Somewhere in ruined halls
he sits with his way of seeing.
& his patterns are shifting.
Along the walls the plaster falls
beside him on the floor.
The fact is, his Earth is rocking.
An ancient, mythical Giant
sits somewhere in a rocking chair
nursing a scaly demon there,
& the Earth’s scales are shifting.
Somewhere in another place
she sits wondering & knowing,
knowing that he is in this thing,
& he is likely frightened, for once,
of some force other than his own.
He has been
& he has been
bones from a rubble,
& he was so gone . . .
But he is someplace else,
& she is someplace else,
& for the first time ever
across this very different distance
they remember the first time
their beings were shaking,
like both of them
shake now . . .
back to issue 18
Over 120 of J.T. Whitehead's poems have been accepted by over 60 publications
& some of them have actually kept their word and printed him. 7 short stories
have been accepted by 7 magazines. Most recent acceptances for anything come
from Indefinite Space, POETALK, Main Street Rag, Home Planet News, Slipstream,
Left Curve and The Blue Collar Review. Home Planet News nominated one of his
prose poems / short-shorts (The Year of the Dog) for a Pushcart Prize recently,
meaning some time in the last 100 days.
take me home