width=61 height=87> David Fraser
Featured Poet

David Fraser David Fraser lives in Nanoose Bay, on Vancouver Island. He is the founder and editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine, since 1997. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in over 50 journals. He has also published a collection of his poetry Going to the Well (2004), a collection of short fiction, The Dark Side of the Billboard (2006 ), and edited and published the four print issues of Ascent Aspirations Magazine. A second collection of poetry, Running Down the Wind appeared in 2007. David is currently the Federation of BC Writers Regional Director for The Islands Region. His latest passion is developing Nanaimo's newest spoken word series, WordStorm.

David is the BC Federation of Writers Regional Director for The Islands Region. He earned his BA in English from University of Toronto, and an MEd in adult education from OISE. In Ontario he taught English, Creative Writing Writer's Craft among other subjects at the secondary school level for 30 years. He was the ski school director for High Park Snow School for 8 years. He is currently a full-time writer who also teaches skiing at Mt Washington in the winter.

(bio current as of June 2008)

This Sense of Time

I do not like this sense of time
counting days by the garbage that we make
a schedule of the week's pick up five year plan,
cycle of the bills to pay,
shopping days, shopping days left,
countdown to christmas
successions of uneventful events
christmas bleeds into new year,
swoons into valentine's day, good friday,
easter monday, the may hot holidays of spring,
nationalism days, bank holidays of summer,
days and daze, back to school days
leading to the labour day, thanksgiving
halloween to christmas once again.
Images are splashed at us
buy, buy, buy chocolate, buy candy,
buy cars, shavers, perfume
soap, clothes, chocolate-filled eggs,
sweet, hollow rabbits,
eat up, consume, tummy tucks , facial lifts
liposuction, new cars
with red ribbons and bows in the driveway,
elves making things,
making things, things we do
not want or need, want or need,
wrappers, packaging, mountains of this stuff,
cellulose tape, decapitated trees,
smashed pumpkins, wasted fruit,
ghouls, ghosts, vampires, bloodsucking
corporate mercantile hype,
time dressed up behind a mask,
the scurry of the people, day and night,
ringing doorbells, phoning
over dinner time, dumping
email puke across the screen,
all the school supplies
designer clothes, labels now,
me with one new shirt per year,
new pants, one free pencil,
the pink eraser, its pristine smell,
burnt cork hobo face at halloween,
not far from the truth.
This march of time paced out
in garbage days,
recycling trucks each week,
the robotic factories
belching out their goods and bads.

I do not like this sense of time.

Copyright  2006 David Fraser

Trading Dimes for Kisses in the Car

Help me find the tingle when 
we traded dimes for kisses in the car.
Help me find the sense
one hand in a mitten in my hand
the smell of perfumed wool forever in my mind
the press of hasty lips
teeth that clashed
then mouths that settled in exploring tongues
holding tension teased and raw.
Help me find the tingle when
you sidle up from exercise
to lay your waist around my arm
or when you are the slinky mama in your silver
out in search of blues and food
floating on the too long,
too long, too long baby
lyrics of a song in
moonlight dobro sway of light
hot air and alcohol
when all the muses dance the table tops
you wear me like your skin.
Help me find the tingle when
we traded dimes for kisses in the car.

Copyright  2006 David Fraser

Suicide Bomber

Two hands,
once soft on tender skin
lie mere fragments,
in their sangria sand and sacrifice,
diaphragm and belly ripped by dynamite,
the remnants of a breathing soul
draped in mingled pieces
of all the stolen lives
he stood among.
Such a misguided arc of passion
tempted him to such
a carnal house,
rooms wrapped in little children,
such destruction of a home,
a lost mind's retreat from hope,
such a mouth now, that once could kiss and love
exhales a stanch of hate
where nothing rational can be exhumed.

Copyright  2006 David Fraser

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.

Copyright  2006 David Fraser




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