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

A polka dotted
Volkswagen

an impression
done in smudges

swipes

swaths

and such as life
they say

a journey
with little or no points of reference

or context

but that's what makes it
poetry

so they say

Streetlights seem
like blurry slides

flashing

before my eyes

to the atonal
Jazz of horns
screech of tires

against the backdrop
of silhouetted buildings
and darkness

Whit Howland © 2020

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

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

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

maybe it takes
a stomach

for dirt and
grit

and an ear

for jazz

and an eye

as well as an ear

for onomatopoeia

to see

the music

hear

the city

and say

CUCKOO

SLAM

BOOM

BANG

CRASH


Whit Howland © 2020

As for myself
I tend to meld
and get lost

in the gray
charcoal color
rubbed for effect

on canvas or
paper

but that's ok

I mean I'm ok
with that

because I'm only
here for just a short
while

and

I came to watch
with a cool eye

and
you know

slip in and slip out

unannounced

Whit Howland © 2020

broken
reassembled

cubes squares
triangles

light refracted

I've studied it
from many angles

and my mind
always winds back

to the same truth

we paint
or verse

to create a feeling
or a mood

through a place dark
and dimly lit

so we can search for
enlightenment
that was never lost?

why?

what were we afraid of?

Whit Howland © 2020

For once
pale light is warm

the whistling wind
gentle

and even though
the air is cold

and the snow swirls
piling high along the curb


strings of lights
on shuttered storefronts

twinkle

and for 48 hours
all was never lost

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

All those year ago and you can
still

remember the color
of

your shoes they were
a green

pair of Keds

and it's

blurry
but you can see

there was a parade

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something missing
from my life

a part of me that floats
through the aisles

of dusty correspondence
and dispatches

something

a  piece
maybe a pawn or a knight

that never made it back

Whit Howland © 2020

Please know that I have mad love
for you

plus

tonight the moon is as robust
as Zorba the Greek

that is why I do the crazy things
I do

Whit Howland © 2020

Big brass
and shiny
it rang and swung

as the clapper
clanged
from side to side

as a line of doves
pointed
to the sky

and someone
was happy
someone

was very
very
happy

whit howland © 2020

Crazy

it's not google eyes
or maniacal laughter
nor is it someone who can't stop

the waterworks
of cascading tears
it's a deep sigh

and maybe one
of relief
replete with Mozart

playing in your head
on a scratchy phonograph
as your house goes up in flames

Whit Howland © 2020

autumn leaves blanket
a sweater and slippers

I look at you over bifocals
and puff my pipe

I have arrived

a little slower in life
but I have arrived

whit howland © 2020

Clarity is what I seek
as I declare

ivory keys
played with long

silk skinned fingers
is where I might find it

a rose petal
against the white

much like
a drop of blood

on flesh from
a pinprick

Whit Howland © 2020

Arm
moves broom

in a sweeping
motion

causing dirt
and dustball

to scurry
across the floor

creating

piles upon piles
of detritus

we become
the things we hover

and focus on
for far too long

Slithering
gummy worms

a cricket
with a bad case
of the sniffles

and not a swatch
of tissue in sight

a marvelous tin windup
robot that squawks
DANGER

so loud it'll power wash the freckles
off your face

bubbly brown-colored soda
in a sweating glass
no

not a frosty mug
that says Pepsi

COKE

because
things always go better
with Coke


whit howland © 2021

knee ****
or reflexive
response

by

visual
stimuli
designed

to get a reaction

you always
back
me into a corner

leaving no choice
but to push
to click or flip

whatever is convenient
immediate
expedient

or red

Melting
broken
twice right
cat's eyes
swishing tail
stuttering
stammering
seconds
making
solid minutes

Whit Howland © 2020

Numbers faded
under caged glass

hands shake
but they move

progress slow
yet steady

So close
I can smell your
breath

a *** potpourri
of whisky and decay

so close we can almost
say

good
bad

up
down

zenith
or  nadir

though

the debate
could rage
for days

but we're so close
the swans  
are tuning their trumpets

but maybe
not near enough
to call it a

Whit Howland © 2020

Chicago windy
blustery cold

frantic
crowded human

silver  liquid amorphous
bean

cloud gate Chicago
beauty eye behold

love adore maybe
but some will drink

another
cup of tea


Whit Howland © 2019

The older I get
the less I search for

truth

because these days
a white face and honking nose

work for me

it's the simple and absurd things
in this life

that are all I need

So lovely a moniker
for one in a fleet

of many silver bullets
on rails and tracks

and while this world
is ever-changing

please
we plead let this and other

chrome and art deco
wonders

continue to be
constants and treasures

in our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

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

torchlight dances
on the aquamarine
blue of a hotel pool
deep in 1963

when happiness
was still on the Hi Fi

coulda woulda shoulda


Whit Howland © 2019

I'm sorry

I wish I had an answer
but if I did

I'd be a brain trust

and

uneasy is the head
that wears the crown of thorns

glasses clinking
a drink slides down to the end

a blue brocaded curtain
ripples

where did I come from

I've been here all along

I'll sit over there if you like

what time is it
the windows are blacked out

so

it might be morning

Whit Howland © 2020

Brown stains on the porcelain
make the cup

look like bad teeth and bad
decisions

the short window of cleanliness
and innocence

before sugar daddies
and Milky Ways folded

into themselves
a galaxy leaking over the rim

October's slimy kiss
of wet

the air peels away
the layers

as it harvests this year's
summer crop

the soul

whit howland © 2020

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

Yesterday
the weather was warm

with the sun sunny
side up

and the sky was a solid
blue

and now
I must honestly ask you

what just happened
a cold snap

ok maybe
but seriously

ginger
preferred

Oh how it howls
like through a glass
jar

dark is the sky
and days much
darker now

where did it go
you go
we go

when did the worm
turn it was a fat one
but for someone else

other than us

Whit Howland © 2020

No spotlight
that disappeared
years ago

now

just you wearing a madras jacket
loud shirt
and a polyester tie

leaning
against a varnished wooden rail
speaking into an old radio mic


trying to talk
over the Rolling Stones
on a Wurlitzer Jukebox

to no one
in particular

Difficult
to explain

why you
and I

clicked

strange
odd

like something
from the Sunday Funnies

whit howland © 2020

Tonight the moon is full
and as always
it's a ball of green cheese

if we are lucky
it'll be here all week
so

in its honor

what say you and I
do a Chinese Fire Drill
on 42nd Street

because like Slinkys we must bend
and twist ourselves
to prove

and plead
that we are human
and should be called such


Whit Howland © 2020

The mask is
plaster

with a face that
droops

and the one that laughs
drips

with joy
at the pain

and misery of the drooping
plaster

face

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Where even the doorman
has a joke

and no one
is straining gnats

or swallowing camels

because they're too busy
swatting them or smoking them

while trying to scratch
an itch

that is next to near
impossible

to reach

it's ok
I read you
I get you

I feel you

your nervous
desires
anxieties

your passionate pleas

but mostly
it's your hopes
and dreams

that are laid out
so plainly in panels
of sequential art

replete
with conversation
and think bubbles up above


whit howland © 2020

Outside

a wrecking ball swings
to and fro

pretty soon
the building
will be nothing but rubble

you're not as subtle as you think
you are

in fact
you wear your thoughts
and feelings

like an ill fitting suit

Whit Howland © 2020

It's not you
me

or about a place

but more to do
with what exists
beyond

the structure
and can we trust
each other

until we earn
the right and the ticket
to ride

Whit Howland © 2020

Metal Parachute once
bloomed
now rusted

refuses

but  the Ferris Wheel
still winks at clouds

like newspaper headlines
crazy

or maybe just
nonsensical

False
like the front
of an old west saloon

not broken
like Mom's favorite vase
she told us oh yes she did

not to play
ball in the house
we promised

she promised
and we blinked
it was sleight of hand

and now she's gone
a swindle
or was it buyer beware

you once said
i had rapier whit
as exemplified

in my letters to you
one summer
when we were young

you are now long gone
but that gleaming silver knife
your gift to me

still sits on my desk
cutting sharper
than ever before

Whit Howland © 2020

They're just
decor

copper coffee
tins

more cans
hanging

from hob
nails

over the stove
***** reminders

of the front porch light
still

bright
after all these years

Whit Howland © 2020

The ambient atmosphere
of machinery

electronics
and light flashing

like a Kodak camera
amazing

what we embrace
and how we find peace

when our nose
is to the grindstone

and we are
under the gun