MISS KWANZAN INSISTS

"Miss Kwanzan Insists"
Another in the 'Kwanzan' flowering cherry tree series...
By Deb Lambert

Sleep-muddled, I lie in the inky blackness of my winter
cave... stretching, luxuriating, contemplating...
contemplating the remaining hours
of my nightly hibernation.

I am disabused of this notion by an over-caffeinated
announcer blathering on about black ice, below-zero
windchills and the imminent sunrise.
What?

In pulsating scarlet, the digital clock cuts through
night's lingering ink and confirms impending daybreak.

It's all too much to absorb.

I exercise my super-hero powers
by silencing the announcer.

My pup emits an audible yawn, from deep within the quilt.
Together, we are propelled on a journey of forty winks
by a rumbling feline motor.

I awaken with a start!

Pine shutters and heavy shades can no longer constrain
a January sunrise, insisting entree.

I unbutton these defenses, to embrace the chilled, blue
brilliance of winter, staring into a crystal sheet.

But, there she is ~ her silhouette dancing to winter's song,
just beyond my frosted panes... dancing to the wind that
moans in her ear and howls 'round my northerly wall.

Slumber's veil lifts, revealing that Miss Kwanzan
is not alone.

The radio drones on about 5-degree temperatures.

Still, her tender twigs are raised in greeting
to glittering icicles that dangle from the eaves.

Crescent moons and stars float before this eastern canvas,
joined by serene profiles...

And the more inquisitive among us,
is baffled by the wall of frost.

Imperceptibly, the sun slips upward.
The shadows change.

But, the urgency remains, as Miss Kwanzan insists
that we begin celebration of this fine, winter day.

Verse & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2009

Miss Kwanzan Requests...

"Miss Kwanzan Requests the Pleasure of Your Company"

Another tale of the faithful Kwanzan cherry, now bereft of her

autumnal cloak, standing sentinel by her garden bench.

By Deb Lambert

Snug within slumber's sweet cocoon

Drifting dreamlessly through the inky folds of night

As the aging hands of an antique clock

Carry you, inexorably, to the launch of another day

Dawn inserts herself between the slats

Shuttered windows become architectural statements

As sleep's fog dissipates, your mind is reacquainted

With the concept of morning and all that it entails

So you rise, to unshutter the day

Drawn to the subtleties of this sepia vision

Incessant motion, demanded by November's gales

Raised in salute to the rising sun, swaying to nature's rythmn

The gnarled silhoutte fingers are beckoning to you

Urging you to embrace the potential of a brand new day

To wave your arms with reckless abandon

And to fill your lungs with crackling November air

Miss Kwanzan requests the pleasure of your company!

All Poetry & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2008

Miss Kwanzan Blushes

"Miss Kwanzan Blushes"
This is an autumnal garden tale,
featuring a Kwanzan Japanese Cherry
(Prunus serrulata 'Kwanzan')
henceforth referred to as "Miss Kwanzan."
By Deb Lambert

She blushes as she lowers her robe of November gold
Draping it across the garden below
Her outstretched, bare arms a stark silhouette against
The steely wash of morning sky.

The verdant green of her summer cloak
Was tinted by October's brush
And yielded to November's demand
That she shed her autumn raiment.

Her rainbowed garment is unfastened
Succumbs to gravity's persuasion
Drifting ever downward, reassembling itself
As tapestry, across the stone-gray bench.

Miss Kwanzan is not the last to shed her robes
And while she demurs at the prospect of
Impending nudity, a paperbark maple
Is desperately clinging to its coral cloak.

On the wild edges, where swampbanks and gardens
Reach a tentative détente
The oaks rustle, loath to relinquish crisp, brown leaves
To autumn's incessant tug.

Be still and listen on this November day, to
The almost imperceptible tick, tick, tick
Of falling leaves, as our autumnal clock announces the
Inexorable commencement of winter's odyssey

Below the cherry, a soft blanket
Grows ever deeper, captured by Oregon violets
Who will slumber through the wild winter
Snug, beneath Miss Kwanzan's protective quilt.

Tapestries, brocades and Persian carpets
Made of remnants, stitched together
By rain, mist and wind
Await, as do we, Mother's Nature's frosty touch
And that perfect moment
When rising sun and rime ice coax jewel-like brilliance
From autumn's carelessly discarded garments.

Miss Kwanzan blushes no more
Standing proud and strong, her
Lustrous, supple, brown limbs preparing
To protect the buds of next spring's glory
From winter's fury.

Note: Click on any of the above photos, for the "big view!"
All Poetry & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2008

"Autumn's Final Curtain Call"

"Autumn's Final Curtain Call"

By Deb Lambert

Oh, how we marveled at the show
that headlined up north in September
and because of enthusiastic approval
by east coast audiences
was held over for several weeks
then kept moving south in new productions
of this same autumnal play

"Leaf Peepers" is what we call those
foliage aficionados,
connoisseurs of all trees golden and flaming
who travel in bands, like a roving audience,
arriving by the busload
to catch the season's last act
before the final curtain call
before the show goes on hiatus
for another year
and before the main characters take a
well-deserved winter sabbatical

But here we are, a captive audience
with box seat tickets for every performance
of every fall season that nature presents
and as the buses pull out, only we are left
to fully appreciate the oft' overlooked
true fall finale, as technicolor coats
fall unheeded, silently to the ground
coaxed from mighty trees by the
cold, wet hand of gray November

Only we are left to gape at the spectacle
spread like a carpet, upon which
our shod foot will tread
there, in the forest, upholstering the banks
of a meandering brook
in every imaginable autumnal hue
cushioning our footfall with
the incendiary shades of red
the gleam of polished copper
the astonishment of yellow
the noncommittal browns
the startle of orange
the astounding coronation gold
and serendipity of peach

In patterns conceived by
wind and gravity and
implemented by decisive November
these coverlets are stitched together
by a combination of evening dew,
frosty nights, sunny days and relentless rain

Persian rugs and patchwork quilts
pale in comparison to the flamboyance
of autumn's handiwork.

We watch, fascinated,
as errant foliage strays
into the undulating brook
swirling in the current
drifting away
destined not to upholster the bankings
nor carpet the forest floor.

This is the real autumnal encore
and long after those roving "Leaf Peepers"
have boarded the bus for home,
shall we revel in November's
final curtain call.


©Deb Lambert 2007

October's Fruit

OCTOBER’S FRUIT
By Deb Lambert

As I weed and prune my way
through the wasteland of summer,
I utter an internal vow...
nothing new - just my assertion,
made annually, that next year
this section of my yard will not
be laid low by woeful neglect
while I languish indoors, reading
beside an electronic breeze.
How, in the course of a summer,
did this delightful space become
an unmitigated tangle?
If you reap what you sow, then this
must be my harvest - this weed patch
may be my fruits of October.
Insidious bindweed’s choke-hold,
its suffocating canopy
is equaled only by woodbine,
creeping and slithering beneath
the branches of “desirables,”
before flinging itself topside.

The winterberry sighed a sigh
of great relief, at its liberation.
Crimson berries almost sparkled,
when released from bindweed prison
and the leaves were surprisingly green.
I beat back Japanese bamboo,
pull out burr-laden burdock,
yank out long runs of woodbine stems
and slide backwards on the onion grass.

I look ahead, estimating
how long it might take to liberate
the remaining specimens,
releasing them from such wrongful
summertime imprisonment.
Waving derisively at me,
from atop barberry, rose and raspberry,
are the usual suspects.

But, my resilient golden raspberries have
survived summer’s ravages, presenting
me with sun-warmed October fruit.


All Photos & Poetry: ©Deb Lambert 2008

In Golden September

"IN GOLDEN SEPTEMBER"
By Deb Lambert

In the midst of a golden
magnificent September
I fling open the windows
to fill the lungs of my house
to purge summer’s stagnancy
to officially preside
over the change of seasons

while the aromas of fall
secretly enter my home
inserting themselves into
every nook and cranny
of my small, humble dwelling
scenting my waking hours
with late-blooming fragrances
with sudden refreshing gales

and flutter of delicate
butterflies beyond my screen
as the liquid melodies
of the resident songbirds
burst forth from their grateful throats
at the discovery of
late, unharvested fall fruit,
mindful of the wheeling hawk

and golden September sun
glows in my eastern windows
warms the rough cedar shingles
and pierces the linden tree
traversing the horizon
slipping below the western
skyline in one glorious
luminescent crescendo

while evening’s velvet curtain
of royal purple descends
in homage to the full moon
and becomes studded with stars
the violin concerto
starts as the crickets tune-up
and lull me to sleep with a
sweet golden September song

©Deb Lambert 2006

"The Mighty Atlantic"

Photo: ©S.W. Haddock, Jr 2007 (Pemaquid Point on the Maine coast)

"The Mighty Atlantic"

By Deb Lambert

Amidst crashing waves and eddying pools
Pines stand sentinel
Pruned by maritime winds
Shaped by salt-laden mists
Exhaling their resinous scent
Clinging to thin soil
Probing the granite crevice
Maintaining a foothold
Against all odds
Along the mighty Atlantic

Amidst crashing waves and eddying pools
We strive to capture the rugged beauty
We paint and photograph
We preserve in journals
The essence of this moment
Sun warms our backs, wind ruffles our hair
As we venture across slippery rocks
Rocks as old as the ages
Eternally sculpted by nature's hand
Along the mighty Atlantic

©Deb Lambert 2007

Drip, Drip, Drip!

DRIP, DRIP, DRIP
Though originally penned in 2006, during an unusually rainy spell,
I decided that this wet, fungus-laden season was the perfect time
for a re-release of this poem.
By Deb Lambert

Drip, drip, drip
Ceaseless summer rain
dropping with staccato rhythm
from overhanging eaves
onto hosta leaves, below.


Drip, drip, drip
Gardener poised by door
waiting for the rain to cease.
Plants need the guiding hand
of that gardener, by the door.


Drip, drip, drip
With jungle-abandon
vines entwined upon themselves
reach upward, toward the sky
supplicating a nonexistent sun.


Drip, drip, drip
Sodden heads of fragrant rose
lay shattered on the black soil.
Square, fragrant, watery diamonds
fog-swirled across the screen.


Drip, drip, drip
Disease reigns supreme
staging a coup under cover of rain.
Cloaks of yellow, black and brown
replace a vibrant green.


Drip, drip, drip
Advantage taken of fleeting sun
in-between torrential rains.
As ordered chaos starts to emerge,
now the gardener reigns supreme?

DRIP, DRIP, DRIP!



©Deb Lambert 2008

"THE FLOWER FAIRY MYSTERY"

THE FLOWER FAIRY MYSTERY
A children's tale, or for the child
in all of us ~ enjoy!
By Deb Lambert

She came bursting out, from under a leaf;
Running this way and that, calling, “Stop, you thief!”
Too plump to fly, was my best guess;
Tripping, in haste, on her big orange dress.

So, I stood back, leaving lots of room;
And, just in time, did I dodge the broom.
Then she twirled to the left and twirled to the right;
Up she flew and was lost to sight.

I adjusted my specs and inquiry made,
Of a little bird, the color of jade.
He fluttered and hummed, hummed and fluttered;
“Too engrossed in nectar, for me,” I muttered.

It seemed to my question, there’d be no reply;
Had anyone else ever seen her fly?
Why on earth had she left in such a tizzy,
With a whirling of skirts that made me quite dizzy!

And then it happened, I spied the troupe;
Attired in purple - a tight little group.
Those Violet sisters considered my query,
But drifted off with a “Can’t help you, deary!”

Surely, King Alfred would hear me out;
Although, by now, I had great doubt.
All decked-out in daffodil-yellow;
Trumpet to ear, “What’s that, my good fellow?”

I smiled politely and gently withdrew;
A sad detective, without any clue.
If thieves were afoot, then stop them I must;
Before proceeding, my plan I’d adjust.

Rose and Lily, resplendent in pink,
Came to my aid, before I could think.
Their perfume so strong, it made me sneeze;
“We’re delighted to assist, if you please!”

So, on we walked, just we three;
With Lily and Rose, each side of me.
When out popped Hyacinth, all clad in blue;
Her fragrance eclipsing the other two.

My eyes did water, my nose did twitch;
I sneezed so hard, I fell in the ditch.
“Oh dear!” cried the ladies, all a-twitter;
“On the count of three we’ll lift this critter.”

They bore me home on the leaf of an oak;
I was clean and bandaged, when finally I woke.
For the flower fairies, with delicate touch,
Had cooked and swept and tidied, and such.

Tender was the spot on top of my head;
I snuggled back down, into my bed.
My days as detective were surely numbered;
By pertinent facts, I was unencumbered.

Then, all of a sudden, my door flew open;
Miss Daylily, it seems, had just then spoken.
And there she stood, in her big orange dress;
“Oh me, oh my, this is such a mess!”

“The baton’s been stolen - there goes the parade!”
I considered this some sort of charade.
She caught her breath, as she leaned on her broom;.
Her eyes wandered, searchingly, around my room.

“As a detective, Madame, it’s my duty to say,
There has been no robbery, this sunny day.
Since I live underground, let me light a candle;
I suggest, Miss Daylily, you examine the handle.”

She turned her broom ‘round and ‘round;
Rightside-up and upside-down.
“Would you look at this, right in front of my nose!
The baton is found...must tell Lily and Rose!”

“And to think I blamed some phantom thief;
My happiness, now, is beyond belief!
The broom handle broke - I remember when it split;
The baton’s in the broom - it’s a perfect fit!”

Great was their joy - they were all so merry,
As they clambered aboard the “Flower Fairy Ferry.”
The baton had been found, the parade could proceed;
Of a befuddled detective, there was no need.

I blinked in the sun, adjusted my cravat;
To the passing ladies, I tipped by hat.
Had I solved the case of the missing baton?
Well, indirectly, but one must move on.

Imagine my surprise, when handed to me,
That shiny baton, by Miss Daylily.
“Lead our parade, Detective Mole, if you will.”
So, I did and we marched...it was really a thrill!

Those sweet, little fairies glided and flew;
A parade unlike any, that I ever knew!
The shadows grew long, as we drank berry wine;
My vision improved with the passage of time.

But, we moles like the cool and the dark, don’t you know?
So, off I toddled, my berries to stow.
King Alfred stopped by, after the fun;
“Detective Mole, you’re number one!”


THE END


©Deb Lambert 2008

Summer Nostalgia

"Summer's Nostalgic Scents"
By Deb Lambert

An unfurling rose
sweet-sour mulch
just-picked tomatoes
new-mown lawns
damp black compost
nicotiana at night
newly-pulled weeds
thyme-covered paths
sprigs of oregano
scented geranium leaves
over-powering honeysuckle
divinely refined lilies
sweet autumn clematis

pungent juniper prunings
heliotrope's sweet blooms
spicy sweet peas
crushed chocolate mint
peppery marigold flowers
sweetly-fragranced stock
skunk-like cleome
heady carnation spice
old-fashioned petunias
clethra's honeyed spikes
rich wallflower perfume
nasturtium's cucumber scent
moonflower's sweet seduction

beach-romping dogs
wild grapes ripening
crisp mountain air
sun-baked asphalt
decomposed leaf litter
sweet summer rain
mud-covered dogs
mint on lemonade
hot pine needles
just-ripened raspberries
salty ocean tang
bruised skunk cabbage
damp river banks

summer farm smells
decaying pine needles
sweet puppy breath
freshly-snipped chives
sun-dried hot swamps
salty beach towels
soil-covered fingers
freshly-cut hay
sunburn-halting lotions
insect-stopping potions
wet mossy stones
sun-hot blueberries
just-shampooed puppies

©Deb Lambert 2007

Dancing with the Silky Cat

"Dancing with the Silky Cat"
By Deb Lambert

the silky cat is dancing
below the bright, full moon
running up the highest trees
over shadowy branches
looking through frosty windows
at flickering candles
his belly yearns for hot food
his cold body for delicious warmth

before the hourglass has emptied
golden light spills from the door
his pale eyes shine
at the quilted dressing gown hem
and black felt slippers
he peers upward into brown eyes
noncommittal brown eyes of a man
unsure of the timeless dance
between Homo sapiens and feline

it is time to shatter the protective shell
surrounding this human
time to ignite the rumbling purr
gracefully encircle stockinged legs
press the jaw into black felt
let his soft fur utter a tactile whisper...
convince this lonely soul that life shared
is preferable to their separate solitudes

wait, wait - and then it happens
that strange, but not unpleasant, sound
that contented humans emit
a soft laugh, a low chuckle
and then a full-blown chortle
brown eyes are warm and friendly
when met by pale, shining eyes
slip ‘round the legs into the kitchen
whereupon the human follows
shutting out the howling wind

they partake of a hearty repast
settle down by the hearth
and rejoice in the crackling logs
thus is the foundation laid
for these two souls to share
a lifetime
of companionship
of unconditional love
of dancing with the silky cat
below the bright, full moon

and by the glow of firelight
two pale shining eyes
gaze with gratitude
into the kindly brown eyes
and so, the dance lessons begin!


©Deb Lambert 2008

"DADDY, I FIND YOU THERE"/Remembering Dad on Father's Day

"Daddy, I Find You There"
By Deb Lambert

You were not a gardener, leaving the
finer points of horticulture to my mother,
while you created the walls, fences and structures
that formed the bones of her gardens.

And, yet, you had your favorites - plants you championed,
perhaps because of the persistent nature of these volunteers -
plants that were to be left undisturbed by all resident gardeners,
well beyond the confines of picket fences and garden walls.

In a glimpse of the first spring violet,
unfurling above heart-shaped leaves,
In the fragrance of lily of the valley,
its bells pealing out spring's intentions,
In the pure white, perfect rays of an
unkempt drift of wild daisies,
In the cheery sunshine of the much-maligned
dandelion, which you defended,
I find you there.

As the spring sun warms my aging joints,
As the wild birds sing songs of courtship,
As your favorite 'Big Boy' tomatoes set fruit,
And as the little dog, you so loved, watches me garden...
Daddy, I find you there.


©Deb Lambert 2008