Murder Most Foul with a nod to Bob

I have known a murderer
Sharp with hateful words
Has left me bleeding
Poisoned my friends
And left my dearest soul
With mortal wounds.

How foul this festering bile
This attack on long cherished
Friends we were
But now I linger near
Sadness.

You have not killed my love
Just used your dagger
A gaping bleeding wound
Only eternity will heal.

On this the Feast of the Sacred Heart

It is hard to be brave
Dying of cancer
In a busy ward
Full of noise and
Strange lights.

It is hard to be brave
when deserted by friends
left
on pathways hidden.
Or scorned by the young
whose vanity tells them
they can change reality
with any whim, just use
words
and persecute those
who object to
illusions.

It is hard to be brave
when those beloved
have left this life
and words can only
be silent
for us left behind
to be brave.

Silent Witness

St Thomas once said
there is nothing
on this earth
more to be prized
than true
friendship.

I am a witness
to your goodness
and the Light
that always shone
through you
Never did my
steps find harm,
always a sure path
forward.

There is only sadness
at your kindness
 betrayed.
The loss of friendship
is such excruciating pain.
I did not always notice her
paths unwinding
but now I can
see into the clues
that were always there.

Why such poison
to herself and all around,
a heart that closed
and will not open,
snapped shut in
bitterness on barren soil.

I am witness to
your goodness
I remain a silent one
my heart always listening
to hear the echo of
your warm and loving heart
my friend.

These Stones

Some times
your absence
is a rock slide
leaving me buried,
bruised and bleeding,
crying out
from the sheer pain
But I know
you are free.
The sufferings endured
are memories
bathed in Beauty,
the Light eternal and
Splendor.
You are home.


Alas, I await my turn
to enter that valley,
the one of shadow
leading to the mortal
breath being no more.

May my courage remain
Oh, soldier friend of mine,
Be by my side
Always
Please listen to
these tears from
beneath the falling stones.

INSIDE OF TIME

Where you are
I would be
Across the divide
I cannot follow, 
I am a victim of time.
Only my heart can
yearn and strain
to walk beside you
once again.

I must rest content
in a heart that
bleeds  
on occasion, falling 
into the emptiness which
ebbs and flows upon the 
silent watch
where love lies buried.

My Friend

To my spiritual director

I am a book
You wrote
For almost fifty years
The title page
So carefully chosen
After many hours
Suffering and prayer,
Slowly calling me to
Forsake my nets
And follow your footprints
Into time.

I am a book
Of few pages
Yet lovingly tended
Illustrated with your
Crafting hand
Delicate in colours
Sharp in outlines defined.

I am a book
Someone
One day may read
To find
Traces of Him
Who called us both
To write a tale
With love for Him
In friendship's
Golden hues.

Willows

The willow shrubs
Speak spring when
Cold and ice recede,
Warm buds dressed
In wooly cotton coats
Brownly grey.

The willow trees
That weep
Draped yellow twigs
Hairshafts
Blowing with breezes
And summer locks
Hanging with the harps of exile.

I have become like willows
Weeping before the doors
Death shut strong
And fast.
What key can be fashioned
To unlock the silence?
What window found to
Peer into mystery
The Light beyond this
Painful vale.

Like spring, hope
Dawns against the cold
Bitter wind
Stripping happiness.
My heart finds courage
To bud forth swathed
With warm memory
Goodness, innocence, peace,
A blessed gift this humble life
Willows both grey and gold.

Winter Grace ( rewrite)

The turn of the seasons
Unpredictable at best,
This cold winter wind
With snow in its arms
Descends upon the mountain valley
Bitter, cold, dry snow
Caught in whirlwinds
Swirling among the evergreens,
Swooping along rocky cliffs,
Picking us up like a mother cat her kittens
Moving us quickly against its onslaught,
Reminding our small creature selves
Might is not ours,
In case we hadn't noticed.

Thus winds of grace can grow fierce,
Blowing through our lives,
Turning us upside down
Overwhelmed, often helpless,
The gusts of this Divine author
Leaving all asunder.

But in gentler moods
This Artist lets the early snow
Settle around the landscape,
The time of brown in
All shades and shapes,
The dark blue green waters,
The occasional red bark or
Brilliant yellow,
The lingering sandy grass
Grey green tufts accented,
The last few golden leaves clinging to
The top outlines of bushes and trees,
The Artist's brush must dapple it seems
In many colored strokes.

When at last the white snow
Dominates all forms
Clings to the exposed tree's bark,
Decorates delicate branches
Tiny red berries glowing beneath,
Thus heaven makes all white,
Shining clean and wholesome
The Divine birth in this darkest time of year.

Lines Written When I was Young

Last night was spent asleep outside the tomb
And dawn was dulled from sleep within my eyes,
But morning brought the winters cold, clear light
And wisdom warmed my hands against its fright.

Enthroned before the windows of my soul
A sinner such as I, a vision saw,
How Christ was to the master of our house
O such a friend, O such a faithful spouse.

What hope amidst this dark and howling world
To know Christ loves directly some men's souls
And they in turn take up the Son's hard cross
Becoming Christ to us who are so lost.

The rags that clothed my soul, with sorrow rent
To see how this man was as Christ to me
He'd born the pain of my sins in his flesh
And loved me still, for Christ was his true rest.

Grief

Grief stalks me
A cruel hunter
Sharp and keen
In the shadowed wood
Or twilight
Becoming a deadly foe
Bold even in
Noon day sun.
An arrow from that bow sends
My heart into fragments,
My eyes blinded by
Salt water flow
And my soul cries out
In the anguish of
Loss
The remembrance
Of a suffering soul
Now free
From these deadly shades,
The hunted no more.

No, I will not let these snares
Trap me
That lurking around my soul
Make grief a grave to be.
No, I would it be a boat
To take me to that distant shore.

The War

You died a soldier in the war
That rages round unseen
The bullets to the heart
Constantly repeated
The wounds invisible
To the human eye.

You died a soldier in the war
The battleground for souls
The angels welding heavy swords
Against that ceaseless foe
The fiends of hell.

You died a soldier
A heart burst open
Like a purse filled with gold
Your love spilled here
As blood is shed in mountain
Solitudes.

I am left 
A soldier in the war
The standard bearer too
Holding brave the banner
The rest of these days
Standing lonely
In this battlefield.

The Journey

The journey from time to eternity
Is fraught with hardship,
The storms rage
Against this frail bark we sail upon
Terrors from the deep.
And I could only watch
Helpless on the shore,
As wave upon wave
Swallowed you within their jaws.

I was lost
Inside a blizzard,
When I turned around
No footprints did I see
And none before
To mark where I should go,
How blindly I walked,
Frail in tear-laden labour,
Urged on by love
Always near within
Our friendship old and true.

And when it was time
For you to leave our sight
You quietly slipped away
At dawn,
Leaving my tears to drown
This broken heart at every turn,
I needed courage
But I am not alone.

Oh, dearest friend,
From distant youth to now grey hair
I wear your courage in my memory
As a wreath around my thoughts,
Your goodness guides
My steps, I see the path
Your kindness lights
In the darkness of this wilderness.

Your sweetness I carefully wrap
Around my burdened soul
Until that time
At journey's end,
Kept safe upon this ancient road
I will run in your footprints
Gone beyond this veil,
We will meet on the other side
Again.

Ballad for a Glad Cafe or The Kaslo Road Revisited by KB Lamb

I remember that you asked for explanations
As we exchanged our knowledge near the rain;
The lake was down below, and broad, and snow-swept,
And I felt good in that old cafe again.
I could open up my deepest heart, and you looked in;
You'd dropped the common doubts and knew the score.
When the lightning came you stood your ground and caught it;
I wondered if you wondered if there's more.

Or do you have some questions on the history?
Not for granted, surely, you take those hours?
You claimed a lot for grace and special knowledge,
But just like that how often do they pour
So sweet and fast and freely given. . .
Well, not entirely free, there is a price:
For the victors, faith in glory, for the vanquished:
The slowly dying flame of memory changed to ice.

I think you thought that victory might be easy
Just the natural steps that lay ahead,
One conversation down and ten to go,
The route so full of the light that spun our thread.
But since I left your side I thought a decade
There is a toll of tales you'll need to hear,
Whole armies move surely in my memories,
You have to learn that wisdom starts with fear.

Not fright from me; though there are those who think so,
But there is the office, the mantle I never sought,
But that I learned to wear in the heat of roaring battles,
You might have smelled the smoke that lingers yet.
You might have called it incense, near the rain,
In all the joy of friendship's opening hour
But come the close of subsequent encounters
You'll need to know the history of its power.

So you could think on Moses in his trials,
How he pitched his life against the Pharaoh's
That if he'd scouted not Sinai, but the Kootenay shore
He might have sat in our cafe to speak at length.
Does it matter that the space was unpretentious?
The stable of stables knew no nobler stance
And nothing like that view of this green country
Where the cafe and my intentions take their chance.

And Moses is not so strange an image either,
I've not his mob, but I've had my meanderings
A miracle or two, and lots of cheek
When I've kicked the golden calf and other panderings.
And you must have guessed by the strength that shook our table
That this wasn't the first time I'd prayed around these walls
Like that old tiger I'd checked out my future desert
When I had to walk alone to hear the call.

The cafe came not to me on a pleasure trip,
I found it through a snowstorm and surprise,
Heading north in pain and a wildcat winter
An exile Caiphas' henchmen left to die.
The sudden spring had closed and the light grew colder,
The wind was whistling vengeance from beyond,
All around the compass froze in wonder,
And both camps huddled wondered where I'd gone.

I first flashed by in the daylight with the wounded,
The next time through the dawn among the ranks
Of a wilted weekend's witless memories squad
Who would have ruined coffee with their thanks
And I had to keep my fingers on the lanyard
Hurling limping salvos south from the Duncan flats
Then I walked out in the sun to check the damage
I was never quite so out positioned after that.

So my virgin entrance came in calmer times
And though I wouldn't say my scraps were done
I'd discovered secret trails and bolder allies,
I fought from strength and rarely drink alone,
And every toast we raised of Brazilian leisure
Marked a sweet advance on the final goal,
We counted up the wounded, split the treasure;
I came not often, but with all I'd want to hold.

And now you've sat beside me in that landscape,
We talked of matters out of touch with lines of fire
But tales of the Kaslo road say it's not easy
To keep a gunner's hand sweet on the lyre;
And if you'd like to wander in the mountains
With me again, then talk above the lake,
Ask of others who shared in the early stories
There are legends before the history you would make.

The Good Tree

The good tree cannot bear
Bad fruit
It is only ordinary to the eye
Of those unused to
Studying the form
Or tasting goodness,
Tree roots descend
Deep into the heart of
Our mother mineraled earth.

The good tree
May suffer the severe
Tests of winter's frost,
Languish beneath the harsh
Burning summer heat,
Wilt from the drought,
And die before its time.

The good tree
Harbours the birds of the air
Giving a home nest to little ones
Its leaves shimmering
Always rustling a lullaby
In summer breezes,
And shade to the tiny plants
Growing in its goodness
Safe from the harsh
Assaults of daily toil.

The good tree will not bear
Bad fruit, there are
Those who take its goodness
And rot within themselves
From choice of reckless folly,
Who rejoice to see it die
Cut down by
The fury of the future.

But the little plants
Will always sing sweetly into time,
Rejoice with a memories embrace
The goodness this tree sent forth,
For now
Deep beneath the daylight shadows
It has earned its rest.

February 22, 1978 K.B. Lamb

Lent it is, and the prospects raise my wonder
Why, Lord, is the landscape black
These streets feel not sun but storms.

I do not like the look of houses
Always, in my strolls about;
Trees are faithful, flowers sometimes
But homes, with people in, or out,
Have sometimes too much devil in them
Hearths of heathen war with grace
The doors, which could not know I'm knocking
Slam with thunder in my face.

When all my songs are over,
Mother of minstrels, mother of men
Just let me rest my head on your heart again
You know I didn't do too well
But the fault was sure not yours
You would have given everything
If they'd opened up their doors.

Emily Carr KB Lamb

Emily Carr, I finally love you
Laughing bear has played his trick
At last I saw your list of wonders
A friend's persistence won the day.
I loved the stories but the painting
Long ago awoke no flame
Now I see the doors to open
And will tremble at your name.
Sorry for the long palaver
I don't know why I could not see
The coast in your eyes long in mine
But Laughing Bear has growled at me
His gentle back aglow with lessons
I laugh myself to take my place
Perhaps if I should be so lucky
You will lead me to his face.

Silvered Wings KB Lamb

Once I saw a flash of snipe
Or perhaps some other shore bird
A hundred, closely bunched
Race across a tide flat through the air.
Suddenly, as if by signal
Turned they wingward at the sun
And I saw a sheet of silver
Flashing earthward, catching me transfixed
Only God could give that signal
Thought I then and through the years recalled
The vision present, then the door
Swinging shut.

At times the vision of the seen
Was far too bright;
And the pain of beauty passing
Closed my heart, blustered shut
By the harsh cries of a half believing world.
Yet the hidden vaults were not forgot
And often open to my view;
Quite by surprise I would be caught
My soul would then fly up
And fall in silent tears.

Where hid that beauty?
Not in woman's eyes or in my books
And if in the forest why was it so secret
Not automatic yielding to my quest?
Something in their presence leaves me stammering
For the Beauty where I can rest eternal be.

Kootenai KB Lamb

For Tim Lander

I roamed around the world to find
A place to give me peace of mind
But I ain't found anything as kind
As my home in the Kootenai mountains
Kootenai mountains strong and high.

Going back home to the Kootenays
Going to get my soul untied
I've been down in the city too long
I think my brains are getting fried.

Hang out my thumb on the old freeway
Flagged a truck in Manning Park
Make it through Osoyoos
Before the sky got dark.

Had to hang around in Greenwood
Met a poet in a bar
Back seat on a motor bike
Froze my jaw by Castlegar.

But I'm back home by the lake shore
And my friends all know I'm home
Hang Vancouver on the clothesline
Next time I'll go by phone.

Lent March 9, 1975 KB Lamb

Lent it is, and silver March insists
In this month of memories of spring
That I set out to settle things within
And sort the thoughts that penance proper brings.

Lent it is and silver March returns,
And spring is breaking up the hills of snow.
The sun is growing stronger day by day
And I am thinking stronger as I know.

The time has come when all the hills and streams
Though they have been my friends and will again,
Deny me now and turn my feet away.
The time has come for me to challenge time
To make her stand in one surrendered place.
She must deliver up the treasure stored
She holds the mirror where I can paint my face.

And paint I must, my world can wait no more
My destiny has raised me up that other shore.

Do not decry my youth; my silent tongue
Knew not the words that summoned youthful fame.
If I wrote nothing more than common chat,
Give neither me, nor God, nor fate, the blame.

Navigators March 10/81 KB Lamb

What they really seek, these navigators,
Is forever another horizon.
Our gentle God made earth to meet the sky,
And likewise sea, so we might search
The constant dream, and instantly
Discover our own destiny: that's death,
The singing shudder of the body at the soul.
Like mountain ridges on swooping plain,
The rise of the forest crown against the sky:
Where they meet our vision.
What they really seek, these navigators,
Is forever another horizon. Where the 
Mountain meets the sky, on a swooping plain
Stops against the clouds, or ocean's tide.