day after full moon

i've always loved the day after
the full moon; this snow moon
is no exception to my rule

as scattered mop strands
begin to unite in one useful
operative verb: to clean

requires a working mop,
a focus without distraction
is a seed germinating

in the darkened circle of willis:
that drive around-allowing
thoughts, to be re-directed

as pink himalayan sea salt
becomes one with the broth-
adding flavour, yet cannot help

but change itself-
the pink disappears..
(to where we need not care)

hands that heal others cannot
help but be healed on touch's
yielding surface of spongy kindness

laws of chemistry, blurred
by the innate  kindness(es)
of others who are thinking

of waves swelling, and water fowl
fear nothing-- but only wish space
to wiggle flap laugh


Kate Lamberg

local sea gulls~photo by Kate Lamberg

the barn sits a block away

worn red wood walls record
how many passed her by-
how many folks thought and spoke stories,
to make her seem more understandable

a visionary does not see a barn,
thinking of hay rides, horses, hot cider-
nor does she does see a tree,
based on her life of cutting wood

how can we step aside
from mind's insistence
on romancing the thing-- and just
praise the presence of all that is

Kate Lamberg

barn at the sanctuary~photo by Kate Lamberg

a soft dusting of snow

a soft dusting of snow, like powdered sugar
on a doughnut one cannot wait to savour
fell dreamily between midnight and dawn

up most of the night in corpse pose
the images of jaguar, turtle, hawk
took residence in cerebrum's chamber

could not sleep, and could not move
entranced, enchanted by colors pressed
within third eye's council, the body did rest

while tales of tenderness tugged
my strength abated; truth can never
be harsh when lies lift up-revealing

bareness of being beneath night gown
angels on high keep a comforting watch
the steadying of a spinning bowl

loosening the grip of needing to know
another blessed arrow released
from suction cup mythology

kayaking between the worlds
of fiction and truth telling
we can still ride the wooden edge

careening a curtsy as the sound
of sand whooshes beneath the boat;
living on an island we feel the constancy

of the tides--the dearth and the replenishment
of waters' ability to go where no one has gone-- and then
to leave as soon as the naked shore has been kissed

Kate Lamberg

photo by Kate Lamberg

amidst the darkened box wood trees

" In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost." Dante, 'The Divine Comedy'


amidst the darkened box wood trees
legs and arms scratched from the bramble
poison ivy, lethal red berries strewn
she sensed another trail

leading to where she knew not,
yet the path she had been walking
narrowed- offering her so little light
she could not read, so simply felt signs

the birds' songs became more muffled,
the deeper she had gone into the forest
she knew the trail that was lined with dogwood
would bring her to a clarity not found among all the oaks

it was still late winter, but she could picture
how different trees welcomed her more profoundly than others;
the auric fields of the red cedar contacted her bindi-
brightening her mental head lights

stepping lightly, and sometimes deeply
though hip high snow- trudging where no other
person had been for awhile- she cracked
a smile, with her curved horizontal recognition

a balancing was becoming her, in reddened cheeks
and eyes shining like emerald cities- freeing the need
for recognition- the lunging forward, in her gentle
allowing of what is- to take place- letting the music

flow thunderously through the deepest snow
birds, whom she did not hear all winter
suddenly began to sing the sweet and low-
chariot, coming to carry me home- causing her to stop, dead in her tracks

to praise all sounds, and music left to sing
sauntering, blessing- what without, our world would perish
for both those in persons who rose-lifted up from their bodies as we knew them,
and those who remain in rare variations- as calder mobile shapes to continue

Kate Lamberg

shadows on the snow~photo by Kate Lamberg

turtle totem

"Freedom is from within" Frank Lloyd Wright

my turtle totem came today in meditation
i neither urged it to stay, nor did i push it away
i watched the old soul lubbering from dried grasses
surrounding pond, layers of snow melting

slow but sure, turtle is lubbering in between
the transitions of crackling dry winter grasses
steps ancient, moving towards the clean sweet
waters of the amniotic  shelter, snuggled

for winter brings on everything
causing us to turn our shoulders inward,
turtle comes along with out an expression
practical dreamer with out plodding

just being here right now, teaching tender
bodies aligned with the earth, parallel functions
both practical  and ethereal meet in the middle-
a kiss at intermission draws the audience

inside the lines of congruence
sent here without postage
on the day we supped on cauliflower potage,
in the winter when we could not find a lousy grapefruit

tangerines rolling inside their skins,
with sheer embarrassment
for the way the world is turning out
like in ballet, building strong lithe limbs

further on in plie'--it's another story -altogether
captivating---for another audience
out on the balcony, for one more
round of moonlight sonata


Kate Lamberg

Setauket inlet~photo by Kate Lamberg

your asking why

your asking why i do what i do
in the way that you do, leaves me
in a place of wishing

i wish to meet you half way-
as branches do,  sweeping across
country lanes, branch tips meeting

by chance, touching as in a duet
for clarinet and piano- the wind
filling in what the keys cannot

the ivories plotting the rich story
with wind rushing in to embellish
fortissimo without being  frantic

peace pervades through inter-listening
half steps of hide and go seek: harmony
found, cheek to cheek-no one does speak

sounds spill watery essence
sharing, in kindness
the tenderness of being

Kate Lamberg

setauket inlet~photo by Kate Lamberg

celebrating mother earth

sitting on the dry picnic benches
with feet melting in the ankle deep slush
we did a grounding meditation- letting
the energies of mother earth

rise up through the sand, dirt, rocks,
mud, slush- and finally to feeding
our feet--feeling the pulse of our mother,
we celebrate her vibrations

earth, as receptive feminine-
knows we've been calling &
imploring to be anchored
grounded into the planet we say we live in

she may rumble and break
she may scream and shake
sending blizzards and quakes
as she tenderly helps us WAKE UP!

Kate Lamberg

Blydenburgh park photo by Kate Lamberg

two trees

two trees touch by chance
innocence reaches all souls
stopping, gazing up

haiku and photo by Kate Lamberg

by attending to the fire

by attending to the fire
we mistakenly stomp it out
by trying to put out the fire
we inevitably create more flames

when will we learn
that the thing that was supposed to
take place, will reach right out
of the tree trunk

will grab you so hard
and you will laugh, not knowing
this time the joke is on a distant valley
buttermilk and sassafras moon glow

gardens of wild flowers in gassho bow
benevolence never felt so good as this
sauntering to and fro brook side, moss
growing on the eastern vicinity tapping

a tune, tolerant of tires flattening, &
sharp nails we meet a long the way-
it's only meant to instruct-so sigh, &
celebrate the infinitesimal, without

hedging; hurtling works wonders
when considering in laws labouring
at poolside with upside down drinks,
spilling the gold as quickly as it is spun

wars are won in dreams, &
during auditions when similes
mean everything- nerves rattle
a plain dressed woman

on the verge of getting
yogurt strained for the last time
with apple cider vinegar stepping in
an understudy  can mimic much better

than the leading lady- she is patient,
she is kind--for her turn is in the wings
of the nearest red wing black bird
burnished~prepared for bastille day

taking the glory into the market
filling baskets with goose eggs, fromage
herbs to heal all that ails us
for centuries- not bygone eras

an era, with the spit shine
to let that glow worm
find her way
back to where

all embracing sun weaves patterns
of lace, late lunch for an aria
courting brave bunions, home
from the war of somnolence

a waking roughened ivy
carries some moss to the bat-
we are almost home--such sunny
integrity keeps us on the path

Kate Lamberg

snow and wind bring messages

"Be grateful for whomever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond"
 ~Rumi

snow and wind bring messages
for those who can quiet down
long enough to let eyes close

and envision nothing
but what is unfolding-
a procession of sentient beings

attaining buddha hood, wearing
no words, but orange robes
swirl in volumes of grace

changing the vision at each pace
persephone manages to step
through the cracks of forgetting

to roll around in her mind,
a mouth full of marbles
clicking to the cadence of

wind storms deep gorge
us in the night of possible
praising prairies before getting

the flimsy meaning of all this
searching without flashlights
trudging back home, up the stairs

celebrating steps of elevation-
listening to the arches of clogs,
to the determination of nikes

neither tied to, nor released from
bondage is just the man from uncle
in disguise- daring you to play charades

with your hair down, shades removed
can you care for anyone who
sings your tune, or do they have to

also worship the same crystals
calories burned at the stake
are you wiling to live for your dreams

or tie die for them, down by the stream
it's snowing, socrates- plato is studying
the snowy questions, and any question

you may ask, will just be added
to the archives of sunning in provence
before your mother was born

but when you father had an inkling
that you would be the driving force
of foreign policies left in the sink

for the length of time it takes
to hem a skirt, on the range
of rocky mountains waiting

to sit down and be entertained
by phantasies sent pony express
by the man who wore out his fountain

pen so long ago; he is now taking
a twelve step program, and swears
he is trying to change all of his inequities-

just wondering- do west coast waters
bring more negative ions-to contribute
to a more serene salivation,

or is it mad red dogs in the night
promising casual sweet nothings
i don't care which-

just let me know
in a sarabande'- swept though choppy
waters, leading to still swan lake longitudes

Kate Lamberg

peek a boo, through snow photo by Kate Lamberg

cutting wool for blankets

Only love can be divided endlessly and still not diminish.― Anne Morrow Lindbergh


cutting wool for blankets- to make love
loom larger than life--as often as we
divide substance, with growing room

in between to dissipate strife-
letting in life- in blood, music,
perfumed incense,  stupas, and looms

to pour provincial expressions
of what ever it is
that one bows down to

whatever it is that one yearns for more of--
until the final curtain of our days-
deciding not to choose anything--just watch

the sparks fly higher than our present consciousness
we reach the height of sparks in dreams
that furnish our soul's hunger

in shades of rose wood and tawny maple
sweet dreams, wished upon by others:
tapped out in morse code acapella,

to awaken the dots, and dash
our written word into tangible
action to let wild, make tame

in the same sweet style, the same sweet game-
the holy way of the tao tells us how
to remain still, while remembering the dream

that would alter our lives forever, without
doing more than shining
a light where the dust bunnies go scampering

Kate Lamberg

photo of southwest rug, by Kate Lamberg~

planting dreamtime

"when you plant the seed of love, it is you that blossoms"
~Ma Jaya Sati Bhagavati


looking through spring seed catalogues
she flips ahead, to see the trees and the blossoms
her impatience wants the flowers; she does not want
to do the work of the planting

taking each seed
as thoughts unexplored
she rolls the hard tiny babes
in between her forefinger and thumb

all thoughts stop on a dime
she enters dream time
seeds begin to grow  tulips
out of her fingertips

huge red hisbiscus grows
flavorful out of her mouth- now,
pushing out of her ears, pink cosmos
love's unattachment buries infertile fears

out of the center of her chest--one tea rose
can you imagine--just suppose
daisies joined hands with portulaka
then--zinnias might rest with zuchinni blossom

Kate Lamberg

pink gold rose, at portland rose garden~photo by kate lamberg~

six haiku

harp and flute braid sound
we hear but cannot describe
evening settles in

stars shine so brightly
each step on winter's earth knows
reservoir of stars

cats sleep soundly
until they awake, crying
mother love is near

searching outside for balance
like finding old tears in the sea
giving up, gaining

porch swing squeaks secrets
did you know i was painfully shy
returning to quiet

crystal moments soothe
the slightly bumpy soul ride
hay, horses, heaven

Kate Lamberg

portable bamboo shelter~photo by Kate Lamberg

I speak to the willow

Trees are the Earths endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
~Rabindranath Tagore


i speak to the  willow in the width of moments
she speaks to the sky, streams and rocks-and how
they listen--was wondering if she was turning
her branches--pulling them in closer to her trunk

as she sometimes does when
conversing with toads, spiders and squirrels;
i apologize for speaking when you
were conversing, dear willow- please forgive me

i did not know you were talking
to heaven--as my ears are not
finely tuned enough--to recognize
your pulling in- your down turned eyes

not giving me your attention;
i sit down beneath your thick barked being--
and breathe with you a resonance,
so deep- so peaceful

if an express train would chug
through this very spot
while we were breathing,
the clear spacious breath of love

i would not hear the train,
i would not see the smoke,
nor would i smell the steel burning;
i'd be one with the breath(our yearning)

a peace spiraling,
as vines criss- crossing
from roots to buds
in scented celebrations

that is how deeply enmeshed
we are in the power
of truth's calling, and once
integrity has been expressed

there is no telling how
many centuries of reverberation
would follow
would follow

healing  hymns
of pure prayer turning
forever birthing, &
becoming, the burning

Kate Lamberg
1/29/13

willow, alongside the long island sound-photo by Kate Lamberg~