Into the blender-
Pineapple juice, half a carton
Ice, a handful
Coconut cream, a well shaken tin
Bacardi, a goodly dollop

Justine says
I should add half an eggwhite
For the froth
But how the hell do you halve an egg white
So I leave it out.

A few seconds unholy racket
And it’s ready to pour
Into my favourite thick heavy glass
Put the pitcher in the fridge
And take on impulse.
****** good

Brings back a tiled balcony in Puerto Vallarta
A small boy wearing an iguana


Tricia Lambert

a sound poem does not hesitate
does not prevaricate
does not wobble about

it states its purpose smartly
develops its theme without hesitation
even with a sense of urgency

creating images
sometimes memorable
often fleeting

having laid a table set out a feast
plumped a sofa full of feathered cushions
created a false sense of security

it then leaps up
and exits swiftly
on tiptoe

perhaps trailing
a whiff of violets
bloodstains

a wry smile
a hunger pang
an uneasy longing

leaving its reader
in the lurch
wondering

where did that go


Tricia Lambert
(On being given the prompt-A Sound Poem)

would that the wind-flung
raindrops at my window were pebbles
thrown by my lover.

white Geranium prunings
left lying in a heap
this morning, snowballs in the yard

what is your question?
triangle face tilts toward me
Praying Mantis asking

tuxedo cat
chin pulled in
licks crumbs from his dicky front

powerlines- a stave
ruled on a page of white sky
making music- perched starlings.

this hill is getting old
on one side her skin is gone
slipped into the sea below
her bones are showing through
I know how she feels

driving home from Mahia
way out to the left
across the green sea
sun breaks through cloud
strikes  triangular white cliffs
a row of giant shark teeth
Wow  I shout
Wow

Bronwyn,changing white clay into frogs
moans  “It's the toes that take the time”.

windstirred bamboo
black brushed on
silver moontrack
spilling down
rippled sea.

Frog steeped in knowledge
of the mysteries of pools
tells me only “croak”

WAIHEKE

the Island lies far off
sea bites off bays then licks
my memories fade

ZIG ZAG

unseen visitor
left a calling card behind-
tiny feather floats

In the flawless dark
                                            high overhead
                                                                     Torea shrieks
           ripping holes                  
                                    in the silent korowai            
                                                                        of night
          again
                       Torea calls
                                          and further off                      
          faint
                      again
                                       now silent
          the cloak ripples                
                                       settles                    
                                                  repairs the tears
           stillness  sprawls      
                                         warm  
                                                    as aroha            

          

        

         Tricia Lambert
          
          Torea-the Maori name of the  Pied Oyster Catcher
          Korowai-a ceremonial cloak
          Aroha- love, unconditional love, similar to the Greek, agape

I'd like to eat a mango
As I glide through a Tango
My bubbles would pop
While doin’ Hiphop
I’d soothe my soul
Swingin’ Rock and Roll
No time for slumber
While doing the Rhumba
My blood would pulse
To a Viennese Waltz
Dizzy’s how I’d feel
Skipping a Scots Reel
I’d dance Ballet
With my valet
I’d cut a rug
Doing jitterbug
I’d be happy as
Improvising Jazz
I'd like to swing a Fire Poi
In exotic far away Hanoi
I’d fly to San Francisco
To indulge in Disco
I’d as soon not talk
Sliding through a Moonwalk
I’d wear a yarmulke
While doing the Polka
I’d get the gist
Of doing the Twist
I could unwind
With a Bump and a Grind
I’d take off my wig
For a fast Irish Jig
I'd be a hot Mama
Performing the Cha cha
My heart would sing
To a Highland Fling
I’d step up the tempo
To stamp a Flamenco
I'd feel alive
Just doin’ the Jive

Now the ending’s your choice
For better or woice!
One is glad One is sad
Pick one and it’s done-                                      

I’m off to France                                 It’s the witching hour
For a chance to dance                        And I’m a wall flower.


Tricia Lambert

I used to take pride in my ability
to stand on my head
with my palms flat on the floor
forming a triangle with my head
or yoga style
head cupped in my hands
and forearms to elbows
taking the weight
I could kick up
one leg following the other
to come together  
and form a perfect column
or I could tippy toe towards my trunk
balance my knees on my jutting elbows
lift my hips through ninety degrees
then raise both legs skywards
or I could tuck my knees in
and unroll upwards
like a punga* frond
perfectly controlled
powerful
exultant
I remember the feeling of triumph
when I balanced there
the soles of my feet visible to God
my blood pounding and pooling in my head
upside down against the world
loving it


*Punga- the New Zealand tree fern

And each of us is a poet                              and each of us is a dancer
           and all of us are the poem                           and all of us are the dance                
                              
          and each of us is a singer                             and each of us is a dreamer
          and all of us are the song                             and all of us are the dream

                         and the poem and the dance and the song are the dream
                                        
                                              and the dream is our lives
                                                  we live in the dream

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.

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

TSUNAMI

When the sea stood up
there was no malevolence in it
only certainty

it was not distracted
from its singleminded purpose

it rolled toward the land
inexorable
heedless of walls
the feeble defences erected(intended) to stop it

unmoved by the screams of people
the groaning and smashing of timbers
cars becoming boats and floating
making a mockery of roads

it swept across fields
into towns
up streets
through buildings-picked some up
onward

its speed never varied
it was stopped only
where the land rose  sharply
becoming hills

but it was not a victory for the land
the sea had won
indisputably

and was content then
to swirl about and mock the toes of the hills

when it retreated
it took souvenirs


islands of debris
the roofs of houses
would float far off shore
for weeks

Listen
to these green plants
pleading
beseeching

you would think
they'd be used to it by now
but every year the same old thing

look the rain is finished folks
you're on your own now
nine months before the next shower

this is how leaves suffocate
see the gray dust clogging their pores
hear them choking
under a wind thrown blanket
this is how they drown

brittle and crackling the grasses
soon the weight
of a starving grasshopper
will be enough to snap
them

shrubs will dump
their curled up castoffs
earthwards
scribbled twigs alone
will remain

from now on
only the thieving airplants
will thrive
viral invaders
******* sap from reluctant hosts
who can ill afford
to accommodate them

now patient rocks
are emerging from cover
each a palette of vivid lichens
sundecks for snakes and lizards
now that the clamouring grass
is gone

the land lies baking
withdrawn
curling
into herself

even the air
sighs
slumps

soon fire will come
to cannibalise
the undergrowth
play chasey
through the dry grass
send ants scurrying
downstairs
flip a nod
to the big old cactuses
tickle the toes
of the mesquites-
who will stand stoic
observing the pillage
around their hot feet
and shrug
resigned
seen it all before
they are above it all really

fire
will play homage
to their indifference
lay down
a black velvet carpet


wind
will whistle up
tiny tornadoes of ash
to pirouette
and perish

everyone
will accept the inevitable
eventually
and just knuckle down
to wait it out

in a state of trance
floating
                  on a dream
                                      of rain



Tricia Lambert
Mexico
Nov 2010