The Poetry Forum

This is I Today

This is I who splashed my body
with a cool blue perfume
put on a backpack loaded
with maps and a bus pass
to begin a day of travel.

This is I who climbed steep
ancient stone steps
paused at the top of a mountain
to share my special place
with friends as we looked out
over the city.

	This is I who saw a homeless man asleep behind a locked iron gate beneath a camaflogue blanket in a space that was made for Jesus.
This is I who watched the people climbing and descending the stairs some stopped to take a look at the drawing in my book.
This is I walking down Steingasse beginning to weave the fiber of a new dream that is lingering in my mind.
	This is I eating lunch under the yellow umbrella talking about brown butter, Austrian noodles, mineral water and cold Coke counting a stack of shillings to pay for my meal
	� This is I shopping on Linzer Gasse buying German hand creme and toothpaste wooden crayons and books coming home with a new pair of Austrian shoes.
This is I writing letters to my mother while I sit in the shade of Mirabell garden I wrote of my life today and I desired to share the afternoon sun.
This is I remembering yesterday watching parachutes and black birds flying over the mountain and a little blue flower that was picked by a friend.
	This is I who wonders if the new dream can ever become time to paint illusions, impressions of my soft spoken desires.

A Villanelle for My Mother at 80 My mother has forgotten what day it is her children's birthdays have vanished Strangers have moved into her house. She forgets about teeth and hair no longer needs to carry a purse My mother has forgotten what day it is. Treasured possessions laid out on tables, put up for sale Strangers have moved into her house. Her drawers now empty no food in her kitchen My mother has forgotten what day it is. Her days maneuver slowly amid rows of walkers Strangers have moved into her house. Strange women smile across the table she does not know how to win My mother has forgotten what day it is Strangers have moved into her house. Dreams of a Cool Water World - Mixed Media on Paper, Collection of Michael and Samantha Ritorto

Dreams of a Cool Water Man - Mixed Media on Paper, Collection of Debora Colligan

After an All-night Rain (Remembering Dante) Do not forget to mark my passage Watch as I move through tall grass and honeysuckle vines Breathe, breathe as you pass through the woods. Feel the air that thickens with heavy rains Squat low, search for broad plants under sheltering trees Do not forget to mark my passage. Reach out, mingle the poison ivy vines with strong-scented honeysuckle tangles Breathe, breathe as you pass through the woods. Trace the withering crimson tips of white flowers on the hardened muddy knoll Do not forget to mark my passage. Move your feet quietly this morning past the sleeping dogs on the hillside Breathe, breathe as you pass through the woods. Listen as a small dog barks twice in the darkened room where my mother sleeps Do not forget to mark my passage. Breathe, breathe as you pass through the woods.

Memorial Day - A Sestina in Multiple Voices

In my mother�s kitchen my aunts each begin to speak
about family achievements and God's great mercy.
They hover over the wooden table. They desire
hot casseroles wrapped in linen towels. With a spirit
of joy they cut into the fresh-baked apple pie. They sing
praises of children and pass new photos to show a truth.


One aunt conveyed a truth
not pleasing to speak
about recent news from Minnesota. Now she�ll sing
praises about her daughter's life - speak of God�s mercy.
My aunt's spirit
becomes confused like an old woman�s diminished desire.


My daughter's love was my only desire
but I need to know the truth.
Tell me again of her spirit
dashed. I speak
about my daughter's life that is over. Mercy
is a dirge to sing.


Group your words into stanzas - make a poem sing
the indentation of lines can vary with desire
single words can occupy entire lines, like �mercy�
break up your words into the shape of truth
allow the shape to be the message you speak
unconventional punctuation as a path to the spirit


The two women felt her spirit-
could they sing
in this cold place? They couldn�t speak
of work, home, or desire
for clothing to hang in closets of truth
about unopened birthday cards filled with mercy.


My aunt holds an old photo and prays for mercy
she flicks away dust with a wipe of her shattered spirit
this year it's a more remote truth -
no picnics in my mother's kitchen. No voices to sing
around a wooden table. My mother�s only desire
is for visitors who come to speak


You are proved right as you speak. Grant me a willing spirit.
Have mercy on me, O, God! Let my tongue sing
on Memorial Day. Let me desire innermost truth.

All poetry and art works on this site are by Lynda J. Lambert, � 2005

�Lynda's Art	� Resume
Poetry	� Jewelry
�Lectures	�Travel Course
�Imagination	�Lynda's Story
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Email Lynda your comments or questions

Lynda Lambert's book, Concerti...Psalms for the Pilgrimage is available through www.amazon.com

Read MORE of Lynda Lambert's Poetry on A Little Poetry.com

This page was updated January 24, 2006

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