David Fraser: Canadian Poet
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Poet, spoken-word performer, publisher, editor.

"Head creeps into being on tender feet, last night all dancing wine."
News
Poems 2023

What Has Happened to the Kissing?
 
What has happened to the kissing,
afternoons when young lips drank
from each other’s well.
Surprises ambushed by desire, swollen lips 
drinking from an endless stream.
 
What has happened to the kissing,
a step away from a touch,
a brush of lips across the neck,
a turn toward you, to meet again
like dust creating stars.
 
 
David Fraser Feb. 2023


Love Poem for Three Generations
 

The day is over now,
so come away,
as when your nearness 
could comfort me.
Remember in the garden
working in the soil,
sun blazing on our faces,
how we felt this place
we created from bare earth
how we fertilized the future
and raised closely and from a distance
those little girls we knew
before they grew, strong enough,
to follow dreams.
 
David Fraser Jan 2023 


Featured Published Poems


When Bone Ships Sailed the Stars
 
When they approached the cliff
there was no turning back. It’s then
they carved a ship from the hollow bone
of a great sea serpent’s skull,
fashioned sails from its skin
before the creature rotted,
bleached by sun and water by the sea.
With each passing day, with tools
once forged in zero gravity, they worked,
etching runes and circuitry,
the rotting smell enough to make
the starving hurl their stomachs on the rocks.
At night in a cave, on an oak table
they unfolded all the stars in the milky way
and spread them like a map
lit by harnessed sun and candle light.
 
In them was a spirit not destroyed and they would gather
by the hot tide pools tempered by the sea,
and search late summer skies for answers,
make up stories for the questions that still remained.
Their solar barque was fitted with the tiny bones
of all the animals they loved, fingers from children
who’d died too young, and the long thin shanks
of the wasted ones who once had brought them home
in woven baskets and swaddling clothes.
They drew messages on the polished surface of the hull--
arc of the moon, a rising sun, studded holes punched
into a black night sky. They knew of ghost ships
that could appear out of a foggy night, or from around
a cluster of debris afloat and held in space.
They knew the danger waiting there. They knew
not to listen to the Sirens call that came from deep in time.
 
There were some who stayed, grounded, and wrote
of ancient floods and arks preserved on mountain tops,
but the carvers knew from beyond those histories,
that those stories were caught up too much with words.
And when they left—a great rising up of oars
and sail to catch the solar winds—with regret
they watched those who could not escape,
watched them fashion stone shapes of great ship hulls
in meadows as a message to draw them back,
watched them paint on rock walls with fingers dipped
in blood and berry juice in flame and shadows, and
watched them with mathematics lay out huge stones
as signs on the desert sand.  Regret they knew
for their great bone ship was destined
only for the stars.
 
 
David Fraser
Previously published in Tesseracts 18, 2015



​Margaret, December 1971
 
On the snow I hold my arms out wide like the angel above my brother’s crib. Mr. Harris will be mad at me when he knows I’m missing from his class. He’ll call my mom and she’ll be mad at me, and we’re moving on the weekend; Uncle Bobby’s helping us. When Mr. Harris finds me in the snow, I’ll tell him how last night I held my baby brother, how blue he was, how quiet, like my doll with her missing arm, how I didn’t tell my mom ‘cause she was busy with Uncle Bobby, banging the bed against the wall. I won’t tell him how I carried my baby brother with me to the school, how I made angels for him in the snow, how I made a crib and tucked him in behind the bushes by the steps and made more angels to keep him safe. They thought he was a doll. I won’t tell Mr. Harris how each night I want, not to cry, just stay warm, like my baby brother now, wrapped up in his bed beneath the snow.
 
David Fraser
Previously published in After All the Scissor Work Is Done, A collection published by Leaf Press Spring 2016



​
The Bogeyman an We Never Knew                                 
 
When they found him,
he’d been dead for many weeks,
feet propped up in a La-Z-Boy,™
head back, mouth a grin,
bare-chested with curled grey hair
on pale white flesh,
just in his underwear,
yellowed jockeys, elastic graphed
into his skin, scattered centre-folds
of porn, upon his lap,
crusted, dried ejaculate
caught in the creases
where the naked breasts of strange
women came to visit him.
 
We always wondered what he did
inside that house. In the early morning
he would sit on his veranda steps, or
late at night, there in the shadows
watching everyone pass by.
 
He slept on a walnut dining table
with a pillow and a sheet,
heat lamp suspended from the ceiling
where a chandelier had hung.
We often wondered how old he was
behind that beard, those squinting eyes,
that silent mouth that coughed up
phlegm and horked it into the Spiraea
on each side of his veranda steps.
 
We often wondered about his loneliness
and never once imagined how,
in the creases of his mind
he’d preyed on some
with backpacks, books and skipping ropes,
short summer dresses in May and June,
and even on the rainy days of fall,
and the bundled-up late afternoons
when winter stalked the streets.
 
We just never knew, and that’s what,
when we found him, scared us most.


David Fraser
Previously published in After All the Scissor Work Is Done: A collection published by Leaf Press Spring 2016




Organizations
League of Canadian Poets
Federation of BC Writers
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Planet Earth Poetry
Fat Oyster Reading Series
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  • Friday's Poems
    • Friday's Poems 2018
    • Friday's Poems 2017
    • Friday's Poems 2016
  • Poetry
    • New Collection
    • Poetry Matters
    • Collected Poetry
    • Recent Poetry
  • Reviews
  • Collections
  • The Book Store
  • Appearances
    • Credits
    • Current Performance Posters
  • Spoken Word Archives
  • Links
    • Contact >
      • Blog
  • Resources