there was no one at the boarding house

waiting for him
when he came in

from mapping the terrain
he meant to mention

that he had been painting himself 

into mountains 

                with pigment ground

                from headstones 

                and fingers dipped in rain
he stood half in the door

with eyes seemingly 

cleared by isinglass
even before he turned them

to capture the

                  melon dusk

he had just the right phrase

to describe the color but

there was

no one

around the fire

to make a fuss
he waved his manuscript in the air

looking for an honest review to hire

fifty four chapters 

breaking down a method he derived 

for cleansing himself of grief
no one was there to deny its depth

so he considered it a success 

put it on a bookshelf

and went back out

to see what the clouds believed 
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead 

an unfinished poem

I wondered what had happened

the way one listens

for the crackle of dawn

bursting through clouds

like a giggle through

a gap toothed smile
it doesn’t matter how many nights

are spent placing Polaroids as poultice over wounds of youth
you will always lose a little blood
(c) Fred Whitehead 

utterances from the dark

as we try to breach fortifications
you dive behind relentless drapery disallowing any contraband sunlight     

               passed from

               smugglers hand to

               smugglers hand
bouquets and bottles are left for

guard dogs of your endless night

to sniff and piss on
we hear you pleading for a way 

to tap into maddeningly elusive mania

how could we not

the mourn is relentless 
we’ve no summation for

this repetition 

can find no correlation

between strangely

unhinged episodes

and the beautiful results 
we want to travel with you 

try to walk with you on

the waters

of your Galilee

it just laughs and consumes 
outside your wall

we try to comprehend

your mutterings as transcribed
we ultimately fail
but we listen
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead