We are always out of time
as we drive by

running from our own trolls
and demons

to stop and see
what animatronic terrors

await us

she haunts me
still

her last gaze

glassy sad
angry

wanting a hand
to squeeze

as she faded into sleep

I wish
I wish

I wish I wish I wish

I swallowed my pride
like bitter medicine

hugged her one last time
and said

it’s okay
let us fight

no more forever

Whit Howland © 2019

We knuckle down
you and I

in a circle that can't be
broken

and it's a give and take
as we shoot

each other's mibs out
of the ring

collecting much more
of you

and me with each and every
game

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

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

old
chipped
and brown

green grass
has grown-up
all around it

the inscription
rubbed off so
so long ago

a still life a stiff breeze
people are  just dying
to get in here

respect
for the dead
is not what we are told

that it is

laughter
still lives here
and travels

to the beyond

whit howland © 2021

A wheel that
spins

a gear that meshes

a lever and a
fulcrum

push pull
tug

and I fail
over and over

to see
the relevance

of knowing

how I came
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Through
the blue shimmering
water

I see the black **** 
across the face of the floor
where it was slashed

I traveled all day
to get here from there
because no one

was there
when I knocked
and yelled hello

© Whit Howland 2019

i'm watching it all fade
before my very eyes

as the light
what little left there is

flickers


Whit Howland © 2020

I have the urge
to tweak
better yet

subvert
the dominant
paradigm

out on the open
ocean
is a boat

painted blue
like the water
which is calm
actually

it's placid

the yellow sun
reflects
off the water if

you were in that boat
you might get what is called
a blue water tan

we are happy
moreover
we are jubilant

not sad

Whit Howland © 2020

This morning
outside my window

a hummingbird

****** nectar into its beak
as if through a straw
from the feeder hanging from
the edge of my house

Peter Frampton
sings "I'm in You"
coming from the tinny speaker
of an old phonograph on an oak desk in my den

these are not my clothes
hanging in my closet
that smells of cedar bark
they are not my size and they are not

my style

whit howland © 2021

something
to break the ice
or instigate a February thaw

the impression of trees
the childish lollypop kind
and sky blue thumbprints

overhead
that meet the curves and crests
of chalky green

it's what's needed
to unfreeze the heart
and flow the tears

Whit Howland © 2019

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

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

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

What are you but
a statuette

and quite possibly
a matter of fact

yes you are here
and something to be touched

or for which a certain feeling
and perhaps

a specified action could be
directed at

but alas

this
and our relationship

can only go so far
because whatever attention

affection
or any other emotion

I may toss your way
you cannot reciprocate

my apologies if you object
to this assessment

Whit Howland © 2020

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

Sign post up
ahead

neon pink
big ears with a playful snout

it spins I spin
turning

hands dials
trying

to turn back a clock
and time

we sit atop a retaining wall
the kern river below
rippling over rocks

it was a twisty road
and it had made me sick
so Papa had stopped the bus

his voice is low and soft
as he assesses my aches and pains

through the windshield I can see my brother
has shifted
from the passenger to the driver's seat

he is steering the wheel
making jet noises

Magraw our blue tick hound
orbits

sniffing rutting and barking at phantoms
he is protecting us

this scene always lies
at the farthest edge of my galaxy of memories

and I pull at it on moonless  restless nights
when I pray for sleep
and thank God for my charmed and blessed life


© Whit Howland 2019

Not fit for a feast
just a functional meal

the glint lost long ago
now dull stainless steel

where refueling
is the aim

for a nameless cog
in the machine

that runs so quiet
and smoothly


whit howland © 2021

Not to be
confused with deference

an affected
ingratiating gesture

of regard
to another's wishes

but yet a disagreement
of opinion or something else of note

and
so we don't grow old

going around on this
conversational tilt-a-whirl

I'm willing to make a concession
and settle this issue

by deferring exclusively
to you

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

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

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

The right words
of appreciation

that is the rub
because

they must
be economical

while pure and
clear

your book of poems
tattered yet

loved

you words verse
short and sweet

though they
call out the demon

by name

Whit Howland © 2020

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

before our very eyes
or face

like we are falling
or colliding

destiny
maybe

but definitely
a silver bucket

and a brand-new pair
of cleats

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

No not a gust
but more a light touch

nothing that moves
like a whirlwind

or such
just a tiny perturbation

a tickle

Happy Birthday
and junk

Whit Howland © 2020

amongst the faded
and yellowed green

of wintered
grass

and slightly
beyond the horizon

a spec

slowly
coming into focus

it's moving parts
becoming

more visible more
mechanical

whit howland © 2021

stark

raw

naked lunch

loss

just words

they stare at me
every day

and I am still here
but you are gone

yet you are everywhere
now a conundrum

a Gordian Knot

whit howland © 2021

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

A short one filled
with three cubes
of ice

cracked from
a tray
metal not plastic

and what we
drink
is a mix of things

fruity
tarty
but mostly sweet

making us that
of many masks
and a thousand faces

whit howland © 2021

Some say the TeCh#
is not what it should be -

and they might be right

                                    but w/o

hELL0      pOEtry

weLL (I don't want to speculate)

All I want T@ saY is that
this sight and all my friendS on iT!

MEAN more
                                     to ME

Than you WIll EvER

Know!!!!!!

A full moon shines though
a louvered window

as I eat ice cream
over the sink

while thinking about
the many times

I've been burned when someone
has told me

IT

tastes like chicken
fried or otherwise

whit howland © 2021

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

Blue Bottle
pocked with pits
                   and bubbles

broken before tossed

jagged sharp
its bottom was
                   until water salt

smoothed its edges
recoloring
                   the glass a creamy lighter blue

blue bottle
broken weathered discolored
                   the journey

its story
is the brittle crinkled
                paper message

that should've  been
lodged
              within

Whit Howland © 2019

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

Your note
handwritten
in pink pen

on coarse
and crumpled
scratch paper

"Are you okay
lately
you seem kinda distant"

if not then
I'll say it now

I'm so sorry
I must have been
lost

in the weeds of thought
and tangled
in overthinking

thank you for your
gentle hand
and firm grip

Whit Howland © 2020

When you speak
go deep  
down
to the pool

of still blue
water
most people
think brain

when it comes
to clarity
but it's really
about

uncovering
and unpacking
how you feel
over what you think

the thinking
comes later
once you  have
walked the ruins

and seen what
was where and
who was what
and where the

bodies
could've
been
buried

Whit Howland © 2019

Morse Code
or no code at all

life is noise

and no one tells you
what and what not to listen to

right now the sun's rays
are piercing

the gray fluff of a former
Nimbus cloud

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

A funny bone
a gag reflex

and an innocent
question

would you go out
with me

was all it took
for you to spit

Coke
through your nose

all those years
ago

Even the smallest
of minds

is an incredible thing

for instance

one look at Rialto bridge
over the Grand Canal

as water taxis flit


it comes to us
our small mind that is

in crude but evocative
language and prose

this is a place
a world

we can visit

but never
ever will we or should we

stay

Whit Howland © 2020

If  there are ghosts
they are of
the friendly variety

rippling
white sheets
and eyeholes

floating
down
the hall

but not you
and never again
will it be you

your face
erases
and grows fainter

each
and every
day

whit howland © 2021

Like good help
a smooth glide  is hard to find

that perfect pen that rolls
with  the flow

of your words and music
across the paper

So
much before us
yet to be revealed

and much like a song
on the radio

memories come
flooding the way blood
rushes

to the head
when you are suspended

in space upside
down

but then the dust
settles so we can steal
a breath

and feel

that it always seems
much simpler
then

so we can cope
we can 

 heal

Whit Howland © 2020

I might rollover
and bring you
the morning paper

but my bark
is metallic
echoes

and sounds
as if it was made
in a metal drum

a noise
that will haunt you
forever

Some people are luckier than others
I guess

Headline:

A man struck dead
by falling anvil
from Acme

and now he doesn't have to pay
his ******