fog

I, of course 

had a feeling what

the impetus for it was

the insistence of fog

maybe, to keep

reason from the eye

but, what was for sure
is that

every melody 

that played

in my head on

this mornings drive

was reminiscent 

of a dirge
each note

slow and long
I feared doing

what we have

so long been told

to do
dim the lights

wait for a clearing
the cold mass I was

moving through

reflecting a light

that threatened to blind,
as if I’ve ever been

able to see

in the first place
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

SC

lower it

to half mast, the

half that’s 

in the ground 

truly listen

to the sound of 

repetitive hatred 

silence it

silence it

silence it

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

perpetual support

he,

condemned forever

to roll the rock

I,

forever

to walk beside him

              listening

without remark

        his woes

        his

        regrets
allowed only

a brief moment at the top

as his burden returned to

wait out our

         inevitable descent
to meet a

weary eye, to

place a hand

on a quivering 

shoulder
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

a late shower

a late shower
1

after the downpour 

I went out

to stick my face in 

the garden –

inhaling and 

taking on a half stoned

look

like one of those

actors being paid scale 

to submerge theirs

in a towel 

just pulled

from the dryer
2

she kept blush in a jar

& flushed for a flower

carried in

ruby faceted fingers

held to ricochet the

remainders of the sun

another days end drawn

and spun

as

silk 

knotted

around some new

found jewel
(c) Fred Whitehead 

fireside

logs

kindling

the misguided use

of a petroleum product…
and, here I sit

(a few singed arm hairs)

        in concourse

        with

        kin
comparing

fragments

and swapping theorem 
as to the start and path

of each

fragmentation
the pieces don’t snug

like they used to

but a little play

never derailed

a train
so we sit

as the flames find

their rhythm 
passing pieces around

the pit
each holding up their 

version of the mosaic 

for a few stanzas
another and another

picked from the air
added to the line
until the last chunk is

tossed on embers
and the

pieces are swept back into their boxes to the soft click

of a chair folding

a cooler

closing
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

the value of x is decreasing without bound

I am likelier to dead fall
into some

              others

colloquial discomfort zone

than

     to actually set the

table myself something<this>

that would have

been notated     

had the investigative

        unit

        come

        across the report

during their usual 

rooting about &

they would have discovered 

that

everyone is wrong 

about everything 
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead