mishap
maybe
but definately

not and act of God

no warning given
and no discernable
clues

just a hurling big canvas
painted with pastels
nonsensical

at best

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

Maybe it's me
and my slothful ways

but something
and I mean something

has riled them
as they vault

somersault
and skitter in and out

of my bedroom
my cats

I feel their frustration
at my failure to launch

into this hot hazy Saturday
all my Friday weekend plans

rapidly evaporating
as if

on the freshly tarred sidewalk
outside my window

whit howland © 2021

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

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

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

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

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

Long
shadows cast

and sunlight goes
pale

so little time
yet

so much left
to do

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

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

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

Pallet of green
brown
gray

obstructed
destruct
construct

strange things
kaleidoscopically
arranged

natural
literal
and metaphysical

Not
a splintered sawmill
or a rotting waterwheel

but the bundle
you're muling


charred
useless wood

a bridge fire
lit
by a laconic spark

you were there
but you didn't
strike the match
so cork it

no weeping
no tears
no time
for lamenting

because
off-screen
the sky barks

here

just take my knife
cut the twine
let the timbers fall
and crumble

run

and don't worry about
a mess
the wind can blow away

© Whit Howland 2019

Warmth is what we feel
and it comes from the heart

where there is a light
within

and that light
radiates out

to the sky
and the hills

skaters
are just figurines

more like set dressings
for this scene

what we feel precedes
what we see

© Whit Howland 2019

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

the street you describe
I've never been there

but I have kicked a bedsheet
a time or two

and maybe I've reached
for cigarettes

I've been hot and cold
more cold blooded

you might say
in the true snake sense

colors
a spectrum of colors

reds
yellows

violets
and greens

succeeding
lightning rain

and gray clouds
beauty

along with the calm
after the storm

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

wool
we sit in a park

on the grass
as the day turns

dark

we fail to see
but most of all

we  struggle

a small thin piece
of fur

maybe bunched
but just enough

to say
you were there

stayed awhile
and then slinked

off into the day
the wind

jingling
your tiny bells

an almost inaudible
announcement

of your
departure

whit howland © 2021

Too much water

he said

we are taking on too much water

he said

as the outside patio bar flooded
and the hanging plants

so laden with rain
dropped

from there hooks
splashing

and smashing
onto the submerged concrete

the sky rages and weeps
and we are left to pick up

the pieces

There used to be
a witching hour a last call

but now
this station never closes

an oasis in  the heart
of a pitch black night
for thirsty cars and drivers alike

just passing through
a state a place

and trying hard
not to lament

what appears
to be lost

with time
and age

©  Whit Howland 2019

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

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

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

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

bay
        wind
               more a gentle breeze

socks
       not caps
            as water rises to meet the hull

sun shines
             silver skyline
                       city by the bay

backdrop
              scene set
                another glorious day

Whit Howland © 2019

a palette
and a beret

could I ask for more
do I

want

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

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

A Summer sun
turned lush green grass
to lunar dust

but the dogged day
clinched water tight

and wiped the stinging sweat
from its eyes and plowed
pell mell
through crushing heat

toward the dark and gray
of a violent dusk

where thunder ripped
from its nervous fingers
its earthly hopes and dreams

then pelted them
with heavy drops of rain

as it flushed away
all vestiges
of this ugly Summer day

Whit Howland ©2017

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

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

Salt spray blue foam
pounding surf

and warm yellow sun
as tentacles of seaweed wash to shore

the sights and sounds
of which to see and hear

when I put my ear
to a conch shell

and remember you

poem
lyrics
or just a screed

we rant
we rave
we rage against the machine

dandelions
daffodils
pear blossoms

and they say
to get gray
you must facilitate

the mostly holy
union
of bull and cow

pleasure
is my measure

stepping foot by foot
loose change falling

from my pockets
like manna

that dropped from the sky
so so long ago

whit howland © 2021

deep red logs
a perfect fit
buttered grout to fill the gaps

protective trees
wooden cask


floral garden
color splash

small troubles gone
worries in the wind


Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

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

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

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

Some say it was a ratcheting
descent

into the depths
of a day-glo hell

and a brush with death
by an oncoming train

followed by a straight up
abyss

with no more light up ahead
but I say  

it's was a life hard fought
and well lived

With a neutral-colored sky
who can tell whether it’s night or day
and

it doesn’t bother those who walk
with arms locked in monochromatic bliss
toward the grandeur of the Eiffel Tower

love is too precious
and somewhat crude and time
too fleeting

to worry
about precision color
spectrum and other
artist aches and pains

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

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

Total
absence of light

roiling
boiling

churning black clouds
your wicked flowers

being watered with biting
drops of rain

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

To my ears go
your cute little snores

and to my eyes
your hair peeking out

from under the covers
I watch our cats(our kids)

eat from their labeled dishes
and I laugh

for hours

whit howland © 2021