Except for the amber light
in the yard

and for the light
over

our neighbors
garage

it is still dark

and the question

what makes a poem
a poem

and is it ok to just
sit and enjoy

this time of day
where one can feel

like they're comfortably
pickled

in an inky
plasma

and floating under
glass

Whit Howland © 2020

Some mornings I wake up
hot

under the collar

to handle

to trot

for bacon and eggs

with the dice some cards
or a pool cue

and most of all
hot for you


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 smooth stone
pulled back

and shot
from a sling

with an arch
meticulously

imagined

i'm thinking of you
and what should have been

as opposed to why
it wasn't

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

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

My face
it disappears

then reappears

when the train's windows
flash

by my face

as I fumble
for pocket change

a thought

and then a poem

Whit Howland © 2020

What's the good word
some news would be nice

will you write
or call

because the pin cushion
I'm sitting on

will no longer
suffice

Whit Howland © 2020

and it was not that I was ever really asleep

maybe
just half asleep and in a waking dream

but rest assure
my eyes are fully and truly open

still stinging
from the onion mist

and I now walk with a swinging lantern in my hand

you got my attention
and I finally see you

but probably much better than you see yourself

Whit Howland © 2020

barber's poles
               or candy canes

water taxis
               or water bugs

gondolier's song
              maybe flamenco music

time was short
            is short

too short
         for pencil sketches

of memories that blur
           and  evanesce

in water black
           and oily


Whit Howland © 2019

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

Once white now
gray greasy and

ragged with use
the more it cleans

it's an ugly world
and we always seem

to grow ugly with it

Whit Howland © 2020

not subtle
but blunt

not pretty
but useful

not pleasant
the noise

in fact it's
downright

annoying

these words
rhymes
repetitions

going down
hard

as nails
being driven

permanently

into the wood

Whit Howland © 2020

Black as the ink colored
feather in my cap

an eye
opaque and shiny

streaks make the body
an abstract impression

where the mind connects
the dots

and gives form and meaning
to the thing

and if and when it can't
we can't

then we **** it

Whit Howland © 2020

a blue metal pole
platform and a spring

simple in its mechanics
with a basic purpose

in mind

for those who want to jump
and keep jumping

Whit Howland © 2020

Where did you go
I looked and you were gone

almost as if you melted
into the shadows cast

by the trees
leafed out in Summer

I hardly knew you
yet I feel your absence

like one more piece
of the puzzle

lost


Whit Howland © 2020

White with specks
of magenta

on the edges of
the petals

the stamen lodged
firmly

at the center of
the bud it's

a still and precious
appreciation

of a life
meaningful

though
not too deep

Whit Howland © 2020

In days to come

they'll turn to *****
mounds

on the sidewalks
and patches of scraggly
grass

Spring is near

ugly before beauty
then ugly again


Whit Howland © 2020

Battered Fedora
press tag
corduroy coat

elbow patches
leather satchel
note pad

Stop the presses
Hold the phones
I gotta scoop that'll blow this town apart

newsprint
rough pulp
jagged edges


yellow slander
libel
***** broken thumb

ink-stained wretch

Whit Howland © 2020

My apologies for regaling
you again

but when things like this
happen

it usually means something
is afoot

I've seen this phenomenon
on other websites

instead of a formal
announcement of changes

and new policies
they just implement them

with the attitude of
if you don't like it

there's the door

with that said
I will be off for a while

thanks to all who have followed
me

I will be posting new poems over on
All Poetry and My Poetic Side

I know every site has its issues
but HP's have become untenable for right now

I trust that they will correct course
in due time

but for now and I do hope it's temporary
I see the door and I am walking through it.

darkness
interrupted only

by fits of garish
neon

rain in spots
bone dry in others

mostly country
on the dial

if anything at all

oh what I'd ****  
right now
 
to hear some smooth jazz
while complimented

by a glass of

you fill in that blank

Whit Howland © 2020

I was once just a smudge
in a painted picture  
of Metropolis

but not today

as the buildings
seem like scale
models

when my fingers
grip the plastic
superhero

and guide its  flight
through the city

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

you've been the eye
of my storm

and have taken great pains

to allay my fears that
we'll ever be apart

now the morning is here
and as the shadows vanish

I think of merry England
her history

namely
the old saw

of how the sun
never sets

on the British Empire

thank you so much
my love

for always confirming
that to be true

Whit Howland © 2020

Wall or painting
and do I really care

they say every house settles
mine is no exception

and I've come to realize
maybe by kicking against the ******

that it's better to pin a gold star
on a mediocre pig

then chase a fast greasy one
and get dragged through the mud

Whit Howland © 2020

That future was scattered
like all of the other bubbles

throughout the universe
quite similar to ours

you know the one
with a two-car garage
and a house by the lake

and where we would have grown old
together

bouncing our grandkids
on our knees

Whit Howland © 2020

my first apartment
was so mall

it could be licked
and put on an envelope


Whit Howland © 2020

In the mind it still
rusts

the metal skeleton
of my youth

as I plunge
again and again
into memories

with images
flashing
behind my eyes

and I struggle
only to remember

the good stuff


Whit Howland © 2020

it's the dark side
that's scary

the fear

that this

is all there is

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

don't tell me what
and what does not make sense

a bulbous moon
like a clown's nose

and a wide-eyed owl
in the middle of the road

i don't see a problem

but you do

Whit Howland © 2020

hours
I've spent

my adult life
in search

of that perfect
image

it's bordered
on obsession

I'm up against
a wall

being built before
my very eyes

beyond that a land
they call no return

Whit Howland © 2020

Oiled
leather

loved
worried on
and

distressed

an artifact
from my past

serving

as a hieroglyph
signifying

the phantom pain
still

stinging
from the impact

of the ball so
long ago

Whit Howland © 2020

We think we go
deep

but most of the time
we skim

the surface of things

notions ideas
philosophies

and other wise

the night might've been
ink from the base

of the well but
the moon

cast a silver light
that accentuated

the checkerboard pattern
of branches

notice I said checkers
and not chess


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

You call

I do not answer

a small voice a
cricket

somewhere in this tiny
room

I hurl everything
but the kitchen sink

it still calls


Whit Howland © 2020

you once said
i had rapier whit
as exemplified

in my letters to you
one summer
when we were young

you are now long gone
but that gleaming silver knife
your gift to me

still sits on my desk
cutting sharper
than ever before

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm reading a book
on how to think

like Leonardo
Davinci

imagine something
so cold

it burns the mind

will turn this piece
of coal

into a diamond

Whit Howland © 2020

ridges swirls
slashes
traces smudges

they are not much
but they're what we leave
behind of us

of what we create
the things we build
and the statements we make

everything counts
as evidence

whit howland © 2020

cold

like a metal ***
                             or  dish

                         ­          and somewhat
nondescript
            because

we couldn't describe
            how we felt other than

scared

        but why
                   what did we fear

and
            
as time goes by it looks
                     and seems more
                
             goofy
then it did

plus

it's hard  
           to remember

what the turmoil
                   and maybe more
plainly

                                     what the fuss
                 was all about

Whit Howland © 2020

The mask is
plaster

with a face that
droops

and the one that laughs
drips

with joy
at the pain

and misery of the drooping
plaster

face

Whit Howland © 2020

The sky never was
the limit

that's what they wanted us
to think

so we'd stop searching
all heavenly things

are truth
waves thunder to the shore

a lone seagull caws
overhead

fighting
a stiff wind

by the grace of God
we'll make it

Whit Howland © 2020

lately it seems
our symphony has
turned to freeway
jazz as our minds
once a borg have
now gone on six
different tracks

would it do me
any good to sit
and watch this
record continue
to spin hoping
praying we'll
both come around
again

Whit Howland © 2020

It might not be there but
you can hear it

as if you held a conch shell to your
ear

the whistle  blasting  the
locomotive huffing blowing

off steam

with wheels thundering like
hooves

your past catching up to you in this small
spare

room

Whit Howland © 2020

If I went through life
always happy

I'd deprive myself
of the aural pleasures

of the sad and complimentary
melancholy music

of a purging cry with cascading
tears

or better yet
a delightfully long and cleansing

fit of sneezing

Whit Howland © 2020

I wait
you hesitate

then wave me on
I start to go

but your body's
syntax

signals me to stop
I halt

but you go
then I  go again

and our worlds and passions
collide

Whit Howland © 2020

the street's been glazed
with a fresh coat of rain

the sky's still gray
but our lawns are green

and while the day might get drabber more
dreary

before it marches toward darkness
at least we can say we paused

and thought

Whit Howland © 2020

Though naked
it gave us soft light

the swinging bulb
deep in the basement

that we kids would ping
to make it brighter

until it burned out
forever

almost like we had
killed the mother goose

that laid the golden
eggs

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