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

If we let our imaginations
run

amok

do we blame them for what we might

become

my blood

your blood

whose blood

on whose hands

Whit Howland © 2020

It's that childish sense
of wonder I covet

and circle back to
in musings

and remembrances
of those times

when something new
was revealed

behind a curtain
or a numbered door

and how hopes and dreams
were pieces

of flesh colored putty
that bounced from floor

to ceiling
and off the wall

it was

almost as if the mind
was a sparkler

flashing and popping

before my very
eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

Its an imaginary
  line

I've drawn for you
  and I

that will tilt as we
  revolve

on what we think
  is us

and that's okay because
  time

is too short for you
  and I to worry

about appearances

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning I awoke to gray light
coming through the blinds
because of where the master bedroom
is positioned

conclusion
we spend most of our lives in darkness with
a little bit of ***** sunshine sprinkled in
every now and then

that is if you choose to accept
this assessment

Whit Howland © 2020

With a distant lawnmower
      as the soundtrack

            he barks

and I watch from a green hilltop
           as he swipes

one more time for that brass ring

in the form of a fluttering
         monarch butterfly

just above his nose

Whit Howland © 2020

the guts are still there
a template a memory

a structure of the feeling the
sensation

of throwing yourself to the wind
and gusting snow

down a hill guided by an appendage
other than your hand

into arms a maw
something

you do not know
but somehow trust

Whit Howland © 2020

Down the street
a dog barks

it's afternoon
so there's no moon

to howl at

my neighbor
waters the yard

with a steady stream
but there's no rainbow

in the spray

it's August
and there's a hot whiff

but it's not fragrant
because

it comes from the sewer plant

we are where our mind is
so desperate to hop

another plane

to point B
knowing full well

it won't

but still hoping
it will be different

from point A

Whit Howland © 2020

Shall we go to the edge
of a universe

with a caustic moon
and

where stars no longer twinkle
but are angry ***** of fire

and expression is less
scatter bomb innuendo

with toxic double entendre
and more surgical

with word strikes as accurate
and deadly as lasers

Whit Howland © 2020

Even the small ceramic elephant
on the dresser

I  remember so vividly
with it's warped drawers

was way too big for
the space

Whit Howland © 2020

I don't need to consider
this moonless night

to realize a tomorrow
of cake donuts

with pink frost
and sprinkles

there's a storm coming
it will be here later this morning

if there's pain then pleasure
is right around the corner

or under a burned out
streetlamp

just keep looking
you'll find it

Whit Howland © 2020

Bright
eyed
we rise to
it talk to it
harness like
a horse
worship
and personify
it what is he/it
to me what
am I to him
if not a lier
and just a bit
sleepy

Whit Howland © 2020

I like to think of
life

as drops of rain

and how those drops
eventually

form patterns

on the surface
of things

like window glass
and tabletops

and how events
both good

and bad
become sequential

leading to one
grand reveal

or master plan

Whit Howland © 2020

So much rain
                   these days
the streets
              the sidewalks
are overlaid
                  with a glaze
it seems everywhere
                               I turn
my world is slick
                           and smooth
last night I dreamed
                            your skin was
porcelain

Whit Howland © 2020

back then
we were in the moment
jarring butterflies

as I am right now collecting
and letting

inspiration turn into syntax
as poorly constructed as it
might be

hello friend
it's nice to see you again
and don't worry I look different
too


Whit Howland © 2020

There's only one
    photographer
I know who could
    capture
what they're saying

her use of light and
         perspective
would spell it out

in cartoon think
         bubbles

are we done
        growing
is this all there is

not a lot of tears
to be had

but more than a
       fair share of salt

Whit Howland © 2020

we live
and move
through

blue skies
fog
and rain

our minds
taking what's
solid

concrete

chopping
pureeing
blending

baking

an expressive
edible feast

Whit Howland © 2020

There was enough pink this morning
to say the sky blushed

then the day turned hazy

who should we believe
what is truth

and are there many
or is there only one that is divine

sometimes life can be a glossy magazine
with some of the pages stuck together

it's all spit and a prayer

we live in a world
of mist

Whit Howland © 2020

like I was caught
sleeping

when I thought
I was awake

still looking through a window
1972

a blue sky
California Summer sun

and your face
attached to your body

rising from the water
dragging seaweed

as though you're some lovely creature
from beneath

Whit Howland © 2020

Yours and
unquestionably
mine

but as we watch
not

just sand but everything
of ours crushed

into a fine powder
sift

through glass

could yours
and mine

all have been a lie
if so

how were we to
know

Whit Howland © 2020

when you
walk through the door

I stare intently

because who you are
and whom I'm supposed be

is stitched in needle point
so plainly

on your face



Whit Howland © 2020

that I didn't know
who was knocking

all those years ago

it was such a squalid place
that room

more a cage
with a hamster wheel

and I thought your knock
was some wretched kids

about their work with
idle hands

and devilish pranks

but now in these later years
when I have seen

what has come to pass
I realize

it was you who came to call
with a message

a warning


Whit Howland © 2020

There's something about it
as adults

that's what we always say
and for some reason

we can never find what
that something really is

we search and we search
but

are we really just drifting

Whit Howland © 2020

A silver thing
with a washer
spring

and a button
to click

I  feel hardly knew thee

a life where  even pens had
moving and mechanical
parts

but much like
everything else
I thought I could rely on

it too has been erased

by an executioner
also
obsolete

Whit Howland © 2020

trees are beginning
to bud

it's like someone
took a brush

and added a hint
of subtle green

such minimal beauty
is the essence of

early Spring

Whit Howland © 2020

If I could snap
my fingers
or turn the earth
and bring it all
back I would

the spark
the hope
the cadence
the language

before the lights
were snuffed
and our world
went dark

it was so close
we could almost
reach out
and grab it

but now we
fumble about
speaking in tongues
our arms reaching

for something to
hold onto lest we
float off
into oblivion

Whit Howland © 2020

Yet
let me again

tell you about
the moon

how it's
full and muscular

and how the bare
branches

make it look
vascular

I've been searching
all of my poetic life

for an apt description
of this magnitude

and it came


when a January
fog

was shrouding
the morning

no reason
and not much rhyme

but no less
angelic

Whit Howland © 2020

So much of it
is looking at that
half glass

and wondering

which way the day
the week the year
your life will go

some advice

paid for I know
with a song

just drink the water

it will flush
all that troubles you

Whit Howland © 2020

Unlike
some moments
that should be precious

they're never dull

stainless
steel
sheers

necessary
possibly
unpleasant

impl­ements
needed

to prune
and trim
to grow

Whit Howland © 2020

Rumbles
like a tank

with the odor
of a rancid tennis shoe

its horn blares

"Move your trash, please!"

but what if I am trash
do I get picked up

or just ignored

Those ***** little
tiles
that made the sign

and  
the corresponding
wall

the thin slice
of concrete
for the platform

the flash
of blue lights
and the timpani

of  an on-rushing
train

these sketchy details

was I really there

if not
then where

why the face

why mind

the language
the syntax
the cadence

the lyrics
the music

of caution
of danger

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

When words fail
do actions really

speak louder than
words

and is seeing really
believing

I don't know but
right now

no artist with even
the most skilled hand

or the poet
possessing

the most surgical
of pens

could paint the current
storm

that is brewing

Whit Howland © 2020

Many times we find
ourselves wading
through trash

to get to the treasure
and hope we can brave
the stench

and the muck
but most days
we quit when we are

three feet from the gold

I couldn't pass up
writing about a street
in LA about a couple

blocks shy of Hollywood
the most notable landmark
or loadstone

being
the Pink ***** Cat
theater

but with that said
I don't want this to be
about

the grit of urban life
too much of that has been
already chronicled

and maybe we should just
let the old man rest

my destination is more
meta

like how sometimes
the moon's nose is just inside
the tent

Whit Howland © 2020

The muse calls

for a painting
a poem

capturing the orange
of this sunset
slowly fading out

and the lights of fireflies

floating
and blinking
on and off

or could it be another voice

lately
I've been trying not to come

every time she blows the whistle
only I can hear

I'm not a dog folks

Whit Howland © 2020

Though we cannot
grasp it

we have to label
this fantastic

bauble
of shiny knobs

bright bells and
whistles

to identify is to
trust

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

Dull
gray skies

churning clouds
and biting rain

either we run
from it

or into it

there's no escape

and it's all a
he said

she said
a comedy of errors

made more
absurd

by using animals
as metaphors

Whit Howland © 2020

Still bare

the tree

branches
interlocked

backed up against
a gray dawn

with a trace of  bleeding
peach

and the grass
still wintered

frozen
and withered

but it's coming

soon

the budding
the rebirth

the explosion
of color

and most welcome

the relief




Whit Howland © 2020

Your voice sounds
scratchy
sometimes
tinny

as if it's coming from an old
record player
with a diamond needle
prone to skipping

and that's my honest truth
maybe nothing
you want to hear
but

we can go on record
as saying
clearly
that's your gold

from which with you
like my truth
can most surely
bank on

Whit Howland © 2020

If I had it to do
all over again

it would be 1991
and I would be writing
poetry then

instead
of three years later

because there's this nagging
feeling

much like a gnat buzzing
in my ear

that something is missing

Whit Howland © 2020

glass
though not so much
a bowl

than it is
a Coke bottle lens
so we can view

the wreck
with its splintered
mast and

splintered hull
with a pair of
goldfish

gliding
in out of the holes
and around

the diving bell
but make no mistake
we are talking

about fish
who are not
just to be clear

really gold and more
a brilliant
orange

and yes maybe
we are talking
about us

perhaps how
us and the fish
look at each other

Whit Howland © 2020

a field of pink
and magenta
flowers

with a path cutting
quietly through
the middle

at the end
a house

and more
pink flowers

so that's that and
it is what it is

what you see
is what you get

and I guess
I’ll have to settle
for honest and sincere
brushstrokes

if I can’t have
haystacks

and a quaint
cottage

if not lily pads

just a place
from where to hang
my hat

and care only about
the times I pulled
the chain

and the light bulb
shined

in all its naked
beauty

Whit Howland © 2020

The choice
between

throwing
and hurling

is no choice
at all

there are fast *****
curve *****

and soft tosses

words are always
tools

but never are they
and never will they be

weapons

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

as we level up
they rise under
our feet

these metal stairs
with ridges
moving us

higher and
higher

toward a more
ethereal

equilibrium

Whit Howland © 2020

and I should see nothing
but I see everything

in my reflection

that should not be there

a vision

my face
it's wrinkles
furrows
lines

now syntax that's so easy
to read

yet with much to say
like a Sunday paper

Whit Howland © 2020

so as minutes
jitter

and hours sweat and
drum

their fingers

there's just not enough
time

to say you're sorry
and even less to say

I love you

Whit Howland © 2020

This is not about distilling
an image

or capturing time
in an imaginary bottle

it's about seeing a world
wither away

before our very
eyes

and us being powerless
to stop it

Whit Howland © 2020