walking at dawn

walking, just a few long breaths
before sunrise--dampness felt
as cloying needy fingers
dark dampened branches

holding the morning dew-
as child clutches for more
teddy bear time, more cocoa
all before me--molding my steps

as light begins to creep- touching
the fringes of tattered jeans
hardly making a dent into
the core of my heart

the fine sweep of sunlight
seemingly whisking away
the dark dampness of lonely
separateness--my steps become

slower still...recognizing why
we do this every day--if not
to celebrate.. all of us as one
then what's the purpose

we are all too careful
with our words
we need sometimes
to let them fly unrehearsed

let our soul dance develop
into a great massive ballet
for we all have come to dance
on the path of truth--the lies

keep it all underground-
feet stuck on root vegetables:
those rutabagas and beets
hanging out for centuries

time to wiggle swim up the roots
and watch the shining sparkle
of a new day take hold
squinting in the cognizance

no longer i and you,
but simply us-
in both tender struggle,
and illumined joy

~ words and photo by kate lamberg..(c) '13

It was always the sound of maple leaves (a short short kids story)

kate lamberg~circa early 60's

It was always the sound of maple leaves singing in the southwest corner of her yard that made Usha smile with wonder. As a small child, she'd look out her western window at the changing light in spring at dusk. She'd wonder what her friends were doing at the moment. Deeper still, she'd feel the soft stirrings of tree angels beckoning.

Then, without a moment to spare, she would put on her sneakers and a cardigan sweater, not caring if the colors matched, and slip out the heavy oak door painted black, and the two paned screen door. She would step down upon the flagstone porch, be gently carried into the front yard. As if her tree angels had choreographed this small dance of freedom.

First, she'd gaze at the soft flowering of the pink dogwood. Then proceed to the enormous maple tree, sprouting forth its first soft baby green blossoms, that would transform into leaves. Usha knew that the leaves were part of a process called photosynthesis and could do their magical transformation while she was asleep. She would often say to her friends. "Can you imagine that...I go to sleep one night in late April, and the leaves just burst open as I sleep!! I wish I could stay up all night and watch as they come to life."

In summer the leaves became huge- larger than Usha's hands. Climbing the tree at dusk was her time to be alone, yet not be alone. As she hugged the center trunk, her tree angels came around to sing little songs to cheer her.
She knew a friend had wanted her to join her for roller skating and milk shakes at the local roller rink, but Usha was not interested. The silence of early evening was all that she wanted. The noise of metal on wooden floors and gales of laughter from little girls was the very thing she needed to turn her back from.

By late fall, the maple leaves turned to lovely shades of russet, burgundy, red, orange, and yellow. The colors of Usha's bedroom. She picked out the carpet shade- a soft pumpkin color to match her mood. She loved this time of the year the best. Not too cold or too hot. The flowers and leaves were still holding onto the trees, and she had a strong feeling of her tree angels drawing near.

By winter, the bare tree stood naked in the yard. Its leaves gone soon after thankgiving. Usha would have to love her maple tree for another four months without any leaves. Being too cold to climb the tree in January, she'd gaze at it's new bony figure from the warmth of her golden bedroom. Usa learned to appreciate the dark lines of the maple tree. How it appeared to be, at times, about to stretch and dance a ballet...created just for her.

Usha knew she would have to wait until the end of April to see her beloved maple tree burst once again into the green song of spring. She got busy with her piano practicing, ballet lessons, and baked her oatmeal cookies- crunchy on the outside, and chewy inside.

Oh-she never missed an evening of gazing with great love at her maple tree..Whatever the season. There was no reason, except maybe this:
The comfort of its being there without demanding anything at all from her.
Usha sighed a big sigh on April fools day. "Less than two weeks till my birthday, and then only another two weeks until my beloved tree sprouts her kelly green leaves. She'll take me deep into her branches, and I shall never feel alone. Never again."

Finis

the platitudes of love wear thin..waiting for a clear sweet bell

 

the platitudes of love wear thin
when words are squeezed through shruti box
in drones of ahh uuuu umm

whilst the waiting for a clear sweet bell
from goats descending the rocky hill
would fill me with a greater thrill

when tom toms echo unlaced, &
bees in their mad dash
to suckle all the honey

get drunk, so stop over
at sleepy hollow ranch
arranging plants & leaves:

sorrel, sassafrass ,sumac-
for the ingestion of healing herbs
enhances conception of all those

wicked pretty birds--who, blinded
by the coarse light of day--relax
and envision night flight journeys

amelia would be so proud
to see your aerodynamics
from a place of hydraulic lifting off

a levity so stunning--those who pass
would stop and witness--the silvering
clarion bell of your magnificence..

~by katyajo..(c) all rights reserved..'13

hearts like seas

"The heart of man is very much like the sea. It has storms, it has the tides, and in its depths, it has is pearls too. " Vincent Van Gogh

don't try to work on sailing closer-
the craft is driven by the same power
that causes this poem to be written, &
by the same power that pushes your electric mower

creating ease in decapitating
the tops of week old grass growth;
even a blunt razor with good intentions
can create a smooth baby face demeanor

and not by talking about high celestial unreachable
mountain passes in the heights of mt. cardigan--our feet
get wet without a choice--when walking across
the base of buttermilk falls at dusk

we do not wash away guilt--as that is just
a concept we too can bare, burn, and release-
as most mountain streams flow downwards....
the crystal bubbles speak of a time when

all the world moved more slowly..and still got everything done-
the homemade bread, and the churned butter--the hand wash,
and buttons carved from acorns at september's end....
so don't say you are being pulled in a million directions

it is simply what you wish to share,
to hault in your tracks the responsibility
needed to create a single song, to love with one
heart- however pained by misdirected rain...

and making love must be abstained from, until.
the key fits the smooth longitudinal lock--(in never never land)
the dream woken up from- kindling the kettle..&
scaring the day lights into darkness-

shivers the pumpkins, carved by the same hands
that asked for nothing
but only gave of herself,  for someone who
like pendulum..promises sweetly-carries gavel, courts danger-

by being in too many pies..of his own choosing--
no need to play favorites(be it blackberry or rhubarb)
just step right up and embrace..
this fine fragrant september morning

Kate Lamberg
September 16, 2013

burgeoning sky

the burgeoning sky
sweeps past your eyes-
did you not see the almost
full moon gazing down at thee?

don't laugh at the soaring-
it reflects all that you are
the mooring of a secret desire

don't cry at the leaving--
it's a road left for those
who know the staying

can be loaded with worn down tires--
guilt exhausts--does become
toxic in a boarded up house

everything else elates, relates, never berates..
so off with the beret, only pray
that the rooster sings soon after
the break of day-

and the miraculous thing- owlets take
wing in the middle of the chorusing-
stripped birch bark, and longing..
for gliding hollowed out canoe

treble notes spiral up as nautilus--while
bass chords descend down slide mountain
osopus river borders paramour gushes..
tubing while davening at big indian

tolerance reminds us to let out
the sail--for the north wind does bite
allowing the moon light to encircle--

as the owl and the pussycat ferry--
to freedom, sans fanfare...
all cozy and bright

Kate Lamberg
September 18, 2013

i too live close to the earth

dedicated to, and in loving memory of seamus heaney-- after listening to  the extraordinary poet read his poems, and share his spirit--...and others speak of his strength as both a poet and a humanitarian.

i too love to live close to the earth-
if i fall, there is not far to go
the earth cradles me in strength
i dig deeper when the truth is muffled
by arid air, and the creases of a parched soil

i celebrate everyone's mother..
by breaking bread at my maple table
hearing footsteps of my own mother
preparing chicken soup- with the love
she carries in her chest from her own mother

and the generations lay down
together-- without a struggle-
tethered with the ease of faith
orchestrating the gentle peace
of lambs and lions,

learning how to be friends
in a world at times scared
of the very portal to its own freedom;
in order to break bread together, we must...
like cedar--have unshakeable faith

Kate Lamberg
Sepember 9, '13
All rights reserved..(c)

love goes where no grey wolf dare go

 
“Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.” ~ Lord Byron quotes (English Romantic poet and satirist, 1788-1824)



sometimes the stakes are high,
and the eyes are cast too low--
for focusing on any one thing for too long 

we plow through the overgrown wheat around the barn,
studying the dew levels, its ability to stay skimming
the surface of marigold leaf and portulaca flowers

burst open soon after a passing storm--
only to close up, after her cups have filled
to the brim with the fragrant rain..

garden rests in between the tiny explosions,
built up from air missing the late summer fires ..
breaking the dam open with a multitude of hosannas-

currying angels, golden hairs glistening
in the pool of love's collision...
as poison oak vine wraps around the black pine

in a tenetious holding pattern-
finely cut crystal filled with fresh cut garden flowers, 
smelling like the first autumn day, away at college-- 

where manilla folders, heiddeger paperback, and   patchouli,
meld their perfume-- in a heart in love with taking risks--
cavorting  with out a plan-   wearing classic  ballet togs--fresh 

out of a sweaty class,  holding hands--hardly talking--smiling 
a photograph taken  before the heart  was incised/erased and bloodied--
skidding down rubble--

left to float  down the crystal river
for just another four decades--
fully promising to be back before the last chapter

of a life spent dancing words, and melodies;
it had to be that way, as it was written in the book of life, no strife

for a person full well knowing..
it's love, only love--(along with absolving)
that keeps her glowing...& evolving

kate lamberg 
all rights reserved..(c) '13

sunday, golden

If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come.
 ~Chinese Proverb

laying in the center of the field
buttercups catching afternoon sun
like churning butter for escargot

feeling the slight dampness
of last night's heavy rain
on grass fronds, and earth below

warming in the afternoon sun
making me poppy sleepy
as if the field was a huge hand of god

i was resting in unspoken trust
i was hearing cardinals in douglas fir
& large blackbirds in norwegian pine

lion shined his strength in the heat
of the golden sun- as i stretched out
in warming drying grasses- the earth
like a renewable stream- readjusts to my weight

an anthem that plays inside our heads
the polar opposite to silent night
noisy with insects and leaf blowers
quieting down to whistling wind through bamboo

kate lamberg
all rights reserved....'13

the field where i rested upon trust~(photo by kate lamberg) all rights reserved

buttercups in the field~photo by kate lamberg~all rights reserved

black eyed susie sky

black eyed susie sky- still at dusk, the coolness captivates--
brings us to our feet, exploring the soft damp
grasses, wildflowers, tending to our selves,

we see new openings of faith--
through cubby holes, rabbit holes...
rabbit go  run on down to the local  elm tree water hole--

where lovely rabbit rousers
like to go after midnight
and hang their rabbit ears,  just so...

along the carmens river,
flowing all night--and into
the first cracks of morning--

the light misting in through
queen anne's lace-her tresses
rumpled by being on the rumble seat-

the morgan powered by choruses
of "go tell it on the mountain"
stained with plum juice and cookie crumbs--

for being in charge of one's self-
is an awesome responsibility-
-proposition deposition  sensibilities

wired  on high- demonstrative rearranging- 
testing the core of the uranimum mind for another milenium-
while up listening to the talking heads---no longer disembodied--

we lean  towards a more peaceful resolution--   
as saris fly in in the face of grave diggers,
on the graveyard shift--at 7-11..

 when one can always get nourished--
 for more than a regular grocery store--
 how the convenience is killing us   right and left    

 Kate Lamberg..all rights reserved (c) '13

katya's black eyed susies~photo by katyajo.(c)~all rights reserved~ '13

tides turn to september

setauket harbour~photo by kate lamberg..all rights reserved.. (c) '13

but truly we have september...
in the palms of our hands  
we've just begun to share
plenitude pouring on quieter beaches--

cooler evenings soothe
the savage burning of summer-- 
the expectations of an undying love
 seeping into every wetted scoop of sand

we walked upon in july--
making honest  friends of hearts desires----
on hold  for an eternity is an eternity----
no getting around that dear soul    

who as opal, to my ruby heart 
rises as a gilded starfish
never to be known as anything but
my one true love who, along with me,

worships..the simple sound of water.....

whooshing against rowboats, 
and the song of wind gently skipping
through the tight skirts of sails .
as we trudge forward---  

all baggage thrown over port side--- 
to nourish other water fowl--and allow
our travels to be lighter... barely skimming
the glassy  surface of brackish waters...

our eyes lit by the same marine magic    ...
. so be the prayer to get us  where we so desire
sea green foam on  water's edge, coupled with the wind,  
striking hard upon the earth.. our inescapable fire...

~kate lamberg~..(c)all rights reserved..'13 

all the trouble with the I/ME

"Yes and thank you are the opposites of selfishness. The ego can only be erased
through happiness and gratitude."
Arnaud Desjardins


her life, as  a blackboard
filled with numbers and letters
I, ME, larger than life
the intruder in the chalk dust

the one who grabs the goods
all that is left from the bad equation
and runs imbalanced through thicket
night time scratches in the dark

I, ME can only be
obliterated
with one honest stroke,
one conscious erasure

heart attack alley way
where all the ME folk flail
and give it up for one day
leaving only YOU

creating "my" only joy
driven by a need to plant
violets on all the places
my ME stormed out ungrateful

Kate Lamberg

flower photo by kate lamberg~*~