A silver nicrophone
blares

rapid fire punchlines
in one long sentence

that snakes its way
to your funny bone

I get lost in silly daydreams
about conquest

and most of all
becoming

a cruise ship comedian

there are things I'll never
understand

like how to get what you want in life

and all the intricate parts
of men

Those ceramic eyes
do not have a price

and should not
be among the racks

of moldy clothes
and old toys

with dayglo stickers
affixed to them

in life we all have
to stand on something

let this artifact of kitsch
and love for all that is feline

be my rock
if not

the most delightful hill
to die on

Whit Howland © 2020

a small window
with squeaky clean panes
of glass

pulls in raw sunlight

into a small room
with a slatted wooden floor

where I sit in the corner
on a hardbacked chair

it scrubs and scours
my face

I'm constantly told
not to be so rough on myself

but there are a few things in life
I  can no longer ignore

one being that only the ruthless
survive

Whit Howland © 2020

I am flattering you
as I paddle this plastic
ball across the net

and back at myself

in my dream I can play all-day
the sounds keeping  perfect beat
and time

melts away
like that ubiquitous
stopwatch dripping off the table

he said you were not the best
but you were his
and now that I've read you  

I think that you are mine
as well

whit howland © 2021

muscles twitch
moonlight radiates
though still soft

a voice

angelic
or otherwise

sings

Father Christmas
red-cheeked and drinking
from his pewter stein

the milk
of human kindness

but was it really better back then
or am I just remembering it
differently

I close my eyes
and I still see those bulbous
Christmas lights

strung along the front
of the house
I want I want

I want
what I can no longer
have

Perfect
in my head

but when
it exits and hits the air

then it becomes foreign
to your ear

a language so
ancient

that makes life a struggle
to be relatable

suitable
for your palate

and  mass consumption

Give me some
if this is Heaven

red gold
petals

pressed against
solid blue sky

without a cloud
in sight

if this is Heaven
give me some

glossy
and mostly
sepia-toned

and now more
then a touch of gray
as we grow old

so much stuff
has happened along
the way

the smell of burnt hair
on a curling iron
still lingers in the hall

you sleep and snore
in the room
next door

and I'm grateful
for the two times
I got smart in our lives

plip plop
ploppitty
plop

the late
March rain
taps against our roof

whit howland © 2021

We say we don't
but we do

things don't just fall from the sky
but they do

suction
the production

of a partial vacuum
by the removal of air in order to force

fluid into a vacant space
or procure adhesion

that night those things you said
where did they come from

whit howland © 2021

Spinning
the world is
spinning

out of control
I don't I don't
know

I focus on you
and only you
your deep blue eyes

black eyelashes
your offwhite porcelain
skin

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm a pig
with a ***** bib
haunches

and a pork chop
dangling
from my grubby mouth

that's right

I'm a hog
who should be a dingo
or some other wild dog

but I'm just a cannibal
preying
on my own species

and if you don't like it

Grease Me Daddy

My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

It's what we're drawn to
and what we draw

a teapot
painted face
a plain table

along with muddy light
from a ***** window

and the rest of the canvas
only there to encourage ownership

is it a dream
personal memory

or does the mind
surely jest

whit howland © 2021

Like with fluorescent paint
I glopped on a title

Basic Transportation

feel free to sit in this one
kick its tires

scratches and dings
cracked windshield

engine running
rough

I swear I can fix all of that

it's canned meat
and depending on how one slices

the hammy blob
they might say it's tasty

while to others
it's irrelevant

quite like poetry where  i've learned
there are no lines

only smudges
someone wants you to believe

are flowers


Whit Howland © 2020

No not stone
but one

shaped like a ***
filled with ***** and *****

of multicolored yarn
figurative

of course
more the stories that shape

the way a man feels and teaches
him the why and how

to love

A brittle rose
and other broken parts
shards of our lives

glued onto cardstock
in a mishmash
collage

pieces
fitted together
with ****** fingers

we're trying
we'll do it
we can make it

© Whit Howland 2019

Mason
a skilled worker

who lays units
of substantial material

stone
or maybe brick

spreading mortar
like butter on toast

building one upon
another

you are a quality
a power

to determine action
without restraint

whit howland © 2021

They went by
so fast
the years and
I'm past all the
hard stuff the
rough stuff
and I just want
to remember all that
is good stuff like
the Barbary Coast
the Frontier and the Stardust
and Janice when she sang
not when she raged against
a dying sun so I'll
pull three cubes
from a bucket of ice
put them in a cheap
glass and watch as
some smooth stuff
splashes on the rocks

© Whit Howland 2019

I just finished a tin of spam
and now I'm closing my eyes

to dream about jackrabbits
cactus rattlesnakes  tumbleweeds

and other things
you can sing about

while strumming
an old guitar

I'll resist that apple

and other baubles
that distract me
from my pledge to you

to keep watering
yours and my
inspiration

which sometimes leads
us to cut  and prune

and strengthen what
is already here

rather than plant
something new

Sloopy no
those are shoes I can't fill and won't

because

we connect with people
by forging our own path

through an even denser forested
patch of land

and then looking up and
pulling our own truth  from the sky

and possibly making that sky
much bluer a little less cloudless

and the day
a little more bright

A handwritten letter a licked
stamp

old fashioned
yes

but not outdated
yet post-dated

with the red metal flag
pointing

to the sky and burning
like an Olympic torch

in anticipation
of your triumphal

return

whit howland © 2021

Of high value
but yet the most flimsy
or breakable

and in some cases
shatters in pieces
and scatters across the floor

was this truly legit
or just an impulse buy
in the checkout line

at the front
counter
in the Hallmark store

something like love
so precious and we still
kick it to the curb

or manhandle
and shove it roughly
out the door

Fields
of golden wheat

and a summer evening
on the porch

where two lovers
hands and fingers

hover each other
like moths around a flame

I've seen those paintings
of which you describe

the ones that you can just
walk right into and be a part of

you are that picture
for me

You always take it too far
you say

I guess that's me
and why

every time I pull into
the garage

I stare down a bright green
tennis ball on a string

like both barrels
of a shotgun

whit howland © 2020

As though you were still here
I hear you
your voice
somewhere
between honey-laced tea
coffee
and burnt toast
it's almost
like we converse
in notes then
the rug
or an uptown taxi
you're gone
it's hard
but please
never let these late
night visits ever end

Whit Howland © 2019

The stove was hot

I saw the burner
and its fiery glow

no need to touch
but I did anyway

is it caution
we are throwing to the wind

when we trust
with no proof of wounds

or scars

whit howland © 2021

The stationary space ship
or silver bullet train

of many youths

with incongruent and shiny
chrome

where they still serve
up

a healthy platter
of comfort

and warmth with a side
of truth

Whit Howland © 2020

between
green and violet

as of the sky
or sea

on a sunny
day

but  i won't talk
about sadness

or melancholy
because this picture

was taken at a time
when you were the happiest

whit howland © 2021

I must've been faster
than a speeding bullet

more powerful
than a locomotive

and able to run between
the drops of rain

it gets farther away
with time

the life I narrowly
dodged

and with my memory
much foggier

then it used to be
all I can recollect

are the strips
of paint

dangling from the ceiling
like swords

Whit Howland © 2020

Who can
how

can I
someone

put packets
of jelly in them

what can I do
to fill the holes

in the soles

did you try stuffing them
with the Sunday Funnies

whit howland © 2021

A clown's makeup
cascading down his face
under a hot spotlight

your call so long ago
a Dear John Letter
mostly in audio

a broken vase
with its ceramic pieces
fanned out across the floor

thumbing through
a high school yearbook
and a picture of me and you

no logic no rhyme
no major scoop
to stop the presses

life
just goes on
in one eternal loop

whit howland © 2021

True friendship takes us
by the hand
and shows us
we are not alone

on the front lawn
in tandem
they do a loose-jointed
shuffle

I never wanted anything
more in life
except to be your
everything

perched on a roof
with eyes a google
they honk
like feathered *******

remember the joy
forget all the pain
and the tears and sadness
will wash themselves away

a steady stream
from a thick rubber hose
is all it takes to blast
those geese droppings
from the dock


whit howland © 2021

Somewhere
between red and yellow

Albuquerque and Amarillo
we've run the gamut

you and I
the spectrum

hot and cold
happy and sad

and now
we've settled in the middle

just west of melancholy
with a little bit of rust

around the edges

Dribble
care
luscious

against
a blinding white
refrigerator door

no

I don't care
that juice is dribbling
down my chin

it was so luscious
tasty
and flavorful

whit howland © 2021

Solid metal
painted bold bold colors

and details

like wheels
with whitewall tires

making it ready

to go to yesterday
and better points beyond

You must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

two swarthy males
wearing El Padrino hats

and ranch wear
playing Flamenco guitars

in front of a peach
cream colored matte

leaning
into their strumming

you must be sure you know
just exactly where we are

but where we are
is lost in a network of caverns

made of stanzas
line breaks syntax and

other pesky devices
and useless knowledge

these men
their music

are the bread crumbs
we'll follow

no questions asked

Whit Howland © 2019

sticky with ****
resting

in its dish

the shower
running full blast

with the mirror
fogged and steamy

then

the hairdryer
blowing

more hot air

yes it's true
we've been having moments

but I'd like to think
of them

as growing pains

the stuff
that shapes and molds

Whit Howland © 2020

Let's not assume
this to be about
exposing the truth

and how the naked light
makes the roaches
scatter

we're talking about
quotidian madness
and how one can float above it

and remain detached
and simplify the confusion
and complete the task

whit howland © 2021

dare I say it
a ****** not a clang

as a breeze tiptoes
through the valley

and the tulips
yes

we've had some
rough times

but I think
they're behind us now

I've finally figured
it out

whit howland © 2020

A hearth fire crackles
that is how I know
I’m not alone

because

the log glows bright
with warmth

that flows through the room

it’s that warm cheer
that makes me know

you are near
and that's because

you’ve never been far
this I know

something I’m positive

is true

Whit Howland © 2019

balding head
crows feet
wisdom lines

this life my life
is light years away
as I sit on the edge of the boat

with feet on the dock
staring at it like Mars
Jupiter or maybe the moon

my mom my grandmother
and grandfather
still in tow

whit howland © 2021

I have no context
for you or
who you once were

I only know you in sepia tones
and grainy photography

today with your chipped sign  
and burned out neon

it's though
you are mute and dying

before my eyes


and you'll slip away
taking your secrets

and confessions
with you as you go

© Whit Howland 2019

something to swivel
in my mouth

to use to pick out
food for thought

lodged
between my teeth

before I whittle
it/you down to size

then sweep away
the splinters

with my tongue

whit howland © 2021

If we just start
the conversation
you have my word

that all will be
okay
one day at a time

we can and will
stitch and suture
sweep

and broom away
the broken
pieces

I swear

whit howland © 2021

a request
an urgent plea

not to focus
on minor details

to see the forest
for the trees

not to get
shall we say
lost

in the weeds

oh
what we can cobble
together

from all the  brush
we cut **** and clear

whit howland © 2021

This is as much about me
as it is you

our erratic rhythms
giving original meaning

to a Harlequin Romance
as we both run

like hamsters on a wheel
or better

around like rats in a crazy box
trying to navigate life

whit howland © 2021