Something we need
to explain

the symbol
or significance of the thing

on a chart diagram
or schematic

but those who were
truly

the "GOAT"

needed no map
at all

Bundle
of newsprint

in the driveway
on Sunday

thunder
up and chunder

whirlwind
funnel cloud

life and pages
now torn

asunder

whit howland © 2021

Touching
a smudge of sky a splash
of sun

two metal halves
that'll connect as one
go

up and down
up and down

boats
barges
reflections and shadows

all pass through
for me but not
for you

whit howland © 2021

Slip slide and away
and so go the water weenies

after that last weekend
we shook hands

vowing
to pick up where we left off

when we met again
but we didn't

I guess
we made a pact

so you said

to come find each other
in our after life

sorry
I didn't get the memo

although you look familiar
and you seem nice

coffee?

Yes
it is safe to say
things got weird

our paths diverged
like many rivers
headed to the same ocean

or many veins
carrying blood
from the same pumping heart

Soap flake snow
and a plastic
candy cane path

to the gingerbread house
and velvet throne
where he sat

cheeks rosy
and oh so so jolly
with a little help

from a magic flask
and it goes without saying
those were the days

risky yes
but that was most of the fun
feeling so free

riding our Christmas bikes
without helmets
pretending we were pilots

flying without charts
barnstorming
hook or by crook

or

our chinny chin chin
and by the worn-out seat
of our corduroy pants

Glops and swirls
of red white
and blue

it does not fly
or billow in the breeze
it hangs

a piece of art

something to start
a conversation
you know

just small talk

with no guarantees
but no fine print
and definitely

no dotted line
to sign on

either

What is it about your shoes?

No matter how hard I try,
they never seem to fit.

Every time I attempt to be you,
I get lost

in an ocean of problems
with no solution...

Note to self:
must cancel out the noise,

and go my own way.

whit howland © 2021

Oh the leaps our
mind makes from
one lilypad

to another
hip-hopping
across a pond

with water
black
as night

whit howland © 2020

Failures
mine or those that I own

your assignment
lean

lean into the storm
roll

roll with the waves
the punches

and let the metaphors run
like blood and tears

down your cheek

and mix like paint
and mix like paint

Ten jokes a day
greasy bacon and runny eggs

at wit's end
of the string already frayed

tattoos and needle scars
cigarette ash and stains

on the table
***** mop water a rag

and ten jokes a day
from pain and heartache

is where the laughs
come from

your's mine
and everyone else's

in between

What are you
going to do

the last ones
in the joint

the chairs
pushed into tables

the bartender cleaning
glasses

a night cap
or resignation

that things
are what they are

as you let
those angelic questions turn to tautologies

if you
listen closely

the phone is ringing
it might serve you well to answer the call

© Whit Howland 2019

A strong name
to some

but to others
it doesn't mean

well
you know the rest

it took a lot
of it and giant-sized marbles

to get where I am today
though apologies

to those I might have stepped on
and hurt

along the way
I regret it now

and understand that
you meant jack

and more
than I ever knew

The water lapping the shoreline
makes me think of your words

my life is on an even keel

and it's your voice that still
echoes through my dreams

my songs and poems
it must be because

you made pain
loss

and sorrow look
so easy


at a point in my life
when it was hard enough

just to pick up the phone
and deliver the news

it's been thirty years now
and her voice

is still yours I hear
when I pull your book

from my shelf
one more time

my life is on an even keel

Whit Howland © 2020

Go to the Farmers Market
buy pears and cucumbers

wash the dishes
fold the laundry

water the plants
iron your pants

have
a rootbeer float


and more

items
on the list

taped

to a plastic bucket
from the Silver Legacy Casino

the jackpot never came
but the odd quarter

here and there
along with pennies

pinched

and stepped over
to get to dollars

in the end
added up to something big

folks

life was good
and don't let anyone kid you

the small stuff
did matter

And if all the world's a stage
I'll always find myself

in the third act a nondescript
dot or blob on the backdrop

and if there are shadows
I'll choose the largest one

and move with it
my contribution to you

my gift

Whit Howland © 2020

Sage advice
once gleaned
from a poet's letters

compare you
to only you

that said

I'll go one more time
around the block
a brief stop

Goldy's Dime Store
some taffy and
a quick look at me

then at Goldy's
pictures
in his fighting prime

I'll leave
the bell jingling
when I shut the door

you have your
lonesome cities
and I have
my empty streets

© Whit Howland 2019

slightly crooked
it hangs

but a painting
none the less

of a not-so-perfect
vessel

that carried us
down rivers

and out to sea
as we journeyed

far and wide

False
like the front
of an old west saloon

not broken
like Mom's favorite vase
she told us oh yes she did

not to play
ball in the house
we promised

she promised
and we blinked
it was sleight of hand

and now she's gone
a swindle
or was it buyer beware

What comes to mind
is death
and the afterlife

and unraveling
the mystery
of what it's like

red white
white red
red white

vegetable
beef
vegetable

sometimes
just a dab of silver
to let you know they are cans

whit howland © 2021

swirling
in a bowl
of cold milk

red yellow
blue and green
life rings

have we gone too far
pushed the envelop
taken it to the edge

sugary
crunchy
frosted

whit howland © 2020

Jump
like over a red plastic

or bakelite piece
and maybe

a mad dash
around a track

either way

I'm over it or
went from zero to sixty

rubbing and racing
and there she is

easy on the eyes
billowing

in a breeze that's gentle
and easy on my skin

victory

black
as an asphalt nightmare

splashes of gray
vomits of rust

and fast cars
up and down the street

with fits of passion
make it all a blur

the world turns on it's
not your axis

and life swings to and fro
at its own tempo

protestations
notwithstanding

whit howland © 2021

rising
and falling

but shallow ragged
agonal

breathing

gag
reflex choking

the world
heavy on my and your shoulders

imposing looming
you and I

collapsing
under our own weight

whit howland © 2021

Much smoke
but is there fire

bread crumbs and a half-eaten
sandwich

water
boiling on a stove

and more on the floor
either spilled

or ice cubes that melted

a shirt draped over
a chair

or is this my way of telling you
that life is made up of a bunch
of Maguffins

and it really doesn't
add up to much

all mystery is art
and the best is at best
impressionistic

absurd

or experimental

Whit Howland © 2020

Cherry stained
rose wood
silver
jangly
thirty five
a rough year
money
like honey
sweet
but hard
to come by

© Whit Howland 2019

Yellow green and blue
made by metal shavings

flower and bloom
in the pyre

as sparks rise
dancing

and whirling
in the dark

and melted chocolate
marshmallows

sandwiched between
graham crackers

for smores
are something sweet

to go with the pieces
and shards

of memories
from oh so long ago

In the moment
after the sparks

pops
and flashes

where tendrils of smoke
drift

off into the ink
that is squarely night

we fear what do not
understand

a man in the dark
leaning against a lampost

an orange glow and a curl
of smoke

rising toward the pale
and sickly light

whit howland © 2020

Your eyes are the color
of old copper

brown
with a tint of light green

you are amongst many
shiny pennies in the jar

and the mirror
does not lie

whit howland © 2021

Red and white
spinning stripes

again your internalizing
when you should be externalizing

to say or express something
specific

the comb swirling in the icy blue
will I ever love again

I still remember telling my Dad
the night before my wedding

that I never thought I would
I love that Suavecito poster on the wall

a skull with a pompadour
maybe I could find the t-shirt on line

it could even make a great tattoo
but then

what would it look like ten years
from now

faded  probably
or smudged like ink

from a ball point
pen

Whit Howland © 2020

Red with flourishes
and flowers

its long spout
an elephant’s trunk

it sits
at the end of a checkerboard cloth

almost as if
it is ready to be kinged

all while
the mind whistles and jumps over itself

at this early hour
the game calls for a cup of  hot whimsy

Whit Howland © 2019

Where have you been
all my life

I'd ask you the same
but the words fail me

as they always do

each year in the cold
under the red and green lights

our breath freezing
before our very eyes

we discover each other
all over again

Like
pond water

agitated
with a stick

that
became muddy

we were

but are much
clearer now

and no journey
was ever necessary

you and I made a home
right here

at the edge
among the reeds

And with skies
the color of stainless steel
you confound me

hot

then cold then hot
again

blooming pink flowers
with snow falling and sticking
to the grass

streets now slick
with ice
and tomorrow ice

melting
in the sun

maybe

and with the skies
the color of stainless steel
you still confound me

whit howland © 2021

fast-moving train
leaving on a jet plane

don't know
but I do

a magic afternoon
Almost Heaven

I said I'd be home
by seven

I let you down
I know

it was never
my intention

whit howland © 2021

Found an old picture of you
and me nothing
I could paint or recreate today

so we'll call it found art
that triggers memories
of things we shared

such as  a love
of  Frank Sinatra

so here is a question Ol' Blue Eyes
might ask

What's new in your world
today something

I need to know something
that will set
the record straight

still hot humid
at fifty
we've done
all we can do
our bodies strengthened
retrofitted
for the red yellow
leaves
frosted by autumn
our minds still warm
limber
hints of winter

only weeks away

© Whit Howland 2019

On the right day
the lake

is as calm as the most
precious glass

grinded
from the finest of sands

with only a speedboat
or two to disturb it

and the trees make a great canopy
of green

letting in just enough
sunlight

but never more
than we need

people always said
follow your dreams

but mine kept sending
me in circles

so I choose another path
one with stairs

that led me to
a much higher elevation

Often
I  ponder

about the purpose
of dreams

and why the mind
isn't merely wiped clean

and reprogrammed
every night

when moonbeams
breach our windowpanes

and
kiss the skin

whit howland © 2020

blue waves
roll one
after the other

in the distance
a cluster
of tropical palms

although native girls
and outriggers
try to distract us

we are drawn
to the  dormant but imposing
presence of Diamond Head

paradise is fleeting
and as always
time is ever short

we tune in we
dial

we dig on the radio
to catch

a sentimental
wistful wave

to 1964

or what ever your  
candy

or guilty pleasure
may be

Whit Howland © 2020

The Red White
and Blue

gloppy
painting

of the flag
hangs on the wall

in my den
and I have a whale of a time

keeping it straight
freedom

is messy
and not everyone enjoys it
always

but I won't give up
on that painting

nor you
and I hope you

won't give up
on me

A youth
that I'd like to think
was better spent

but so much time
got lost in a flurry
of white noise and fuzz

I say we'll always
have Christmas
not quite Paris

but
close enough
for drinks and cigars

Even though
much time has
passed we've
had so much
to be glad for
gratitude by
the heep and bundle
every time
they've tried
to tear us
asunder your
hand with nimble
fingers sutures
us back into
the patchwork dolls
we've come to know
each other to be

Whit Howland © 2019

All angles
and rectangles
of natural

geometry
the antithesis
of mystery

fiction
but rather
orderly

clean
and efficient

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something about
being

functional
and nothing else

of being
able to fill a need

and nothing else

this poem like a shovel
a rake or ***

serves only to make
a garden grow

being
nothing else

It's those long days
spent

with you
that play out

like a 24 hour
solo

on the saxophone
and summon all the cliches

"where have you been
all my life"

is the first one
coming to mind

you say
old flames can be rekindled

I say

with a little spit
and a pinch of the fingers

they can be snuffed

whit howland © 2021

I no longer have
the knack I once had

for removing one side
of the doll house
then stepping back

and looking in
at all the stuff
that is both our lives

seeing each thought
and feeling
in every room

as a figurine

life it seems

so suddenly
pulled me under

stripped me of the title
making me a player
an understudy of sorts

for 23 years
we've been friends

until one day

or shall I say

one night

the notion throttled me

you were gone
and not coming back

Whit Howland © 2019