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outdated, &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