They are at their best
and most beautiful

when hanging
on a nail

driven

into a wall
or the weathered wood

of a door

because then
they become an object

of nostalgia
which turns to inspiration

each day I find myself
more

and more

adopting your patterns
your rhythms

your pug tenacity
and dauntless courage

I miss you brother

I hope you never doubted that

Whit Howland © 2020

lately it seems
our symphony has
turned to freeway
jazz as our minds
once a borg have
now gone on six
different tracks

would it do me
any good to sit
and watch this
record continue
to spin hoping
praying we'll
both come around
again

Whit Howland © 2020

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

You try it on for size
this

temporary
or second life

and the city streets
you drive

your canvas your
secret laboratory

and what doesn't work
or is an epic fail

can easily be painted
over

or disposed of
as experimental

and scientific waste

error analysis
optional

but not recommended

Whit Howland © 2020

I was once just a smudge
in a painted picture  
of Metropolis

but not today

as the buildings
seem like scale
models

when my fingers
grip the plastic
superhero

and guide its  flight
through the city

Whit Howland © 2020

Its beauty best expressed
in its guttural

musicality
and that's how I want to remember it

as an ugly sounding place
where you could drink

cream soda
spouted from an elephant's trunk

an escape

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Perhaps
not an impasse

maybe
at two opposite ends

I find myself writing
the same poem

over and over
again

because no matter
what bus I seem to take

and even though
I mean to go crosstown

to get to you

it always drops me off
at the same stop

usually
in the dead of night

Whit Howland © 2020

After a lifetime of punching
and mainly kicking

against the ******
I've finally figured out

the meaning

it wasn't hard at all
although

it's about as appealing
as a butter sandwich

and involves equally mundane
objects

like a broom dustpan
cleaning rag

hammer and nails
yak yak yak

Whit Howland © 2020

Not necessarily troubled
more of a quibble

which could be avoided
altogether

with a creative but basic use
of a piece of plywood

Whit Howland © 2020

Since I've never had
a green thumb

I chose to write
a poem

that's like a rock garden
no water needed

and no fear of drowning
or of being wrapped

in the winding sheet of
metaphor

Whit Howland © 2020

Brass bell
         musical notes
a big nose

hanging
          on a wall
in a hotel room
               over a desk

with a lamp
and
          nondescript
shade

and we are
             far from home
looking out
            a plate glass window

laughing at some
                   joke
inside
          our head
                    
                 or
standing
                      aghast
at nothingness

Whit Howland © 2020

like I was caught
sleeping

when I thought
I was awake

still looking through a window
1972

a blue sky
California Summer sun

and your face
attached to your body

rising from the water
dragging seaweed

as though you're some lovely creature
from beneath

Whit Howland © 2020

The smell was sweet
when you dropped

the hammer on that roll
of red ribbon

making the gunpowder
puff

and it almost smelled like success
when you watched

your imaginary foe
grab his chest

and fold over
that hitching post

Whit Howland © 2020

I have a list
like one might take
to an auto parts store

jet
plane
traveled
quickly

the camera then
zoomed in
for a closeup

Whit Howland © 2020

In the remaining
dregs of the day

we wheel our trash
to the curb

it was hot
but the wind now
gusts up

leaves swirl
it will rain

Whit Howland © 2020

It's all a matter of what
trumps what

your questions about me
and why I'm here

versus my thoughts about
the concrete stumps of

what it once was
and from there

none of this is what you think

I'm not longing for a lost road trip
down Route 66

nor am I lamenting about
a structure ravaged by time

I'm merely wondering
where she went

is she down in the basement
or did she go out for a walk

and should I look for her
or should I  

leave things be

Whit Howland © 2020

Through my writing
is how I reveal

much of who I am
but that said

I am still an enigma
and better yet

a contradiction
as you might think

I'm pensive
a man of thoughts

shall we say
but simple observation

will show that I have
nervous fingers wrapped

tightly around a pen
or furiously pecking

like a hen at a keyboard
or a touchscreen

Whit Howland © 2020

When I say add  
sugar

you'll just scoop and tip
the spoon

and watch it sprinkle
into the bowl

very few if no questions
are ever asked

the good news is that we'll all
basically want to go to the same places

in life

and we are willing to write the poems
sing the songs
and dance the dances that will get us there

Whit Howland © 2020

It's more than just waxen sticks
posted like sentries

on a thickly frosted cake
it's a celebration

of things that are growing
inside me

such as my love
of confessional poetry

for paintings of lonely
landscapes

and of how I've perfected my ability
to navigate

wastelands
physical emotional

or otherwise

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a cozy arrangement
we both share

they stand in their glazed
earthen jar

never thirsty and never
dying

and my end of the bargain

ignoring the pesky little fact
that they were never alive



Whit Howland © 2020

a piece
of notebook paper

composed of lines
of various sizes

and what started out
as elegant

cursive turned quickly
to claw marks

and scratches
desperation

or a cipher

someone knows
but can't say

Whit Howland © 2020

hours
I've spent

my adult life
in search

of that perfect
image

it's bordered
on obsession

I'm up against
a wall

being built before
my very eyes

beyond that a land
they call no return

Whit Howland © 2020

An ornate affair
with a restored

marquee
and neon sign

restored

to it's 1940's
splendor

that is

inside's
a gilded lobby

and auditorium
with wine colored

velvet seats where
we are

willing to forgo
comfort

for something
dear and constant

in our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

Always something more
then it appears to be

and it's not he who swats
***** like they're bugs

or roses in a flower bed
it's us

our minds the busy
boxes

they've become
missing

the panorama the
beauty

of what made us who
we are

Whit Howland © 2020

Like fresh skin
the sun pushes

through the clouds
as they burn off

and flake away
once the truth

is realized
it takes no time at all

Whit Howland © 2020

I don't need to consider
this moonless night

to realize a tomorrow
of cake donuts

with pink frost
and sprinkles

there's a storm coming
it will be here later this morning

if there's pain then pleasure
is right around the corner

or under a burned out
streetlamp

just keep looking
you'll find it

Whit Howland © 2020

it's 50 degrees
the sky is steel gray

in the middle of May
and I love you

but I will never be in love
with you

if you don't understand that
then you are the one

who has the problem with
literalism

Whit Howland © 2020

Way back in the dark ages
this might be coming from

Cleveland
these words that can

only be said on a piece
of cardstock

but they come courtesy
of a fiery Jovian afternoon

my remarks are very brief

even though the future
was not all that it was

cracked up to be
there is someone up here
in space

that still loves you

could we try again

Whit Howland © 2020

you can be a doctor
of letters

and never crack a book

just read what it says
in the think bubbles

many will tell you I'm crazy
because

I am here to smash
all those sacred statues and break
the most forbidden of taboos

just free your mind before it goes
flaccid

and please believe me when I try to
disabuse you

that it is possible to become Atlas
on a diet of bubblegum

and ding dongs

my aim is to show you how

Whit Howland © 2020

First

the future shock
and rude awakening

then the rapid flowing current
and the flailing

followed by the scourging
and the shaming

lastly

reconciliation
that you're a robot

your birth your life
all

just a hoax

Whit Howland © 2020

It's the same full moon
I saw as a child

when I swore to myself
Santa Claus was floating
in mid-air

and what some people
might describe as pale and
       crazy

I saw as bright
full of hope and wonder

I'm almost 50 and I still
stare at it like I'm five

not in a childlike gullible
way but like that

of a petulant inventor
obsessed with never letting the dream
               die

we were not  just destined to
              tweet

we  have a domed spaceport
in us I see it

smack in the middle
of the Sea of Tranquility

I'll get there I know it
I can feel it

Whit Howland © 2020

Could it be
I heard another

record drop
on the turntable

then a ghostly needle
scratch the vinyl

as it began to play
silent music

for so long
I've felt I've been
without

a voice
hands folded

yelling as though
from some other

dimension
where the words
and sentences

are blocked by static
and white noise

Whit Howland © 2020

If I could snap
my fingers
or turn the earth
and bring it all
back I would

the spark
the hope
the cadence
the language

before the lights
were snuffed
and our world
went dark

it was so close
we could almost
reach out
and grab it

but now we
fumble about
speaking in tongues
our arms reaching

for something to
hold onto lest we
float off
into oblivion

Whit Howland © 2020

The dream is retro
with a lot of chrome

and indecipherable
structures
basking in two suns

I think I'm in a rocket car
maybe a bus or train

it could be I'm flying
arms akimbo
by moveable windows

and things that might be other
people in spacesuits

pass me up or cut me off
and at night ads for

toothpaste in a gleaming
silver tube

are broadcast against
an obsidian sky

are we there yet or
did I sleep through it all

Whit Howland © 2020

That future was scattered
like all of the other bubbles

throughout the universe
quite similar to ours

you know the one
with a two-car garage
and a house by the lake

and where we would have grown old
together

bouncing our grandkids
on our knees

Whit Howland © 2020

I speak
but nothing
I say

filters through
and is strained
as if it's dross

we talk around
and over ourselves
like there's red sand

between each other's
toes

Whit Howland © 2020

Chekov said if there's
a gun

then it must go off
so

BANG

and if a body lies
on the floor

and no one's around
is it really dead

is the private eye always
a drunk and why

is the frosted glass on his office door
spider-webbed

did he hit it with his fist
or was it once

a bullet hole

lastly
where there is no damsel

was there ever any
distress


Whit Howland © 2020

What we saw yesteryear
on the silver screen

threatens to become
quotidian

so before you say
this is the new normal

can you at least lookup
the word


Whit Howland © 2020

The parades get shorter the older
I grow

due to lots of sweeping
and discarded baggage

as I've made a policy
for myself

and maybe a promise
as well

no wasted tears

there's just not enough time
for any of that



Whit Howland © 2020

First steam
then electricity

it's what we worshiped
most

connection

power
movement


wheels in motion
transportation

of  thoughts
to prayers

turning inspiration

into action and
progress


Whit Howland © 2020

He plays in a rain of paint globules
on a canvas

full of brooding mood
and melancholy music

heard only in our minds

busy
straining for meaning

when they should be saying
focus

on the strumming fingers
thinking far beyond the cloth

Whit Howland © 2020

the street's been glazed
with a fresh coat of rain

the sky's still gray
but our lawns are green

and while the day might get drabber more
dreary

before it marches toward darkness
at least we can say we paused

and thought

Whit Howland © 2020

There's something about it
as adults

that's what we always say
and for some reason

we can never find what
that something really is

we search and we search
but

are we really just drifting

Whit Howland © 2020

it's the sum of all its
parts

the spark plug belts
fuel

and water pumps
filters pistons and the many valves

but most of all the
silent

and greasy hand
that made the magic happen

Whit Howland © 2020

where the fire truck is going
no one will ever know

it comes so quickly
vanishes even faster

and when it passes we feel lost
unsure

why the city has to be so dark
and misty

Whit Howland © 2020

On paper its a child's
sun

it is bright yellow
there are green lollipop

trees
an expanse

of blue for water
a crude

forgery no doubt
of a classic he once saw

and was so moved

Whit Howland © 2020

when you
walk through the door

I stare intently

because who you are
and whom I'm supposed be

is stitched in needle point
so plainly

on your face



Whit Howland © 2020

a blue metal pole
platform and a spring

simple in its mechanics
with a basic purpose

in mind

for those who want to jump
and keep jumping

Whit Howland © 2020

It's that childish sense
of wonder I covet

and circle back to
in musings

and remembrances
of those times

when something new
was revealed

behind a curtain
or a numbered door

and how hopes and dreams
were pieces

of flesh colored putty
that bounced from floor

to ceiling
and off the wall

it was

almost as if the mind
was a sparkler

flashing and popping

before my very
eyes

Whit Howland © 2020