meld

there doesn’t
have to be collision
when you realize
that melding
will do quite nicely

– meld ( the multi lingual version )
kuna haina
te wees kolizio
kad ste shvatili
que melding
sal doen ganska fint

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

somewhere

did you see
anything
resembling
the North Star
I know, right?
neither did I
and I was supposed
to use it
to find my way
somewhere

-somewhere (the multi lingual

het jy sien
kitu chochote
nalik
la estrella del norte
tiendan eik o?
ich auch nicht
na nili kuwa
cense l’utiliser
troui la vojon
mahali fulani

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

going home

she had years
unable to move past those
last few words
chained to one extinguishing phrase
delivered with frigid ferocity
exile, her choice
now
she allows herself
one last walk
along the heaved
brickwork to her
ancestral hovel
with its walls of layered
tannin and grease
to ferret out a dark history
one faded letter at a time

unentered

unentered

when I arrived
I found
the price of immersion
was more than I
had counted on
the ocean
before me
will remain
an unentered
mystery

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

a sense of absence

is all
that is
left in your palm
while trying to not miss a moment
feel what it is to be krill
thrashing in
the baleen of the universe

too anxious
to open a locked box
two o’clock unpopulated
afternoon walk
past picket fences
pockets rattle with last nights broken charms
this
is the yoke fitted to
your specifications
the gift of intuition lifted with
not a twist of difference
the jinn’s influence
takes hold one
whisper at a time

polemic piranhas taking
what they will from your stand
always
of course
always
with patience

the numbers lean toward
becoming nothing more
than another cretin at edges of parades elbowing aside
the unsuspecting weak
to catch trinkets thrown from floats
sadly wired to waiting
for your name to be carried on the unified voice of the marchers
never knowing when turn away

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

sad sacked

I fall into
hair-trigger depressions
so easily
bummed because
the avocado isn’t right
at the top of the sack
where I wanted it
the thought of
having to root around
under the grapefruit
the can of garbanzos
and the little foam
adhesive donuts
I got to cushion the corn
on my baby toe
brings me down
I tell you,
down
things were going
fairly well up until then
so I abandon the avocado
and limp to my chair
to give myself a little time
I’ll think of what to
do with the beans
try to keep my mind
off my toe
and wait
for the world
to return my
stolen smile

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

making an impression

when I sleep I wonder
if those in the underworld
bother to look up

at the impression
in the thin membrane
that serves as the only support

for a scrawny outline
that shifts like
an air bubble in a water balloon

whenever my subconscious
picks up a cough
or a bit of conversation

from the other side
do they, as a matter of
curiosity, poke at the barrier

absently checking for whatever
one checks for
when someone does that

the way the elderly
check shrink wrapped cutlets
before remembering

that they forgot
something in the medicinal
aisle, moving on to leave me

to linger there
until sunlight reaches down
to lift me away

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

the throne of memory

catatonic
decommissioned fogbound
returned
to a home
nonexistent except
on tattered maps
and in conversations of
those who kept
pre-deployed history
alive with abridged laughter
photos some
familiar music
seldom heard names
details of
their recent lives
no eye
could have seen the way
he moved inside or
how his addictions to
cognac corpses cordite
made him
an oak
waiting for the axe
to rape its way through
the rough shell
and when
finally exposed
the heartwood
shrank and cracked
under the heat
of judgement
and as expected
ashes took their
rightful place
on the throne
of memory

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

fly

what good
are these wings
if we are only allowed
to circle your crowned head
leashed by
a single strand
of your
starlight
hair

anything

the opportunity to dwell
on their conversations
has passed
and, as often the case
not much time
was spent doing so
when time was
right for the doing
now
without benefit of glossary
we try to reconstruct
the foundation
on which
we’ve built ourselves
we chink the spaces
between stones
with narrative designed
for our own children
we stir the fire
we thatch the roof
we stock the shelves
and
we know
there will be empty rooms
where we will wait
for that elusive chance to ask
if they understood
what we meant
when we said
anything

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead