Fred Wilbur

  • Duck prints score the pond,
    the one out my window,
    the one where an egret
    roosts come spring,
    the one where a blue heron
    fishes in summer,
    the one where nuthatches
    sip drips on the […]

  • First Sonogram
    Seen from your upper
    window, down the block
    at some remove,
    an Edward Hopper black and white
    and grainy through the screen,
    a street lamp’s cone
    shines down. There,
    you notice a f […]

  • There is a perfection
    to the mockingbird’s song
    dropped from a black wire,
    to the white slashes
    of his spread tail feathers
    against this deep, clean blue.
    The choral repertoire
    of his hopes is […]

  • Revolution
    He watches the tail lights of her car
    disappear down the rutted driveway,
    throws a hammer after her
    yells don’t come back

    He turns towards his trailer
    weeds pushing through the metal s […]

  • During the months of our restricted movements, my wife and I have continued our nearly daily walking. Although we had developed the habit pre-Covid for the health of our bodies and minds, the pandemic has […]

  • Alone, timeworn—but still
    standing, even if its paint-scuffed radiators
    give no heat and its window frames
    leak and its doors don’t
    shut tight, everything foundering
    since its elder kee […]

  • “I was most grievously undone
    when I lost my footing on the shelf
    and swan dived to the floor
    splayed and back broken”,
    says the complete works of Shakespeare
    who now leans against the cash reg […]

  • Building rituals out of nothingness,
    I’m sitting on a park bench, reading
    Wallace Stevens on a sunny day
    when the flashing shadow of a crow
    darkens my library book.
    Perfect, I think.
    Where are the t […]

  • Christmas Eve Parable
    Phoebe, my five-year-old granddaughter adores the tiny
    wax Jesus who lies in the cradle of the creche that came
    down to us from now dead great grandparents. Wise men,
    Mary and Joseph, two […]

  • CHOPIN’S HEART
    A brief apocalypse has taken possession of my person.
    The streets are full of melancholy.

    Yesterday I fell asleep on the bus.
    The sound of someone crying woke me.

    Was it the woman slumped i […]

  • after Marie Howe
    It doesn’t matter that the sugar maple is leaning
    closer to the house, that the cluster of seeds
    I planted yesterday will wash away.

    Something doesn’t add up.
    The dishwasher sti […]

  • At university, I lived on A Cappella Lane, which dead-ended at the railroad tracks. Elm cool, the house had ivy as a front ‘lawn’ chaperoned by a short picket fence. The landlady had a walk-in basement apa […]

  • A STUDY IN RED AND WHITE

    Perhaps a poinsettia-shaped arrow,
    aimed perfectly by the mischievous son of Venus,
    brought pomegranate seed mayhem
    to this soul of mine.
    A red velvet cake secret
    snowballed […]

  •  

    In this time of social distancing, I have opened the box as Pandora must have done; 1500 pieces dumped like a pestilence onto the table, but like school children, all begging to know their place. During […]

  • In the Catacombs

    Ice hangs from the glass lantern,
    its dive caught midstream.
    It is patience itself,
    suspended in immense
    loneliness.

    Inside
    the fire flickers
    like a sunset descending
    behind the […]

  • Elizabeth,
    A very nice piece about coping with the times. Thankful we live in a rural or semi-rural area, outdoor activities may be what saves us, physically and spiritually.

  • Fred Wilbur wrote a new post 6 years ago

    69 Killed on Eastern Jet in a Crash near Charlotte
    New York Times,September 12, 1974

    Like Odysseus, you sail the ocean in howling winds.
    No arm chair academic in corduroys,
    you are my […]

  • Fred Wilbur wrote a new post 6 years ago

    Low clouds and the slate-
    colored river glimpsed
    through the trees, the train
    jolts into the day.
    A day like this compresses
    your thoughts into scraps, I said.
    One day’s like any other,
    they f […]

  • The Pines

    Behind Snow Drive,
    rusty needles led to a pine grove,
    where we made little circles
    with dirty rocks
    and lit little fires
    with matches lifted
    from the corner store.
    These days the pines
    that […]

  • “I change, but cannot die.” Shelly “The Cloud”

    As my wife and I are on our morning walk, I often comment on the clouds above: the constant change they float themselves through, the subtlety of hues they dr […]

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