it seems
I’m caught
in a funny place

I want to paint
a picture with words
but all that comes to mind

are quick thoughts
the kind you jot
on scratch pads and post-it notes

and the best I can do for and image
is one of a Sax
not brass colored mind you

more brushed - nickel
that’s used
for a bathroom faucet

and blowing into its reed
is like turning the ****
hot or cold

instead of water gushing
from the spigot
seedy cocktail jazz fills the basin

until it overflows
spilling onto the floor
then it seeps through the ceiling

flooding all levels of the house
I’ve been there before
and there are water stains to prove it

Whit Howland © 2019

broken glass
bottles
trash

strewn
brutal
flowers

runners
joggers
shiftless drifters

along
once an
industrial river

now
cold
dead pond with

lumbering barges
up down
pushing

rust
junk
sometimes coal

eerie
sad
in between

or

say
strangely
beautiful

brutal lunch
ladled
raw

on a big
steel
serving spoon

© Whit Howland 2019

Flowers
the purple ones
impatients

they didn't make it
the rain and all the watering
couldn't save them

this summer you
went away then returned
and I thought you were back

but then you left again

the flowers
the purple ones
impatients

all the rain
and all the watering
couldn't save them

whit howland © 2021

It's nice here
above
the clouds
the fog

like a Bronx Cheer
the roar the din
lifts us
up

at this
height
we're clear
as a bell

instead
of a little
punch
drunk

whit howland © 2019

Legal tender
coins banknotes

return to sender
address unknown

the expectation
of something great

my garbage
your gold

big league
raw deal

anticipation
moolah

your hell
my happy place

whit howland © 2021

Six of us crowded
on those
splintered steps

general store
Bunker Hill Illinois

my hand unintentionally
on the thigh of the girl
to the right

she took a took a number
long ago

and the store

burned down in
one of many decades
I intentionally missed

whit howland © 2019

What's to fear about

a memory of a lazy
summer day

laying on a patch
of lush green grass

staring at a benevolent
kingly blue sky with a firm
but gentle sun

that suddenly
is drawn on
with frosty contrails
of  a jet with a silent
calm and steady hand



Whit Howland © 2019

On the shelves they sit
this way and that

an untidy mass

some discernable
others abstract

conversations
with myself

or those
who are no longer here

cup a stein
a mug

a ballerina
folded hands

things to see things
to feed

our desire
to know more see more

metal army men
a die-cast VW Van

a dime a dozen a blessing
in disguise

a spacesuit
doll clothes

"Beware of looking for goals;
look for a way of life."

a cupie doll a shrunken
head

as someone once said

we are the things we gather
or in some cases

scatter

whit howland © 2021

blue VW bug with
a tiny dent in the front fender
starting to rust

the scrapbook
on your front seat
and some canceled checks

fanned out
like a poker hand
I followed you

chased you
maybe stalked you
over hill over dale

not because
I was crazy
in a bad way

it was because
in those days
love didn't come so easily for me

until I learned
the rules of the game
those being very simple

love
is no game at all
it is serious business

whit howland © 2021

Rest respite
or a place

to call your own
home

is where your head is
when it rains

stolen no found
art and truly

one to write about
a letter from the heart

At the heart
it’s what drives us all

I’ll tap dance by it
noodle around it

I’ll say it
without really saying it

playing cards
with names like

Boardwalk
or Marvins Gardens

bold yellows and blues
simple plain

but still appealing
to the eye

eliciting spinning
cherries and sevens

yet I’m still beating around
the bush

it’s not the root
of all evil

nor is it the love of it
but more the lust

© Whit Howland 2019

Like a soggy mop
or a ***** brillo

and a  head squarely
in the gutter

this man is so down
in the dumps

he doesn't care
whether or not

he mixes
his metaphors

Our eyes are no longer prone
to the things
that make them water

our limbs are stronger
and our faces shine
much brighter

we've gone around
so many times
on this wonder wheel

up and down
rocking back and forth
and if

we're not laughing we're
clutching the sides
of the gondola

hanging onto life
like we've always
done before

Whit Howland © 2020

but that photograph
and how it now fades

and how that shirt I am
wearing

just one day
up and fell apart

whit howland © 2021

Bright orange
rubbery pliant
and dare I say

*******

danger Will Robinson

boundaries
hazardous conditions

the true rite of passage
is knowing where to draw the line

whit howland © 2021

sunset never fades
until a new

orange brighter dawn
takes its place

and sea gulls caw
in between

the perfect tempo
of the waves

that sun bronzed
surfers carve

as they ride poetically
to shore

and its all here
in images restored

with words and music
never more

visceral and true

Whit Howland © 2019

Peach painted sunrays
seep through reddish
pink clouds

they reflect on  water
lapping at a sandy island shore

the palm tree
she's curved like a taut bow
fronds sturdy not limp

clustered together
down the beach
her four sisters

there are no people
but somehow we don't feel alone
we are in love

it's private
it's paradise
but maybe a little out of reach


Whit Howland © 2019

what once was brown
with hairs and crawled on the ground

became

not before our very eyes
but

when we were not looking
a kaleidoscopic

butterfly

things don't change
they just evolve into

what they already
were becoming

whit howland © 2021

And while I may snap
my fingers to
your songs and stories
of storms and *****

its your gospel music
i'll always cling to

the kind you sang
with such grace

the kind
with the substance
of smoke-fired meat

and the kind
that will  always feed
and increase
the size and muscle
of the soul

@ 2018  Whit Howland

Cracked and gray
with green blight on the spokes

it leans against a tree
the one where I carved you and me
into the bark

it's purpose

plain and simple

to remind us that once
we were something

for such a short
brief while

We stand
under a blood orange sunset

to watch day after day
fade into night

I've been a lot of things to you
I never meant to be

so if you just settled on me
all those years ago

that's okay

uptown
downtown

double back
backtrack

then midtown

green light
yellow

red
followed by notes

flowing

from a clarinet
or a saxophone

with steam
coming from a sewer grate

winding

yes

but the pavement
is still satiny and smooth

those were good times
             and **** us
                       if we didn't even know it

back when
     the Marlboro Cowboy
                     rode and lassoed Sunset Boulevard


happiness
       is never around the corner
                 it's always off in some back alley




Whit Howland © 2019

Where are we going
nowhere it seems

brown foam pouring
over the glass

a scoop of vanilla
slowly turning

to ice

as cream
mixes with soda

a rhyme without a reason
or perhaps no rhyme at all

shape form
or resolution

a treat

maybe egress
an exit

an escape?

whit howland © 2021

Rows of bright
red roses

violets tulips
or tomatoes turnips

and carrots
too

in brown loamy
soil

is there structure
or is it a pallet

of assorted
smudges

grays
or flash and colors

Giverny
or a Victory Garden

we are
what we cultivate

and what and who
we feed

whit howland © 2021

eighteen wheelers
welcome

with parking
in front

forks bent
plates are chipped

the peg game's
missing a few pegs

and the eggs run
like the waitress's mascara

Elegant yellow lights
twinkling

chrome
and whitewall tires

velvet ropes
and bellhops

gold carpets
crystal chandeliers

and runners

we've come so far
and yet

at the same time
we've been going in circles

Purple
dominates the frame

purple curls
and flourishes

the naked eye
turns to buds and stems

and although
at this moment

we are deep
in a bed of lavender

our mind
and our eye

spirits  us beyond
these flowers

to modest
grass and trees of green

then lifts us
skyward and onward
to kingly royal blue

© Whit Howland 2019

We celebrate
our separation

from the mother ship
our first

independent breath
we are the seed

in pickled in animation
soon to have

dangling roots

whit howland © 2021

Wispy
angelic
filament
frail

associations
like
quicksilver

hard­
to imagine
what

happened
that awful day
in Echo Park

this poem is here
now but maybe
not for long


whit howland © 2019

a light
quick
burst

metallic and shiny
purple flesh tones
corncob pipe

bubbles
rising
fizzing

so so much fun
but
so so short

whit howland © 2021

Water water
everywhere?

Water
nowhere...

And nothing to drink
but liquid

as thick as molasses
and no relief...

After a  long slog
through the mud;

soon to be
cement...

It’s people that offend me
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

someone’s vision
of how a cat should look and be

calm
but wary

perched on your hind legs
and though relaxed you’re ready to strike

blue eyes seductive and yet
disapproving

I trust you
but at the same time

I don’t want to turn my back
I’ve been burned before

by people
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

your ears pricked back
like your perturbed

your mind
surface tension

Whit Howland © 2019

A hand painted
still life

of the Munger Moss Motel
Lebanon Missouri

red doors in a neat row
with vintage cars

parked out front

off to the side
is the turquoise slide

that plummeted guests
into the baby blue

of the pool

flip it over
and there are turkey tracks

on the back
where the ink is smudged

in spots

with
only the brevity

MISS YOU!

readable
in big caps with exclamation point

and I miss you
already

like I miss my brother
mother

and everything else
I can only see when

I close my eyes
at night

First gray clouds
then a rumble

a crash
and a flash

then torrent
after torrent of waterworks

followed by birds
chirping

sunshine
heat and steam rising

what's left to do but remove
the speck

from our own eye
so we can see clearly

to remove it from
others

whit howland © 2021

Not a ginger snap
but with a bite just as sharp

how you doing

better than I should be

for some reason
I am feeling very chill

good music in my earbuds
will do that to me

everytime

Bonded paper
ballpoint pen

so much to write to you
about

although

the wherefores
and the whys

still inconclusive

sorry to leave you hanging
like this

maybe someday
we'll both understand

whit howland © 2021

A scribble
doodle

of a lollipop tree
or thingamabob

on a paper napkin
that might've been

used for

a ketchup stain
lipstick print

or a drop of running
mascara

why am I
here

it's definitely
not for the eggs

and steak
they call Moo and Peep

and it's not to feed
the soul

but it's definitely for the vats
and vats of sizzling oil

greasing the gears
spinning my wheels

the world's waiting
to give you

the brass ring
will you be ready to grab it

Drops
like saucers
or oblong moons

splash
on a neon sign

a place
where glitz
and glam

clash
with the everyman

and alien and earthly
things

collide

Raindrops
some skinny
others

chubby

spiraling down the glass
in rivulets
with an occasional gust

of wind

that will
sometimes blow them
sideways

I would say lots of wind
but if I'm being honest
it's just

occasional

and you know
what they say
not about wind

but of country songs
about how every one of them
is about your life

at any given time

I didn't believe it then
but  now I can say this
with extreme clarity

Father
I know this
to be true

A stray thought
in the day
enlarged

by night

and now you are deep
dreaming
about fair weather

and a place
you've never been

Kansas City

it lingers
it dangles
like a shoelace

never tied
or unfinished
like a *** only

half thrown

Ever since
the flashing red light

we've been caught
in a loop

of tag
and no tag backs

a current in the sea
of humanity

that pulls us farther
and farther

away
from the shore

Sometimes
it's just a gray

windswept day
and we do our best

to find the beauty
in the churning

roiling clouds
above

and the soggy

uneven earth
squishing

under our feet

whit howland © 2021

One might think
this is about

sweeping out the dusty corners
of my life

about letting go
of that pesky dream

of the bus I never seem
to catch

or the class I've been skipping
and failing

it's none of that
instead

it's a simple-minded
obsession

with cleaning agents
antisceptic soap bleach

strippers
floor wax and such

Whit Howland © 2020

and she assembles
a new Hoover  hand vacuum

that's not my grandmother's
or even my mother's

hand vacuum

it's futuristic body
resembles

a robot from a Fifties
sci-fi thriller and

while the hour is late
and as shadows dance on the water

I think

what a difference
a year makes

or a decade
and most of all

a century

never having to say
you're sorry

but I am
regrets

they hang on me
like tinsel

A handheld bakelite
transistor radio

cream colored
the music coming through

on a small speaker
yes

that's the first time
I heard it

where is she now
does she still know who I am

sometimes goodbye
does mean forever

whit howland © 2021

A moon not pale
but robust

or

dare I say
voluptuous

it's still snowy
in Wintertime

through this mountain
pass

so long ago

and I'm still crying
over spilled milk

whit howland © 2021

just blue
and darker blue to meet a multicolored sky

something about it seems
so familiar

you're not here
it just feels like you are

you search for it
the feeling

like the quarter
that got buried in the sand

then the images refract
as through a crystal  prism

© Whit Howland 2019

Skin and teeth play
into this

Milpitas California

uprooted
culture shock
our lives changed

but instead
we opted
one more time

for wheat
cows and corn

and today
window men

cutting  the eyes
from their sockets

new windows for our home
not our soul

more curbside appeal
and better outward vision

whit howland © 2019