Ink

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

Bewildehof 28

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bewilderhof -22

Bewilderhof – 22

Chapter 22
– fugitive, to sloth,
about kitchen and
connection

she had 12 yrs. here
he was nearing his 3rd.
and hearing what he heard

when she was drawn away
the awful endless wailing, assailing him ever since
– a grievous beast
caring nothing for the scarring

or the cinching of the binds
or the blinding of their
mother, to any good
the boy could have offered,

never would she allow her heart to be hitched to that
star of a boy whose only
wish was to shine in her opaque sky

when her mind went dark and
she sided with that darkness
patrolling the ramparts
of anguish
absorbed into a vow made
when she was at her
most broken

he took it upon himself,

as he grew older, to keep
the homestead running
it was then he came to sleep
here, forbidding himself
to go into other rooms

and for all the gloom
it was and is the heartbeat
it is where he stays, on a
a pallet by the stove
a stool by the window
a chair just outside the door

he can feel the rage in the walls as he makes tea or fills his pockets from the larder
he feels the rage trying to break
through the barrier built
by the lights
of his sister
feels the rage nurtured and
distilled by his

mother he
hears the rage
its voice
rumbling in frustration
trying to find a
language lost
to a
mothers madness

the crux being
the leaving of
a girl at the cusp of
adulthood

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 21

Bewilderhof – 21

Chapter 21
– of nests and everything after

the magistrate watched the reflection of lights flitting around the rim of his wineglass and said,
as they
convened
in the middle
of his office –

“I recall,
you were a certain
child once, the remembered mother gathered together
hair of your head
banded in ribbon
blue,
when you were
this child
the mother,
cut your tail
on your insistence why
you didn’t stay alongside
her very long, well, sometimes a tangle stays
a tangle – though
you did
leave her a relic –
one, however, of sorrow
secured with
ribbon
scented with
essence of an incomplete
tomorrow
you became for her a breath
from the other side
– frosting the windows
of her frigid rooms”

“take caution,” the ruby replied
“if you
allow me to
fill in your pauses,
the flavor of your
pontification may not pair
so nicely with that vintage”

“I would gather those pauses up then, to see what universes your disjointed narrative
open for exploration” he turned to face her
“you see, you may
have lit a fuse
when you stepped off the
edge of her nest,
it is long, yes
and it is slow,
but it continues to burn
along its course
unbridled”
he sniffed at the glass
“it is specific science –
intelligent integration of thought and nonthought that feeds the fuse and keeps it on target”

the Dutchess walked over to his desk, took the box from her handbag and set it in front of the magistrate
“while we are on the subject of thoughts, would you care to invest one on this?”

she opened the box

the magistrate
grinned
to mask disdain
for the situation
as the bird inside
stirred and flew to
the outstretched finger
of the ruby
the magistrate raised his glass

“such is
the impermanence
of nests”

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead