Ink

February 27, 2015 § Leave a comment

most tattoos 

are invisible
needled into flesh
by the steady 
hand of fate
unknown to all
but the one
who, in silence,
runs fingers
over
entry points
of unspoken
trauma
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

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Bewildehof 28

February 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

Bewilderhof – 28
Chapter 28
– about the blurred fringe of promise 

Bewildehof woke up on his pallet by the stove, the small pile of stones he was counting that morning beside him, a few more lay on his chest, one still in his hand

it was a little bit after noon
and he was hungry
stones gathered 
put into pockets 
a shuffle to the refrigerator 
a note in pink ink affixed with a magnet greeted him there
he knew the handwriting 
big looping letters
hearts dotting the i’s
he’d read notes written in the same hand starting from the time he began learning to read
they were always kind
always perplexing
he reached past it for the handle
got out a boiled egg to shell
a quart of buttermilk 
then the note:
– by some other vector  
       you are    me
I know of no way to not be
at least a residue 
             of   you
in a while many will 
           be as both
           of us
chiefs of 
what was 
will not be 
chiefs of  what is yet &
they will commiserate 
with one another
              that
the eye calcified & 
denied may
yet win back its sight
first 
as for you, with
your questions 
your inverted images
your years of wanting reunion,
I have dropped
seeds of discovery 
a few each season 
 I do it not
to fool 
but until you are ready
to be cubed 
to be 
raised by the law of numbers
to not be found as an ox
for a drivers bidding
my revelations
will be slow
  forwarding what is due before moving to earth
(with enforcements undone)
in any other manner
is of no benefit 
but 
once done
the vestments of memory
will be worn properly
not as mere adornment –
he folded it when done
and pulled a pickling crock
from behind the door
and dropped it in 
on top of at least a hundred
others
shoved the crock back
with a foot
picked up the buttermilk 
and went out to the chair
on the porch
the hawk shadow
patrolled the yard
fugitive stood in the barn 
door hands behind his back
watching something in the sky
sloth was just entering the dirt drive 
a bottle in one hand
two more in a bag 
in the other
the only thing resembling 
promise was
another afternoon of
chores that lay ahead of him
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead
 

Bewilderhof – 27

February 21, 2015 § 1 Comment

Bewilderhof – 27

Chapter 27
– you call that an answer?

on
patch of grass
warm

Bewildehof on his back watching the swarm
as it swirled above
the forever question
(kept
on a card in
a pocket in
crayon in
a child’s hand)
was pulled out and held
to the sky
to be answered

“to you I am one stolen
an abandoner a taproot of
unexplained phenomena
a continuing sprout of conundrum to you I am an untouchable apparition a ghost child a flock of embers an old lady persistent in her nonsense I disrupter of sleep mesmerizer of the wakened that thing that floats across your eye the found verses in your thoughts the voice that falls off your tongue at the end of sentences I am stealer of sounds I am static sparks ball lightening rolling through the wheat I am the chaff of stars orphan of the sun a burr a companion a confidant a constant a riddle”

he sighed yes her voice
“all of that

& I tell you now

I was tapped to release
trapped waters

assigned to help them find a way into fissures in agency

this is expending of purpose
this is expansion & erosion

it is easy defining
boundaries from dirigibles

harder from where
they are drawn

I
discovered
when
chosen
for this
that

I had peeled an orange
& found a mushroom

now the task is
the herding of spores

disrupt disruption
reestablish core”

Bewildehof lay on his back
patch of grass
warm
card repocketed
listened as the lights finished

a name
unconfirmed
playing like
a mantra
in his head

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 26

February 18, 2015 § Leave a comment

Bewilderhof – 26

Chapter 26
– judging tides

the fact of it,
quod illusio,
is that there is not a one
first to evoke a
hefty ridding of speculation
about intention
– his particularly

secondly, to consciously form alliance with him

though in his mind
there was
no solitude

he applied himself to hours
in transitory calm
fielding questions
from within
on sidewalks in thick evenings
on benches by the waterfront
at his desk
his window

times spent
earning ounces of defiance
times of learning
from unwarranted proclamations against birthright

he perceives
he is
forefront of legion, and
when pressed, he claims to have proven provenance of
his credentials at every
inquiry

reality wears
many a mask
as it watches
from shore

every ship
he has captained lost
every crew mutinied

from the sea he flounders in
he knows he will raise
flag atop another

continuing
to swim
clockwise in a counter clockwise whirlpool
using the only two
things left to his advantage:
patience and narcissism

he lifts the financial pages
from a newsstand as he makes his way to an upscale joint in the
center of his metropolis

sits alone as he does often
opens a menu
and ponders a
plot line of a maelstrom

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 25

February 15, 2015 § 2 Comments

Bewilderhof – 25

Chapter 25
– dust redux

transformation
began with a note
one
shooting off the
edge
of creations blossom
never looking
back
to see how far
the petals would reach

before dimensions
formed in the womb
of the cosmos
it went ahead

ahead of solar winds
ahead of
light sped particles

a melodic probe
in the musicless dark

behind it
every color
every sound,
fused as they were
born to be fused,
spread out
to claim
space

all this is still all this
even
on a temperate blue rock
clinging to
the edge of a spiral

all of this is still all of this
even
in the subconscious
of an aging
Bewilderhof
whistling
while weeding
around cabbage

a tune when whistled
would cause the house
to quake

tremors only detectable
if you dared lean on the clapboards
of this phantom matriarch

– a sign maybe

within
a workup of the
wind

a wind that
doused the farm
with dust dust
as was there
a generation
past when,
even at its busiest,
the predilection for a pace glacial prevailed among his father and the hands
bib overalls serving as vaults for flasks and tobacco leaf
bandannas to brow
when the sun grew large
newspaper in boots
when winter surged

now, he too moved slow
dust around his boots
dust on his brow
a dry whistle
a rusty hoe

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 24

February 14, 2015 § 1 Comment

Bewilderhof – 24

Chapter 24
– “…silver beams can
lead the way”

May 1965

every morning
the gardens
seemed to change

spring and summer
in their
embrace
one last time
before pulling away
from each other
with bow and curtsy

a boy watched
through porch railings
a mother watched
over rims of
wire spectacles
they both
watched the
girl
(daughter
sister
moon & star & sun
of their small
upstate universe)

watched
as she ran past
poppy and myrtle
– off to gather eggs

on that morning
when mother and son
were being serenaded from
kitchen door
radio low with
Patti Page
Allegheny Moon

a strange melody
weaved its way into
the song
replacing its sonic DNA with
one of its own

mother turned toward
unfamiliar sound
catching sight of her girl
from a corner of an eye
gingham starchild
coming toward the house
basket in hand

she was almost to the door when she heard her boy scream an incomplete
scream
a scream
that seemed
to have been
sucked out of the air

into a vacuum
along with the weirdly hypnotic song
that hijacked the radio
and every birdsong
every cowbell
every wind chime

stunned
a mother whirled

where her girl had been
there was now only a cloud of fire flies spinning into the air
a basket of eggs
spilled on the ground

the boy pointed at the sky
silently mouthing
a sisters name

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 23

February 9, 2015 § 1 Comment

Bewilderhof – 23

Chapter 23
– a tune introduced

los desaparecidos
in Jupiters jitney

long ago June on a
morning came

to lend her light to
opiate phalanx

poppies spread out
before the porch, a day

when a boy,
enveloped in visions

escaped twisted tirade
leaned into vapor

like a maestro in rapture
as an opus played

he on the step rocking
she a ray shining and

as pollen she dusted
his shoulders

as pollen
she dusted his hair

lifting the weight
with a thousand voices

and upon leaving, to the boy

a promise whispered

a melody not heard
before that day

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

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