Fred Wolven

LIVING THROUGH CHILDHOOD

Waiting on my grandparents’ side porch
I look out across the yard under chestnut trees
Watching for the vegetable man bringing his wagon
Down the street, his old horse moving slowly,
Its hoofs striking with a loud plop
Rather than the crisp ring of horseshoes on brick.
And each week, from the time I spotted him,
I waited and watched till his wagon passed by,
For my grandmother usually didn’t buy anything.

Thinking of Flowers

The day before Easter
We gave you flowers
Leaving them on the table
For you to find before dinner.

You were surprised and delighted
As the light reflecting, danced off
A tear caught in your eye
Visible when you didn’t expect.

Then you tickled our daughter
Giving her a hug and kiss,
She being already puffed up
With self worth
For having selected these fragile buds.

Now, in another town I remember
I came here to slip away from you
In order to write. Picking up this pen,
I form words on paper and push out feelings
Before thinking again.



Rain

Rain drops,
The sound of rain hitting pavement,
Reminds me of fall leaves
Settling on wet grass.



I Remember

I remember grandmother,
When she was seventy,
Trying to instill an attitude of respect
Respect
            for the quiet beauty
            and silent moments
            of human encounter
            with the natural world,

for a butterfly dipping in flight
            wings fluttering
            in a summer breeze,
for a firefly glowing on and off
            a single light
            in the night air,
for a golden leaf newly fallen
            the late afternoon sun
            catching its subdued colors,
for daylight breaking over a calm street
            the concrete and window landscape
            echoing, reflecting
            the silence
            before a new day.

Christmas Poem

I feel that stone again
Jagged, not round,
Moving with my motions
As though we’re connected
By more than this string
With which I tied this package;
Still, these false thrusts
With which I might push it away
Are not meant to.

No, for the stone has its own beauty,
Something I can’t quite describe
Should I even want to.

HE SAID, “A POEM WAS MEANT TO BE,”

but, I have trouble finding the ends of lines
sometimes…
the words, like some thoughts,
just seem to stop
                         or drop
or continue
sometimes into patterns
forming outside me
and so,
lines become poems,

and sometimes
the poems become mine.



Copyright © 2006 Fred Wolven

Cover Design: Joseph McNair