Muse

On your haunches, you sit
knees bent, gripping them
with tight clasped arms,
sun reflected in your sad pensive eyes.
I feel your concrete presence,
light angles of your reflection,
a stillness in your constant form,
on dull grey quiet days, or
sun-drenched moments with more smiles.
I touch your forehead, fingers smooth
across your brow.
You seem to move
within my thoughts,
you fill me with all the breath
to continue on.
At times I hear the rush of air
so in and out through
your nostrils as you wait
for all the clutter to
settle into dust.
This breathing is my breath,
brings me to the still point
in the mirror, my reflection
in the water undisturbed,
my immersion in the cool
waters of the lake, my other medium,
your place so quiet,
knees bent, hunched,
arms hanging on, a foetus
of a thought.

Previously publsihed in Cyclamens and Swords, August, 2008

Chasing Sticks and Running Down the Wind

On the good days Patches thinks
she is a lamb
kicking up her heels,
propeller tail round and round
for balance as she runs.
On other days she clicks
the night time hardwood of the house
searching for her home,
lost and gulping for some air.
Her time has come; like all of us,
we have a time, a time
to return the elements that we are
back to the fertile places we were born.
Many fear this moment,
speculate on conjured images
of light and dark,
forever peace or fire and pain,
but Patches now led
quietly by the leash
knows only journey,
like her life,
knows only dreams of chasing sticks,
running down four foot waves,
digging holes in cool sand to lie
in the shade of summer’s heat, or
chasing down the autumn wind
along the beach, fur out flat,
a rippling blur.
I sometimes wonder why we
torture ourselves with pets,
knowing we are doomed to grieve for them?
Perhaps they teach us how to love,
to see each day as new,
full of dreams. Maybe in
their final days they show us
how to die, how to take
that moment as it arrives
still chasing sticks,
running down the wind.

David Fraser 2005

published in A Little Poetry Dec. 2005

Reading in the Round

Blackbirds, reading in the round
waiting turns, me
tense in the predicting of the spot
to start to call out
dancing letters in the words
syllables misarranged
sly substitutions lurking
poised to leap into the
swimming flow of text;
all mere performance for
some stupid clownsandcircus
story as its show time comes,
dry mouth, thick swollen tongue,
a stream of garbled sounds
lurching across the page,
line skipping, eye wandering,
blurring, hopping inky letters
on and on, until it is enough,
too much;
the drained silence,
an exhausted lowered head;
the words moving on,
now dancing in another’s mouth.

David Fraser 2005

published in Palabras Press Nov. 2005

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David Fraser likes to balance his life among a variety of activities in the areas of writing, education and sports. When he is not formally working as an educator, he is either writing and researching or involved in one of the following sports: alpine skiing, ski teaching as a full time professional ski instructor at Mt. Washington, BC http://www.mtwashington.bc.ca/winter/default.cfm , windsurfing, tennis, golf, cycling, hiking. In addition he likes to garden, listen to the blues, and search for his way through Taoism. He has built his second water garden which has become his new daily sanctuary. His is learning and refining his Spanish fluency and will travel back to Central and South America in the near future. He lives among the flora and fauna of the British Columbia West Coast.

Email: David Fraser

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