For a Friend among Friends June 15,1972 KB Lamb

In 1972 Ken wrote a few sonnets, a poetic form he excelled in.

Was that a quarrel, these words that never came?
And did you hate, or blacken out, my name?
I did not mean to breach your peace of mind,
Though I was rough, more quick and free than kind.
I cannot rest, my pen fights with despair;
I flee from friends to lock away my face;
My heart is less than stone, my soul is bare;
I fear you'll never give me back my place.
You are not here; when will you come again?
And will you come in peace to mend the tear?
I do not gloss the truth to toll my pain,
My brain is thick with thoughts I cannot bear.
The chances are if you cannot forgive,
I must begin to wonder why I live.

Untitled KB Lamb 1976

Whitecaps running high on the water
Wind blowing a cool spray clean through my soul.
William, when you sang her praise
London might have larger lain,
But you have not seen Victoria
Late at night, in Rabbit Lane.

When I younger took to pen
Thinking I could turn some verse
Quick I thought my mind should fashion
Line to line, the last to first;
In the twinkling of a moment.

My metaphysics text books smell of pine woods
Sea waves curl with every turning page.
Golden arrow, straight I rise,
Heaven, to thy Mother's keeping
She has heard me, when I cry
And will not leave me weeping.

I could be a poet just for pine cones
There's a field to train my expertise
And if my heart explodes, well, catch the pieces
Only you can form them up again.
You owe me still a horseback ride
Should I bleed in the shadow of a mountain.

Then the stories, all of them
This is why God made us heaven.

Lady of the Shades KB Lamb 1976

Christmas coming down on me
I hope it comes around for you,
I just heard the other day
What you chose to do.

    Silent night, the lights went out
    You pulled the switch yourself.
    Of all the ways, saddest one
    And you didn't even call.
    Don't you know you could have care
    You could have shed your pain
    Was that not always clear enough?
    Oh God, don't let it happen again.

And we were the best of friends
And I never let it go.

Lying at my feet the city
All around me begs for light
Long the war and hard the battle
But our bugles sang all night.

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.