how morning picks up the light

1- how morning picks up the light

how morning picks up the light,
and runs for its own life...
is peculiar to people
who stand for something
other than
the chatter of blue jays:

the pushing parables--
individuals who cannot
stop convincing you that--

their beliefs bend doors open-
a perverted documentation:
a mysticism, without
doing the research;

how profound to read Neitzche,
underlining in bold yellow
the words that loom wise,
without the context

found through a life time
of living boldly the character
Zarahustra.---can cause

2- a dead authour

a dead authour to wiggle
in a death bed, lined
with leaves of poems, evidencing
a world shut tight from the fresh
wind of a time--

tarred and feathered
a stuckness sells out
too quickly perseverates
its self to know

more than the one who
cut the wood and stacked it
the one who carried the water
to his daily chair

to sip the cool
liquid- a reward for the sweat,
toil, and tears- set into motion
with a passion of uprightedness

a celebration of a soul who lived
outside of any 'means', simply
lived by the sound of toll bridges,
morning gongs, chimes, the gentle

cheering of a neighbor,
a friend who loves
the toil of his writing, his slicing
the wood, as sentences strung
to purely shine
splintered in the morning light

3- a respect for the old

imploring people-
wanting to know
the essence of buddhism
in a single conversation

without the sweat of a life
reaching, aching, burgeoning
a hot burgundy blood racing
heart beating more quickly
at the piercing of knowing
one clean line showing

a respect for the old-
fashioned style of writing
the back turned towards
any short cuts- how the view
of the lake shines that much
more brightly- without

all that unnecessary quickness
a clip clopping of horses
along the sandy beach at dusk
a faint scent in the early spring
air of new green shoots, and musk

words and photo~ kate lamberg (c) '17

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