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

This morning
I brushed my teeth

my gums bled

and the sink
was spattered with
red

it's not how
why
or even where

it's that I was there
and it happened

Whit Howland © 2020

On cue
I'll tell you about
myself

my story
as only I can tell it

but before you give me
your verdict your
foregone conclusion

will you at least listen
to the arrangement the music
plucked

on the metal comb

please please

please  listen
before we both

run out of spring

Whit Howland © 2020

Stuck at six
and ten

the second's hand
convulses

every man
has the patience

to wait two thousand lives
for  that vindication

and just one minute
of fame

Whit Howland © 2020

Streetlights seem
like blurry slides

flashing

before my eyes

to the atonal
Jazz of horns
screech of tires

against the backdrop
of silhouetted buildings
and darkness

Whit Howland © 2020

My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

The creek
has swelled its banks
the water

now muddy mixed
with flotsam
and sticks

panics over rocks
swallowing
trees bushes

and other things
like points of focus

the language
we use to trumpet
the call or send up
a flare

leaving us nothing
more
then just a pose

hands to face
and
mouth agape

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not make this
a rumination about
or
a referendum
on a state of mind

the day is clear
cold
the sky an icy blue

trees are bare
leaves are dry and piled

the path is
unobstructed

and crisp spare
internal prose
will win the day



Whit Howland © 2020

Today the sky
was a glossy postcard blue

the sand
a fine and ivory white

the water
that

an outrigger slid across
as a conch shell horn
blew it into shore

was so clear
you could dive straight
to the bottom

off in the distance
Diamond Head rippled
like a pennant
in the warm subtle breeze

you are here

decades may come
and decades may go

but you will always be

Whit Howland © 2020

Our eyes are no longer prone
to the things
that make them water

our limbs are stronger
and our faces shine
much brighter

we've gone around
so many times
on this wonder wheel

up and down
rocking back and forth
and if

we're not laughing we're
clutching the sides
of the gondola

hanging onto life
like we've always
done before

Whit Howland © 2020

Past the point of no return
the boat

on a track
guided by a greasy chain

goes under
the flashing sign

and the faces
of comedy
tragedy

and the masks
of love and hate

what's beyond
for now

lies in a long
dark tunnel

and for now
silent as a snowflake

a tomb

you pick

this murky journey's yours
it's what you wished for

it's what you love

Whit Howland © 2020

There's a much better poem out there
about you

it's one I probably wrote

like you
I found my niche

though not among Greek Isles
excavations
blue water and olive trees

but in the rough but
loving paintings

hung on walls
in places

seldom remembered
and mostly
forgotten

Whit Howland © 2020

A white beam of light
stirs the night

like ink

probing
for a thought
a word

then a sentence
to support the image
the thought

and to justify the search

Whit Howland © 2020

Pink and orange
smear
the gray clouds

as though a ***** mop
swabbed

the darkness
and the night away

it's over now
I forgive you

why

I do not know

I just will
I just am
and it'll just be

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe it takes
a stomach

for dirt and
grit

and an ear

for jazz

and an eye

as well as an ear

for onomatopoeia

to see

the music

hear

the city

and say

CUCKOO

SLAM

BOOM

BANG

CRASH


Whit Howland © 2020

If I've wanted to be anything
in this life

it's consistent

I've never done well
with

shifting sands
or mercurial weather

and I've always found solace
in a steady hand

on the wheel


Whit Howland © 2020

Today feels more
certain
than yesterday

last night I
dreamt
I found the puzzle piece

I've been searching
for

and I no longer
have to force
the wrong ones

into its space

today feels more
certain
than yesterday


Whit Howland © 2020

More importantly
than the car

it’s about
where I was
why I was there
and who I was
with and were they

my first

I might
have been able
to illustrate that
by talking about

the spider-webbed
windshield
the rusted maroon
paint job
the missing hubcaps
and the fuzzy dice
and thinking

but do I know
you and do I trust

that you’ll
get the flow
of my thoughts
and how they
spill into a lake
clear enough
to see the bottom

Whit Howland © 2020

They had their day
in the sun

and now

they're
having one more

among the hard
brown

hills and
dusty

desert floor

they sit
battered

bruised
with rust

each blinded
in one eye

one more heave

one more gasp

one more time

holding off

that last
breath and twitch

In the not so distant
future

the yard

now brown

will be green again

and shortly after that

Dandelions
and Butter Cups

will pop up
like planets

and once more

orbit
an invisible moon


Whit Howland © 2019

Drops
like saucers
or oblong moons

splash
on a neon sign

a place
where glitz
and glam

clash
with the everyman

and alien and earthly
things

collide

Outside
the bare
tree branches

some brittle
some strong

interlock
and crisscross

the pattern
haphazard

so it seems

the method

apparently
unsound

Whit Howland © 2019

Just flat gray
on a canvas

painted

sometimes
globbed in spots

with a thick
brush

some might say

dull

but it can't all be beautiful

can it

or some days
is it just best
to be

consistent

rather than always
try

to swoosh
to the stars

or swing for
the fences

Whit Howland © 2019

I no longer have
the knack I once had

for removing one side
of the doll house
then stepping back

and looking in
at all the stuff
that is both our lives

seeing each thought
and feeling
in every room

as a figurine

life it seems

so suddenly
pulled me under

stripped me of the title
making me a player
an understudy of sorts

for 23 years
we've been friends

until one day

or shall I say

one night

the notion throttled me

you were gone
and not coming back

Whit Howland © 2019

You don't hear me
anymore

my voice

as if buried
among many

yellow
pressed

and crinkled
notes

on your old
bulletin board

Whit Howland © 2019

Sitting on a park bench
my feet hover

over the lush green grass
above the earth

and sometimes
above the fray

a small Christmas tree
with tinsel and ornaments
dangling from its branches

grows out of our living room
floor

what was once dead
now lives again

outside the morning fog
burned off

the sky is now
a baby blue

you may be down
but you are never out

we will survive
by reading and following
the directions

keeping our brushes
clean

and never
letting the paint dry

Whit Howland © 2019

If you love cats

you’ll get lost
in the heaving

half- moon
that whistles from its nose
at the end of your couch

you’ve grown on me

your rhythm music
now

so near and dear

to my heart

Whit Howland © 2019

Damage or
enlightenment

depends
on how you parse it

it was done
the work the deed

I could not go back
the food

the thought
the song

too sweet

Whit Howland © 2019

With blind
trust

as though
through the Chunnel

under the English Channel
we will travel in darkness

to greet
the new year

meet
and pump the hand
of fate


and it will seem
as normal as the day

before
more of the same

jokes songs
and stories

but there will
be a feeling that
we cannot shake

a momentum
pulling us forward
causing us

to look one last time
and salute all the things
that served us well

then bob for other apples
and trust
they’re more juicy crisp and new

Whit Howland © 2019

Snow still lingers
it is cold

and I’ve grown
accustomed to it

and the pit
or stone

my heart has become

I held on
as long as I could

to kindness compassion
and forgiveness

but finally
Winter’s icy fingers

pried those warm  
human gifts

from my grip
and

put them someplace
cold just

slightly
out of reach

Whit Howland © 2019

A hearth fire crackles
that is how I know
I’m not alone

because

the log glows bright
with warmth

that flows through the room

it’s that warm cheer
that makes me know

you are near
and that's because

you’ve never been far
this I know

something I’m positive

is true

Whit Howland © 2019

I woke up

this morning and saw you
brushing your hair in the mirror

I asked you if it’s Sunday
you said yes

I feel we’ve been here before
and like a revolving door

we have the same conversation
at different times
and in different places

the words and music
so familiar to my ear

as we continue
to turn

and reset the earth like a clock

Whit Howland © 2019

she haunts me
still

her last gaze

glassy sad
angry

wanting a hand
to squeeze

as she faded into sleep

I wish
I wish

I wish I wish I wish

I swallowed my pride
like bitter medicine

hugged her one last time
and said

it’s okay
let us fight

no more forever

Whit Howland © 2019

Prairie grass grows
again

on this treeless plain
and we’ve separated

the gold
from the dross

so much has been
restored

and there’s so much to be
grateful for

this plain stretches
past

what we can actually see

we are free to imagine

we are free

to dream

Whit Howland © 2019

I feel different than before

not so angry
restless
or confused

it’s only a spec
on this great canvas

a locomotive

puffing smoke

pulling a string of boxcars
through never-ending rows of corn

I’m moving forward now
not so fast mind you

just slow

steady progress

headed  out west
someplace

where it’s warm

Whit Howland © 2019

Snow covered branches frame

a barn

far off

and partially obscured
by blowing snow

did you get my note

I asked
if you were okay

you seemed so  distant

and so cold

© Whit Howland 2019

Ten Years
went by so fast

an anniversary
hard fought

and won

right now I'm sitting
with you
at a sidewalk cafe

the Left Bank
Paris

a dog barks
and pigeons warble
and scramble for

scraps on the cobblestones

the sun shines

may it always do so

on us now
when we first met
and in the days weeks and years to come

© Whit Howland 2019

I have no context
for you or
who you once were

I only know you in sepia tones
and grainy photography

today with your chipped sign  
and burned out neon

it's though
you are mute and dying

before my eyes


and you'll slip away
taking your secrets

and confessions
with you as you go

© Whit Howland 2019

A sliver
I thought there would be more

light

at the end

after walking
over hot coals
on glass

yet light

so small
even less than a sliver

like a pinprick

they said
you’d give me what I need

but I want
I want

more light

no

more

of the words and music
that have always failed me

Whit Howland © 2019

you say
you’re lonely in the Windy City

but you never return
my call

I fumble in the dark

searching

for a song that binds us

it can’t be anything
about Chicago

a town
where loneliness
hunts you down like a hawk

and

where raindrops

hit your face back and legs
like rubber bullets

Whit Howland © 2019

Do I dare try
to record it all
capture it
before it disappears


these days it's tucked
back in the corner or
shoved to the side
by beltways and highways

it's called
the Golden Crest
but it could be any crest
in any town the gravy train keeps passing by


an art deco wonder
a hot number
when cars had fins
and

I wish I could
describe it more
but I was not there
and can only look

beyond
the chain link fence
for something a sign
of fire or just

a spark of what it once was
but do I dare try
to rekindle
something we might not ever come back from

© Whit Howland 2019

More a meditation
than a description
of a scene

a window
busy with Christmas
figurines

tinsel
ornaments
and streamers

a tiny tree with lights
stands next
to Mary Joseph and Baby Jesus

you’ve got me on a tight rope
walking gingerly
over troubled terrain

love on one side
hate
on the other

but I come with good news
and that news is
it's been mostly love


Whit Howland © 2019

It was cold today
but my mind was limber
with images

of glowing fingers
and rosy cheeks
so my thoughts

were not of Santa Claus
but of
Father Christmas

that bearded zesty
wild-eyed
ruddy- faced potentate

I went for a walk today
and I got as far as the bridge
but I did not cross it

© Whit Howland 2019

What are you
going to do

the last ones
in the joint

the chairs
pushed into tables

the bartender cleaning
glasses

a night cap
or resignation

that things
are what they are

as you let
those angelic questions turn to tautologies

if you
listen closely

the phone is ringing
it might serve you well to answer the call

© Whit Howland 2019

Is it too late
to ask ourselves

how  it came to this

he sits
his back pushing

into a red
nogahyde booth

his hat pulled low
and his suit

just a little dusty
and rumpled

the drink
at the edge of his hand

something with *****

who is he
and who is he waiting for and

again
is it too late

to back track
do the math

and find out
how it came to this

© Whit Howland 2019

It doesn't take much
to escape

a black suited
thin tied piano man

his jazz hands
pressing on the keys

and blue swirling smoke
as if someone rubbed a Genie's lamp

but the second question
though

just as simple

has no easy answer

where
do you want to escape to

corollary to that

what if you can't
come back

© Whit Howland 2019

He makes his own shadows
in an ocean of amber light

a fedora obscures his face

his dark suit melds
with the leather of the couch

and an outline of fingers
caresses an amber drink

the fragment the  hanging participle
the remainder in long division

and the business
that's never finished

Whit Howland © 2019

it was the one
that roped me in

the picture
you sent me long ago

the one with
your bright smile
and eyes wide
with anticipation

you are standing
among other revelers
on Spring Garden Road

there's a beer stein
in your hand

you must have
been celebrating
something big  that night

what was it
what was making
you so happy

that one thing
I could never crack

your happiness

anyway
I've kept this one around
even though I shouldn't
and

today I'm older
and right now

I'm standing in a
harbor side gift shop
in Catania Sicily

a new wife
and happy life

she just bought some
post cards of the city

pictures of side streets
and ally ways
scrubbed so clean
and shiny
they almost smile

I'll keep one
replacing yours

because it just hit me
like a blinding beacon

what you were doing
that night and why

you looked so happy

You must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

two swarthy males
wearing El Padrino hats

and ranch wear
playing Flamenco guitars

in front of a peach
cream colored matte

leaning
into their strumming

you must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

but where we are
is lost in a network of caverns

made of stanzas
line breaks syntax and

other pesky devices
and useless knowledge

these men
their music

are the bread crumbs
we'll follow

no questions asked

Whit Howland © 2019