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

Expressing
loose-jointed

grace

this silver spring
flips

over itself
like the first steps

of a newborn
much

like our marriage
when it was freshly

minted
that same

clumsy progress
slow and steady

down
one stair at a time

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

bits of glass
in a puddle of milk

i'm sorry
i just can't  fix it

so we mop we sweep
we bag them up
and throw it in the trash


Whit Howland © 2020

A false start
maybe I jumped the gun

or  told a lie
botched a story or an explanation

so the fixation continues
with these wadded up things

atop each other in a wastebasket
and I no longer fear them

nor do I welcome them
I guess I've merely made piece

with my failures epic
miserable or otherwise

and see them as impurities
in a vat of something molten

soon to forged into mighty weapons
like swords

or even more marvelous
things that were possibly made to

I don't know
the sky's the limit on this one

Whit Howland © 2020

As for myself
I tend to meld
and get lost

in the gray
charcoal color
rubbed for effect

on canvas or
paper

but that's ok

I mean I'm ok
with that

because I'm only
here for just a short
while

and

I came to watch
with a cool eye

and
you know

slip in and slip out

unannounced

Whit Howland © 2020

It may not take
        your breath away

the trees the piped in pond
of gray-green water
          as bland as
the idioms
          or
tautologies that inspired
them

        and

as equally flat
as the former fields
         of
tasteless feed corn

but maybe it's not
        beauty we need

just space
         to keep the crickets
 at bay

and oil the hinges
          on the screen door

making it less creaky

Whit Howland © 2020

trying
the same thing over
and over

expecting
a different result

and in this case
thinking you’ll stop

at a different station
in a different town

but who am I to say
differently

I’m definitely not
a thief

or someone to rob you
of your dreams

besides
it could possibly be

this thin strip
of crazy glue

that is holding it all
in check

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

dishes clacking
glasses crashing

silverware
strewn and scattered

water
on the floor

i didn't mean for it
to get this way

my intentions were
always good

and i'm wracking
my brain

to figure out
where it all went

bad


whit howland © 2020

The world
turned
on its end

then
spun
backwards

as if it were
a globe
on a wooden stand
and axis

pray for me
as I pray for a gentle
rain

that will water
and make green

trees
fields and meadows

Whit Howland © 2020

Not necessarily troubled
more of a quibble

which could be avoided
altogether

with a creative but basic use
of a piece of plywood

Whit Howland © 2020

First steam
then electricity

it's what we worshiped
most

connection

power
movement


wheels in motion
transportation

of  thoughts
to prayers

turning inspiration

into action and
progress


Whit Howland © 2020

Let us be comfortable
with the business of life

always rough
unfinished

but never chiseled
in stone

as we erase
revise

and embrace
our fingers

the amateur
cartographers
that they are


Whit Howland © 2020

Not a lot
to go off of

if there's anything
at all

the night is hot
and sweaty

a June bug
clinging to the screen

gets flicked
by my *******

with the busted
knuckle

into the starless void
of this late summer night

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

Picture if you will
a place where
the sun's rays
continuously scourge
the surface and
where strong
winds kick up deadly
red sandstorms
you may think I'm
describing Mars
but that would not be
the case it's a much
more desolate locality
where the only thinking
allowed is inside these
giant boxes called
thought modalities

Whit Howland © 2020

A classic scene

outside it blinks
maybe amber

or electric blue
and just for effect

it might accentuate
droplets eventually

forming rivulets
on the glass

where are we
we are here

we are anywhere we
are up

and open

all night we are
peering in on

some point in
every man's life

Whit Howland © 2020

The journey
the place
the deed

it's nothing that happened
overnight

like all other things
it was a slow-growing ****

or maybe I got caught
watching the paint dry

but do not judge me
for the things I have done

I only did
what I had to do

Whit Howland © 2020

An early morning
revelation

carefree love is a myth
and

all we really
are

is just an amateur hand
at mock surgery

in a never ending game
of Jack Straws

always trying ever so diligently
not to

flip up the rake

Whit Howland © 2020

It was once but
not now

my desire to drink
again

from a garden hose

the pages
glossy the book

a Sears catalogue
much more

gratifying
than gazing at the

night sky

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

Could it be
I heard another

record drop
on the turntable

then a ghostly needle
scratch the vinyl

as it began to play
silent music

for so long
I've felt I've been
without

a voice
hands folded

yelling as though
from some other

dimension
where the words
and sentences

are blocked by static
and white noise

Whit Howland © 2020

Often I wonder
not what is on the other side

but why there has to be
one

inexorably

one side is bound
to be bad

while the other
struggles to remain good

in the face of all that
badness

so why not just
eliminate the one side
all together

and end the struggle

Whit Howland © 2020

a piece
of notebook paper

composed of lines
of various sizes

and what started out
as elegant

cursive turned quickly
to claw marks

and scratches
desperation

or a cipher

someone knows
but can't say

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

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

Ghosts
are what they used to be

memories

like white sheets
with eye holes
floating
through the mind

but the older I get
the more

I have learned to see
the beauty

in flawed arrangements
and poor executions

and I let the music
play

sometimes loud
sometimes muted

but always brassy
if not

just a little out of tune

Whit Howland © 2020

Can you see what
I hear

the more we
talk

the more anguish
comes

in torrents
as we

continue
to search for

that ever-elusive
eye

Whit Howland © 2020

I speak
but nothing
I say

filters through
and is strained
as if it's dross

we talk around
and over ourselves
like there's red sand

between each other's
toes

Whit Howland © 2020

No one's coming to
save us

this and other
steaming cups

of fresh coffee

I must bring myself
to smell

note to self
awakenings so far

have not been glorious
on the contrary

they've been quite  
rude


Whit Howland © 2020

It's a flickering candle
in the night

burning despite
the hot steady drizzle

creating a sheen of beer
sweat

on the street

its the last light
for the last call
and the last man

making his way home

Whit Howland © 2020

A stick poking
in a pond

creating a muddy
under water ruckus

against

a red and chrome
blender mixing

whipping
eggs

sugar

and flour
into a batter


Whit Howland © 2020

Someday I would like
to say

I'm a patient man
of the mind

to take my time
and not respond

in haste

but work it through

with a method
gentle

quiet thoughtful

but solid and sound



Whit Howland © 2020

I can write this one I
got this one

I know the guy quite well

smoke curls from his lips
the same ones that

blow

night after night

a dented horn
sunglasses

black suit
and funeral shoes

it seems I'm caught in a loop
hearing that same old

haunted refrain


Whit Howland © 2020

It's a beacon in the night
and that clean well-lighted place
we all strive for

with medicines on display
although no soda **** or lunch
counter

but posters on the glass
advertising more affordable elixirs
for the body mind and soul

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

only in my mind
do I put pen to paper

when I'm anchored
in a port

or parked on a street
of long long ago

and yesterdays need
to be filed

and cases need to be
closed

Whit Howland © 2020

we paint
or verse

to create a feeling
or a mood

through a place dark
and dimly lit

so we can search for
enlightenment
that was never lost?

why?

what were we afraid of?

Whit Howland © 2020

a circle or
sphere

the visual
representation

of a comfortable
and safe space

as they say
less is more

and the best plan
is one that can be easily

explained to those
who have

to implement it

Whit Howland © 2020

Something to hold
and not bits

of code for we
as humans speak

in words sentences
paragraphs
and yes

letters

with the feel
of rough enveloped paper

licked glued
and sealed with

a stamp

Whit Howland © 2020

What I loved and what  I'll
miss

is the sloshing
and swimming of fish

in a tin can that lurches
back and forth and

northbound

with the din and
conversation

much like the friction
between

the wheels and the
track



Whit Howland © 2020

bottles the essence
of them

the texture of wavy glass
with pits

and scattered bubbles
of air

intended
to slap the face

break the cycle
and pry us
from this loop

and move the ball
down the field

Whit Howland © 2020

Tabloid
or tablet

either way
the truth will
always

rise
like cream
in a cup of hot coffee

and that's fact

rather than opinion

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 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

It's the same full moon
I saw as a child

when I swore to myself
Santa Claus was floating
in mid-air

and what some people
might describe as pale and
       crazy

I saw as bright
full of hope and wonder

I'm almost 50 and I still
stare at it like I'm five

not in a childlike gullible
way but like that

of a petulant inventor
obsessed with never letting the dream
               die

we were not  just destined to
              tweet

we  have a domed spaceport
in us I see it

smack in the middle
of the Sea of Tranquility

I'll get there I know it
I can feel it

Whit Howland © 2020

A call in the middle of the
night

much like a ride
on a roller coaster

the torturous climb
to the top
then the terror

and panic of the drop
then

the gentle coast
into the station

and the tears that could go
either way

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

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