"ambrose" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Lifts a trumpet to his mouth.
Deep breaths blow notes
at right angles
into space.
The sound is worn denim.
The sound is Lauren Bacall.
The beat is urgent and syncopated
just like his last name.
Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Rests a trumpet by his side.
Reverb:
Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound;
reflections build up and decay
until the sound is absorbed
by the surfaces of this space.
Inhale.
Ambrose,
pulls the trumpet
To his mouth
once again.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
There is so much more
That I want to see
All around the world
And in between
Tastes, sights
And places afar
Where ever friendly faces
And opening arms
So much more
To be consumed
This planet we're on
Is a fruitful womb
A meal a beer
A sample of the yield
Blackberry, blueberry
Strawberry fields
St. Ambrose Bees
Sweet honey mead
I want to sample
Every good thing I see!
I am that
Western Traveler
Indeed
...
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 3:38 PM UTC
The swell
of cedarwood, deep in the burrow
Ambrose waits, and he is risen
where winter rests
in a bed of water, soft smiles
pale faces
blue babies in golden reeds.
swollen still
in the stillness of tomorrow,
of yesterday's grief, to be
reborn every morning
in the pineal quest of
nirvana, the navel's bud,
to grow yellow, languid
from the icy bloom
of self defeat
and smile, smile.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Vapid, empty-- pregnant with my projections
The woman dissembled
her shaking legs;
led to the ground where
cherry blossoms
blow through the field
and heaved.
We ran
disguising their war
with tiney sandals
and heavy, ambrose mist
clawing for that--
they even noticed
your scar.
My true one.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
There is so much more
That I want to see
All around the world
And in between
Tastes, sights
And places afar
Where ever friendly faces
And opening arms
So much more
To be consumed
This planet we're on
Is a fruitful womb
A meal a beer
A sample of the yield
Blackberry, blueberry
Strawberry fields
St. Ambrose Bees
Sweet honey mead
I want to sample
Every good thing I see!
I am that
Western Traveler
Indeed
...
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
**Your mother bloomed as rose blossom
with a smile so serene for all to see
as only possessed by a mum in the making
before in this world you ventured forth.
With lifes mystery within her gaze
and emotions that make a woman complete
two people in one , for nine month were you
carried in safety and comfort and warmth.
Then petite hands for security clung
when ambrose and warmth were all that you knew
rosebud lips at the breast for comfort would nuzzle
a pearl in the shell of an imperfect world.
You are as you grow at your mothers side
hers you are to watch over and guide
the mistakes of a child she knows you will make
to admonish with love, only she may chide.
And when you are troubled your mother is there
to fight and defend every step of the way
and will share with you times, happy and sad
your best friend she will ever remain.
For until her feathered nest you leave
a bed you have to curl up warm
all you recieve from your mother is given
you're still carried within her womb called home.**
... ... ...
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 1:25 AM UTC
Uncle Vanya and Lady Godiva
Uncle Vanya came strolling down the road
Wishing he had made something of his life
His young friend Anne loquaciously agreed
And with remarkable vehemence urged him
to endeavour to remediate his perceived inadequacies in the
many precedent matters that burdened him…
Don Quixote suggested that worries were giants
Cassandra said, “There is only one page left”
Nick Adams whispered, “Shh! You’ll scare the fish!”
Ambrose Silk asked the way to the world’s end
And young Lady Godiva, sans chemise
Outsourced her image on souvenir tees
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Sister Paul came
across the lawn
of the nursing home
like a bull
in search of cows
her black habit flapping
like black wings
Anne was sitting
in her wheelchair
rubbing the stump
of her amputated leg
Benedict was watching
the nun stood over the girl
fuming at the nose
why did you do it?
the nun asked
Anne looked at the nun
do what?
Anne said
put that thing
in my habit pocket?
what thing?
Anne said
putting on her
Miss Innocent face
you know what thing
you put it there
the nun said angrily
the nun turned
to glare at Benedict
what did she
put in my pocket?
she asked him
go on Kid
Anne said
tell her I don't know
what the heck she's
talking about
the nun stared hard
at the boy
well Benedict?
Benedict looked at Anne
sitting there blank faced
thing?
he said
was it a sweet?
no it wasn't a sweet
the nun said
what was it?
Anne said
and why do you think
we would give
you anything?
the nun stared at the girl
sitting in the wheelchair
her stump showing
where the girl
at raised her red skirt
you put something horrible
in my habit pocket
the nun said
her voice hard
the boy looked at her
what was it?
he said
the nun stared at him
you know and if
you lie you will go
to Hell
she said
tell her you know
nothing about it Kid
Anne said
YOU WILL GO
TO HELL
the nun said loudly
kids on the swings
looked over
another nun
by the slide
stared over concerned
the boy stared at the nun
then at Anne
can you go to Hell
if you're not a Catholic?
the boy said
Anne said
what was it Sister Paul
that you are so
unhappy about?
you put a ******
in the pocket
of my habit
the nun said
a what?
the boy said
A ******
the nun bellowed
the other nun walked over
to the place where Anne
and the boy
and Sister Paul were
what is all this shouting?
and such language Sister Paul
and in front of children
the nun said
Sister Paul sighed
and said in a whisper
to the other nun
what she had found
in her pocket and whom
she thought had put it there
both nuns looked
at the two children
well Benedict
what happened?
Sister Ambrose said
Anne looked at the boy
tell her Kid
tell her what you know
Benedict looked at the nun
was it a fish?
is that what she's saying
no not a fish
Sister Paul said
it was a ******
what's that?
the boy said
Sister Ambrose lead
Sister Paul away
by a gentle tug
of her sleeve
and the two nuns
walked back towards
the nursing home
in conversation
Anne looked at them go
then said
good question Kid
the boy nodded
and wondered about Hell
and gazed at the girl.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
Went for a ride
and out
down to St. Ambrose Church
For free community dinner
Barbecue
and make your own sundaes
Little girls
with pigtails eating watermelon
Magic
was the after-dinner entertainment
Made some extra *****
appear in your hands
read from the Flaming book
Have the Steel Police
check rings
magically
Made me laugh
from my belly
Nobody had eyes on us
Just good times
I don't think I've ever seen
a child laugh so hard or look so amazed
Thank you
Was a delicious evening
with friends
on a ride
through South Lincoln
Little Woods
Where the critters are
Moose, bear, squirrels and otters
swim and
eating berries
with Woodland Fairies
holding flowers I've never seen
except in dreams
Or movie pictures
Lichen glowing on the trees
and the Mist over the mountains
smiling down windy roads
Where Ex CIA
Artificial intelligence resides
and Randy Quaid and conspiracy theories
hide
Back through Bristol Gap
back home again
to do it all over tomorrow
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
Evening chill in cloister,
moon in one corner of the garth,
stars sprinkled like dust,
what you do not see
and believe is faith
Augustine said,
I smelt the evening air,
sharp, chilling,
as I walked the cloister
from the novice room
to my cell Dom Jame's
voice in my ears,
words on plainsong,
Latin language,
study he said until it sticks,
and she had me
between her and within her
as a flower in a vase,
no one heals himself
by wounding another
Ambrose said,
I breathed the air as I stood,
a monk walked past
head down eyes
on the cloister floor,
I fingered the rosary
in the pocket
of my black jeans,
felt the silver plated Christ
with my thumb,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
echoed the area,
without love, deeds,
even the most brilliant,
Theresa said, count as nothing,
moon glow, stars as dust,
Dixit Dóminus Dómino meo,
bell tolled from bell tower,
orange bricks, seemly darker,
sede a dextris meis,
hold me she said
I felt her warm skin
against warm skin flower fresh,
arms about my body,
my ship in her harbour,
the French monk
placed flowers
by the Holy Virgin's feet
in the cloister
lit by moon's light,
I walked the stairs to my cell,
one step at a time,
Hugh walked past,
glum as a whore's ***
eyed me as he went,
in my cell the Crucified
is high on the wall,
aged by years,
I sign the sign of the cross,
I am at sea,
like one
in deep ocean's toss.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Supper in the refectory
of the abbey,
cloister lit only
by random lights
and moon's glow,
Leo by bell rope
dressed in black robes
by the refectory door,
where a man's heart is there's
his treasure Ambrose said,
I walk to the breadboard
and cut thick slices
of brown bread,
if you want you can
she said and so I did,
the abbot enters
and begins the grace
before meals,
Latin in unison,
stomach rumbling,
eyes on the tiled
wooden floor,
te corda nostra sómnient,
we sit on benches
Gareth unrolls his napkin
and cutlery within,
the monk reads
from some holy book,
I nibble the brown bread
waiting for supper,
Hugh gazes at the monk opposite
eyes gauging and judging,
monks bring supper
from the kitchen on trolleys,
place me across your knees
she said smiling,
the science of love is
what I want said Therese
the only science I want,
I eat the cheese macaroni
warm and creamy,
the monk reading
speaks of Cromwell in battle,
George next to me
eats in a slow measured way,
eyes on the bench,
ears attentive to the reading
unlike mine,
I wanted her,
enter me as a ship
in port she said,
dark windows behind us,
moon's light is seen
through the glass above,
by being kind one is free
even though a slave
Augustine said
evil makes one a slave
though seeming royal,
supper is at an end
drinking the last
sips of cocoa, I lick clean
the cutlery and place
within the napkin
and put beneath the bench,
the abbot taps on his table
and we stand
for prayers of thanks,
Leo goes to Rome for studies
and we say farewell
by handshake and words
in the cloister
by the refectory door,
moonlight in the corner
of the cloister sky,
come she said
take me don't be shy.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
Pax in te
the young monk said
during Mass
his hands
touched mine
sign of peace,
trees swayed
in the early morning breeze
by the South wall,
Il vento
è il respiro
di Dio
the Italian monk said
as we stood
gazing at the trees,
I cleaned the toilets
after Terce
bucket and mop
and cloths
the smell of disinfectant
in the air,
Dieu est amour
Dom Charles said
l'amour de Dieu
est aussi dans
sa création
we had arranged flowers
by the statue
de la mère de Dieu,
in some cases
silence is dangerous
St Ambrose said
Gareth related
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey,
the bells tolled for Vespers
George and I
pulled as we were shown
le campane sono
la voce di Dio,
incense in the church
after Mass
the sound of plainsong
still in the air in echoes,
der Glaube an Gott
ist ein Akt des Willens
the Austrian monk said
I looked at him
but was stumped
by what he said,
faith in God
is an act of will
Gareth said
translating
as he thought best,
peace within
no act of will
just peace
and rest.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
When I knew you,
You could do anything
I sat at your feet like a small child in awe
Looking up at you with eyes opened widely
You were magical.
I lost you along the way
And I just heard your voice on the phone for the first time in a while,
I don't hear the magic anymore.
The passion is gone
Perhaps it is hidden behind clouds of smoke,
Under the *** bottles your cousin brings.
Behind your brother's hospital bed
Masked by the beep of the monitors
Or the screech of the halting 2 train.
I wish that you would promise that you won't waste away,
That you won't waste the powers bestowed upon you by the gods
But you would never.
You were my immortal,
My Ambrose.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
Ubi Petrus
For Inky and Jason
“Ubi Petrus, ibi Ecclesia”
- St. Ambrose of Milan
Where Peter was, there also was the Tomb --
Blood-sodden dreams cold-rotting in old sin,
The Chalice left unwashed, the Upper Room
A three-days’ grave for hope-forsaken men.
Where Peter is, there also should we be,
Poor pilgrims, his, a-kneel before the Throne
Of Eosian Christendom, and none but he
Is called to lead the Church to eternal Dawn.
Where Peter then will be, there is the Faith,
Transubstantiation, whipped blood, ripped flesh
A solid reality, not a wraith
Of shop-soiled heresies labeled as fresh.
Where Peter is, O Lord, there let us pray,
Poor battered wanderers along Your way.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 8:18 AM UTC
Come in, come in
I hate how you're always late
It makes me remember all the forgetting I had to do
To get not quite over you
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Uncle Vanya and Lady Godiva
Uncle Vanya came strolling down the road
Wishing he had made something of his life
His young friend Anne loquaciously agreed
And with remarkable vehemence urged
him to endeavour to remediate his perceived inadequacies in the many precedent matters that burdened him…
Don Quixote suggested that worries were giants
Cassandra sighed, “There is only one page left”
Nick Adams whispered, “Shh! You’ll scare the fish!”
Ambrose Silk asked the way to the world’s end
And young Lady Godiva, sans chemise
Outsourced her image on souvenir tees
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC