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Poet Bruce Foley writes: “I was born in Cambridge at Mount Auburn Hospital, as July 4th fireworks exploded over the Charles River. At around age two, we moved to Somerville, MA. My early youth was spent at Saint Catherine Elementary School. I would go on to participate in sports throughout Somerville and Greater Boston. At one time a Greater Boston League All Star in Basketball and Somerville High School football captain and quarterback. My interest in poetry began in high school, junior year. A Modern Poetry class, led by a very cool and learned guy, David Moriarty. Dave was encouraging, and here it is decades later, and I am writing still. It’s been challenging and fulfilling. Solitude and silence too, played a role in my writing. At one point in my life I was able to spend three years living pretty much alone. A hermitage up on Equinox mountain. Vermont. This was a defining moment and a deeply enriching period of creativity. After the experience of being published, winning contests or receiving an award, you become inspired, and you believe in yourself. Once this happens, who knows how far one can go? Poetry has been good to me. And Somerville will always be my home.”

Among Fields Of Cotton

Bruce Foley

Today walked I the fields of cotton
Where angel white hair upon the thicket grows
|Stepped and pressed the leaves wet trodden
Under a hard boot came I
With reverence in each careful stride

Birds of freedom sweetly singing
Stilled the heart with mind serene
Hidden deep beyond the tree line
The pine Carolina woodland green

Freedom! Freedom!
They entreated
Freedom! Freedom!
With song they greeted

Have you ever walked among fields of cotton
Where birdsong of freedom fills the air
Where on the wind there joins a chorus
Of long since gone echoing voices

Spirited soulful -Timelessly haunting
Hymns of the plantation
Those strong and brave
|Those denied life’s better choices
The captured chained African slave

Time stood still
Steps halted turning back
Gone, all silent peace went shattered
At the lightning snap of a bullwhips crack

Distant church bells stopped their ringing
Motionless hung the Spanish moss
Birds of freedom hushed their singing
Whispered came a word
The word was – loss

Loss of love-the gift of living
No love is known when a man is owned
No love is known when all is taken
In life, love comes in the giving

Have you ever walked among fields of cotton…

— Bruce Foley

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To have your work considered for the Lyrical send it to:
Doug Holder, 25 School St.; Somerville, MA 02143
dougholder@post.harvard.edu