Monday, August 3, 2015

Untitled KB Lamb 1976

Whitecaps running high on the water
Wind blowing a cool spray clean through my soul.
William, when you sang her praise
London might have larger lain,
But you have not seen Victoria
Late at night, in Rabbit Lane.

When I younger took to pen
Thinking I could turn some verse
Quick I thought my mind should fashion
Line to line, the last to first;
In the twinkling of a moment.

My metaphysics text books smell of pine woods
Sea waves curl with every turning page.
Golden arrow, straight I rise,
Heaven, to thy Mother's keeping
She has heard me, when I cry
And will not leave me weeping.

I could be a poet just for pine cones
There's a field to train my expertise
And if my heart explodes, well, catch the pieces
Only you can form them up again.
You owe me still a horseback ride
Should I bleed in the shadow of a mountain.

Then the stories, all of them
This is why God made us heaven.

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