Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

the cuckoo clock and the clock on the stove stayed at twenty to six for the duration of the dream time stopped the time was always the same I returned to my childhood home It was dinner time no one was home but me and the clocks ticking the house, immaculate as if no one lived there the same turquoise and white tiny squares of swirly linoleum below above, two clocks measuring time for waking, eating, sleeping the cuckoo clock needed to be wound up each night we'd hear the cuckoo on the hour then the Austrian ladies and gents would come out to dance a wooden dance after a few years, it stopped working we kept it on the wall for a few more years then we replaced it for a shiny blue ceramic clock the old fridge continued to hum wistfully perhaps missing the beloved cuckoo clock, once at its side given away to make room for a clock that kept perfect time *droem=a dream inspired poem

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being. ~Albert Schweitzer pure darkness upon waking- from a dream, laughing fearlessly reaching through the dark tentacles to receive light's imminent nectar

silent eyes peer out to feel sky wind shaking trees, and the dance of elements, jolting- a sleepy soul awake

why we wade in ankle- deep chilled waters becomes the pine koan as predictable as the weather--salt water fish laden waves splash languidly against a deserted sturdy cabin lining the beach like a poem- needing several pairs of rested eyes to evaluate its poetic merit requiring a revision of sun beams, joists, clear panes, the local fallen pine's perpendicularity carpentry learned from generations of fathers dancing the foxtrot with daughters- while wildness howls shamelessly outdoors inside quiet wraps around parlor in fuzzy pastels quarry tiles smooth, and warm to the touch of young feet tethered to earthy elegance how effortlessly the tides change- bringing all the goats and rams, lambs and lions to roost together again kjl '19

Happy Birthday Georgia O'Keefe! letting more orange surge into a grey skied day second chakra spins

after midnight awake, and then to sleep and dream the evening, far from quiet-- with the fierce cold November wind, let me fall asleep, and enter into a dream the after midnight dream offered a view of peace- from a newly discovered door, opening to a secret cozy room my cats and a baby deer were dining together on a low coffee table, covered with an old flannel red and gold table cloth the deer had her fill of what looked like milk and cookies-- then jumped out the nearest open window; the cats were unconcerned

The trajectory we were headed for promised all the accoutrements of a sudden understanding. Before sunset, transcendence captivated commonly revered viscera. Until dawn, truth paralleled dreamed parables- soft into the warm night.

who has not known the disruptive searing of loss- at a cost to a giving gracious demeanor the sudden shearing of a loving heart is helped to eventually heal- by the slow building hands of humbleness the crunch of death within the beauty seen in amber and crimson leaves is not cause for despair staying open, on this damp warm aired morning-- a pair of green eyes gaze solely, infinitely skyward

I hear that Mother Earth is Dancing in both passion and rage. She wants you simply to listen to her humble truths and receive her all embracing blessings. From now on, it's either, "mother earth first", or a spinning of our mother--out of control forever.

There was a feeling the sky was deepening, and changing. It was not dissimilar to her own internal day light clock. This may be how she returned to being a ballet dancer, spinning pink pirouettes. She wore the magic charms of freedom, transforming all that was heavy into a lightness of being. The feeling was followed by leaping out partially opened doors, and windows-- to explore her natural twin. The sky- redolent of reds and pinks procured an organic meditation. How it echoed exactly what her reticent mind had meant to say remains a symmetry, not found in an ordinary world.

Without music, life would be a mistake,” ~Nietzsche Before the morning light distracts the dreamer, rising--the softest song bird braves a charcoal sky. With a high-pitched song, this totem bird lifts all the hurts housed inside the poet's rib cage. From the harbor's edge, a poet watches what no longer is needed for a fruitful life to gently be-- one with the sea.

akin to the sea, I let my mind drift, flatten, and rise up--to the present velocity of moon's integrity simple spirit of liquid jewels-- at times jars- and only within moments, flip-flops into a beveled becalming stoking solidarity-- coastal breeze appeases, cools rage- the secret agent of change mind divides on its own accord: as honestly as the red sea at sunset-- then comes together, whole in prayer at sunrise

enroute to Charlottesville trucking down.route 81 going south medium strength sun filtering through various shaped mammoth clouds, while phillip glass piano softly plays-- no peace ever felt so clear- no beauty ever touched me this near in the allowing, all things move to meld--and do defy separate beams of splintered light forming a single flame Autumn Journal,'17