The day after my last post here, December 19th, my mother died unexpectedly. I am not in a place to be able to write about it, or her right now. I am sitting with my grief as best I can. My mother was 78. I miss her .
lei fraser
imagine.create.become
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I found some unsent letters that I wrote sixteen years ago. I wrote them for the twelve days of Christmas. I don’t remember why I started writing them, or who each letter was for. I also did not know it at the time, but a year later, my world would shatter and life would never be the same.
I would love to be able to say that I have healed fully from that time but I know that is not entirely true. I am still healing and learning. I am sure I will be for the rest of my life. These letters remind me that the path is still there to be wandered and I will continue to discover more about myself.
These letters are a snapshot of a different time, a different me. I am grateful to have remembered them today. One week before Christmas, these letters are a little gift from the past, and I am grateful for that too. The great thing is… I have time still.. maybe enough time to write some more letters for future me to read. A nice littler reminder to keep going.
On the second day of Christmas
On the fourth day of Christmas
On the seventh day of Christmas
On the eighth day of Christmas
On the eleventh day of Christmas
On the twelfth day of Christmas
~
lfraser 2009
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I didn't ask for this
these lines and curves
etched in stone
broken songs
lost poetry
interrupted by the turning
of the sun
the moon
I didn't ask for this
the wandering strings
that tie this heart to another
held by a fish hook through
scaled flesh
in spite of myself
broken songs
lost poetry
interrupted by the turning
of the sun
the moon
I didn't ask for this
when the sky is clear
or filled with enough clouds
for the setting sun to paint
and the birds fall silent
while night creeps over
broken songs
lost poetry
interrupted by the turning
of the sun
the moon
~
la fraser 2025Share this:
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One summer, long time ago, I grew this sunflower. By grew, I mean I planted the seeds, watered and weeded, but mostly just watched as the flower grew and grew. It grew taller than the eavestrough of the house I was living at the time. I did not measure it, but it was huge compared to my 5’3″ self at the time. My camera helped me to see it a bit more closely without knocking it down. My camera has done that many time over the years – helped me to see the world a little differently, helped me to get some perspective, helped me to stop and have a look, and has helped me to see the beauty in every day.
Friends have often suggested that I could mix my poetry and photography (even the paintings) and they are not wrong, but I hesitate to do that because some photos anyway are poetry on their own. How better can I express the meaning of turning myself to the light than to share this photograph? The moment captured in the brilliant yellow petals and soft brown face of the sunflower? I am not sure that I could. So, I will just share this pretty, gentle giant instead.
~ Leigh-Anne
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a part of me remains unchanged in the time we have known each other your reflection a drop falling to meet the calm, cool lake water moments wrapped in layers like pebbles rolling in endless waves I am there that part of me that has always been tumbling You are there in those rolling ripples the ones you made through my life with simple words with love there and I am no longer unseen ~
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like a fly crawling across the screen door on a hot August afternoon time passes in slow plodding steps when you are gone I listen to the cicada scream in the trees the heat of the day grows as I coax another minute on the clock to stumble into the past you are never far from my thoughts still I count the minutes the hours the days until I hear your voice again knowing I only have to close my eyes to see you open my heart to feel you open my arms to hold you ~
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where do I begin along these empty lines to unfold the days lay them out on the desk in carefully crafted phrases wind them in delicate circles around my body tucked into a thousand pieces of paper waiting for the north wind to catch them through the window beginning with hope laughter in the fresh crisp air days stretch over rooftops long lines left by sunsets and shadows waiting for the sky to change dust collects on shelves decades old while I sit in the half light listening to whispers and heart beats holding joy before it fades ~ la 2021
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turn the dial as the sun passes the window orange glow soup heats on the stove I stretch my arms to wrap around the empty space empty embrace before me fluorescent light distorts my reflection lines point in different directions around the eyes don't know where to look to find the truth which line to step along or trace night creeps up onto the windowsill perched just outside looking in ~ la 2021
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lines on the page drawn with a careful hand outlines move in slow curves to the centre crossing over in unexpected intersections blank pages slowly fill colour pulled by sunlight sneaking through cracks we are okay alone living in the corners of our soul but together is better when the lines meet before continuing on ~ la 2021
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your voice falls over me like honey from a spoon held high enough to slip down to cover to soothe to calm me I breathe again for the first time not realizing I had held my breath for years breath comes dressed in laughter in tears in healing in freedom an unintended gift perhaps not understood it does not matter now that the cage door is open I stretch beyond what I bowed to and gather torn pieces in my arms ready to fly ~ la 2020
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the pause after the end leaning into another beginning that place I want need to step into it fold my body fold my heart fold myself to curl around you to hold you close to me and be held beyond the edge of myself but like a thousand steel needles I fear if I close my eyes I am lost alone bound and torn into slim ribbons of existence I hold myself out to where dreams thrive and follow me like music through the trees ask for nothing in return just a pause before ~ la 2020
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I have let these threads weave between us in loose and fragile patterns that complicates itself in the futility of existence I go and return to you as the sun passes the window pulling light into corners where it has not touched yet before leaving again I wake and sleep not moving in this isolation allowing what needs to be I have let these threads weave between us in loose and fragile patterns I have let these threads remain ~ la 2020
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lei fraser 