January 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

he knows she is there –
knows by an
amber pinhole
in the dark of the hollow,
the smoke rising

at this hour
she is,
he guesses,
kneading a loaf
on floured oak
to be baked and set
to cool for the morning meal

by dawn he will
be ready to go
he has,
if any body
were to ask,
been ready for a while
until now
waiting to see if
the story of
the two of them
play out as
had written it

the lamp below fades
as dew starts to gather
another chapter
torn out,
pages left on the ridge
a compass and a pocket watch
keeping them
from being
dispersed by
Appalachian breeze

he stands and watches for
the horizon’s glow
thumbs in the straps
of his pack,
under the weight
once again

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


January 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

Jeremiah was,
in fact, a common leopard frog
with a glandular, as well as, a drinking problem

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

join you in prayer?

January 29, 2014 § Leave a comment

part if you
please with the po-
tatus and
hand us
the kaladdlescoop to
disturb the sauce
and redirect the salters
and pepyrys
say up your likens
and lay down the prayens
as you’re won’t
before stabbin in
with your tines
but fault me not for not noddin
I ha’set aside abundant fines
if that is what you’ll sentence
I cotton to hawkspeak –
not mans as much as wolf-talk, river hymnal as well as
windsom without worryious shame
or hissitation so if you
askes me ’bout what don’t
consider me don’t
expectorate answers
I barter silence for solace
and gets along just fine

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

auto #7

January 28, 2014 § Leave a comment

having we
grab truce
I Graffiti I forum = held jurists

faux jaguar used the joys ivory (wears rah jackets)

a dogs fraud twosome
bagged ears
begs upshot
Stags? cur!

boohoo yogi hides in sub-strays there is a bray jobs stasis,
no cud did its bias
Abu jab Isis –
Aid juice duties

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead & machine

Article at Broadway World

January 28, 2014 § Leave a comment

A nice article written by Mark C. Lloyd

in jettisoning a drunkard’s bouquet

January 27, 2014 § 2 Comments

not one
lacking a daisy kill attitude about the unconscious quenched, is
who said of it
love is a mainly splintered thing

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

auto #6

January 27, 2014 § Leave a comment

So, I’m almost what you say
I don’t drive so,
it was going
on mongol –
“don’t say what , do you want”

a pig goal:
used tidily to Gucci itself

bee sauce/dicey oysters

his idiot growls into yell
that forfend the cod god

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead & machine

unwilling accomplices

January 26, 2014 § Leave a comment

I wonder how the stones felt
when they were chosen
to take the place of
reviews for Roger
in Virginia’s pockets
were they picked for
their ancient beauty,
or just for heft and fit?
was there even a mention
of the Ouse?
after their role as the final
notes in a modernist blues
were they disbanded
by official decree?
taking on new roles after
being hoodwinked into
criminal partnership
one, maybe, putting in time
as a paperweight on
a nearly retired constable’s desk
a couple, perhaps, as bookends
in a vicars library
or were they kept together?
left to converse about the ages,
in the dark of an evidence box
on a shelf in a Sussex basement
patiently waiting
for time to erase their record

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

before the shoveling

January 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

this morning, as I prepared
to shovel my parents drive,
a single point mutation
in my thoughts carried me
to that spot in their yard
where the fires of July
accepted logwood
like a shaman accepts wisdom –
burning, only, as duty to others

last night’s snow
left that spot
a small dip
between pear tree
and overturned birdbath
a small clean impression
like one the cat leaves
in the quilt
when she leaps from the bed

I, slowed by layers,
check the forecast and
contemplate the task
before me, naturally wishing
to be counting dolphins
from the bowsprit of a schooner,
dipping below the 18th
on a heading to St. Croix

or casually twirling a putter
as I cross The Nelson Bridge
to locate a too-long shot
among the azalea there

but mostly wishing
to be sunk deep in a lawn chair
as the fire crackles behind
the conversations of the adults

my fathers cotton
and soybeans
of his youth
the poodle skirts and Packards
of my mothers

and my Uncle, with his black coffee and his legs crossed
not talking
once again,
of his time in Cabanatuan

each falling flake a reminder
of things I may never do
or ever do again

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

Journal for the dead

January 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

journal for the dead

I could mention a cleaving of clouds darkly or the dregs of days or drag behind me the chains of common occurrence – referring ever again the blink that has long since distanced me – however reading the latest entry I realize this version of the verbiage verily stands to sterilize any argument for the forwarding of future renditions of my wholly uninteresting grief

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

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