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

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

Gas powered
music

to my ears

row after row
of tangled grass

cut

and gray branches
collected

and hauled away
one dump truck

at a time

Cotton whites

sock shirts
and drawers

still fresh with the scent
of laundry soap

flapping

in a crisp March wind
on a gray weathered rope

they say pictures
last forever

but not this one

fading fast between
the plastic and acidic pages

Oh how you ran the bow
across my strings

how your voice
was silky smooth

and how even though
I was a fish

out of water
you convinced me

I was right where I
belonged

but you were wrong
and so was I

the fool that I will always
be

whit howland © 2021

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

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

When every day's
a struggle

to keep your head
above water

may solace be found
in words so preciously

penned
by a printing press

with sprinkles
and milky images

Or trap
for tourists

but not travelers
and searchers

who'd find gold
and platinum

in the two headed
yak

or snake
with a spooned tongue

and they would
bank on it

The temperature is rising
you give me fever

while bringing on thunder
flashes of lightning and rain

I credit that **** Dog Star
again

as well as a mad string
of bad luck

whit howland © 2021

Today I'm on an even keel
because today

I'm reminded of the time

a breezy sunny day

I saw my  nieces sail
out on San Francisco Bay

they among others
in a junior regatta

playfully braving
wind and white caps
chopping at their hull

and heeling as they
fought the elements
a fight

they would come to lose

but the boat did not sink
and neither did they

their bodies buoyed
like their spirits

and they returned to port
wet ruddy and
full of vigor

ready to sail again

Whit Howland © 2019

Almost as if
I need to put my fingers on his hands

and feel the prints
of the nails

last night
I remember my cat curled up

in her bed
a gray heaving ball of fluff

also my other one
a tabby

caterwauling
at another feline beyond the glass

whose face was pale
in the baleful moonlight

and if I try hard enough
I can still  hear and smell the burnt English

muffins popping up
in the toaster as well as

taste and feel the butter
in its nooks and crannies

there's so much
on the surface that needs

to be explored
I doubt I will ever be able

to get much deeper
then the night before

Whit Howland © 2019

Overtime
all absurdity and parody
turns to serious discourse

picture this

a red white
and blue box
with a boy on the front

in a sailor suit

but
he's not a ******* Jack
instead

he's a ******* ****

whit howland © 2021

and what might have been a day of lamenting the fakeness of things
ended with me eating an orange

a simple act
but one of healing

I like simple things
some say I'm easily entertained

especially by the chalk outline mural of Marilyn Monroe 
with painted scarlet lips
on a wall on Hollywood Boulevard

it's sunny today
but why do I always lead off with the weather
or talk about the sun

maybe because the sun makes anything metal
gleam like tinsel

in any case
that's about as exciting and tasty
as eating a vine of plastic grapes first thing in the morning

© 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

The crest
and white frothy wall
of salty water

and you kick

before the wave
tumbles over
and knocks you down

but it feels good
to be alive
even though

you're on the losing end
of this eternal
fight

A clear blue sky
marbled with a wisp
of clouds

and the bubbles
how could we not remember
the bubbles

my tuxedo your dress
the chapel peopled with those we love
and other guests

the pictures the fountain of punch
the cake smeared
across our faces

a wise man once said
the most important thing
to remember

is not to forget

whit howland © 2021

It doesn't take much
to escape

a black suited
thin tied piano man

his jazz hands
pressing on the keys

and blue swirling smoke
as if someone rubbed a Genie's lamp

but the second question
though

just as simple

has no easy answer

where
do you want to escape to

corollary to that

what if you can't
come back

© Whit Howland 2019

Full Moon
lunar fever
why I write

pale light
bent through glass

spinning emotions
like a top

left you a message
hope you'll call

whit howland © 2019

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

Coupled and pressed
against the curves of a classic car
they lean

young lovers

with the art deco chrome
of the Chrysler building
at its core

a retro
New York skyline behind
unfurled

further paints the scene
to make these two
lost in love

and of their time yet timeless

© Whit Howland 2019

Just a speck
amongst the big blue

with swirls

and I have concerns
about messaging

and what a guy
has to do to make his mark

Magic Scripto
or India Ink


what would you
suggest

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

you say you
love me

and immediately
I look for strings

and a hand
up your back

Or one to pick
with myself

of how I wish
I'd done this

or that
and what I could've did

or what I should've did
but be grateful

for plain blessings

like how we don't get
the opportunities

in life
for those kinds of do-overs

because the biggest fear
is getting the smaller piece of bone

all over again

life made plain
and simple

the big blue marble
flattened

with a wooden
rolling pin

and the earth now
on a cookie sheet

for all to see
eat and digest

Whit Howland © 2019

colors once bright
              now off
pale

one year
         and the paint
fades flakes

and the American Flag
            is  nearly washed away
by  snow rain dirt and dust

yet it waits
       patiently
for summer

and sun
      to summon
painters cleaners

the worker bees
      to scramble rally
around its cause

trust for you
     trust for me
trust we  can

still once more
     strike a match
ignite the torch

and keep it lit


Whit Howland © 2019

They have memory
so the creases

from where I wipe
my eyes my face

still linger
and they’re two weeks old

now ripe
with a ***** whiff of must

the colors
red and yellow are mismatched

and
if I really tried

I could make them hang straight
but I lost you once before

and I vowed
never again because it’s myself

I have to save first before
I can rescue you

Whit Howland © 2019

Crisp
apple cider air

October
it's finally here

leaves
and other things

at the end
of their string

with acceptance
comes dignity

honor
and most surely

peace

whit howland © 2021

One of up on high
where I look down

and people cars and other
things

seem like plastic
figurines

and all that troubled me
now distant

or shall we say far
far away

whit howland © 2021

Without it
we are pedestrians

at a crosswalk with a redlight
that never changes

awash in petty laws
and ordinances

always afraid to risk
the tightrope of absurdity

but with it
the sky's the limit

and we can shed things
like old and tired cliches

the way we do clothes
that have long gone out of fashion

whit howland © 2021

outside is gray
and silent

with just a hint
of breeze

mixed with a faint
rumble

and my nose
is

ITCHY

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

Bean bags tossed
two and fro

his hands are fast
this man

in his striped shirt
and black pants

literally

he juggles
while I struggle

to balance a marriage,
job

hopes and dreams
seemingly and somewhat absurdly

on the head of a pin

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

Rainy

again
and they're calling for more


and they say
it will be this way
all week

but like every other time
I will do my best
to beat back

the blue Monday

as well as continue
to try and keep

in front of the eightball

whit howland © 2021

Tried to push
back
against
the knives

outside
skinny
cats
screech
and scratch


the sun is coming

time
to paint
a pink blush

on another
early
morning
chagrin

© Whit Howland 2019

Do I dare try
to record it all
capture it
before it disappears


these days it's tucked
back in the corner or
shoved to the side
by beltways and highways

it's called
the Golden Crest
but it could be any crest
in any town the gravy train keeps passing by


an art deco wonder
a hot number
when cars had fins
and

I wish I could
describe it more
but I was not there
and can only look

beyond
the chain link fence
for something a sign
of fire or just

a spark of what it once was
but do I dare try
to rekindle
something we might not ever come back from

© Whit Howland 2019

Bubbly soda
fizzing
to the top
and up over the lip

of the glass

so much poured in
and so much gushing
forth

but

why stop there
why let this just float off

into the beyond or the

ether

whit howland © 2021

A sliver
I thought there would be more

light

at the end

after walking
over hot coals
on glass

yet light

so small
even less than a sliver

like a pinprick

they said
you’d give me what I need

but I want
I want

more light

no

more

of the words and music
that have always failed me

Whit Howland © 2019

Dear Brother

I hope you are well

but since we've  fallen out
I have no way of knowing

as well as
whether you mind these letters

however

these letters

are the power cord I'm trying
to unravel and some day
with a lot of fumbling

I'll find a socket I can connect it to

because brother
you see and I really hope you do

I'm trying to give a lonely lamp
some companionship
and further light the room

signed

with the warmest light
I can find

your brother


Whit Howland © 2019

white and deep water blue
symbolic of swell and ocean spray

and the colors loom
almost like they're crashing to the shore

I never  meant for you
to challenge nature or tempt the sea

run boy
as fast as you can

toward the light
or find a door

Whit Howland © 2019

green
with four leaves

they take over
these clovers

the lawn
and everything

in between
so I ask you please tell me

what is good
and where is the fortune

in that

Long
shadows cast

and sunlight goes
pale

so little time
yet

so much left
to do

on a cocktail napkin
in smudged felt tip

how much what
do I have to do

I dig and I dig
so deep

and if I reached China
would my efforts be

rewarded

whit howland © 2021

It's not that words
have failed

it's just
there are none

all dreams

crushed
like aluminum cans

the crack that started
as a chip
is fast running
up the side

and there's a rattle
in the hub cap
like a ball bearing
going round and round

good problems
so they say

whit howland © 2021

drops
tap pit
pit pat

pitter
patter
rivulets

first haphazard
then patterns
on the glass

you might say
I did
nothing today

but someone
had to color
by the numbers

and arrange the staff
of gloom and gray


Whit Howland © 2019

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

A phonograph
or
an object

more poetic
say
a Victrola

a metronome
accordion
a Dictaphone

whatever the device
you're in there
pulling wires

plunking keys
blowing wolf tones
anything to skunk up the works

and if I were smart
I'd brace myself
for your ghostly visit

your
attempt to cramp
my style

to drag me clawing
gnashing
to the junkyard of naked language

to make me face
the paint and music
like you always did

but there's a problem
it's small
but very significant

I don't believe in ghosts
nor do I think you
to be one

and if you do come
it won't to by the light
of a beastly moon

nor will you be bathed
in spooky green
glowing paint

but
with a presence
better than the one I knew you by

one with
even more depth
and perception

and you will
bear
just a soft

new brush
fresh cans
of paint

simple
nothing more
nothing less

© Whit Howland 2019