stone in palm

polished stone in palm,
your hand in the hand of mine
inner orbitals do brightly shine
sweeping the burning hot sand
pleased to blend with the land


photo and poem by kate lamberg, '13..(all rights reserved)

the eyes of grandpa rabbit (song lyrics)

i look into the eyes of grandpa rabbit--
from ten paces down the dewy grassy yard
i see my true grandfather poised
as if he was resting, wide-eyed...

scrupulous, centered..
waiting for the glory train,
to bring him
to another inner world

in winter he turns away
from even the fading light
and sleeps in, tummy widening
from over-imbibing on  dried fruits, nuts and leaves...

while in summer, there's so much to do:
drying fruits, flowers and bark
for the descent in late november
his thanks giving, celebrated
with church mice, bear and possum

their eyes being the only bright lights
underneath the deepest snowy earth
as joy peeps through, and lasts
until the sweet ascent in spring


Kate Lamberg
7/21/13 (c) all rights reserved

practice need not be perfect

"We must be free not because we claim freedom,
but because we practice it." – William Faulkner
(photo by kate lamberg~(13) all rights reserved)



 




practice need not be perfect
to be seen in buddha's eyes
as noble and good
if i say i want to be

in the arms of angels
i mean what i say
why you have always
had a hold on me baby

just gives me goose bumps
of tethering tonic
to last a windy blue summer afternoon
bellowing incantations at the bottom

of our moist breath, we promise, we make a pact
to express how community contributes to our watchful ways
in the darkly lit night of stars,
and  in the lemon light of all our days

Kate Lamberg, all rights reserved (c) '`13

there's blue, crimson, white

there's blue in the sky at 5 am
there's that way you look away from me,
registered in crimson--and then,

the flood of white, as a summer cloud passes
both our visionary fields--hurling its vapour
clear across the sky

we turn to face each other,
mid sentence-- swathed
with the delicacy of iced blue silence

kate lamberg (c) all rights reserved
july 4, 2013

jazz blues classical soul

for bill evans

jazz blues classical soul
reverb reverb reverberation
changing stations in jamaica 
heading for the gran ticino

on thompson street, west village---soon
after a stop at the asian laundry 
slurping miso soup, reading village voice,
machado translated  by bly, 

my yellow bicycle tied up 
between west third and bleeker
bunny runs in washington square park
two hours before sunset-

in fall around 3 PM, pooling
memory  to memory gene bath
we endure a complex poem--
resembling nothing  but the enormity

of everything--threaded throng
spinning taciturn, cheerful when
hydrangeas bloom blue--  blue purple
in its countenance: salacious, lugubrious,

bastions  of beauty stoked
with thick shiny patina
patterned after heroes,
after hours we keep

plastering poems on wide eyed dancers
just in from the wildflower creek
lasting another supermooned solstice 
finally we all can get some sleep

words and photo by kate lamberg(13) all rights reserved.

we are all under the same canopy of stars

photo by kate lamberg~(c) '13

we all have earned our love wings,
simply by being born
with no strings---
souls are songs of love,
we are all composed of

as we are all under the same canopy
of sunlight, moon light, star-filled sky-
light shines brightest when we all join hands,
making circles of lovelight--
clear across  the rivers and sands..
 
Kate Lamberg~(c) all rights reserved, '13

Memory of the heart remembered

"Nothing begins at the time you think it did" Lillian Hellman


memory of a place may be crowded with flowers,
or staircases going both up and down
who would be so arrogant to insist
that her visual description reigns supreme

joe and judy and sue were also there
and the eastern sky behind her was smiling purple
as she peered out to see the train coming
from the west, she knew he was going

to be in her arms in a matter of minutes
the sky deepens in its purple intensity
behind her- but her vision is cast
to the possibilities borne in the west

wrapping her in serapes of joysong
and this moment will pass,
& her thoughts of what memories
stayed- do not fray- but the milkweed

were blowing their white puffs
symbolizing to her that this must be
her angel pulling to the station

unbeknownst to the eastern purple sky,
she does sigh- as he steps out into the noon day sun
and all the passengers blur as one pot of soup

there is no war, no peace, no hate, no love
just a gentle brave heart
filled with mysterious longing-as a stranger
she will come to know, steps upon the landing

poem and photo by kate lamberg/all rights reserved, '13