try

celebrating the small
miracle that I
had once again
survived the cull

another day
ducking the net,
skipping over the bolas

able to drop my keys
on the table
by the door I use
to shut myself away

oh how
psychosis wants the mind
cirrhosis the liver
family your attention
employer your time

but, I’ve made it through again
entering
these mortgaged rooms
with their faded scent
of seasons past

over the hum of the
refrigerators’ tired compressor
and the dripping
of an unserviced faucet
I hear her laughter upstairs

which reminds me yet again
to try to
do that myself
a little more often

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

a simple wish

as I rise,
my wish: simply
to be allowed to move
mostly unhindered

a mid-range note
listening for its echo
in the
improvisation
of the day

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

wondering

it is
the look on
our faces when
distractions
are temporarily ignored

the look
of a people
trying to eavesdrop
on the conversations of
the gods

straining
to get some hint of
what their plans
for us may be –

there is
preparation
to be done and
affairs to put in order

one hand is holding
a cup to that cosmic wall
as the other
draws up papers
concerning distribution
of money and possessions

we fixate on notions
of pagan deities,
juggle guilt and
accomplishment

we listen as best we can
at least as long as
the moment that
we are allowed
lasts

then it is back to whatever it is
that our backs are bent under
…wondering

palette

every morning
I re-paint your portrait

pigments of earth
shading of memory

no brush –
just fingers dipped in
colors of absentia

dabbed on canvas
of separating years
and left to fade
until another daybreak

calls me to
the palette again

(c) 2011 Fred Whitehead

J.

Jerry’s job: jamming jazzy jingles justifying jarred jellies.

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

I.

inquisitive iguanas interested in igloos investigated impressive intaglio inscribed ice installments included inside.

persevering

cat
oddly balanced
modified
on a February morning
by the serpentine belt
of a neighbors LaSabre
the remainder
of his days will find
his runs tilted
his left ear
going without a scratching
he seems to
sleep deeper and
he seems to
enjoy his meals more
but, that could just
be me I guess
I can hardly function,
hindered by stress
and scheduling
and there he is
passed out in the basket
of clean towels
persevering
in that enviable way
that only a damaged
old alley cat can

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

H.

Harry’s hat has holographic hens happily holding handbills hawking holiday hootenanny hardware.

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

St. Augustine

we were there once
I tried to find
history playback
in the eyes of the lions

I wondered about the
outpost as she led
me by my elbow
toward the
old city

with its brass placards
its cobbled roads
its foreign made trinkets

next to the schoolhouse,
or courthouse,
I leaned on
the bleached planking,
souvenir shirts draped
over an arm,
watched domesticated
seabirds filching
scraps from cans
awaiting

her return
with necklaces adorned
with shells and sea turtles
and sand dollars

she asked my opinion
as I held them up
I answered with approval
as I imagined the lions would
with little sound,
a gentle nuzzle

I pawed them
into the white paper bag
with its blue lettering
and leaping dolphin
as she pointed at
some other bright thing
ahead of us
saying
that we should come
back again
someday

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

G.

Gordon gladly gifted Gladys’ garden glowing greenhouse grown gladiolas.

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead