her, in yellow

a barrel
bead
slid on a
string
dropped
with a click
the rain
slicked
terra cotta
capturing
brief waves
of her – flashes
of canary,
black web,
sweet
ivory accents

vertical evacuation

scanning the horizon
gifted to me
watching for sunrise
waiting with the rest

all of us
doing what’s expected
of ourselves

all the while listening
for that little chime
announcing the start
of our
vertical evacuation

stoned

here on this stump
with a
hand
full of
anthropomorphized pebbles
each one with
something to
say regarding
my condition
small, old voices
I reluctantly
agree with

Birdsong

when I first learned that
Birdsong was sung for Janis
soft wings fanned the air

look?

if you don’t look you’ll
never have to look away
but, wonder you will

how to begin a goodbye

it may be best
to begin a goodbye
with a joke –
make it a dirty one,
hit the punch line
with one foot
hovering in the air and
an arm extended
running back style

don’t wait around
for the
laughter to end

Orbs in the UK

A little self promotion geared toward my followers in the U.K., my book Orbs is available on Amazon.com.uk. My most recent book, Water from a toad, will be available on the site soon. Just search Orbs Whitehead and you should find it easy enough. Thank you in advance for anyone who purchases it. Peace.

November oak

November oak

alone
disrobed
standing, a stalwart of
his tribe
gatekeeper to the field
of bowed grasses and headless
flowers, and I
shuffling through his shed
raiments on my way
along a too familiar footpath
so perfectly reflected
his silhouette
as I reached out and spread
my fingers
to feel Winters
first chill

2012 Fred Whitehead

the disorder

the disorder

longing peach summer at the first
grazing of Octobers fingers
between your shoulders,
the garden looking
all of the aftermath
of a child’s party

the low introduces itself again
as if not recognizable
in its drab attire
and droop lidded eyes

one learns to let it in
it’s coming in anyway
to take up space on your couch
and breath on the back of
your neck
as you try to find
Spring
in pages
on your lap

2012 Fred Whitehead

thirst

they crawl toward
the mirage of knowledge
wishing to be
emancipated from
the cups of
emaciated imagination
offered up by soft hands-
gumming up tongues and
going down like sand