the problem

The Meters are syncopating

I’m tapping the knife

on the cutting board

a half made sandwich 

stays half made as the

song ends

and I’m thinking about

writing

not about what to write 

mind you

but the process 

the stitching of thoughts 

(borrowed stolen original)

wondering where to hole up

when doing so
wondering why I didn’t try

this morning when I

had a few minutes

or last night

between loads of laundry

or on Sunday because Sunday

was uneventful and nobody 

was around to distract me

so that’s what I’m wrapped 

up in while

spreading mayo and

layering lettuce

to music
maybe tonight 

after dinner and the garbage 

is put by the curb

when light moves away

from windows 

and the only sound I hear

is that of my breathing 

and the soft drumming 

of fingers on the arm

of my chair
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

counting waves

the surf swells like 

a timpani

tuned low and rising

through the final movement
lifting me out of torrid

crowds and setting

me on this jetty where 
foam and kelp are

worked like remembrances
counting waves

as horizon dips below sun

      a distant summer

      come again
one before travel

before travail, when

       

parameters of love

were marked for us

with chalk

not wire and

days started

with wonder and

ended the same 
we didn’t have to count

waves then

we rode them

oblivious to those

on the rocks watching us

a sad recognition 

in their eyes
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

appreciation

I can’t escape the feeling

that the cat in the window

is somehow criticizing

my esthetic as

I stand in the yard

admiring Pollock  inspiring

tangle of color emerging 

from the stand of woods

she cares nothing 

for these fractals 

or the ones that make up

the lawn or the gardens

she yawns

wondering just how

long a creature can

stand in one spot

trying to find the 

general connectivity 

of his surroundings

I lose track of enough 

time that light has changed

the cat throws

in the towel

and sleeps
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

heirloom

yes

 I am evolving 

not that my little finger

is getting littler

or anything so wonderfully curious as that

– my third eye is still

slumbering

and

I can’t extract oxygen

from the ocean

I so love to

immerse myself in
but look, my cells

still drop away daily – 

replaced by some

that are just

that much better

– or so I like to believe
yet,

I have been taught

to call it aging,

that being the most comfortable word for the process
and as such,

I’m a bit more careful 

as I slog my way through

this glorious mire

I share with you all
I’m not entirely sure

I want to put all my chips on the alleged regenerative properties of neuroplasticity should my head

bounce off the asphalt 

in an ill conceived attempt to recapture my youth

via a ride

on a grandchild’s skateboard
no, my recliner is quite exciting enough most days

and I’m finding that

I swing an axe with a bit more caution now

hell, I even bend at the knees

when picking tomatoes
I can tolerate a sore knee

but, the back?

listen, it’s taken about a million years to get to where the thing keeps me upright 

I’m not about to tweak it

for a hunger driven desire

for an heirloom beefsteak
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

realism as abstract

realism as abstract 
when contending

with an elevated

state of expectancy
don’t be so quick

to discount the advisory role of hallucinations
or

their ability to transport

for
even accidental amplification

of an internal voice 

can center the needle

if you focus 

on its whisper
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead