Remembering Bernard Fraley: “how to live among my brothers and sisters”

We lost a dear mem­ber of the WinCity Voices fam­i­ly recent­ly. Bernard Fraley Jr. passed away on Tuesday.

Bern was one of our orig­i­nal con­trib­u­tors at WinCity Voices. His poet­ry and prose delight­ed us for near­ly three years. He had a unique insight into the human con­di­tion and our con­nec­tion to fel­low crea­tures and all of nature. He loved to exper­i­ment with dif­fer­ent forms of writ­ing. The last piece we pub­lished was an exper­i­ment in a new form of poet­ry he called “Ventilated Poetry.” (Making Day Personal).

His insights into life, sea­soned by a keen wit and sar­don­ic sense of humor, added a col­or­ful twist to the work of our pub­li­ca­tion. His pieces often sparked a range of emo­tions in read­ers, from awe and a sense of the sacred, to tears, and laughter. 

His son Keith Fraley had this to say about his father in announc­ing his death on social media:

“Bernard was a true poly­math, a mod­ern-day Renaissance man whose pas­sions spanned music, lit­er­a­ture, film, paint­ing, and writ­ing. His pres­ence was a bea­con for many on this plat­form, and his absence will be deeply felt, espe­cial­ly by those who had the for­tune of know­ing him beyond these dig­i­tal pages. In his mem­o­ry, per­haps the next time you find your­self on a grassy patch, take a moment to walk bare­foot. It’s a sim­ple, mean­ing­ful ges­ture to hon­or and remem­ber a remark­able man.”

Sadly, I nev­er got to meet Bern in per­son. His health was already in decline by the time he intro­duced him­self to me via email and humbly asked to be a con­trib­u­tor to WinCity Voices. We cor­re­spond­ed fre­quent­ly by email and through social media and I feel like I got at least a glimpse of the man.

What I saw was a hum­ble and kind per­son who unique­ly grasped the del­i­cate bal­ance of all liv­ing things and rec­og­nized the qui­et dig­ni­ty of all life on Earth. He found holi­ness in the sim­plest of life’s plea­sures. His church was the forests, the hills, the streams, and mead­ows of his Kentucky home; his priest was the human heart.

Bern left us with an exten­sive col­lec­tion of books he has authored on Amazon. I love the bio he wrote about him­self there, which reveals an hon­est, self-effac­ing, and hum­ble view of himself:

“I have been a deliv­ery dri­ver, sales­man, man­ag­er, busi­ness own­er, sol­dier, drug deal­er, addict, lec­tur­er, preach­er, Sunday school teacher, pho­tog­ra­ph­er, painter, poet, dig­i­tal design­er, mechan­ic, web­mas­ter, reporter, news­pa­per edi­tor, home own­er, renter, home­less, poor, rich, and bankrupt.

“I have walked bare­foot in fields of hors­es, worn wingtips in mar­ble halls, tast­ed cold water from a moun­tain stream, guz­zled spir­its at the tables of friends, slept alone on the cold ground of con­struc­tion sites.

“I have smelled like an onion, and walked like a duck, and once, even cleaned my house.”

Of the sto­ries and poems he wrote for us, one of my favorites is a tale called “Brother Rat,” in which Bern describes how he came to appre­ci­ate and even abide with a crea­ture he — like most of us — ini­tial­ly feared and dread­ed. The sto­ry includes this gem:

“I am begin­ning to think that maybe the Tao has brought me a teacher. Perhaps, from the rat, I might learn how to live among my dis­liked broth­ers and sis­ters, how to find and build on com­pro­mis­es, yet keep healthy emo­tion­al and phys­i­cal distances.”

A favorite poem of mine is a short one called “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.

It is in places where those go
with bleed­ing noses, torn ears, gashed throats
with no hope …
those let­ting go into the current’s flow.

It is in places where kids go
hunt­ing shiny stones, black bee­tles, splash­ing waters
among puff­ing dan­de­lions …
where even scor­pi­ons feel ground falling away.

Holy is in places like oceans of air
where flags float, change, shape and move,
are moved …
like mir­a­cles of wind travel.

All of Bern’s work that we have pub­lished can be found here: Author: Bernard Fraley.  

His Facebook page is already over­flow­ing with lov­ing trib­utes, pho­tos, and remem­brances from fam­i­ly and friends. One friend wrote a poem for him. Another post­ed a fun­ny car­toon. As one would expect from such a hum­ble man, he allowed any­one to post to his page. If you knew Bern and would like to add your own thoughts, I’m sure he would­n’t mind. 

I’m not a poet, but I occa­sion­al­ly dab­ble. Here’s an unas­sum­ing haiku to hon­or an unas­sum­ing man:

Bern’s words soft­ly fall
Like whis­pers on the spring breeze
Verses bloom, enthrall.

Farewell, my friend. You live on in our hearts and in the amaz­ing body of work you left. Perhaps that is your great­est gift to us all.