Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

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