Preparation by K.B.Lamb 1976

I never was a tourist; in New York
I walked the streets at night and thought of work
And rode the subway train and bought a pipe
And found it like my home town, only bigger.
The movies get there first, I caught a Western,
And found the women fat and safe from me.
The dirt upon the streets and racing taxis
Make all the cities very much the same;
In Ottawa, in fact, our cab was faster.
But I was glad I went, I got panhandled;
The upper state was pastoral at night;
Returning in the dawn along the Delaware
Made me Ulysses rowing it for home.

My history of New York help make respected
My visions in Alexis Creek, told later.


The files are full, the magnitude of art
That's mine weighs golden on my striving soul,
The pen's at work and typewriter keys are poised
And projects loom like the mountains to be won;
And all the world shall know my ringing truth
Shall feel the victory of my years of toil.

From a Guest Poet

As literary executor I have been going through Ken's papers, finding lots of poetic notes and even some finished poems and thought I would have a "guest" poet for a bit as my poetic well is very dry these days.


A Poem for Judas (and me) by KB Lamb

When will Judas die?
Why is he always near,
So slick, and sharp, and clever
Catching every ear?
So pleasing to the eye
So reassuring in his strength,
So quick with solid answers,
So free to speak at length?

Today he leads the Reds
Tomorrow it's the Whites
Every side of mortals questions
Finds him in the right
He's never at a loss
He's a leader with aplomb
He moves the masses tranquilly,
They always find him strong.

Judas is the golden man
He's the head of every class
I think he ran for Cambridge
And I know he wasn't last
Judas is a raconteur
And when the need appears
He writes poetry for causes
And moves us all to tears.

He's never even faltered
He knows the virtues off by heart
And he's so good at imitation
That it gives you quite a start
To realize that in all his life
He's not been at a loss
Except when Someone asked him
To bear, and love, his cross.

The Devil Question

When the Devil
Has ruined a soul
Does he stand by
Paring his nails
Did he find it easy
And is just bored
Yawning as he looks
For the next soul to destroy.

What of this soul
Now black and cold
Drifting on the log of self-will
Further out on the brimstone sea
Sneering at God
Clawing out the eyes
All kindness ever gave.

What next for
This devil's disciple
Life become a hell
To send it frightened
Back to God
Before the final bell?

Treasured Past

I never knew my grandparents
And the thought of them
Leaves me as a child
Hiding shy behind
My mother's skirt.

I do not speak or understand
Their native tongues
I have not followed the long miles
They from far away lands
Travelled in search of work
Or a better life for us
Their children's children.

I think of my grandmothers
Far from their familiar
City paths and cultured lives
The making of lace
And woolen caps
Dying young
In a wilderness
Harsh winter landscape
Beautiful and desolate
They filled with love
And children.

My sweet young parents
With this act of faith
Found a future
Filling their home with love
Sustaining even
My days of now.
Oh hear my words of
Gratitude
My dear departed ones
My treasures from the past.

Love's Lament

I am raindrops
Against your window
Falling silently as tears.
I cannot rage against the glass
Whipped to furore by the wind
I wish I could 
Then you might hear.

This vigil outside
The boundaries of
Your busy heart
With no room
Except a tiny crack
I cannot see
But only feel
From far away
Wrapped in grey
Cloud cover
Hovering
This silent love.

Winter

Winter in silence
Surrounded by chilled air
Blowing cold beneath
Grey skies over ink black
Waters
Patrolled by prayers
Sent beyond the mountains
Prayers kindled as a bonfire
Against the darkness,
Frozen and bitter these
Times of exile,
Seemingly endless and
No roads leading out beyond
Except in watching with
Breathing silence
Floating on the frosted air
Putting one foot forward
Hoping the foot behind
Will always follow.

Impressions

 The days grow shorter now
In autumnal changes
As gardens rest
Tucked in the good brown earth.
A quiet has fallen
Midst the reds and gold
Breathtaking in dying
Leaf shed garments
Lying at the feet beneath
Tall tree sentinels 
Naked now in graceful pose.

Behind the funeral home
The waft of burning weed
Three men huddled
Defiant of law and place
Eager I move beyond their gaze
To watch the overhead crows
Collecting walnuts
Dropping them from heights
To the hard pavement roads
Waiting for the cars
To break open the
Unyielding ones,
As time is wont 
To pour over our stubborn
Ways.
How does the heart
Break open outward
To follow the fading light
Into a timeless sun
Constant in every season.