Tag Archives: song

Again And Again

4 Oct

I’ll let you bury me in the soft and secret earth

and I will come to rise again in a bright and brand new birth
my voice is like the moaning of the wind among the trees
my breath is like the chilling and eternal northern breeze
a bird who gives a weary call of painful joy in song
the feet of children pushing all the gutter leaves along

I am one, I’m a hundred more
I am none, I’m part of the core
I am yours, and I belong
I am ours, I am right, I am wrong
I’m below, I’m high above
I’m within, I am hate, I am love
I am here, and I’m in pain
I am gone, and I relive it
again and again
and again and again

I will wish the wishing of the lost for evermore
and I will stand defying any man who draws his sword
my sense is all in ecstasy, my people know me well
my world does not include a choice of heaven or of hell
I’m in the heart of every living thing, it was my fate
try to deny it but by and by it will prove to carry weight

© 1986-2014 brent david fraser, all rights reserved


Ode, To Keaton Simons

25 Mar

Some people sigh that the depth of the eye is the deep of the soul’s affair
I’m prone to believe that children conceive of a freedom to fly through the air
He was barefoot and shirtless, happy and hurtless, a few years away from his teens
Like the brave we adore, like a wave hits a shore, he suffered my horrible scenes

And every while that he’s turned with a smile to transmit a welcoming word
I let go the wrong he undoes with his song, and the beautiful calling he’s heard
And some have a song that will not be long, come the hammering bell of the blue
And some have a song, so sweet and so strong, that they sing it their whole life through

He plays a guitar that was touched by a star;
His grandfather’s old antique
His only pose is a question that knows
And a smile that is willing to seek
He helps me to see how the truth sets me free
And that is his only mystique
He fashions his phrase with a love that he plays
And that’s how he learned to speak

And years can deceive, but I’m prone to believe he’s still flying inside like a child
His grip on his gift is a spiritual lift and a magic that drives me wild
I see some of me, what I wanted to be, and trust that he’ll handle the road
And hear such a voice that has almost no choice but to sing, and it lightens my load

©2005 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

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