to wake to know nothing

to wake to know nothing
leaves me in bed a trifle
longer than expected

epiphany startles
the dreamer in mauvy prints
softest of imprinting

beginning in the womb-
this need to know, until it
turns on its face:

surrendering
to the pure singing stream
wind, having died down

sky, just beginning
to lighten- we can see through
the northern window

this grace magnified:
however much we fall and break,
the ground is forever

forgiving; full well knowing-
it too walked on legs
held a job, paid bills

Kate Lamberg

8/25/12

sierra drops her copy/one week until the end of august

sierra drops her copy(a prose poem)

sierra drops her copy of 'conversations with god' onto the hardwood floor
i'm tired of reading the same old things, she muttered to herself; the cats
felt her disappointment; no longer did the words, which she would often quote
at parties, and between her closest friends have a special resonance-

she felt cheated--eternal truths? what are those birds? they don't take
up residence in this hearth, my sanctuary, --she then spoke out loud

the truth of the matter is this: she felt all of the spiritual books
she gravitated to, and let speak to her flesh and bones,
were... this fine warm morning..outdated, &
they carried no weight-- no perfume of depth;
a quick sadness was followed by relief

sierra decided to purely flow with whatever messages
were inscribed in the center of her broad fanned forehead-
whatever was incised in gold onto her wide lovely heart,
would be the words she would bring to the table

her maple dining room table had a single basket
filled with a dark blue sunhat, one chinese fan, with six blue
and white morning glories hand painted upon  it,
and one sweet ceramic white and grey mourning dove

also, strewn all over were books
she was planning on reading
this summer, this SUMMER


One Week Until the end of August (poem)


one week until the end
of august-  oh joy-
sailboat becomes loosened

drifts out on its own,
into the chaotic winds
so neatly bookmarked, in between
southern connecticut and northern long isle

the long island sound, awash with fragrance
tunneled vision coming alive--as the sails pop
open, their cream canvas glittering
in the northeastern sun

a day promising pantomime,
shadow boxing, poor boy tops drying;
a day to kick back the shudders
and pardon the inconsistencies;

a day of the highest order

Kate Lamberg
8/25/12

encircling

encircling your rough, thick, red bark
i know why sky larks sing so early
and how to dance in moon light's wake

without effort all things spring to life:
how you chime your chordal grace
spirals up the red tree's face

as music spills o'er gardens, and fields
awake to witness the worn bark, it's song,
hesitating in the heat, before dark

when wishes buried decades ago
beneath the deep crimson redwood tree
come alive, with prayers parading as natural glee

Kate Lamberg
7/15/12

There is a road from the eye to the heart-a prose poem~

There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect." ~Gilbert Keith Chesterton


patience is not a product of her generation, she told herself while walking in the early morning.

some sun just came into view, after seeing only dark grey skies after sunrise.

at dawn the boom of thunder, some flashes of lightening and a hard, but quick rain left a clean vibrant scent in the air.

movement always quells her longing heart, and walking in the woods often softens her hurt of missing her love.

from her peripheries she sees the light, brightening still, through the pine fronds of the douglas fir. she pictures in her mind's eye, the taller balsalm pines, she remembers from her visit to the pacific northwest.

being with her beloved then, makes it easier to visualize.
wistful walking on flat land in the northeast woods,
the woods she has always called home.

sitting on the pine needles, some yellowed by an intensely warm summer, others still fragrant and deep green, she aligns her back with a blue spruce. songs her grandma sang to her, come flooding into her heart and mind.

you are my sunshine, somewhere over the rainbow, climb every mountain.

realizing all the songs contained visions of nature, she smiled a broader grin.

her grandma would be so very happy to know, she had thought of her that way.

in her mind she sings the songs, from beginning to end, full well knowing:

in some crazy way, her grandma, as an angel looking down with enormous love, hears her,

& blesses her for being brave, for letting miracles be a part of her every day.

rainbow colors sing
softly in the changing light
prayers stuck in pine trees

Photo and Poem by Kate Lamberg~
Copyrighted. For sharing, by permission of authour only.

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truth or consequences

If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.”
― Mark Twain


if we keep secrets from others
are we lying--in the grass snakes slither
and hiss as if to protect their territory

do we too slither and hiss to protect
the truth-  as we hold a baby
not wishing any harm to come

can we try to let the baby
down, and place her gently
on the carpet, tethered

between our feet firmly placed
upon the ground, green
grass grows without trying

what are we holding captive
can we release fear's insistence
that if anyone really knew the blues

we waltzed upon- the clear frozen streams
would they wish to join us in the journey
known through skating and breaking through;

the ice is cold but stings us into awakening
the air feels warm upon stepping out
of frozen pond, as long as water

moves, and frost grows on isinglass
oak doors shut for another century;
unless, we, with care creak it open-

sailing down the hallways
ivy aside--pearly gates---not yet
we've got a lot of living left to do


she bites into the apple,
and spits out a half of a worm
not poison, she twirls a curl

between her index finger and thumb
not pointing towards anyone-
she decides, for once,  to tell the truth


Kate Lamberg
8/12/12

your ears are your own

The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space,
but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm,
nor the voice that echoes it
~Khalil Gibran

your ears are your own

gifted from a deep place of comfort
listening, furnishing both
the music & the musician
for ever spinning etudes

spirit's song from water's edge
spilling into rivers deep
reverberation, returning
to you-  restoring sleep

ears  born in spiritsong
listening--literally cracking open
ears of corn in a storm


Kate Lamberg
8/8/12

It is plain as day, and as hot as it gets.

It is as plain as day, and as hot as it gets. Two thirty in the afternoon in august. The light spills through the western kitchen windows.  Pushy and undivided, it pours through both the thick mexican quilt hanging on the window and the lacy tablecloth, improvised into another curtain for the indoor dwellers to see.

The light spills through the pair of curtains, and spirals onto the floor. Slight breeze shifts the angles of spillage..making squares of light on the honey colored floor, followed by slanted trapezoidal shapes.

The sun takes a break, and I find myself breathing more deeply. Squares and trapezoids vanish. Breeze continues, picking up speed as I gaze. Feeling a slight coolness reaching my knees, underneath the maple wood dining room table, I am pleased. Temporarily I feel soothed and rewarded. For taking the time to notice, for slowing down and letting myself be cooled by the changing conditions.

Both cats are sprawled out on the couch, parallel to the northern facing windows. Not being as sensitive to the heat as their mom, they enter into dream states I only wish would become the afternoon's activity. The muse says no. You must follow this train of thought until the last whistle blows. I know there won't be any whistle. She tells me I am only cheating myself. I resume finishing the piece.

A knock on the door from the mailmen signals, enough for one day. Hands, hot, keyboard sticky, I know it is time to lay horizontal and to dream of cooler days ahead.

Kate Lamberg
8/9/12

flowering plum

flowering plum(inspired by van gogh's painting by the same name)


flowering plum tree
bearing the coolest of fruits
simplicity rules


Kate Lamberg
8/6/12