Fred Wilbur

  • 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.

  • 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 […]

  • 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 […]

  • While I waited there
    in the terminal at Newark,
    I spotted something
    out of the corner of my eye.
    It was a bird flying back
    and forth along the ceiling,
    and because I was
    in an airline […]

  • Peace Offering
    I still don’t know what to do
    with the jacket hanging in my
    closet. It’s not that old but like
    a Brautigan novel is out of fashion.
    Maybe it all comes down to math
    and how for the first tim […]

  • —for Nicole Marie

    She asked me to stand by her side,
    But I wanted to see it all
    Because I knew that I’d forget—
    Even as hard as I’d want to remember—
    The brunt and the bitter
    Forcing my son in […]

  • Once the Thunder Stops

    and it’s safe to venture out, we walk
    to the end of the drive, out to the road,
    through the mire & torn branches.
    The smell of our wood fire mingles

    with eucalyptus. We have only t […]

  • Mountain spruce
    on upward slopes:
    their pale under-blue
    unwraps the clouds
    in their slow round
    of visiting.
    We taste tracery
    of strange soaps
    on our skins. You
    turn towards me,
    awake […]

  • Twin sisters Fuchsia & Diamond,
    twins in the sense they matured
    in the same kiln, not expelled
    from one womb, dance to punk
    band A Testament Of Youth,
    Tuesday night, Dugan’s Deli,
    Iowa State U […]

  • Men croon
    playful puns about you.
    Men legislate, fix
    your tan tunic
    and wide bulb
    with geography.
    Men say your sweetness comes
    from the soil,
    comes from a depression-era accident
    from a patch of sandy […]

  • Load More

Streetlight Magazine is the non-profit home for unpublished fiction, poetry, essays, and art that inspires. Submit your work today!