Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

the cold alights her carriage with sporadic snow flakes framing a dream-bound figure with meaning- she turns her life around, as she faces the northern lights blinking  in a winter sky-- what was once felt as a challenge-- stuffed, straitjacketed into a narrow body of icy water- surrounded by land on three sides hands on two sides, now becoming wind howling hosannas, biting her skin, coating her demeanor, demeter delves in these scary waters--- rearranges the fear, that only begins in purely festooned fiction honesty arrives again--quite late... on a southwesterly wind- just in time to tighten the sails, the boat now  in a perfect wing and wing: breath taking-  as the white and blue sheets of the sails   refuse to bellow--simply allow the wind from behind-- to gently push all inhabitants to a strange, yet fragrant place   in the center of chilled salty waters-- before the sun would warm the entire scene words/photo~kate la...

1) carmel on the sea-- endless pacific waters, & redwoods- 2) blessings reach far beyond ordinary shine.... salt air merging with pine haiku/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17

night train, coltrane  shines like the nearest rising star when the moon is new,  and you are riding the night train  into the evening of infinitude,  the infinity of stars takes you beyond whom you thought you were night train  you can more than handle the force of time on vibrato- no longer desiring more than what is, what is  night train on a natural high traveling beyond the stars, and beyond  the thought of the stars no longer death or birth, we arrive at the cessation of karma dharma--  slate swept clean  for ever, and  for ever more night train, you shining coltrane are forever in my brain, the rain is not frozen, but shines  like black molten,   on these steel tracks burning on time  forever churning its particular magic, a chug a chugging in the middle of your dream  you awake from,  and see everything as it is night train goes through both peaceful and turbulent neighborhoods ...

for rick~ no good thing really comes to an end the over-filled tub, the kisses left underneath the ponderosa pine too early to want to forget how tides and tensions get smoothed out, as bed spreads get shook just how the whorl in the shape of your mouth mimics the nautilus shell sitting unpretentiously on the book case communing with the poems, the coffee, the omelette hot off the griddle, into mouths- so close to turning into butterflies---an escher print, another grand sunrise keeping you uppermost in my melancholy  this monday- as good a day as any other day to say i love you words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17

photo~kate lamberg (c) '17 I dreamed I was simply sitting looking out at the restless, forceful waters of a river- deep inside my ears was this incessant yearning as the river wants to keep on keeping on covering more ground- a blues riff without an ending- just pouring forth blessed fresh water- pushing on--- home to tough trout and and beloved rocks sitting still like aging grandparents carefully watchful, benevolent in a kind of gazing to usher in the tiniest of creatures, feeling the warm gritty sand and dirt beneath the feet of those who have traveled a hundred years steeped in solitude, silence framed, perfectly centered a wind blown watercolor  fleshed out....   in a crisply worn cerebrum-  cherishing! ~kate lamberg (c) '17

my father named the sailboat after me the kathryn jo brought us   to places, performed   such graces to a soul craving the pure freedom of wide open air and churning salty sea i hold this memory as close as buttered toast as i picture your wishing for me a good night sleep when i suffered those times when...i went down under in mood, you'd say, "i can't take it away,   but i can hold your hand.." and how i felt guilty when i began sleeping the night you passed: but memories serve to mediate the night with naught a fright the hand i reach for in the night is felt warmly in the pocket of the japanese kimona you would wear to take coffee on the terrace,   still smelling of moth balls i wear it with wonder, it's true, the length is perfect and colors of bold bluejay blue and spring cloud white mimic the sailboat we'd sail together, without need to speak, and just take in all the splendor of a summer afternoon the northport harbor you said was as beautiful as an...

Wishing all my friends and family a blessed beautiful Chanukah!

winter is settling in, stream trickles  one november night, and by dawn is frozen solid apple trees across the road shudder and drop their last fat green mutsus on a hardened earth neighbors stop by with soup, warn us to shop now-- as an impending storm is thickening in the valley, and a foot of snow is expected by nightfall stacking wood, and placing a few logs in the wood stove i drive down an iced over country road, with a prayer if i slip into the ravine to the left i have had a very good life goddess saves me by allowing my car to go out of control, swerving to the right, into the dipped shoulder I sigh, and praise the highest for keeping me here a little longer to do my humble healing, to play and write and sing,,, through all of this meandering as i hear a pine cone drop, and skid over the frozen over stream ~kate lamberg (c) '17 after listening to enya's 'watermark (1988) Enya - (1988) Watermark ...

“Nothing is so strong as gentleness. Nothing is so gentle as real strength.” ~ Ralph W. Sockman

it was time to touch again, the shore line- after a long, yet mild winter, an extended rain filled spring the infatuation of a single beach seen through the hazel eyes of one woman--- transforms into a living thing--sand, rocks, one huge aqua parasol sky sand rocks a mostly quiet flattened body of salty waters known since baby crawl surrendered to swim- even before she walked the beach tetrahedron truth--afloat blue green waters-- stirred by a north-eastern wind small craft trajectories of delight the waters' width waiting for swimmer's laps- so early in a pearly dawn, one can't see beyond a mile of sky and sea low hanging grey pink balloon clouds bursting on contact with our grand father sun words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17

Mondays: Gentle/Chair Yoga 4PM- 5:15 PM Fridays: Gentle/Chair Yoga 9:30- 10:45 AM Mini Saturday Retreats Saturday, January 13, '18 'New Year Retreat' Saturday, March 24th, '18 "Spring Fling Retreat' Gentle Yoga, Meditation, Sound Healing Time to relax, renew, meet like minded souls. 10 am -11:45 am~ Retreat 12 Noon- One~ Optional pot luck lunch! Please bring a side dish. I'll have a hearty stew or soup and salad. Kindly refrain from bringing: anything with wheat/dairy/sugar as many are either sensitive or allergic. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~ Reserve your spot (space is limited). Suggested Donation: 25. RSVP, always by the Wednesday prior to the Saturday retreat. healerkate77@gmail.com. or.....631 334-2663, please leave message. Please leave your name, email, and phone # when you confirm your spot. Directions will be sent at that time. Kate Lamberg, BA, LMT, Reiki Master, Sound Healer, Yoga/Dance/Medit...

near the newly opened irises making all the thoughts spill into earth, transposing a song began in D - to change into C--it's important to me to be clear of no obstacles feet no longer dragging-- to taste the ooze of cedar bark dripping, to realize while skipping that earth, and trees, and all things sacred--are meant to meld with minds, open to pursue the art of no expectations late enough in the morning to capture the sun in the crook of that japanese maple-- now, a bleeding crimson red so deep- i stop to breathe-- relaxing in the swirling, newness encircling: belly chest neck scalp want to dance, scream, yelp it's happening again- this restless spring--slowing down to prayer in a juxtaposed mountain air that lake from '66 still felt in the memory of my long bones' dancing on a grassy hill before i knew a blessed thing about politics, before i would worry about how to get anything done, and to have anything be won... i rest ...

it is in the reaching for stars at night in the darkness that is heard as prayer when at dawn those silver pointed gems appear floating atop the river moving to be emptied into a greater sea it is in the shoots of stars listening not unlike the shoots of newly born greens from wild iris flowers earthing to remind us that- no sincere prayer would ever go unheard in the world of natural breathing- of green blue waters heaving- insincerity leaving the scene of a life lived with simply caring baring rainbow fish arched beyond all time, and places remapped, mirrored to understand one honest heart trembling at a single word one hand atop another-- a sister or a brother one song from a single bird each one hearing it as from the other words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17

a muted grey sky kept her sleeping longer with bed clothes creeping over head- she'd been oblivious to the now changing sky beaming a blue beret, worn atop the blackened roof of a world waking too soon to be touched by a sky--changing while a million blinks of eyes, hypnogogic--do dream salvaging the strength of a northeast wind keeping the beat of gypsy souls---dancing upon the unharvested soil... alongside a quickened river- wildflowers blaze benevolent the stories that dancing feet unfurl- can never lie when trust is braided bronze and copper crafts one strong matrilineal line: daring to swing hips in an arc, shoulders coming full circle, and the simplicity of chests blossoming morning glories, cheering empowerment for sisters dancing a river restless hestia, hekate, helen how honoring those, we keep dancing- holding the light uppermost how do we say sacred? with the transparency of gossamer--whispered with the lightness of an...

won't you be that someone to jam in b flat with- no held bars, no rests just drive in to the beat baby-- know your one, and you can go most places unscathed, relaxed, on fire with the bebop that gets your soul   high wired, tireless, sweeping beyond anything man woman child can conceive down with the beat baby upbeat goes meeting the center of harmonic convergence right here, and there, and all the in betweens.. .a driving force, reckoning all the light shadows consumate in the air of nonchalance- diving into windmill spring... is singing on fire-- the grinning of sunsets that means more than just oxidation riveting on the beat, and then just off the beat goes on to purple mountains majesty amen awomen let's get down to the beat baby bass line broadens as waves break-- when the singers are thirsty-- trusting there is water--oh, whenever the timing brings the need to keep jamming with the one warbling, followed by third...

samba sweeps through a spaciousness unheard of in the material world, growing with intensity, as sky dims- awaiting snowstorm-- bringing to mind romance on a sturdy pebbly sand beach conforming to a desire for quietude- in the mood for slowing the compass swinging- as pendulum answers the question of whether the climate of an island will keep spiraling out of control....or not if our conscious decision to recycle, can shine a flashlight of reconciliation-- too late in the afternoon to get to the bank---we'll wile away the storm in a minor key of solemnity a day of missed appointments may do more for global unity, and cool a climate warming-- more so than the aggressive anger spewing at marches and demonstrations-- so close to home-- we've known each other as long as college days are remembered with a lightness of being- so close to the vested interests of state and house keeping it all solidified with blizzard conditions on th...

light breaks on the distant bay the mystic code shakes the cordial chord to one of a greater informality dreams dredge, while starfish cling-- for all breathing, and for all prayers melting on contact with warm -- saline udines swim within saltiness-- reassuring gazes gracing the fields, and how the emerald sheen curtsying and bowing- to a french suite, chortling ... sweet lord- we have found a river of words- the words of the river: we can dance we can dance we can dance! poem/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17

sunrise strikes a painting on the wall  above the piano a little town in holland wakes up- two merchants arrange fresh spring flowers  in wooden crates sky not quite lit by morning sun a man and a woman dressed in layers of sweaters, soft scarves, and garden gloves--- they don't get hardened by honest work-- doing essentially what they love

for Stephanie and Lucio-- in memory of Stephanie Costanzo understanding I wasn't familiar with laughing at a funeral I'm glossy eyed at the loss of a friend I had just begun to learn about by hanging out over tea- she came with her husband to hear me play piano at the cafe' they came late, and stayed until most folks had coffee and desert- after the salmon dinner, the community sharing in music poetry and revelry just seven weeks before i just learned of your passing your husband now in stable condition- all i can do is pray this year has been an indulgence in prayer- as if it could bring the spirits of those who had died  back for a while--  to recognize who among their friends were honoring and grieving- a friend who left smiling too very soon to be leaving who still had much life and spark left in her... a woman who spent most of her time with her adoring husband- they- who taught ballroom dancing just driving, just swerved ...

like a roaring stream-- or a still brook it cannot help but touch those whose souls seem ready to be reeled in by beauty's inclusion: one splotch of blue overhead a mountain pointing to a star too far to walk in a single day but boots of gold go trekking within newly carved pathways the stones kicked by accident in the wake of sure shooting boots, or the woody allen casting of shore to shore shooting stars carrying the weight of a life piercing through the cracks that let the light shine jet black against the puppy soft white underbelly open clam shells clicking spring showers, fling of flowers newly found powers--that ordained promise of one spring green saviour delivered by the time the brain has rearranged its circuits- now an open floor plan how seamlessly the kitchen flows into the family room, and how fluid the windows reflect the blue stone how loyal the fireplace has become for the stories an...

how the night quells all that is yearning for a hit of sunshine- a quickened smile from the one who holds rubies in the palm of his painterly hand how the hit of sunshine can soothe even in the darkest of dark nights sitting on the edge of a wooden slated chair a chairwoman without an agenda just the simple serape loosely worn around two rounded shoulders swept over the edges of a loving chest heaving thoughts not yet ready to say the poem written in the bathroom not ready to share the baring of a tenderness- a simple plea can words and birds and trees still melt the poet on contact who shows up poemless with just a song sung accapella through the wires, connecting the western film with the eastern raga when the hour grows lighter, and when dawn raises her nightgown over a heaving chest quite ready to get on with a tango--to dare to dream of partnering across a bare uneven maple floor with just enough clothing for a three day outing-- in the ...

for my valentine, rick your softness is what lead me to reach over the piano keys and lean... into your 12 strings one late summer afternoon over white wine in a paper cup so close to the huge sprawling beech with a little white picket fence- housing tiny purple violets that day--yellow dandelions sang in the finely clipped yard where i walked and heard a shrill bird in a dead oak alongside an unruly pond you saw me stroll, and stayed in your car until it was time to share your music inside the echoey gallery 'thirsty boots' and 'norwegian wood' were the songs that made me sit a little more upright-- hearing the honey wheat of your voice and listen to the soul of a man whose honesty still wins-- all four compartments of my heart on fire, still--- on this post full moon morning ~kate lamberg (c) '17

I love you as certain dark things are able to be loved in secret between the shadow and soul. ~Pablo Neruda how shadows shorten at high noon-- and slip into distortion--as night pulls the strings-- our shadows dance in long talks, and wind swept walks between moon dancing and cosmos prancing- curtailing the cataclysm of hoofs- a monet impression in the greying snow--just outside my living room window is it a mourning dove or a magpie--singing, and nibbling on the old seeds she sings on the side in woody allen oboe tones while shadows shorten and then again--going to shadow's greatest length- until her evidence is no longer sensed as night pulls the strings of marionette birds--filling in the choices of what to eat hardened corn, sunflower, cherry flavored black seed a mix for royalty--birds on high the domestication of a song cannot be sung-- for freedom needs the wings of starlings, and the sheer agility of a robin: between the ...

a woman, a bird, a tree: sometimes the  heart can whisper what's best left as silence ~.kate lamberg (c) '17

clarion angels speak as night falls in silence snow falls even softer than the sun dropping moon sets with passion bright red eyed venus dives-through the little silver slipper of la luna let us for one moment be angels for one another releasing what seems different-- as we embrace our true common ground the voices of angels stroke peace across foreheads knit warm woolen shawls as a purpose to love shines a glory train around confident hearts- both fancy and plain as smoke lifts from the canyon and the bonfire crackles with faith we shake the noose of fear and live as two swans draw near listening to the striking of the bell a renewed and soulful clarion call returning home after battle we grasp the taste of freedom  words & photo~ kate lamberg (c) '17

i was in awe practically the whole day: snow's quiet the piano, a single flame

                                                                       (1)                                                           he'd been humming that tune                                                           in a sha...

(for jobim).... holding loosely, there's change in a sudden drop in temperature the way clutching in automatic, leaves us pining for the standard convertible summer balmy evenings wait, without pardoning the storm-- we do get on with the seemingly never ending winter, having us up before dawn deliberately walking armored in wool, fleece, thirsty boots-- attacking the source of melancholy creates more to box up and send hardly puffing in our face to face misting, fogging up glasses kisses in the convertible late summer, strong scents of seagrass cranberry bogs wafting, tart fragrances slowing down.... by the rice paper birches-- planted with care at the northeast corner how celebrated the death of wind when sun emerges between the languid birch branches sweeping madly once in february soon rest for a trifle--tenderness never felt so undone- floating felicity, bringing in the whales who, with bellies down-- milked the warmth of the atlantic oce...

silence at dusk holds a certain palpable relief day is done- no room for another epiphany-- a frontal lobe, tired from all the divisive talk; tethered between ears-- grey matter, dying to listen: to just jazz, flying off the cuff, an open ended improvisation flooding out of one's own fingers, or a slow burning blues---cooking up a zydeco stew has any one considered just looking at a starless sky noting all the things that don't divide citi-zens* those actions of deepest truth stand as pillars above the wasted words....& thoughts- the dingy kitchen floor--- where is the shining core of an unchallenged love- when one feels shoved- kicked out of heaven where is the parabolic peace where we meet in curves and hollowed trees and just simply be ~kate lamberg (c) '17 *citi-zens: any person in the world...who honors  telling the truth, living the truth, and fully accepting  what is. What is, is.

what's clear to us at dusk distills into dreams that last streak of pink seen through stark poplars then, an almost dark sky fragrance of frankincense tawny spirits over ice, sipped as benediction sleep takes over writing a song will wait till morning words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17