Author: Bernard Fraley
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Ballad of Fearsome’s Coffee Café
Come gather 'round, and lend an ear, A tale of change and dreams I'll steer. In Kentucky's land where stories unfold, Lived Squirrely McPherson, as the tale is told. In oaks, where nature’s tales often bloom, A tenant, Squirrely Mac, was heir presumed; From a grandfather's hand, the gift did fall – A Kentucky coffee…
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Know Your Place
I was thinking about Winchester and its surrounding county. I was thinking about the places we live and how we get so caught up in the struggles of living that we forget to be aware of the beauty and mysteries around us and how our own lives can add to the beauty of that place.
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Our Changing Course
After reading Harry Enoch's ‘genealogy’ of Winchester, I was contemplating all the people I knew while growing up and all those who came before – of the things they did, the seeds they planted that have bloomed into a city we call Winchester. I was moved by a bit of sadness that they are not…
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How not to read poetry
Around 10,100 poetry books are published, and over three million copies are sold every year in the USA, yet only 11.7% of US citizens read those books. The number of readers is rapidly increasing with internet and digital audio availability, but it still remains a small percentage of the population. I had a professor who…
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Tissues of Creation
A new poem from Bernard Fraley, "The Tissues of Creation." A short read, but worthy of long contemplation.
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The Purpose of Poetry
There are places where I do not know names for the birds, or the flowers, or mountains.
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Finding Cathedral
Places of the holy are not just in temples hinting of thistle-colored bodies, sulphured-crystal wings, and pleasurable dreams. Holy is in the unquestioned presence of heart.
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String Songs
The old man fingered the strings of his old guitar; they throbbed deep with feeling and sang high as the stars; like none before, the notes struck reverberant hearts. I begged, “Teach me your style, your songs, and all their parts.”
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Remembered Remains
When I was a boy, some of my most exciting days were when the farmer plowed his fields behind our house. After the first rain we would roam those furrows looking for flint arrowheads, spearheads, and some lucky times, find a piece of broken clay pottery left by a civilization long departed. Imagining those ancient…
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Come In, Come In
I am your address, stranger; How else could you come here? I am eating the most perfect stalk of celery. In this way I have become my grandfather, but I do not know which one.