oh
                                          yum
                ­                   moon
                               supper
                           served on
                        dark platter
                      of night sky
                   salad tossed in
                  starry dressing
                 orange segment
                  mouthwatering
                   sea urchin roe
                     salty crescent                  
                       lemon sliver
                          melon slice                                    
                       ­       succulent
                                  moon
         ­                               yum
                              ­                oh

Where does  the smoke go
                                                                when it’s done drifting ?
Where does the music go
                                                                when it’s been played ?
Where does the wind go
                                                                when the storm quietens ?
Where does the scent go
                                                                when petals fade?


Where does the taste go
                                                                when food is swallowed ?
Where does the peal go
                                                                when bells have been rung ?
Where does the moonlight go
                                                                when the sun rises ?
Where does the song go
                                                                when it’s been sung?


Where does the rainbow go
                                                                 when you stop staring ?
Where does the morning star go
                                                                 when it’s night ?
Where does the colour go
                                                                 when the night’s fallen ?
Where does the darkness go
                                                                 when the sky’s bright?





Where does the lust go
                                                                 when it’s been sated?
Where does the youth go
                                                                 when folk grow old?
Where does the wave go
                                                                 when ocean levels ?
Where does the story go
                                                                 when it’s been told?


Where does the memory go
                                                                 when it’s forgotten?
Where does the prayer go
                                                                 when it’s been said?
Where does the love go
                                                                 when it’s rejected?
Where does the spirit go
                                                                 when it’s not fed?


Where does the thirst go
                                                                 when it’s been quench-ed ?
Where does the silence go        
                                                                 when  the talk starts?
Where does the footprint go
                                                                  when wind’s passed over?
Where does the life go
                                                                  when soul departs?




Where does the truth go
                                                                 when lies are accepted ?
Where does  the vow go          
                                                                 when marriage is dead?
Where does the thought go
                                                                 when it’s not written ?
Where does the poem go
                                                                 when it’s not read ?



Trish Lambert
2010

“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly  1926-

You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking      
                                                                                                
                                                                                                   heralds with bugles divine revolution

You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals                
                                                                                                
                                                                                                  gossamers emeralds’  scintillant light

You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes            
                                                                                                
                                                                                                   is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
          
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings          
                                                                                            
                                                                                                   howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch  

You could say that  the sound that tremors  from tadpoles        
                                                                                                
                                                                                                   triggers eruptions of undersea mountains

You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill              
                                                                                              
                                                                                                   on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
      
      You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins            
                                                                                                    
                                                                                                          loosens the shackles of acuate cacti

You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows                
                                                                                              
                                                                                                   silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking

You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks        
                                                                                              
                                                                                                    passes on purple to stillness of shadows

You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas                      
                                                                                              
                                                                                                    crackles through canyons of memory rising

You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
                                                                                            
                                                                                                    shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade

You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous

                                                                                                     tangles up synapses  sparking at random

You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening                      
                                                                                        &n

Held up a rose
pointed a pistol
at her furled head
curled head                    
said your honey
or your wife
she just blooming
laughed
I shot her petals
to smithereens
that’ll learn ’er
a rose like any
other dame
is just a
***** in disguise




Trish Lambert
A throw together.
2012,
After being given the first line.

See this gray dust
Swirling
It is the ground bones of ancestors

They are in my nostrils
And on my tongue
They congregate in my ears
Where they chatter lightheartedly
And beat their drums
In rhythms syncopated  
With my heartbeat
Oh yes, my blood recognizes that tattoo

They clump under my toenails
And collect in the creases
Of my withering skin

If I sit long enough in one spot
They will engulf me
Cover me in a fine quiet shroud
I shall succumb to their insistence
And surrender without fuss

Soon enough
Sun shall crack me open
Desiccation shall be my lot
My bones will give back the light
Insidious lichens shall colonise me
Insects explore my crevices
Corroded, scoured by indifferent winds
I shall slump with a final sigh
No  body,  aaaaah

Then
I too shall blow about
On the breeze
I shall be no more
Than an irritating speck
In the eye of a grand child
Carrying  marigolds.



Tricia Lambert.    

On November 2nd, Dia de los muertos, Mexicans honour their ancestors and recently dead, with elaborate shrines in homes and public places. Families visit cemeteries, taking food and flowers, noticeably marigolds, and the celebrations are loud and long.

She sits alone,
on a cleared patch of road
amidst utter devastation
legs bare
feet bare
knees bent
hands clasped around her thighs
she has taken off her scarlet boots
and placed them together beside her
a tiny mark of order
it is all she can do
place her boots
side by side on the road

Apocalypse Now
reads the Headline
And this
I can finally comprehend

10,000 dead-
that’s my whole town
and 3000 more-
10,000 dead
is hard to grasp
but this one young woman
could be my daughter
or my grandchild
her hair dyed
fashionably orange
fashion mattered yesterday
to her and her friends
where are they now
did they survive
behind her
broken houses
twisted metal
a mountain of rubble
nothing recognisable


I look at this image
and I see her rocking
I see her mouth open
a wail of anguish
I hear her
wail
wailing is
the same in any language
needs no translation
palpable anguish
I hear her wail
she alone shows me
what it means
the agony of
10000 dead

what next
where
how

The sea stood up a giant tide

And turned towards man’s joy and pride

Now see the buildings lifted ride

And over fields and bridges glide

The few who watched from hilltops cried

The works of man are swept aside

And there is nowhere left to hide

For on this day man’s ego died