All posts by Fred Wilbur

Atheist and Not Now, Maybe Not Ever, 2 poems by Claire Rubin Scott


Atheist At seven I stopped believing in Santa after Mary Lou whispered to me betrayed by adults lured into an unreal world I stopped believing in the tooth fairy with her late night dimes, the Easter Bunny with jelly beans and pastel eggs and God But I am not a good atheist I slip into the back of Saint Anthony’s some Wednesdays at noon and sit in silence with the stained glass saints I read Simone Weil, longing for her unwavering faith if we ask our Father for bread he does not give us a … Continue reading Atheist and Not Now, Maybe Not Ever, 2 poems by Claire Rubin Scott

and yet the moon by Nimisha Mondal


your father is dying on the other side of the world and yet, the moon shines into our bedroom my mother has broken her ankle and can’t walk the stairs and yet, the moon dances between clouds our daughter, plagued by night terrors, sweats in the sheets between us and yet, the moon fills our room with brightness our neighbor’s mosque was vandalized, dirty messages on the walls and yet, the moon glows over both vandals and vandalized tonight storms rage over violent seas, and fires burn across our hearts and yet, the moon holds … Continue reading and yet the moon by Nimisha Mondal

Writing History’s Happenstance by Fred Wilbur

Photo of brochures and postcards

During my older sister’s annual visit last fall, three shoe boxes came into the house with her luggage. After the usual greetings and settling in, she opened the Florsheim boxes to reveal a postcard collection. In an effort to clean out her Tennessee Victorian, a closet shelf having collapsed the week before, she decided she didn’t want them anymore: would I be interested in them? History is always a bit surprising, especially when close to one’s personal narrative. Imagine the archaeologist who digs up an artifact that totally alters the theory he has been working … Continue reading Writing History’s Happenstance by Fred Wilbur

The Owl by Deborrah Corr


From the branch above, half concealed in new oak leaves, silent, the barred owl watches with giant eyes, round as the pool at my feet. Its body, is all of a piece, no indentation even for a neck. If I could reach high enough, my fingers might stroke it in one long move from head to base, flat-handed, barely a touch, feeling the slightest tickle of feather, like the way, as a child, I’d kneel by the mud puddle, hover my hand over the brown water, lower my arm bit by slow bit, trying to … Continue reading The Owl by Deborrah Corr

Parma, Idaho by Craig Brandis


                                Mounds of sugar beets under                          halogen, marooned in pressure                         waves like fossil dinosaur turds.                                     Lurid thunder eggs. And                                  always the two Lebanese                            brothers who walk and argue. .                      A six-year-old boy drowned in an                 irrigation ditch. His father a tethered                                     dirigible in white Adidas.                       Church is headstones in hill rows                          wearing in an unrelenting … Continue reading Parma, Idaho by Craig Brandis

Evolution of a History by Fred Wilbur

Photo of stacked books

Unlike my previous writing efforts, I am presently engaged in compiling a history of the local garden club (of all things!) The subject is not one I would have chosen and I never thought I would get my knees dirty in this way. It chose me. By way of a short history, the local garden club donated four or five boxes of their records— which begin with the founding in 1935— to the county historical society. As a member of the society, I happened upon these records and wrote four articles on them for our … Continue reading Evolution of a History by Fred Wilbur

Some Trepidation by Fred Wilbur

Photo of creek amid fall leaves

I am scheduled for a tri-annual colonoscopy soon and like most people, I buy into the statistics of cancer prevention, though it is not an event most people anticipate with joy. I have waited for my appointment for six months and at that have been squeezed into the hours of operation at 7:15 a.m. on Tuesday. Though our lives are for the most part based on past experiences, anticipation, by definition, deals with the unknowable future. We may not categorize anticipation as an emotion, but it can be emotional. Think of the hope of the … Continue reading Some Trepidation by Fred Wilbur

Arson by Matt Dhillon

Photo of flames in the dark

Matt Dhillon is the 3rd place winner of Streetlight‘s 2022 Poetry Contest Arson Blistering heat, mother of me. A little gasoline makes the heart fire glow, and you can watch things grow in reverse- twigs retract, leaves reduce, logs wither, and then you want to see it undo plastic bags, bottles, couch cushions, and soon it’s marching away from you, this unmaking, sinking into particle board and rotten siding, beams and rafters, nests of mice and wasps and the barn bent down and the light leaving it. Someone struck a match and there was a … Continue reading Arson by Matt Dhillon

The Sink by Eric Odynocki

Photo of woman laying in water

Eric Odynocki is the 2nd place winner of Streetlight‘s 2022 Poetry Contest The Sink glints like a boneyard, white plates peeking over the rim like tusks or femurs with traces of flesh or bolognese. This was not how I imagined adulthood. Standing over a faucet and scrubbing. An uncalled-for bicep exercise. I swear the pots and dishes multiply when I don’t look. Mental note: next home with dishwasher. A must. Until then, each evening wanes into the drain. Slosh, brillo, jenga on the rack. Sometimes, I listen to a playlist, finesse the ring-around of my … Continue reading The Sink by Eric Odynocki

Appeasement by John Cullen

Photo of bulidings, fences, trees and sheep

John Cullen is the 1st place winner of Streetlight‘s 2022 Poetry Contest Appeasement Three hundred pounds of pasture mix in the trunk. International Farms estimates .05 percent weed mixed with Kentucky Blue and Meadow Fescue, and I suspect at least fifty percent perennial hope. We bounce up the driveway, and the stars really appear diamond-like. Far from the glow of town we haul bags filled with Colgate Whitening toothpaste, Momma Mia frozen pizzas, boxes of pasta, cans of kidney beans and cubed beef for the coming chili weekend. Half the celestials shine but no longer … Continue reading Appeasement by John Cullen