Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

the world is not mine for keeps, but does a dance in spirals  I hop on for a little while, do drop off the  merry go round when dizzy, and tired  of all the phony prophets-- and the prospects-- of getting  nowhere in a hurry then reach for trunks of trees, those  grounding mechanisms,  manufactured in a mind content to be going nowhere with all the time in the world to worship ships, whales, and the softness  of old flannel work shirts, the scent  of basil mint,  and the taste  of caramel rearranging garden gloves- in order of importance-the  canvas flowery ones hold up the best in a rainy bone chill spring I wear my long hip length green sweater closer to my heart, pray for fairness between friends and neighbors, stomp  on person made fences, and leap over boundaries bringing beads and string, green tea, and honey over  the gritty distinctions that once created unrest..... I continue to breathe in whole...

the red brick house was so quiet, her abdominal breathing was heard next door without cause to worry, she still felt plagued by not having her privacy restored attempting to blur the power lines of demarcation, she woke at four a.m., fully rested the colors of her dreamscapes were blanketed in ice blue and beige-- with dabs of blood orange a trip was planned to the high sierras- everyone in the house was scrambling to get ready the conflicting weather reports created a challenge  in deciding what clothing to bring also there were food choices to  be made from the pantry-- that had her mind reel out of control kjl '19

waiting for the snow to fill the already cold still air we're going to brave  another storm, battening down yesterday's soup will last all through the expected snow in this harsh world, the hardened earth sings,  'love and acceptance' a dance done deliberately against the channels of rivers finally grasping smooth stones, ice-tinged air becoming hot house flowers in  winter--- paper whites, red hibiscus leaving the heavy dark  wintry marches for the light ballet waltzes of chopin hands, heart, and fingers widened to play the sounds of ancestral hymns kjl '19

she would often pause while walking past her favorite house, facing the salt sprayed harbor receiving tiny floods after a heavy rain she never saw anyone leave or enter the home-- how it always appeared spanking clean,  with a fresh cloud of white paint, and  charming gingerbread details no chance of it being haunted still... in the quiet of early morning, she thought she heard it breathing the words in whispers: "gaze at my beauty, but I am not on the market don't expect to make a deal...please keep walking." my ancestors return in summer to  walk down the pebbled driveway they cross the lane, to feel the sand below their ghostly feet, to  plunge into the bottle green harbor, and  to swim without expending any energy to simply allow themselves to float lazily across the sound--- undetected by the most prayerful beach bums.. now in winter, the souls of the house could be felt skating.. when the sound  freezes, the sweet elegy ...