Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

that runs as deep as a river, as high as the sky---- me, you, thee, thou--no,not in a million incarnations--- we are what we remember: both sunshine and thunder running amok, and in grace.. we tenderly utter-- breathing in and out-- without memory we'd be-- just a cloud crying out loud, or a torrential rain--our own sweat blood tears... falling to touch earth-- once again, filling the chalice of our lives, and those whose lives and well-being we value

When we meet (in our minds) at the clearing, surrounded by cottonwood trees, wild sumac, bachelor buttons, Queen Anne's lace, hip high grasses...don't forget--to take a photograph to remember how we--smooth as silk, met in nature. How we will both die in nature-- in separate fields of wild flowers, dancing. How elegant hundred year old evergreens, scratch the moire' blue sky. The rain will eventually come in a burst of letting go of our entire life's entrapments--our bodies, clothes, records, books, jewelry, fruits of our labor--no longer needed. We will enter another world of peaceful prairies- where prayer and loving continue. May we finally rest--without any pre- conceived ideologies. May we meet again in a pas de deux-- a.deja' vu.

no difference between pond and sky-- as they both hold all the magic, do drift into each other before dawn-- how can it be--in the wee hours-- sky and pond appear to be one cohesive interpenetrating force-- as love- making serves to forget self... pond becomes sky, sky becomes pond- as you and I forget self long enough to really hear what the other is trying to say... correct me if I am wrong; I was born between the beats and the gypsies-- carrying the magic in breath of my grandma who knew at an early age I was to be more than smiles for a camera-- more like a poet dancer, sweeping through the back roads of suburbia-- anchored by trusting my ancestors,--reminded in dreams and photographs how little we really choose: as the music of words, and the timbre of music are the only prayers that make any sense to the poet--perched between branch and bird, pond and sky

jazz notes fill all the uneven sentient surfaces between keys and windows-- the calicos strike yoga poses, as someone looks out the window-- waiting to make sense of a single phrase--seeing if it works in the whole scheme of harmony-- the soon to be harvest insists a poem will be written in the apple orchard at dawn-- when grapes dangle care-free, vines remind anyone, how--the heavy rain helped to get the shining purples there... purposely praising all weather- leaving knee jerk reactions for bulls in rings-- goats and lambs hardly ever complain about the rain...

into the wind- wing on wing the ship believed in forward motion--- however slowly the vessel kept its snail salutation, pure integrity sail-- for finality needs nothing... but the moment, fusing with flood gates open... emotion in bubbled sea, carrying the source-- that claims the meaning to be... one's self both during, and after the storm-- that only slows the essence- never obliterating an inner circumnavigation-- back to the free fellowship of all vessels meeting... beyond the shore of safety-- beyond, beyond, beyond: to the eureka homeland... living in levity anywhere within the constant churning-- souls burning clearly, in a watery sea