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.