Bones beached
gleaming
in black sand

Moon dust scattered
careless
etches stones

Sleeping dragon unseen
slumbers under hills
mapping power

Silver scaled fish
flash shimmer
in green pools

Blood rises
answers the pull
of dancing moon

cloud crossed moon
white moon
high riding moon

wishing moon
fishing for dreams moon
reflecting

searching out
bleached bones
dream seekers

Dragons in waiting

At the East End Cafe
a Canadian folksinger
strums up a storm
on a guitar-
a bargain guitar-
he got $1000 off the price of it
We don’t know any of his songs

Locals tap their feet
to his rhythms
talk to people
they talk to every day
but louder tonight
fuelled by beer and wine
and a determined bonhomie

Ange and her girls
cook up a storm
behind the counter
serve us steaks
and real pizzas
and creme brulee

Late night kids
stroll outside
peer in - curious-
at the unaccustomed goings on

Beyond the plateglass windows
the inside lights
orange globes
reflect in the darkness
like floating pumpkins

I know the river lies out there
just moving on down to the sea

I dished a crescent moon
onto a page
of poetry
But the point
ran away from me-
it just would not stay put
Perhaps it is looking for the spoon.
Is that a little dog I can hear laughing.

God made me human
she was feeling capricious that day
actually I was meant to be a frog
                        
green and certain, self contained
content to simply squat and watch
flick a sticky tongue at a passing bug

observer of two worlds
at home in both
a leap-in-waiting

able when need or impulse
dictates to skedaddle
with the nonchalance of a Buddha

a gleam of green and gold
glistening on a lily leaf
or kerplunking into deep cool water

Frog had I such toes such elegant legs
I too could scrutinise the mysteries
of pools, the undersides of lilypads

do you wonder Frog
whether there are other ponds
do you dream a dream of elsewhere

do you pause to peer skywards
harbour a secret  wish for wings
ah, what may lie beyond your pool

but perhaps I ascribe                                        
too much mystery to you Frog
you simply are

whilst I, I am stuck in wondering,
trying to connect two worlds two realities
**** **** the divine indifference



                                  
  Tricia Lambert
   2010

What have the dead poets left
for me to say about moonlight

I shall tell how it spills
like milk
over the stilled land

my thirsty eyes lap it up
softly
my soul purrs


Tricia Lambert
2013

There’s a dragon lying coiled                                        
At the base of my brain
In a dank dark crypt
At the top of my spine.
It is a foul and feral beast
Degenerate                                                    
Self centred as a dinosaur

No iridescent shining scales
No filmy farstretching wings                                    
No soaring spiraling flights
Over legendary landscapes
For this one.

No it just squats there                                                                      
Peering out at the world
Malevolent eyes slitted
Watching

If it sniffs
The faintest whiff
Of a threat to its survival
It rushes out
Roaring                              
Breathing fire
Reptilian talons scything,
Slashing      
If you are quick
You may see them flashing
In my eyes

Before I slam the portal
Send my protector back
To seethe silently
Keeping watch
Over me
From the dungeon



Trish Lambert

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 grandchild
carrying  marigolds.




Tricia Lambert.