December 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

from behind
the baobab
I see him
there now
at the bank, river
lapping at his fangs
eyes hungering
to fix
on intruders

I see no reason
to stop
the tiger

whose only obsession
is to
banish me from
my jungle

into that abstemious urn of androidal hollowness

where the defunct
drag about

seeing only
aftermath of deluge
not puddles for paper boats

the embers of inferno
not elusive illumination

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead



December 28, 2014 § Leave a comment

engaging a
seen through
sheets of frosted


find yourself as unexpected
species grown
dense in
layers of experiences

fingers cramped from
unstringing structure

attempting to
learned impairments

for the last quiet place

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

wake, live, repeat

December 26, 2014 § Leave a comment

let today be the day
the sun decides to shift in the sky
if nothing else
but to throw new shadows
to hide my damage

not that I care so much
how cogs progress
through their
operation, mind you
but because
things have been
a bit off

today might just
as well be the one
that goes haywire
in a cosmic sense

the way it is, you see
is that
birdsongs sound
like tubular bells to me
the wind – a theremin
I can’t recall
important events
names evade me
more than a little effort
needed to throw
that first leg off the bed

there is comfort in the sound
of familiar colors
I listen for them
as I reach for
the lamp
trying to remember
what day it is

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


December 24, 2014 § Leave a comment


some dark somewhere
treasures may lay waiting

all that is for us
is to keep
looking over the gunwale,
the sea listening to
our sighs,
one island
after another
sliding by

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


December 23, 2014 § 1 Comment

a pressed leaf somewhere
in one of these hundred books
once an afternoon

window or windows
or a hole where window was
looking for an out

looking out the hole
there booking past the window
one for someone once

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


December 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

hasn’t enough been
said about
loosing our smallest finger
to it

not so much
our inner eye

the ability
for aural recognition

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


December 20, 2014 § Leave a comment

having exited before the curtain

to emerge at
an entrance to an
endless plane

stranged by experience
to plot coordinates
of speculation,
to measure,
in droplets,
heaviness of decision

where echo of ovation,
(a winged whispers twin)
somewhere over a shoulder

a birds release

no desire left for
tracking flight
as dawn hints at
a cresting

she will rise to find her
place in formation
on a heading to
some hidden
nesting ground

beyond ivory shawled mountains
that encircle
the valley
of self

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

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