People talked. There were stories. Some good. Some bad. But stories nonetheless. Who was this Fred? Did he even exist?

I’m here to tell you that, at least for a time in the 1980s, Fred did exist. Invented by the brilliant mind of a very good friend, Fred was a poetic manifestation of a brooding high schooler named… me. In truth, I merely wielded the pen. A real pen. You see, Fred Poetry was handwritten. Of course it was—we had no computers. But the credit for Fred’s existence really belongs in four places: his creator–Brooke Anne Lewis (Kilroy); our ninth grade English teacher, Jim Yates; Dr. Seuss; and the many young ladies of North Park Junior High and Lockport Senior High who were smart enough to turn me down when I asked them out.

Back then, Fred was dark, somber and maybe even a little depressing. Now as a fully grown but partially tall adult, I find Fred mildly amusing and kind of fun. I hope you do too.

is fred dead?

Someone said, “Fred is dead.”

I disagree.
I think instead,
If it were true what someone said
You couldn’t read what you just read.

For I am Fred.
And Fred’s not dead.

Love, Fred.

fred’s hat

Fred lost his head but isn’t dead
and hasn’t bled.

“Wait,” someone said. “Who is this Fred without a head, who isn’t dead?”

To this, I said:

“I am the Fred of whom you read, who lost his head and hasn’t bled. Still, I’m not dead, so I ask instead, since you have a head…

Sir, did you take my hat?”

Love, Fred.

broken-hearted fred

“My heart is DEAD,” said Fred, as he sat erect in bed.

“I can’t be led, nor go by sled, to valleys where my heart has tread.

“Instead…

“Here I sit in yonder bed and ponder where to find my head.

“Alas, that head, for fear I dread, be with my heart. Together, DEAD.”

Love, Fred.

fred’s strange slumber

Fred lost his head when he fell out of bed. A tear he did shed, as the blood ran so red, For if he had no head it would mean he was dead.

So strange was this Fred, that he thought as he bled, 
If I found my head then I wouldn’t be dead.

So away this Fred sped in search of his head, 
which he found by the spread that lay next to his bed.

Oh, how happy was Fred to recover his head, that he sat down and said, “I see no more red from the blood of my head, so I must not be dead.”

So no more do you dread.
No more tears do you shed.
For Fred is not dead and at last has his head.

Once more sleeping is Fred, but not in his bed.
He must keep his head.
So, he sleeps on the floor… instead.

Love, Fred.

So what do you think? Weird, right. Well, Fred was a weird dude. I’ll leave you with one more example and the hope (or fear) that there are other Fred poems floating around. Feel free to borrow Fred to feed your own weirdness. Just send me a copy… Maybe I’ll even add a Friends of Fred page.

Cheers!

the legend of fred

Once there was Fred,
a bizarre soul, some said.

“They” threw him from bed,
trounced on his head,
and tore his heart until it bled.

Now, alas, this dark soul, Fred,
at long last, is finally dead.

But no tears will be shed
over Fred,
for none will recall any words that he said,
or the life that he lead.
Only that he is dead.

Love, Fred.