Gold
is something I'll never know

the best
I can hope for

maybe marble

but  it  will
most likely be

granite

Trigger pulled
a shot rings out

the race

is on
ragged breath in time

with foot over foot
and the clock

ticks

whit howland © 2021

It's easier to tap your fingers
to the patter of rain on the roof

the intermittent claps of thunder
and flashes of lightning

I know sunshine
hurts your eyes

I get it

the weight

and what's riding on it's
back

the amount of money that
clatters

crinkles jingles
and changes hands

all of this

coupled with the risk
and the fear  

of one man's loss
being

the wrong man's
gain

Whit Howland © 2020

take up thy bed and walk
is what you said
and though you were gentle

there was a force behind it
like a swift-moving river
more than enough to make me rise

put on my shoes
and take those first
wobbly steps

and eventually walk
and walk
and never

look back

Beige walls
with painted blue anchors

yellowed light

a gray rug
worn

but still good

do you
or don't you


everybody does
has a story to tell

that is

We are stuck
in the middle of somewhere

just prairie grass and blue sky
with a ubiquitous buttery sun

front and center is a barn
big and red

its  hue
meant to wake you up

and much like hot coffee
it burns the soul

leaving little time comfort
or room to philosophize

what we see
has always been what we get

© Whit Howland 2019

Tracks
in the snow now crunchy

big feet
and the pitter-patter

of little feet
crisis crossing each other

and no need to ask
what it all means

with no scheme
rhyme or reason to this thing

whit howland © 2021

Short and heavy
it soars through the air

or does it slide into
the lock

it's what you do to me
crossing my wires

one minute I want to fly
be free

and the next
I want to slide in and lock this

us

up forever

whit howland © 2021

Fall is here
and someone spilled a million cans of paint and now
the forest is splashed with gold and red
and through it all trickles silver
just a slash
among and over dull gray mounds that pass for rocks
the impression I get is that you don't love me anymore
and now our love has reached its brightest and most colorful stage its value to you is scarce
and that in a short while
a strong gust of wind will rip it from its branch
sending it spiraling to the forest floor

have I read this right

or did you have some other message in mind

Whit Howland © 2019

Why

I'm just a harmless
gray fuzzy thing

sometimes without
but mostly

on a string
a pool shark

or maybe  a card shark
so to speak

it doesn't hurt
when I bite

and again you ask
why

that's because
I have fuzzy green teeth

question
you trust me

don't you?

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

Crashing waves
a merry-go-round

fishing poles

sandy beaches
palm trees

it's the end of the road
but more

of a line
we didn't know

we could cross

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

drops of rain on the roof
sound like the pitter-patter

of little feet

you say there's water
collecting in the backyard

and we might need a French Drain
I say baby

we made it

whit howland © 2021

This morning the air
bites like apple cider

and my mind is as clear
as a blue sky

with just a hint of cirrus
and stratus clouds

I have no regrets
nope

none whatsoever

Whit Howland © 2020

It never reaches its
zenith

bleak
the sun in winter

the day only half
realized

unfinished business
with the sky a diluted blue

and shadows ever
present

whit howland © 2020

Permit me to go
deep

because there is nowhere else to go

but to ponder the meaning
of silver

and the properties of
aluminum

and which metal is more precious
as well as

is value something that can be measured
or

is it all just conjecture like the best way
to crack an egg

Whit Howland © 2020

What is life
but one I never
knew

without
a stray bolt
or ball bearing

rattling
around
inside my head

whit howland © 2021

What was once
child's play with thrills
and spills

is now a useful tool
for adults to shape
and mold

the World
one broadened
and bird's eye view

at a time

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
life

yours
and mine

you
and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

Just a  speck
but I know it's there

across the sound
waiting for the tide

to recede
and the sand bar to appear

a bridge a connection
to the past

and a spark and a flame
to future enlightenment

twice a day
and I'm such a broken man

unwind
rewind

set back
turn back

be a dad
what a joke

pull my finger
my string

yank
my chain

whit howland © 2021

I was young
and you were young

as we attached the trike
to the steel tongue

and pulled the wagon
around the driveway

a snapshot
capturing a mise-en-scene long

oh so long ago

but what really is it
I'm looking at

with sunspots
and the color washed out

over time

possibly
the first moment

you and I began to know
what it meant

to pull a heavy load

whit howland © 2021

Covered in leather
decorated in brass

locked
with the key lost

long ago

and it holds secrets
the special kind

beyond words
or expression

Red then green
then yellow
and red again

do you stop
do wait
do you go anyway

who are you
where are you
and why

the light the
threeway
stop

it's always
the crossroads

whit howland © 2020

Hello again
just to say
I got lucky again
and what a joy
it was
waking up to a sky
finger- painted
baby blue




© Whit Howland 2019

In the spotted mirror
popping quarters

to make the bed
rumble

as the shower sputters
steam rises

and freshly chopped ice
fills a vinyl bucket

you are everywhere
that was so long ago

Might it be blown
inside out

a stiff wind  
off a great lake

the cause of its new
shape

location identification
maybe clear

a place icy cold
urban

and the umbrella
still red

it's bright color
much needed to offset

the gray

whit howland © 2021

Leather oil
and smell

figures into it


and crack  of the bat
sound

as well as
the other senses

and food
food is for action

not for thought
as we grasp at straws

and other metaphors
we appropriate mix

and call
American

pink and sugary
your words
so lyrical

and yet
so fleeting
they dissolve

in my mouth

I don't want to believe
but I do believe

you sold me
a bill of goods
though I'm not bitter

how could I be
with such sweet
salesmanship

Stacked three high
with the fourth turned upright

and resting atop
like the star on a Christmas tree

tires

that's what they are
what we are

functional

a part of the wheel a part
of a forward motion

unstoppable
uncontrollable

we celebrate

"It's supposed to be sunny today..."

he says to no one
then shrugs

and walks off
to make copies

like soap bubbles
from a wand

so many broken pieces
of conversation

float off into space
before

they pop

Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

What do I know about death
not much

except that I almost died
three times

the first time was the hardest
the other two were pretty easy

ghostly pale wide-eyed with a lanky face
nocturnal and it hunts

on buoyant wingbeats in fields
and meadows

so what do I know about death
not much except that I almost died three times

Whit Howland © 2020

Eggs over easy
farm fresh

so they say

scrapple
or corn beef hash

sizzling in grease
on a cast iron skillet

life

on the Mother Road

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

Small
portraits
of life the universe

and everything
in between
and so sweet

when you lick them
before
you paste them

but save them
you must
because

we humbly ask
for so little
and a pittance

is what we get

whit howland © 2021

a metal chain still
swinging

one can only
deduce

it to be freshly
pulled

the room now filled
with soft white light

draw bridge now opened

i'm in  my fifties
and my mind

has never been more
alive

brim-full
of hopes ideas

dreams
and most of all

solutions
to the many puzzles

and riddles
that have long vexed me

Whit Howland © 2021

but there was a time
when we loved it

so much
we named a magazine

Life

with the title in white block letters
against a small red square

and glossy pages
in between

Hello again
my old friend

just sending you
some yule and Christmas cheer

winter is here

but none of the white stuff
this time

only the steel gray like
our hair

that we pretend is silver
amongst the gold

A Neon Splash
from a forgotten age
of cool and class

and jazz
palpable and complete
with curls of smoke

it's still there
you

are still there
it just takes a while

to notice what was once
so familiar so clear
and dear

These silver-colored nuggets
in a glass bowl

plopped
on the counter

metallic gleaming
under the fluorescent light

A hazy day in summer
with cicadas
buzzing

we swing

on an old tire
slung over a tree branch
getting lost in an afternoon

so long ago

whit howland © 2021

Don't run away
run into the  lightning

the thunder
and the storm and

wash thoroughly
in the torrential drops

because as they say
a little sudden rain

never
hurt anyone

He thought your face had a nice
color

that mad professor with a tomato-red
complexion all his own

and that was years ago
when he said that

as we sat over a plate of steak and eggs
they called a moo and peep

back then I thought we'd still be treking
this thing together

but I know now through words so rudely spoken
by destiny and life

that a tandem journey for you and me
was never meant to be

on this leg

Those ceramic eyes
do not have a price

and should not
be among the racks

of moldy clothes
and old toys

with dayglo stickers
affixed to them

in life we all have
to stand on something

let this artifact of kitsch
and love for all that is feline

be my rock
if not

the most delightful hill
to die on

Whit Howland © 2020

I am flattering you
as I paddle this plastic
ball across the net

and back at myself

in my dream I can play all-day
the sounds keeping  perfect beat
and time

melts away
like that ubiquitous
stopwatch dripping off the table

he said you were not the best
but you were his
and now that I've read you  

I think that you are mine
as well

whit howland © 2021

Sweet
and gooey puffs

that stick to your teeth and cling
to your fingers

I'm there

where happiness coexists
with guilty pleasures

I'm there
but I haven't always been

We mustn't end on this
note

so how about some food

a piece of wonder bread
piled high with hot tuna

dripping with mayonnaise
and compressed by

another
piece of bread

possibly the heal
which means

the package
is crumpled up and maybe

on the floor?