Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

                                                                       (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

“You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.” ~George Bernard Shaw mirror mirror quite contrary i want to see what you see in me not this refraction/reflection a distortion of human self- analysis for the birds of discontented souls art heals the fractious differences- - - deliberately- there is finality in action more than words which cause a pause- a side- stepping when soul goes high stepping in the night-- all pom pom regalia so close to the surface of that briny marine life barnacled for another century hidden by the resistance as no mirror tells the complete truth so we do our art-- an understudied heart the translation holds up among the fiercest wind--tunnels---hot air balloons below oil burner piped reams egos scraping along the sides of the midtown tunnel dead air scaring the day lights out of the artist's pen petal pushing the business envelope making square deals that amount to art o...

losses, music, winter cold, and all things i have been told about being careful with get shaken out the window- for to live someone's life, and not one's own makes us a random stone on a curvy road, is what causes all the strife; oh to be icarus---found flying too high in the sky- wax wings melting- dashing into a raging sea (that would never happen to you or to me!) it's time to open the blinds and stare at the sun full well knowing: i am not beetoven, levertov, or o'keefe... but still i am an artist--i am one (and that is what i need to do) the winged waxed dream over milky ceramic allows me to skim over running rivers the rope swing is safe, yet flexible- to touch and to taste stars-- in the universal holding all friends in highest regard i meet along the way... as i sway, and do swing, touching the highest branch in the yard ~kate lamberg (c) '17 cranberry bogs~kate lamberg (c) '17

As a body everyone is single, as a soul never. ~ Herman Hesse separateness defines soul mines for something else a parody in the wind falls for needed change an eclipsed idea whose time has come forging forward in the darkness..(no fright) is it light in here, or did someone just turn the lights on soul retrieval how it's always been there revealed in the acts of kindness feeling umbrella-ed in this light could you hold the umbrella while i bask in the snow falling? there's always an additional arm to wrap around resonance words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17 cranberry bogs-photo (c) '14

 (for my brother, kushal) bring that inner smile, welling up past the blackness circling the glass of water, colliding with your partially folded hands-- ready to open to a friend across the table; the suspense brings a quake of quietude leading to a word, a smile

cranberry bogs- she made cranberry sauce with honey and a crustless pumpkin pie she's sipping black coffee peering at the pewter grey sky she's listening to the grateful dead's 'sugar magnolia' "she can wait in a drop of dew"..she's grateful for all the little things, all the big things, and all the in between things-- all the lady bugs, each ivory key every person she ever met, the constrictive rings of saturn colliding with the expansiveness of jupiter how morning slips without a sound into the bulky center of afternoon then slides, sonorous into the sweet custard of evening words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '16

how laughable are those things-- blue behaviors that folks get away with--as simple as sneezing the clean up crew is still at it a broom can do so much splintered agendas tear us apart, and trust is laid on the line--a nation, a thirsty train-- dismantled by its own selfish fury as caution disperses neath the dusty rail self comes before the other on a rusty track we have come to the reality of a hard sidewalk where the only value lays in soulless lies poem/photo~kate lamberg (c) '17