Interlude December 1972 KB Lamb

Heaven having come, I'll not push on,
Or seek for struggle that would suit the stage.
If there's no combat where some angels sing,
If I would hear them I must quiet rage.
The storm on earth - I need not fear - goes on;
There will be tales to tell to whet my pen;
So in this hour let me see Your light
Beyond the darkness stirring blood in men.
Your home is peace to make this warfare dull.
Your silence makes the ocean's roar a whine.
My fascination for the battle dies.
I sigh to feel the firm defeat of time.
I don't forget outside the siren waits,
But for the time I hide within your gates.

Early Spring December 15,1972 KB Lamb

Like the opening of your eye, the winter broke,
And I was there to see the melting sun
Turn all her rays upon the frozen waste
And start the little streams upon their run.
Old Mother Earth began to shake her skin,
She flexed the binding of her winter's peace;
It broke, and then the ice revealed the earth
That shimmered with the joy of her release.
In every bud the petals preened for love.
On every bough the birds began to sing,
The grass below the snow now bloomed above,
Deep in the woods the bells began to ring.
And I was there! What more is there to say
When Spring breaks through upon a winter's day?

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.