the return

May 30, 2012 § 1 Comment

craft rising from the mist, raft
finding direction, binding

light and darkness on this night
June twenty one, silver rune

came to fill a space, a name
for so long forgotten or

broke into parts, but when spoke,
all voices reverential

the heron

May 28, 2012 § 6 Comments

the heron over
Ontario
her silhouette,
prehistoric in the dusklight,
rising from this,
the last lake in the chain

I watched until
the the coming night
swallowed her somewhere
out there over
the water
as if she knew
exactly where the portal was

gliding through it, the
grace of the ages
carried on wings
a lifetime wide

charting proper measure

May 27, 2012 § 3 Comments

what she held was hope
as told in notes
on folded napkins
that heaven holds
a favored haven for those
with fickle minds
the kind that tend
to forget
to chart proper measure
in the art
of tribute as
the jaws of a particular time
make short work
of personal creation
to take the notations
(a thought) to make them
invisible to all but
herself and send
out tracers, as yet
the only light

a poem made of parts stolen one piece at a time

May 26, 2012 § Leave a comment

Kilgore Trout was here
said his daddy made whiskey
and he made it well
so, leave the gun
take the cannoli
and we’ll bury that
old dog Gideon
by the crepe myrtle bush
where poets tell
how Pancho fell
in this, the best of times,
the worst of times,
I keep my feathers numbered
for just such an occasion

come to Harm

May 24, 2012 § 3 Comments

hey,
if you are free this
weekend why don’t you
come to Harm
we can have barbecued
pork loin or maybe
brown trout, caught in
the stream that runs through
Trepidation, grilled and
served with onions and capers
it’s easy to find,
a little east of Stupidity
where the light falls
a bit dimmer on decisions
so if Saturday finds you
edgy and bored
in the safety
of your small rooms
then by all means
come to Harm
we can bemoan the night away
over gimlets,
about the attraction of this place,
and why it is
I keep ending
up here

true language

May 23, 2012 § 5 Comments

I put down the days
paper, layers of magazines
stacked out of the way
the books, with various scraps
holding my places
protruding from their pages,
set aside
I realize
I must
learn the
language of
all that not by man

the centipede
the oak
the crane
the multitude of topics
they could go on about

the squall roaring in from
the frozen lake
the song of the frog
the hum of the field

the morning salutations
of the tiger lily raising
its face to the sun

the hills
the hills surely know
a thing or two
regarding history

the stream
chanting tales
to a rhythm of its own
as it moves
through the valley

I must have
these and more
these, more
true

than anything
said by any being
that looks anything
like myself

mercy

May 22, 2012 § 1 Comment

mercy, you must know
keeps its own time in coming
it’s our time to wait

under the painted
heads of glorified leaders
looking down from walls

our inheritance?
laws deemed to be from on high
and empty buckets

all of our children
asking only with their eyes
is there such a thing

as happiness and
what is this word, oppression?
where are we going?

and how long before
this separating of us
by us ends for good?

yes, mercy is slow
keeps its own time in coming
to wait now, our time

eventually, the heavens

May 19, 2012 § 5 Comments

who was it?
the first to plant a stick
in the dirt and track
with intent in
a perfect circle around it
a length of line
keeping tight
the small steps

did the language of symbols
begin there?
with this simple sketch
of the eye
the expectant mother
the moon the sun and
what would be called,
eventually,
the heavens

when done
did this
linguistic upstart
throw up hands
and scream some prehistorical
version of voila!?
pointing at the orb in the sky
then at his creation
in the dust
and again at the sky
trying to get the
attention of the rest
of the tribe

who were already
almost over the next
ridge with more
important thoughts
driving them on
those of their bellies
and the keeping of fire

water from a toad e-book

May 17, 2012 § 4 Comments

To be released soon as an e-book, my latest collection of verse.

20120517-052411.jpg

trouble garden

May 13, 2012 § 3 Comments

the newest version of
this, the bluest of
virginal springs is
this
the thing is,
she noted, you can’t
beat back troubles very loudly
here, this – a garden
and one, I’m told,
left to the town
by a pair of
old twin ladies

died here
the both of ’em frozen
side by each in the February freeze
no, child
set to the business
of laying low your angst

on the quietly side
let the old lady azaleas
listen up your mourn
and turn their petals
blue at that

don’t raise your voice above
the sunflower don’t
slide it under the ivy
plant those whispers
of grief here
right here

and thank them old
twins when you leave

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for May, 2012 at Fred Whitehead's Blog.