Just flat gray
on a canvas

painted

sometimes
globbed in spots

with a thick
brush

some might say

dull

but it can't all be beautiful

can it

or some days
is it just best
to be

consistent

rather than always
try

to swoosh
to the stars

or swing for
the fences

Whit Howland © 2019

So many women
have tried to change you

she said with her head
on my shoulder

as rain pellets battered
the windshield

and red-orange strips
of celluloid

flashed in my mind
jumpy jittery

but beautiful
nonetheless

Time it seems has stood still
for us to admire

the purple budding flowers
in spring

the red
and yellow leaves of Fall

or the moss-covered headstones
in the graveyard

behind a quaint clapboard
chapel

we are not at a crossroads
there are no pivotal decisions to be made

we are free
to keep spinning the wire rack

flaring the nostrils
smelling sponging

and sometimes chewing
the scenery

getting lost in the wash of Americana
and nostalgia

Whit Howland © 2020

Snow covered branches frame

a barn

far off

and partially obscured
by blowing snow

did you get my note

I asked
if you were okay

you seemed so  distant

and so cold

© Whit Howland 2019

Copper
or maybe tin

on a ring like keys
to a kingdom

where life was once lived
in measured tones

and precise
rhythms

a sacrifice

whit howland © 2021

The propeller rotates
and chops

the air and
I feel the wind on my face

I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and

the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss

an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer

but she’s great and thank you
for asking

and though like you
she does not  understand it

she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude

Whit Howland © 2019

always right
before dawn
I am
young again

worrying that
I can't physically
see my face

this feeling
like a riptide

the more I fight
the farther I'm
pulled from shore

what always
saves me
an old television

wooden case
hissing remote

it's analog
so nothing other
then dots of snow
blips bleeps and

other delta
and divine waves

that never fail
to gift me years
and wisdom

that put me
right to sleep

© Whit Howland 2019

To say you had claws
is an understatement

your cat talons
like little saws

could have cut away
a forest

and

the snaking scar
you made so long ago

still  runs down
my arm

and gives me devilish
inspiration

which is why
it's called

Old Scratch

black
cast iron head

blonde
wooden handle

the magnet
you were

and I
was the steel

but too bad
it had to be the hammer

you thought to be
the only tool

you
ever needed

Do we close our  eyes
to imagine
the smells of Paladini Fish Company

and let our minds
launch and wander
to thoughts more abstract

or

perhaps we keep
them peeled and fixed
on the scale depth  and width

of Aliottos  
and Pompeis Grotto

or the current
human interest
both manicured
shabby and in between

but yet

maybe there's
a better way

faint lines
here and there

fuzzy and grainy
photographs

just the essence  
of a place
moment or time

a verse about
what we loved

and someday
what we will miss

Whit Howland © 2019

The dream the intent
gone long ago
like all good things

whether it should have passed an unfortunate
unnecessary debate

but also
up for discussion
grabs

the importance
of form structure of a dream

and the worth of a historical
timeline of an automobile
from fin to future vision

Whit Howland © 2019

ceramic
with a childish image

of an ark filled
with simple happy pigs

giraffes
and elephants

sans
the smiting rain

and
biblical justice

I’m sorry
most days as hard as I try

I fail you
miserably

so right now
I need a God that forgives

with an abundance
of gopher wood

Whit Howland © 2019

The tides rise
Piazza San Marco floods
perfection has a price

for Venice
being at the mercy
of her progeny and
their strength of mind

to save the memory
of her canals
cathedrals
steeples spires

her beauty
perfection

threatened and someday
defeated
by water and salt

Flashy
gold
and the taste of glue

Star of Wonder
Star of David
Morning Star

my life shoots across the night sky
before my very eyes
in a fit

of blurry futurism
but that star
stuck to my forehead

may it always remain
a constant and a symbol
of the best I ever was

whit howland © 2021

And I'm reminded
of that night

an argument

the never-ending loop that rip tide
we were caught in

our fingers
trying to break free

of the bamboo handcuff
that bonded us

and it's futile to ask
what happened or try

to make sense of what
it all meant

whit howland © 2021

Let's not make a federal production
out of this

it's just laundry

clean not *****

trousers shirts
socks and underthings

flapping like pennants
in a breeze

on a clear day
rubbed

with a pastel blue sky
and warmed by the sun


Whit Howland © 2020

No bright green trees
no description of the sun

no turn of phrase about sadness
or a melancholy mood

sorry

just rude granite
and colored geegaws

that resemble outcroppings
and stones

there for you
and only you

because in the end
it always is and always will be

all

you

whit howland © 2021

Once popping crackling
flashing

now burning down
to an orange ember

soon to be spritzed
followed by hissing

then sputtering
what just happened

we had so much
promise

whit howland © 2021

I have to strain
to remember what
your voice still sounds like

your tone your cadence

I figure
if I dig around on the dial
for a little while

it will come through
scratchy

at best

whit howland © 2021

Plastic players
you spin on a spit
in an attempt to knock

a plastic ball
into
the goal

you are we are
doings things
that are way beyond

our control

like wind
through
a creaking door

three messages
in three hours
and nothing

but cicadas
which are even worse
then crickets

I'm not going
to use ten dollar verse
when ten cents will do

somewhere
a place
sunshine
someone

I miss you
you're not the person
I once knew

whit howland © 2019

pale
but bluer than
ashen

not dead just cold
maybe numb
sad

a little yes

but the ice
keeps the heart frozen
and in check

whit howland © 2021

All night it rained
and water coursed

through the downspouts
like blood through our veins

this morning
a red leaf leftover from the fall

floats

in one of the many finger lakes
that was once our backyard

and does pirouettes
in a water ballet all its own

I feel different than before

not so angry
restless
or confused

it’s only a spec
on this great canvas

a locomotive

puffing smoke

pulling a string of boxcars
through never-ending rows of corn

I’m moving forward now
not so fast mind you

just slow

steady progress

headed  out west
someplace

where it’s warm

Whit Howland © 2019

A planted seed
watered

great things
to grow
and come

like roses

or deeds
that will be recorded
for posterity

and colorful
full fruit
but not from the poisonous tree

and study
for practice application
and surely

but edible
oh so delectable

not just for academic
and entertainment
purposes only

sliver
of light

often
line

between

soft eyes
hard stares


jokers faces
sad mugs

steady hands
restless feet

sweet dreams
choppy sleep

sliver
of light

sometimes
just enough

to mop
***** floors

wipe
grimy counters

and

sweep out
dusty corners


whit howland © 2019

Oh
heart-shaped box

you give me no
quarter

and no room
to think

beyond
your borders

whit howland © 2021

deep moody
red

compliments
his plain black suit

and black
broad-brimmed fedora

at his fingers
on the mahogany bar

just
slightly out of reach

a dry martini
with a drowning olive

it's a solitary scene
and we are lost

in somewhere else in
some other time

in a moment
maybe private or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2019

The tide rolled out
as a fog rolled in

to cover the rest
of what a white sheet couldn't

such as chalk outlined
tangled legs

with patent leather
and stiletto heels

bathed by blue and red
flashing lights

as cars
like dung and soldier beetles

moved along streets
with the names

Wittier Figueroa
and San Fernando Road

a dead mouse floats
where water has puddled

in the driveway

and a  whiff of skunk
means

it must have taken port
from last night's storm

in the garage

a slow rusty drip
falls from the gutter

so many early morning
impressions

so many clues
and so many McGuffins

to distract

We TALK
and we WALK

through a GARDEN


not of stone
daffodils

or red roses
but of

GLASS glass
of all  MANIPULATIONS

and because of this
FLOWERS  trees and other

natural things
no longer satisfy

what I want is now
much

HIGHER
PLEASE believe me when I say

it is much
HIGHER

Our teachers sit pressed
against a cinder block wall
a couple of miles into their fifties

they look much older than that
as their faces crinkle like worn leather
puffing on Newports and Kools

life was much harder then

they watch us
run on the playing field
in our tough skins and smocks

our wise little adult faces scream and laugh
we're playing kissing bugs

we were much more innocent back then

as we cart wheel and crab roll in the dirt
staining our pant legs bruising our elbows
and skinning our knees

we were much tougher back then

we look back at our teachers
and then beyond the cyclone fence


© Whit Howland 2019

Chrome
almost mirrored

yes yes
that's what I remember

and the stainless steel counters
the Silver King

yes yes

and more chrome
on the stools

yes yes

bordering the festive red

of the yeah

seat pads

and boy

can I still
hear the rollers
of the shiny steel mop bucket

rolling across
the black and white
checker board floor

no not chess

checkers

a more primitive game

don't like something

jump it

oh  you mean like
ratty menus

burnt stale coffee
and leathery breath

no no sorry


I don't
remember such
****** things

just chrome
and more chrome

  Whit Howland © 2019

and paperclips
taped together

a sculpture
on my desk

art and an homage
to desperation

despair
and disappointment

every time
I look up my retirement account

There's nothing to
glean from the wreckage

no lessons no wisdom no
truths

except maybe
that when the wind blows

stuff smashes things get torn apart
and other stuff shatters

don't let anyone say
otherwise

there's
no reason for this


no rhyme simile or
metaphor

Not where we drew blood
but under the bridge

is where we found you two
in the dark in a storm
like no other

and Poppy


I'd do the muddy slide
down the embankment
over and over again

just to rescue you

because it never grows old
to close my eyes
and hear you purr

as I watch you paint
murals on the walls
of my mind

and Percy

your prologue
meaning whatever went on before
did nothing to stunt your boundless joy

As  you jump
from constellation
to constellation

and tweak the moon's nose
each and every
starry starry night

Maybe
a scrap of paper
with a name number or address

that slipped down
river
and over the falls

memories
leaving one by one

until there's nothing left
but a hollow wind
blowing

into some glass bottles
perched
on a split rail fence

Amber liquid
ripples
in the blown glass globe

a top a pump
somewhere
outside of Oklahoma City

a roadster sedan
or wagon
topping off their tank

before
continuing to the coast

sun  sand

ocean spray

and good old fashioned
California fun

the route  chosen

a simian crease

though now
broken in many places
can still be connected

if one just
closes their eyes
and opens their mind

and journeys again
toward the ever constant light

Hotpoint
magnet
refrigerator
white

we pray
for rain but poetry
never comes

words
birthday suits only



whit howland © 2019

Dear Granny

Not sure where you are
but I am positive I know
who you are with

Grandpa that is
again
somewhere  sailing
deep at sea
in the far far east

and like when you were here
I've ridden many waves

some with expert ease
and some so towering
I almost crashed myself
upon the rocks

but Granny
I am really writing
because
there was one thing
you once said
that now has hit the mark

sometimes there's no hurry

just float and see
life through many lenses
at all different angles
before you launch

plain word and verse

though over time
profound and most treasured

signed

Your Loving Grandson and Fellow Sojourner

Whit Howland © 2019

My poetic life these days
is all about taking sadness,
fear, angst,
and distilling them into a sour mash,
then creating an elixir for the soul.

In other words, poetry is not about purge,
but of purification,
of myself, my psyche -- how do I do that,
you ask?

Simple. I'm a man of few words,
and because
I am man of limited diction,
like Caleb did for Moses,
I let life and my universe speak for me.

For instance, take this barn near my house ...

It's timbers blighted, brittle, almost bone weary,
its middle sags,--
but its not sad, its belligerent, mean--

just one more gust of wind, it all comes crashing down,
and brother, sister,
if your around,
near it's wrath, lookout!

Or the motor court down the road ?

Paint peeling, windows broken--

but regardless of her looks-- her voice is angelic as she sings to you for another chance at supper and glory.

So you see poets,

the sun, moon,
stars, trees, structures,  streets, walls,
all laugh, scream
and weep for you --

you just have to tune your ear
to their frequency.

whit howland © 2019

hands
no wind

we throw
caution to

hands
be they good

or bad

is something
we will never know

Will I remember this
day

ten years from
now

this lazy afternoon
where I slept late

because I was up
the night before

so much of my life
was spent

pushing the sun up
then shutting my eyes

to rise just in time
to see it bleed out

over the horizon

whit howland © 2021

It was fun watching
my toy ship and squeezy duck

succumb
to the soap-bubble undertow

made
by raging bathwater


from the faucet
into the tub

days gone by

or shall we say
submerged

We must
capture it all
before it disappears

these frothing waves
rumbling and rolling
onto shore

the clouds
that stamp and snort
and groan like restless bulls

the sun
despite the jeers and sneers
punches through the veil of nimbus puffs

and the wind
that billows sails
and drives the hulls of many tiny boats

so much raw power
so much clay and paint
and yet so little time



© Whit Howland 2019

Prairie grass grows
again

on this treeless plain
and we’ve separated

the gold
from the dross

so much has been
restored

and there’s so much to be
grateful for

this plain stretches
past

what we can actually see

we are free to imagine

we are free

to dream

Whit Howland © 2019

it was the one
that roped me in

the picture
you sent me long ago

the one with
your bright smile
and eyes wide
with anticipation

you are standing
among other revelers
on Spring Garden Road

there's a beer stein
in your hand

you must have
been celebrating
something big  that night

what was it
what was making
you so happy

that one thing
I could never crack

your happiness

anyway
I've kept this one around
even though I shouldn't
and

today I'm older
and right now

I'm standing in a
harbor side gift shop
in Catania Sicily

a new wife
and happy life

she just bought some
post cards of the city

pictures of side streets
and ally ways
scrubbed so clean
and shiny
they almost smile

I'll keep one
replacing yours

because it just hit me
like a blinding beacon

what you were doing
that night and why

you looked so happy

It's fun
when you turn the corner

and feel the on-rushing heat
blast your face

like a big blow-dryer
and your beads of sweat


turn to goldfish
as they flop on the pavement

even though you think
our dots connect
in ways we only
understand

i've been there before
with a thousand
other clowns

who had
the same schtick

of trying too hard
to make a silk purse
from a piece of craypaper