autumn leaves blanket
a sweater and slippers

I look at you over bifocals
and puff my pipe

I have arrived

a little slower in life
but I have arrived

whit howland © 2020

In the remaining
dregs of the day

we wheel our trash
to the curb

it was hot
but the wind now
gusts up

leaves swirl
it will rain

Whit Howland © 2020

We cry about it in Paris
every spring

we used to say
before we lamented

what has left our lives
forever

even though I can't see you
I know you're there

I cling to that
always

Whit Howland © 2020

I have drawn no
conclusions

or lines

and one might
conclude

that this is
skullduggery

or outright theft

but for now
I can only know you

by speaking your words
even if I have to

steal them from your mouth
or

from the page

it was sunny today
almost muggy and warm

again
I'm pilfering

your moment

your thunder

and the description
of a place

that not I and only
you

have ever been

Whit Howland © 2020

Tracks in the snow

a small game trail
deer path
or footprints

ciphers
symbols
signs

of steps
equals
forward motion

progress


whit howland © 2020

like a face
its expression changes

mostly
on a dime

reacting
to the moment

a decision at the
snap

is it fight
or is it flight

Whit Howland © 2020

The future came and went
without

a squeak as it creeped
through

the back kitchen
door

we're old now
but

look at us then

what the heck
were we wearing

Whit Howland © 2020

If you can see
the light at the end of the tunnel
and it's not an oncoming train

please fill me in
on what this all meant
because

lately,

I've been
stumbling and fumbling
for a poem

and can't seem to
find one

Whit Howland © 2020

You mock me with a note
on a cocktail napkin

wet

from whatever you were drinking
and smudged

with ink

you love me

you love me not

and try as I try
forget you I cannot

I

kid you not

Whit Howland © 2020

It's not that there's anything new to say
about them
they just never get old

these orange blue
and purple swirls
I look at them

as they swallow up what was night
and let the mind add it's own
cohesion

I've been blessed in life

to always see
how the colors seem to get more brilliant
and stay with me in thought

rather than bleed out
and either dry up or  
fade away

the point being in particular  
that my brain hasn't failed me yet
or each morning to connect

these marvelous dots

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

Tonight I'm into your
colors

that might've been
black and white

but in time
and based on much

of what you've seen
in  your life

have been mixed and stirred
into shades of gray

there's an owl
at your window

and it's my sincerest hope
that he's just an owl

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

and you know every time
I call

I see the old rotary dial on our phone
by the refrigerator
spinning

I'd leave it at that

but I like how the memory
stretches

like the long snaking cord
from the kitchen to the living room
and back again

whit howland © 2020

You try it on for size
this

temporary
or second life

and the city streets
you drive

your canvas your
secret laboratory

and what doesn't work
or is an epic fail

can easily be painted
over

or disposed of
as experimental

and scientific waste

error analysis
optional

but not recommended

Whit Howland © 2020

it

marches

marches on

at first

uneasy
wobbly
shaky

then

it marches on

Whit Howland © 2020

I can get no
traction

so I guess
it's best to let

the mind flow
and I've come

to understand
that sometimes

life
may or may
not  go

sideways

I'm ok with
that

Whit Howland © 2020

That slatted promenade
the paper ducks the
shooting gallery

and the spools
upon spools
of cotton candy

was it Santa Cruz
or Atlantic City

it was so foggy then
it's foggy now

and much has happened
with you and I
along this stroll

up hills
through valleys
and everywhere in between

but if there's been one constant

it's how tightly we clasped
each other's hands
so hard and earnest

that our wedding bands
stamped our skin
like we were certified and registered mail

Whit Howland © 2020

Please excuse me
while I wrestle

with this blessing
one rung

at a time an
object

versus symbol
of the thing

to climb to
reach

to go to higher
ground

to pierce through
the clouds to

blinding sunlight

the journey now
complete

Whit Howland © 2020

a dare to set forth and prove
the moon is literally

a ball of green cheese and
not some silly metaphor

that Santa  Claus was also real
we just stopped having faith

and life

on a wire between tall buildings
and you have only

your balance
and your grace

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

It's about being
ruthless

with the weeds
not much grass

anymore

these days I find
myself

on defense always blocking
life's punches

and attempting to level out  
the ubiquitous uneven cut

ready with eyes
darting

this way and that
watching

for the next battle
sight unseen

or dandelion

Whit Howland © 2020

Such weak light
it sheds

over the table
I'm over you

and I had a good
run until we got

too deep in the dark
woods

of analysis metaphor and symbol
so much so we literally stopped saying

I love you

could we have
should we have

I guess we'll never know
and it no longer matters

such weak sauce

Whit Howland © 2020

Does it or does it not
do I or don't I

do you or do you
not

we can dance this dance
all night or

if you prefer

hold tightly
to the gold maned horse

on a mad carousel
in the sky

I'm good with that
how about you

Whit Howland © 2020

Kind of like if a tree
falls

in the woods
and no one's around

does it really make
a sound

likewise
if something is yours

and only yours
is it really

all that
profound

Whit Howland © 2020

Like my feet
without any wings

they clunk
and plod through mud

much like molasses

and the music
the thought jazz

has left under auspicious
no

I think you mean
suspicious circumstances

Whit Howland © 2020

To this day
I am not

sure if I was
ever really there

so much of it
was just sleep walking

voices taking
at each other
with

lots of TV snow
and

background
noise

but also some
truth

coming through
all that fuzz

Whit Howland © 2020

Of what I do not know
of who

I've never had the pleasure
to meet

something or someone
maybe

I've known
only in the abstract

and the more I grow to love it
or them

the farther out of reach
they

it

is for you I and me

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more than just waxen sticks
posted like sentries

on a thickly frosted cake
it's a celebration

of things that are growing
inside me

such as my love
of confessional poetry

for paintings of lonely
landscapes

and of how I've perfected my ability
to navigate

wastelands
physical emotional

or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2020

My wife calls me
her big block of cheese

no wonder why
my mouth waters

at the sight
of a full moon

thank you very much
I'll be here all night

and maybe into
the next day

Whit Howland © 2020

Some will  say it didn't go
anywhere

and I'll say they're
right

two electric trains
one going east
and another going west

which way you ask
will the smoke go

it won't go anywhere
I say
but up your nose

just like it always has

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

A light
more a glow

the source
we do not know

should we
do we

dare
ask where

or why

my days are spent
trying

to read your ticks
your expressions

and I must do so
without fail

without question

it's the wire I walk
between two points

straddling



Whit Howland © 2020

In a dream
I see

your tears dry up
the ones

that watered the flowers
in the window box

and happiness now
grows

on you like another
appendage

although I don't
think

your mind is the same
as it forms

yet a thicker
armor

so to speak

Whit Howland © 2020

but there's still
a smell of cedar

after all these
years

and i am so thankful
it dodged the moths

that i will over look
the shrunken sleeves

so small
like they are cursed

and the once luxuriant
full-bodied red

now faded
and earthen colored

something
so sentimental

no longer has to serve
a function

whit howland © 2020

they can pluck a poem
not from the blue

but purple heavens
with

their lofty words
and erudite thoughts

as if their heads
are already in the clouds

and mine is under
a pillow

or in a pewter dish
gnoshing on

plastic grapes
and apples

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

Right now
the wind does not
howl

instead it sounds
a lot like whale music
calling

from down deep
and beckoning me
to dig deeper

don't worry
what ever is broken
I promise

I'll fix

Whit Howland © 2020

You ask
what is the tipping point
when does it all go away

I answer

close your eyes
and listen to the clock tick

it's only then you will see
it melting
and dripping in the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

and sounds
I like the way it sounds

what Hobart what
sounds

I don't know
the dark

dark what do you mean
dark

I mean ink
like a velvet cloth

ink I see

Hobart

yes

what did you do today

I helped an old lady
across the street

was she grateful

I think so
though she didn't really say

in fact
she said nothing at all

Whit Howland © 2020

A parlor trick
for dimes or
quarters

I am coiled
then rolled out
on the end of a string

running this way
and that I work
I perform I fight

someday
this war is going to
end

Whit Howland © 2020

So many years ago
but you

are still fresh in my
mind

your face your eyes your shape
same full color

and still in Panavision

why did you go why
won't you ever call

Whit Howland © 2020

and I ask you

when did it all start
to droop

the pants come down
the flower squirt

and was it worth it
to hang on so long for dear life

or should we have just
wadded it all up

and shot it out of a bright
purple polka-dotted cannon

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

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

Puerto Rico
named after Rico

who, on his pinky, donned
a diamond ringo

and pined for Lola
a showgirl

with yellow feathers in her hair
and a dress of ruby red
cut so low

blood and a single
gunshot

who could ask for more
oh Puerto Rico

you are my
LOLA

but with moxy
and yet you mock me

like you are constantly
boxing

my ears

as if I were a big
donkey

does he love her
or does he not

ralph and alice
and other shades of gray

what would their lives have been like

if when he blew into that trumpet
he'd hit that high note

Whit Howland © 2020

as I've told you many times
before

so much depends on the words we
forage for
and our ability to whittle down

those pieces of wood
and fashion a workable phrase

the structures we choose
to build

and that has made all the difference

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

we circle the drain
and yet we fiddle

a jet trails off into
the distance

its noise lags far
behind

we sleep through
the afternoon

to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020