There's a whistle blast
on the wings
of a guitar string

followed

by a mountain of mirth
joy and a little dirt
under our nails

as we ride the rails
you and I with an occasional dance
to distract us

from the cup of joe and fact
that we are flying
by the seat of our pants

Like a giant hand
shaking a box of soap flakes
all over the place

then

scouring
rinsing
wiping dry

repeat

the last gasp
or a new beginning

The damage is done
my love

and I understand that your forgiveness
won't be forthcoming

and all I can say to explain
is this

what I did I did under
duress

and it may be hard to comprehend
that I only meant to protect you

it is a concept I fear will be forever
lost at sea


whit howland © 2021

did he
or did he not

write his great American novel
on a roll of toilet paper

so many questions so
many conversations

so little well
time

is what you make
of it

you and i had time
and then we didn't

whit howland © 2021

It's not about the mark
journey

story
or the song

it's those other things
on the list

buy some pears
carrots and milk

do the windows
get the car fixed

vacuum the floors
dust out the corners

and the cobwebs
off the eves

because
it's all about leaving

cupboards well stocked
and the place

cleaner
than you found it

Now
a faded pair
of blue jeans

that served us well
as shadows set in
and pretty soon

there'll be nothing to see
and not much to tell
other than what we can glean

by the cold light
of a glinting sharp
silvery moon

whit howland © 2021

In heated moments
I now to speak to my dad
with calm aplomb and authority

and he now sees I'm no longer
his boy with needs not met

but who am I


a question I'll scrawl
to myself on a postcard
with a half dead
felt tip pen

waikiki
now in sepia tones
fading and fainter
with each passing day

this weekend I thought
my wife and I were
un moored from our marriage

almost as if it happened
on an overnight flight

(the felt tip pen now dead)

but she sailed back to me
when I suggested we shop
for postcards

if they still exist

and send them
to each other even
though we are here
and not there

I'll also try to find
and buy a new felt tip pen

I like the way
the wet sloppy ink
kisses the card stock

To God
only known
we are

unknown
to everyone else

you are seeing
what  no one else
can view

thus

you now know
what he can only
know

sublime

whit howland © 2021

Tied
like meat
with a butcher's knot

a bundle of papers
sits on the side walk

the rain

pelting
the front page

smudging
running
the news

now
a steady stream of ink

feeding into the storm drain

© Whit Howland 2019

Still life
like silver apples
sitting

pop art in
a front yard
rust now rolling

up on once apple
green paint



© Whit Howland 2019

marriage
of bull to cow

slamming facts
obstructing with opinion

sworn testimony

tainted evidence

equals

misplaced translation





whit howland © 2019

MAD

don't write about it

paint a scream

a pen not a brush
only corrupts the scene

turn paper to canvas

let colors cry
flow tears and bleed





whit howland © 2019

I woke up

this morning and saw you
brushing your hair in the mirror

I asked you if it’s Sunday
you said yes

I feel we’ve been here before
and like a revolving door

we have the same conversation
at different times
and in different places

the words and music
so familiar to my ear

as we continue
to turn

and reset the earth like a clock

Whit Howland © 2019

Today sunny
thunderhead
loomed on the horizon

but the storm never happened

wind warm
touch of chill
blew gently

but the storm never happened

all day I waited
behind the eyes
a slot machine
spinning wheels
one round in the chamber

but the storm never happened

whit howland © 2019

It's too big
for the corner pocket

and that's no longer
a call I can make

my life now
reduced to shaking

continuously
a ******* ball

with an eight

and peering
into the deep blue

for  a suitable
dimestore prophecy

This morning your eyes sparkled
as you talked

to the birds that chirped
through the screen

then you shimmied up
your scratching post

I wish I could take back what happened
to you three weeks ago

and found you before it was
too late

my cross to bear but
bear it I will

There's nothing funny
and it doesn't tickle
nor is there any gold to be spun

the sensation's rough
filled with pain tears
and very little mirth

but that is best understood
coming from your mouth
directly into a silver microphone

It's the small acts of magic
like the floating bar napkin

the dime for every quarter
or the clean separation

of two straws
tangled as lovers

matched
somewhere south of heaven

these little sleights of hand
turning heads everyday

and changing minds
forever

I've walked across a bridge with locks
ate quiche in a bistro on the Left Bank

I've seen the Eiffel Tower
lit up like a sparkler at night
and maybe it was somewhere
on the Champs Elysees

I realized how far I've pushed you away

I'm ready to come home to you
and don't worry about the broken vase

nothing we can't fix
or replace

Whit Howland © 2017

gray and beady-eyed
running along the base board
a morsel of cheese in it's mouth

or

is it a  plastic creature attached
to a cord
guiding you along a pixeled floor

which is it and why do we care

language
language
language

words
they mean things
significant things

whit howland © 2021

toothpicks
in a bowl of milk
ready

to be lashed
together
into a raft

to sail down
a river
literary or otherwise

literally

a litany
of possibilities of where
this vessel

could go

A deep red silo
a ruddy  
split rail fence

bales of hay
framing a  modest
full patch
of healthy buttery  corn

a candy apple and
white American
striated
muscular tractor

and a hot warm
breeze the perfect

conveyance for
the distance growl
of a mower and

the wafting aroma
of manure and fertilizer

Strength
expressed in
radiant beauty

a meadow
with clusters of
wildflowers

some pink
others white
with a blushing core

they sway to and fro
not chaotic
but martial with the wind

and they fight their battles
not with swords
and shields

but with rhythm
and dance

© Whit Howland 2019

Fire engine
candy apple
cherry

red

two little bells
perched atop
with shaky hands

tick tock
tick tock
tick

RING
RING
SMASH

the time is here
the dye
has been cast

arise
arrival
my wife

your husband
a long
and happy life

whit howland © 2021

The air brakes
and rumble of a bus

pulling out
of town

and the buzzing
fly

of what would've been
if we had just stayed put

and is there progress
or  forward motion

when
there's lament

This is really
about the wire

a lightly
penciled line
in the air

the birds like
underscores
or arrows

it's what's
implied
unspoken

what's
almost erased
or slightly out of reach

© Whit Howland 2019

But not yet still
green

the leaves are that
of Summer

we wish and we must
be careful

what we wish for
and look beyond

what is strikingly
beautiful

and at the time
never

here to stay

Rhythmic
consistent

water babbling
over rocks

steady

clear blue
aqua or turqouise

white sand
below

uncluttered

clarity
transparency

coherent
and pure

whit howland © 2021

broken
reassembled

cubes squares
triangles

light refracted

I've studied it
from many angles

and my mind
always winds back

to the same truth

Still water runs deep
sitting here on top
of this hill

what are you
thinking

not really thinking
as much as crying
over spilled milk

whit howland © 2021

Slats
planted in the sand

lashed together
with rusty wire

while scraggly reeds peak in out
And up around them

I am there and yet

I never was

Years ago at a college
reunion

       an old friend

said she didn't remember me

and to this day

   I still unpack and

           repack that memory

   of she

who took

all those seconds minutes

    hours  days

                              years

and scrubbed them from

every shelf cubby alcove
and wiped them off

                                 the front door
the counter
                               the cash register

     the stairs

swept them from

the basement

and dusted them from the  attic

   I try not to take

it personally

                              but there is no

other computer out

                                         there

on the market        

                                            that needs

these types of memories stored

                                                         ­                           in a mouse maze

                                               of how to dance

and how to smile and how to love

                                   and how to laugh

in order to function
                                                        ­                and drive the

vessel it is
                                                 commanding

and as tempted as I have been

                                                           ­         I have fought

the

                                                     pressures

internal                               external

to simplify and reorganze

                                        the trivia facts

figures                                bar and parlor tricks

                                    pool shots anachronistic cheese

                                                         ­                       
                                                                ­                           ***** humor
****** stories


that  are crammed into shelves


                                    and stacked floor to ceiling

there will be no hall of records

                                              and when they come


which they will surely do

                                          you have my word


I will not slip away quietly

into the night


   Whit Howland © 2019

a cold sweat
trickles down
the waxed sides of the carton

when it's pulled
from the refrigerator
and with one inconclusive whiff

I wonder
why I'm here
and whether or not

I am still suitable
for mass consumption
or way past

my expiration date

Wry
or moreover

a sardonic smile
or eye

and it's not his

but your's
that's the joke

he merely
flicked the switch

and the glare
of the light made you run

and hide

like a roach
heading for a dusty corner

someplace
where it's dark

whit howland © 2021

Pelting drops
of rain always

the soundtrack
of our stormy Mondays

but Mondays sad songs
turn to Tuesdays
water color moments

which beget
Wednesdays workmen like
prose and philosophy


whit howland © 2019

Actually
a beautiful gleaming thing

with wheels
that rides out of town

mostly
under gray skies

sometimes thunderous
with a hard rain falling

Warbling pigeons
in the park crazy

from the heat

a dizzying spin
on a paint-chipped

merry-go round

a greased slide down
hot metal

into a gravel pit

a burning sunset
but don't rub your eyes

you lean back
like you always did
and blow

wearing your bell bottom slacks
cool
like you always were

I hear you now
maybe I always have
I just didn't know

it's all I ever wanted  to do
paint a picture
lean back
see
feel
and hear the music

so please understand
I'm not trying to be you

I'm just trying



© Whit Howland 2019

I am sandwiched
like a slice of ham

between
two pieces of Wonder bread

measurement
and judgment

you measure my intellect
by my words

yes
they are simple

you judge me
by my clothes

yes
they are threadbare

but please don't judge me
any further

or measure

until you try me
with mustard and Mayonaise

sun-blushed dawn
I blinked
you were gone

the world
now
newsprint gray

we don't just
see the funnel cloud
we are up in it

no way
to tunnel out

© Whit Howland 2019

The moon is full
but your lips
were much fuller

as your reflection
rippled
in the amber

it's half past midnight
and all I can do
is stare at an empty glass

and ask
what the hell was  I
thinking

Dear Sister

Although right now
you're not too keen on memories

there was a time when it used to be

stories and memories
were our musical symphonies

masterpieces serving only
to pass the time and get us past

the dreadful weekends of our
chores and other drudgery

so let us take one more trip
down the red brick road
and reminisce
about the robot we tried to build

the end result being
nothing we planned
but more than we ever could have dreamed

for the eyes the arms
the hands and metal feet
of our doomed creature
that should've have worked

failed miserably

but what was successful
was our monochromatic journey
through lands
of pewter steel silver and
shiny chrome

and at the end the road
was this marvelous monolithic
impotent monster that I still see
in the wee small hours of the night
when I close my eyes

and let that be the coda
for this fantastic voyage

signed

your fellow maestro of absurdity
and your brother

Whit Howland © 2019

I've found one
my own lizard

but it doesn't run
among the rocks
of the Roman Colosseum

it slithers in between
my own  magical
worn and weathered stones
of the Greek and Roman Theater
Taormina Sicily

so you can have yours back
your reptile that is

it served me well

but mine will now guide me through
the cobbled streets

haunted by ancient history
and yet blessed
by holy unions and new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2017

Head to toe
wall to wall

Jazz, blues
rock and roll

bouncing
up and down

on weak springs on
a saggy couch

15 minutes of fame
I'm lucky at ten or seven

and that's
with the squirting flower

but not for Sal
you or

even me

these droopy white flowers
with dark

blackened blue
tasty berries in the middle

whit howland © 2021

About a guitar
maybe a man with one?

or better yet
a metallic pigment?

it was

the cut of your jib the tone
of your voice

you wonder why
I did

what I did

I wonder why
you left me no choice

Mutant darts
or
if you prefer

cricket

the board
was your lawn
green in summer

but seriously

what were we thinking
as we launched
these big metal missiles

with plastic
feathers
on the other ends

and that's the thing

back then
we just did
and that's what made  

all the difference

A place I've been to before
and one I must go again

the Fairfield Connecticut
of my youth in dreams

the scene

plate glass window
Blinn's Toystore

framed in red
Christmas time

a model train
traveling through tunnels
toward Christmas lights
up hills and down again

to the station
pick up cargo and off it goes

again

cheerful and tireless
in its work

naive simplistic
a dreamer

maybe all

but all I've got

I will survive

Whit Howland© 2019

On top of the world
I am

well If not the world
at least the roof

right now it's sunny
but there's a storm coming

the clouds are gray
and the wind's picking up

stirring the ground
and blowing me

every which way

Twelve
end of summer
1982

mom dad
in
the background


I do all the talking
what I'm saying
is brief

an off-hand question
so to speak
on its face

the whole scene seems pedestrian
though it carries a bit
of restless magic

me fidgety  hard
nervous eyes
especially golden

when I turn sideways
and crack
a wry
smile for the camera

the videographer
summer camp buddy
a kid named Terry
from Pensacola

he's still around
though he might
not look the same

it's taken a while
and many carousel rides
to get around to saying


something
I thought I'd never say
to myself

I miss him
me

that kid
the one who had
yet to put a pet
to sleep

or got the news
about his brother
the merchant marine

© Whit Howland 2019