– an epistle to lukas –

My brother, and I do mean my brother,

I hope these words treat you respectfully.

Time has sprinted since we faced each other;

it may get harder for you to remember me.


I would discuss the pleasures of our past,

conquering Kentucky, ATL, and Chi City,

that song we wrote and those talks that’d last

‘til our heads were less muddled, less dizzy.


I could ask about Mr. Frey in 2040,

the old ball and chain with offspring affixed,

those songs you’ll write and those legendary stories

with your guitars you will magically mix.


For now, I question your present state of affairs,

and if my Brother Bear is still a killing man.

Performing from a earnest heart without a care,

is Cool Hand Luke sticking to his own plan?


You’ve dreamed of painting imperfect portraits of lights,

singing of love in all its messy splendor.

You’ve played the chords of imperfect, electric nights,

followed by risen mornings, messy and tender.


Don’t tell me labor has turned your soaring soul sour;

winter cannot take delight away from a Ram.

Don’t tell me Ohio steals your smile by the hour –

the Lukas Lee Frey I know doesn’t give a damn!


We’re not too far away from a peculiar day of days,

as the scent of gifts and greed fill the worldly room.

I don’t expect you are naughty or nice in any way;

I just pray you are okay and not frozen too soon.


Be who you were meant to be; treat yourself well.

Write what you were meant to write, and you will win.

With all this holiday cheer, that’s all I have to tell

until I see you, my dearest brother, once again.

D.J. Whisenant


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