would be 1991
and I would be writing
poetry then

instead
of three years later

because there's this nagging
feeling

much like a gnat buzzing
in my ear

that something is missing

Whit Howland © 2020

moon imagery
never grows old

but the older
I grow

the crazy love affair
I once had
with ten-dollar words

starts to wane

images are now
only digestible
in bite-sized
green cheese flavored
morsels

I've been at this
so long

that much of what
gets done is under
weak and pale light

and by fingertip
feel

and finally

most people
want you to speak to them
directly about sadness

rather than
take them down
a moonless
wet and lonely street

Whit Howland © 2020

A kiss
on the moon
backed

by marbled blue
and white clouds

inside
a sentimental verse
or rhyme

something to remind me

that there’s a time
and a place
for everything

and now’s the time
to switch hats

from a Gatsby
to that of simple straw
and not

give more
then the world is willing to take

Whit Howland © 2020

a field of pink
and magenta
flowers

with a path cutting
quietly through
the middle

at the end
a house

and more
pink flowers

so that's that and
it is what it is

what you see
is what you get

and I guess
I’ll have to settle
for honest and sincere
brushstrokes

if I can’t have
haystacks

and a quaint
cottage

if not lily pads

just a place
from where to hang
my hat

and care only about
the times I pulled
the chain

and the light bulb
shined

in all its naked
beauty

Whit Howland © 2020

Outside

a wrecking ball swings
to and fro

pretty soon
the building
will be nothing but rubble

you're not as subtle as you think
you are

in fact
you wear your thoughts
and feelings

like an ill fitting suit

Whit Howland © 2020

It must be my reward
for getting older

memories no longer burn
like an angry sun
or bite

like a bitter lime

instead
they cascade

through the body
massaging every muscle
so now

when I hear the clack
clack clack
of a typewriter

it's no longer a jack hammer
trying to crack  
my tortoise shell

but a player piano
with spirited
ghostly keys



Whit Howland © 2020

Faces
sharp and angry

a set of expressionist
prints

that hung on our kitchen
wall

though not the warmest
pieces of décor

they embodied
an ugly beauty

something

only you and I
could see

share
and love

Whit Howland © 2020

Mostly

I'm about  the simple
image

or idiom

like two slices
of split top bread
with

butter spread
across each face

taking care I don't
skimp or
cut corners

not too thick

but never
never

too thin

Whit Howland © 2020

Kay Ryan
where have you been
all my life

one of unrequited
years spent

trying to slake
a hunger

for verse

it must have been
snowing
in Flagstaff

or you would have  arrived
sooner

but before you came

it was  as if
words and music

dissolved
in my mouth like
cotton candy

unlike the t.v. dinners
you ration out

the delectable noodles
and meatballs swirling

in greasy gravy

the fuel
to send me further
down the road

the endless  journey

Whit Howland © 2020

Those ***** little
tiles
that made the sign

and  
the corresponding
wall

the thin slice
of concrete
for the platform

the flash
of blue lights
and the timpani

of  an on-rushing
train

these sketchy details

was I really there

if not
then where

why the face

why mind

the language
the syntax
the cadence

the lyrics
the music

of caution
of danger

Whit Howland © 2020

I miss it
the sense of wonder

of inspiration

to run a string
from house to house

two coffee cans
on each end

and

our muted voices
trumpeting

through the tin
saying

HELLO

wanting to know
if there’s life

out there
somewhere
beyond

the stars
past the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

oily
has been used

and it’s too stark
foreboding
and so cold

for something
that flowery

about weather
so orcish

as opposed to
emotions

Whit Howland © 2020

With a cup of steaming
muddy coffee

much

like what is splashed  
up from the street

and what rises
from a manhole cover

I'm sitting on a stool
at the end of the counter
and reading a newspaper

just the facts
nothing more

and nothing less

Whit Howland © 2020

And I no longer
fake it
life writing

that is

my eye
now both cool
and warm

I can feel
and also see the sun

and paint the sky
in an appropriate hue

a small observation
I know

but something that can't be
overlooked

a gift a treasure
for evermore

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more
I'm more

about the interior
landscape

the mind that was once
young
and like an engine room full

of wonderful gears
and spinning wheels

that over time
has turned pointed
and predatory

Whit Howland © 2020

Unlike
some moments
that should be precious

they're never dull

stainless
steel
sheers

necessary
possibly
unpleasant

impl­ements
needed

to prune
and trim
to grow

Whit Howland © 2020

Every time I tried
to draw a straight edge

there was always a bump
in the road

I stopped so long ago
trying to be exact

it only takes one burn
that scars the hand
to never again

want to cook
or go near a stove


Whit Howland © 2020

A candy wrapper
or
a cocktail napkin

it's always a wonder
what becomes

your bottle
your net

greatness always rides
atop

rumpled and humble wings


Whit Howland © 2020

A silver thing
with a washer
spring

and a button
to click

I  feel hardly knew thee

a life where  even pens had
moving and mechanical
parts

but much like
everything else
I thought I could rely on

it too has been erased

by an executioner
also
obsolete

Whit Howland © 2020

One side of my face
is masked

in shadows

the other's
draped in gray

out there somewhere
a tablet
has been written on

soon to be found

Whit Howland © 2020

Avocado
green

paint for walls

potato brown
for table
chairs
and sofa

through
the plate glass
window

an olive sedan

backed by
shapeless hills

simple math

obvious answer

you are here

but it's the same
as there

Whit Howland © 2020

With a drab
gray
wooden handle

it leans
next to a scuffed
blue dust pan

not to sweep things
under a rug

both have another
albeit
plain function

sweep up dust

both saw and plaster

Whit Howland © 2020

Serenity

captured
so beautifully

in almond blossoms
and blue-green

something
I almost stopped
searching for

but then it came
on a tickling
breeze

just enough
to ruffle
some petals

you're a good man
Charlie Brown

Lee

or whomever
you choose and decide
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

I guess it makes me think

of you

if only I knew
what I know today

things would be less
monochromatic

because

what I could not save
might have been

salvageable
in magnificent dreams

of swirls color
and texture

Whit Howland © 2020

Time to begin
again

so let me once
more

write about the
wind

how it gusts and
how

it blows the leaves
around

forming them
into

a little funnel
cloud

yes

it's a quiet little
image

but quiet is the way to
be

and humble
too

when one wants to
start

fresh and anew

To say
the silence is deafening

would be a cliche

so let me posit you with
an image

one that is still

and small

a yard
blanketed with snow
and the moon

reflecting upon it
thus

the night is white

and though it's cold

the path is clear

Whit Howland © 2020

I get

is to broom away
the dust
from corners

and light the room
in a way that's clean

but yet I fear
that when I clear

away

the detritus
I just might not be

comfortable
with what I see

Whit Howland © 2020

To understand
what I'm driving at
you must go beyond

words sentences
paragraphs

and let all

the punctuation
float away
like dandelion seeds

then think
and speak

about the symmetry
of the thing

like say

a leaf

is it a heart

or is it a diamond

and ask yourself
why I'm looking
at you

wanting you

to see



Whit Howland © 2020

Plug

I get could get
lost

in you


you're so ugly

you're beautiful

I'll fall into you
and fall fast

for you

you'll turn me
upside down

and shake me
for change

then drop me

so I'll land face down
in the gutter

lapping up
puddles

upon puddles
of street-water

Whit Howland © 2020

Yet
let me again

tell you about
the moon

how it's
full and muscular

and how the bare
branches

make it look
vascular

I've been searching
all of my poetic life

for an apt description
of this magnitude

and it came


when a January
fog

was shrouding
the morning

no reason
and not much rhyme

but no less
angelic

Whit Howland © 2020

the floor

sags under your weight

that plush rug
pulled

from under your feet

in the dark
the blinding light

of

a locomotive
coming at you

head on

Whit Howland © 2020

There's  nothing

incongruent
about a bright
yellow sun

shaking hands
with

an ashen and
washed-out
moon

just close your
eyes

and think

HAPPY NEW YEAR


Whit Howland © 2020

Hard

so so hard

not to want to
paint it in purple

purple cars
purple clouds
and sky

purple boulevards

and

purple
sea and people

this bardic purple
verse

wants to drip from
the mouth

like
shall we say

lavender honey


Whit Howland © 2020

There's only one
    photographer
I know who could
    capture
what they're saying

her use of light and
         perspective
would spell it out

in cartoon think
         bubbles

are we done
        growing
is this all there is

not a lot of tears
to be had

but more than a
       fair share of salt

Whit Howland © 2020

Rather than place

it's how we face life
and survive

the gospel
words
and music

we choose
to comfort and sort

through
the confusion

piles of it

and the sling and
smooth stones

we use
to more than scotch
the snake

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm watching

the rubbed charcoal gray
being

rinsed away by darker
then
whiter lighter blue

to be over taken by
the pink and orange

of a technicolor sunrise

Whit Howland © 2020

Just something simple
a coil

of copper wire wrapped
around a spool

married
to other mongrel parts

anything
to receive
and broadcast

the word

the song

the good news

Whit Howland © 2020

Let me do nothing to
disrupt the flow

a truck is stuck

the tires spin
throwing up mud

the deeper down
it goes

we are now
mired in the image


Whit Howland © 2020

Better yet
why

am I here

rays

of sunlight

refract

through
the frosted glass

of

a louvered window

Whit Howland © 2020

Night or day
you pick

star as wonder
star as pinprick

of light

as diamond
in a crown of lesser
jewels

you'll see
what you want to see

until the sight
of it

serves you

no more

Whit Howland © 2020

When bad happens
let me always say

I love this stuff

and when thunder
booms

lightning
flashes

storms rage
floods come

let me stand
smile
and take a bow

and
as I let a dandelion always
be my flower

may
smiting drops of rain
always be

my song

Whit Howland © 2020