September 2016
Frederick Wilbur
fcwilbur@verizon.net
fcwilbur@verizon.net
I was brought up and still live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia so I rely on imagery derived from the natural landscape to explore human relationships. My wife, Elizabeth, and I have two daughters and three grandchildren. I have been an architectural woodcarver for over 35 years and have written numerous articles and three books on the subject. My poetry has appeared in Shenandoah, Green Mountains Review, The Lyric, The South Carolina Review, Southern Poetry Review, and others.
'
Summer’s Peach Parade
for Elizabeth
You must be patient, anxious as high school
seniors for graduation, for final grades.
On a promise, I put a peck of Early Red Havens
on our kitchen table. You watch them ripen.
After dinner we share them over the sink.
They decorate our kids' cereal as if gold
at the bottom of the box—revenge
on the dust of whole grains and old harvests.
Homework never rewarded so timely.
Southern Pearls, Sentries, John Boys,
Lorings, Blakes parade the days
of July cobbler and August pie, fear
only the bruise of hail and the first crisp
days of apples that scout the orchard’s edge—
the yellow bus is seen wandering back roads.
Our kids know the prizes of county fair are safe
in jars of perfect jam, like September friends,
they will grace winter’s warm waffles.
Elegy for Food
Say goodbye to foods we loved as kids
try as we might to save them.
We add value to what survives
with labels: heirloom, original, artisanal.
Say farewell to sweets and ice cream,
watermelon seeds, roadside raspberries,
the decadence of season is now global,
stamped with barcodes and acronyms.
Dites au revoir to gentle living—
the whole pyramid is prepackaged in stacks
of cans and boxes, frozen, or shrunk,
even apples are plastic, 3-D printed.
Forget the allergic reaction, the rebellion
of microbes, the chemical soup,
forget that our food is slowly killing us—
arrange to donate your body to science.
The Gift
In frenzied spring, I hack blackberry canes,
slash through a history of thicket
to mutilate their green children—
no mercy for the corruptors of lawn.
In summer sweat the skirmish continues,
I pillage pearl-black fruit, thirst to fill
the basket, am bloodied by rapiers
and revenge. Sullied, I curse the crude justice.
I take them as an offering to her,
she cups her hands, shares the stain,
the prize, but reminds me how I
delight in my rages. She has taught
me to hold back apologies, knows what I am.
Thanks me for the cool of the evening.
-first published in The Sweetbay Review
Summer’s Peach Parade
for Elizabeth
You must be patient, anxious as high school
seniors for graduation, for final grades.
On a promise, I put a peck of Early Red Havens
on our kitchen table. You watch them ripen.
After dinner we share them over the sink.
They decorate our kids' cereal as if gold
at the bottom of the box—revenge
on the dust of whole grains and old harvests.
Homework never rewarded so timely.
Southern Pearls, Sentries, John Boys,
Lorings, Blakes parade the days
of July cobbler and August pie, fear
only the bruise of hail and the first crisp
days of apples that scout the orchard’s edge—
the yellow bus is seen wandering back roads.
Our kids know the prizes of county fair are safe
in jars of perfect jam, like September friends,
they will grace winter’s warm waffles.
Elegy for Food
Say goodbye to foods we loved as kids
try as we might to save them.
We add value to what survives
with labels: heirloom, original, artisanal.
Say farewell to sweets and ice cream,
watermelon seeds, roadside raspberries,
the decadence of season is now global,
stamped with barcodes and acronyms.
Dites au revoir to gentle living—
the whole pyramid is prepackaged in stacks
of cans and boxes, frozen, or shrunk,
even apples are plastic, 3-D printed.
Forget the allergic reaction, the rebellion
of microbes, the chemical soup,
forget that our food is slowly killing us—
arrange to donate your body to science.
The Gift
In frenzied spring, I hack blackberry canes,
slash through a history of thicket
to mutilate their green children—
no mercy for the corruptors of lawn.
In summer sweat the skirmish continues,
I pillage pearl-black fruit, thirst to fill
the basket, am bloodied by rapiers
and revenge. Sullied, I curse the crude justice.
I take them as an offering to her,
she cups her hands, shares the stain,
the prize, but reminds me how I
delight in my rages. She has taught
me to hold back apologies, knows what I am.
Thanks me for the cool of the evening.
-first published in The Sweetbay Review
©2016 Frederick Wilbur
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