thoughts (2) this afternoon

1) all I receive
in explanation
for cyclical archetype is
myth layered over infliction

2) no amount of
inaction can
drain the sea from
an old sailors eye
or quiet the spasm
in an old artist’s hand

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

2/23/14

then an unseen hand
sweeps the crumbs of day under
the carpet of night
(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

correspondence

the gift of life is
so completely baffling
that everything I
attempt to write
about it
makes total sense,
if only to myself,
as well as
one hundred percent
lunatic rambling
at the same time

the look on my face
is one of endless anticipation,
one of somebody always
expecting a dispatch
from the edge of
the universe

my fingers
in permanent curl
around the pen
of spontaneous response

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

2/18/14

my temple
has no walls and
the wisest men
I have ever known
have remained silent
but for a single word:
listen

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

statuary

long from the forge,
stripped bare,
a patina takes to
dedication of self

details rise
from polished surface

light and shadow
separate
with no regard
for agenda

faint lines sharpen
and heaviness comes
with massing of revelation

still, the base,
crafted by
a hand unseen
will hold up
under the weight

once erected
it stands exposed

forever

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

2/17/14

2/17/14 – a palindrome

repel – erupt in sadness,
A liar rotates evil.
A star rat’s a live set
at or rail (as
send a snit) pure leper.

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

auto#10

auto #10

Twit device
-fetid
hug it back

tie Che in busy Dryden.

On us a curse
for
stipulated old
stub
reusing Concorde

details
eyes see skin of
keyword

talk
output track
* yawn *

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

Loretta #1

2/16/14

the cutlass of age
reflects the falling of night
as it is unsheathed

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

to catch a faint odor of violet sachet

he would push his reading glasses
up on his forehead
and lecture from his leather chair,
scoffing at those
who believed
time travel possible

stabbing at passages in
thick dusty books
with crooked finger,
science spilling over his
smokey teeth
he hammered together a chain
of theoretical skepticism
guaranteed to shackle
anyone who dared to dream

nothing, it seemed
could shake
his house of logic

but, I’ve seen him disappear,
watched as youth flowed
into the backs of his hands
and youth straighten his spine
he would no doubt argue that
it was only triggered memory

fleeting episodes of
melancholic repose

except
I’ve witnessed his leaving –
sometimes when an old melody
found it’s way to him
as he gathered up
journals for the day

or as he bent to
ruffle the ears of
a dog in the Quad

I’ve seen his eyes
grow clearer,
lines smooth over
if a young lady
happened close
in a crowded market

then he would be gone again

there were times when
all that was needed
would be for him
to catch a faint odor
of violet sachet
and I would once more
be left standing
beside his
empty vessel,
awaiting his return

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead