her words
November 30, 2012 § 4 Comments
she
laying
on the grass
beside the reproduction
of a roman god,
he
looking down at her
with his arms extended
palms up and fingers splayed
like he was waiting for
an answer
but she had not a
single one for him
some impoverished
relationship with
the things she tried to say
kept her words
hidden in
colored paper,
wrapping,
torn once from gifts that
were, over time,
discarded
as if they
were nothing more than
amulets drained of their magic
she warehoused
her words,
like
porcelain from
a lost dynasty
waiting to be
unveiled under soft
lighting
and handled with
the gloved hands
of the truly
caring
2012 Fred Whitehead
having seen the last mastodon
November 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
another in a series of poems using only the letters of the title to write the poem:
having seen the last mastodon
the light,
shining months on end,
is the last to see him
as he nods
his head to a meal
he has a song of loss
as he is lost
in a land old and vast
then the song is gone –
the light,
having seen the
mastodon
die alone
sighs
and
goes
home
2012 Fred Whitehead
you can’t see it
November 27, 2012 § 5 Comments
you can’t see it
from that vantage point
no, from behind
latticework
of Proper Status
and self promoted
renown, you are blind
I am, of course, talking
about the way your
children, raised in finery,
polished to reflect
your carefully
structured image
are so drawn to
the unglamorous
you do not see them
as they slip back into
your shadow –
dawns break on the doors
of their indoctrination
doors opened as silently
as possible after nights
dodging guards patrolling
borders of caste
a bit disheveled, their lips
glossy with the wet of
the unwelcome
dragging dirt of dissent
across your marble floors
leaving crumbs of their
curiosity for you
to follow
trails leading to the
progeny
of your intolerance
distant
November 26, 2012 § 2 Comments
whenever spoken to
he, at first says nothing for
the first second or two,
like he is just emerging from
a dream
or waiting for the rest
of his body to return
from wherever it was
distant, they said –
that was
the laurel placed
on his head
you never knew
how he was going to engage –
the kind of man that
came at a subject
from odd angles
in speech so slow
that the listener
tended to rush past
the meaning in his words
as if they
really had
anywhere else to be
2012 Fred Whitehead
such is breakfast with a Buddhist poet
November 24, 2012 § 6 Comments
often, when I’m
alone, my pen
holding back in
indignation, I have
a vision
in which
I am at a table
with Milarepa
who isn’t paying
attention to anything
I have to say about
world affairs or
the point spread of
the Bowl game
or the latest offering
from Detroit, in fact
he doesn’t even acknowledge
the waitress
as she
hovers the bottomless
coffee pot over our table,
the geriatric choking
on his home fries
in the booth beside us
or even my request for him
to hand me the pepper sauce
he just sits across from me
a strangely blissful look
on his face
as my eggs get cold
and go unseasoned
his right hand
cupped to his ear
listening,
always
listening
to
the sound
of emptiness
2012 Fred Whitehead
pyramid
November 24, 2012 § 3 Comments
pyramid
I never saw you through
the tormented years
of your youth
as you never
saw me through mine
and yet
we navigate around
them still
a perfect invisible
pyramid of dead rats
and horse shit
in the middle of
whatever room we are in
its apex pointing
the way to Drago
the method of its
construction
a mystery
and its dimensions
a mathematical twin
to the combined
length and breadth
of all
we have become
2012 Fred Whitehead
the stack of you
November 23, 2012 § 2 Comments
when your are ten
your fears are
addressed by adults
the way the concerns of
the colonized are recognized
by those in charge
of the colonization
your objections to the
way bed times are scheduled
are ignored, the choice
of dinner and the amount
that is to be consumed
is not yours
numbers and letters
are forced on you
as are gods and devils
you know how things are
how things should be
but, when you are ten
you are invisible
except when the photographer,
hired by the school board
by way of a low bid,
spits in his hand and
tames your mane
and tells you to freeze
your frenetic world
for a moment
so that you can be captured
for Aunts and Uncles
and Grandparents,
you at ten
placed in the same frame
as you at nine
a stack of you that will
grow until you reach that
magical age when
they pin the badge
of adulthood on your lapel
and the children behind you
fade into
the world
you once ruled
2012 Fred Whitehead
saving the day
November 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
so I say to the guy
I go,
I’ve picked this day
clean, you know
and I’ve done
all someone
of my limited capacity
could do
to keep it
from a ruinous end
he nodded in agreement –
the way someone
in a grocery store nods
absently to the person
in front of them
in the cashier line,
just nodding
and uh-huhing away
as they are subjected to
lamentations about the price
of apricots or
the inefficiency of the cashier
and this nod
was familiar to me
there on sidewalk –
his face emitting all the
emotion of a
chalkboard eraser
so I told him
to have a good night,
stepped over the
half a dog attached
to his wrist
and went into the house
still proud
of my accomplishment
just the same
fear of freedom
November 22, 2012 § Leave a comment
fear of freedom
it’s not as though my
weeks have an end,
as most people’s do
so, with that in mind,
you will have to forgive
me if I lack the energy
for dragging
my weary carcass
up some hill just to
sit in awe of some sunset
because, I mean,
what with its unmatched
beauty and its
stunning song
of pastel colors
reminding me
that I never take the time
to notice things
like that,
I’m liable to get all
wacky with guilt,
quit my job
and wander the land,
a happy ascetic
free from anything
that carries the label
of stability
trying to ignore
the sharp small teeth
of responsibility
cutting into the
flesh of my ankles –
my days spent
observing the plant life
alongside highways
counting the number of
starlings in a migrating
cloud
controlling the rates at
which my heart beats
and my lungs fill and deflate
the whole time
formulating
answers for friends
and family
in a language that they
would understand,
to the inevitable
questions
that would surely arise
when she moved among the trees
November 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
another piece using only the letters in the title to create the poem.
when she moved among the trees
there was an age
when she
moved among the trees
heard the sages
owned no tears
her home,
where she
gathered to her
the dove song
when she
vowed to the dawn
to grow
as trees grew,
strong