Waltzes with Words

Old Friends in Autumn

2011-09-15T13:18:00.002-04:00

"Old Friends in Autumn"

By Deb Lambert

Autumn lingers,
casting her jewel-toned exuberance before us,
like an oriental carpet.
She exhales a crisp, clear breath,
driving away merciless summer.

Autumn is extravagant in her generosity...
she is nature’s last fling of the season,
reveling in bright blue skies,
torrential rains, bright sun,
unpredicted rainbows,
gusty winds, luminous sunsets,
sudden frost, unexpected warmth
and harvest moons.

Autumn is a time of remembrance
a time to reminisce about life, love and friends.
For many of us, our personal seasons
of spring and summer are cherished memories
as we enter the autumn of our lives.

And what of old friends who drifted away
or who are no longer among us?
Geography and life often intervene,
accounting for loss of contact.
But, they, along with friends who have left
this physical world, are never far away...
as close as a treasured memory,
as near as a conversation.

Old friends may leave this mortal moil,
but their essence lives on in the hearts
and memories of everyone they touched
along life’s pathways...
they live on, within us.

Autumn is a time of reflection,
a review of seasons past
and a review of lives well-lived.
Well-lived lives of absent friends
figure prominently in such reflective times.
Their individuality, intelligence, humor,
unselfishness and myriad other virtues
form that composite picture.

Yes, in autumn’s reminiscences,
old friends live on, become timeless.
So, hike through the leaves,
rejoice in the remembrances
of old friends in autumn.

©Deb Lambert 2011

In Golden September

2011-09-01T06:00:00.000-04:00

"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 2011

"Long, Orderly Rows"/Memorial Day 2011

2011-05-25T13:33:00.000-04:00

"Long, Orderly Rows"
By Deb Lambert

In predawn silence, shifting shadows give movement
to the long, orderly rows. They seem intent on marching
down that gentle slope, into the rising morning mist...
these headstones marking the final resting place of our
loved ones. Dawn blushes, washing the stones with
faint rose. An errant breeze stirs the tiny flag hugging
a veteran’s gravestone. The palpably sweet air
drifts up the slope.

Soon shall the silence be broken. Soon will begin the
parade of vehicles, bearing friends, relatives and descendants
of those who abide here, day after day, in long, orderly rows.
Loved ones and ancestors will be paid homage and tokens of
esteem will be left by streams of earnest visitors. Flowers will
be planted, shrubs installed, cut flowers and notes will be
presented on this special day of remembrance.

We will take particular note of the graves of fallen soldiers,
who made the supreme sacrifice... who, cut down in their prime,
defending and protecting us, never got to live a full life... never
raised a family, attended parades and picnics or sailed into the
sunset of life... gave their all, so that we might enjoy all these,
beneath the umbrella of freedom that they have raised.

And what of the veterans, living and deceased,
who had the opportunity to live full lives,
after defending our freedom? This day
that we set aside to commemorate loved ones
and to honor fallen heroes, reminds us to offer thanks
to this long list of courageous souls, most especially to our
older veterans, while they are still amongst us.

A parade, cemetery service, memorial concert
or a quiet, reflective moment to honor these
true American heroes and all those beloved
folks who have passed through our lives.
The long, orderly rows of Normandy and Arlington.
Memorial Day is a unique reminder of all this.

Walk with me, stand in dawn’s rose blush atop that hillside,
watch the headstones trail off into the distance,
let the morning mist dampen your shoes
and let your gratitude mingle with prayers of peace...
knowing that someday a loved one
will stand in this place and remember you.

©Deb Lambert 2008-2011
All Photos ©CBI 2008

October's Fruit

2010-10-14T06:00:00.000-04:00

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

Summer Nostalgia

2010-07-13T06:10:00.000-04:00

"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

RIDING WITH THE TOP DOWN

2010-02-21T10:05:00.003-05:00

"Riding with the Top Down"

By Deb Lambert

A sadness lingered in the air
a melancholy driven by memories
of riding with the top down

How he loved this red sports car
but, oh, how he missed her...
her pale pink sun-dress against the black leather seat
her sun-streaked curls flying in the wind
that little gold locket in the hollow of her throat
her soft words filtered through silky, windblown hair

Riding solo down the highway
there was time to reflect
as the engine droned on

They’d play word games and laugh
she’d ask childish questions about the car’s gauges
sometimes she took the wheel, never going over fifty
rubber tires clenching the hot asphalt
the hand of fate seemed to sprinkle love in the air
he’d wished such moments would go on forever

Now in gray November
the top was up
and his heart’s desire was gone

Here he sat, in luxury, cruising down the highway
what was it really, without his heart’s companion,
but so much inanimate metal and glass?
he mourned what seemed to be the end of romance
a gradual drifting apart, as summer’s spell was diminished
by the fresh face of autumn on the horizon

In such a small town
surely they would meet by chance
yet, somehow, they hadn’t

About a hundred miles from home,
the sign proclaimed “Eat Here and Get Gas”
it was time for a break,
so he pulled in beside a blue sports car -
the same model as his

Leaning in to see identical black leather seats,
he became aware of a presence...
a vision in a pale pink sweater
blue eyes peering through silky, sun-streaked curls.
It seems she was back to stay
no more wanderlust
this was her homecoming

They lingered over lunch
laughed over the sign
life’s ironies
and spoke softly of love.

©Deb Lambert 2010

"I AM ALMOST A GARDENER!"

2009-11-25T09:04:00.003-05:00

"I AM ALMOST A GARDENER!”

Welcome to all young, budding gardeners and to the young at heart...

let’s have fun the garden!

By Deb Lambert

I am learning what causes a seed to grow.

To be a gardener, I need to know!

Why do we cut the grass each week?

What language do the flowers speak?

Why do my sunflowers face the sun?

Why is a gardener’s work never done?

What’s the difference between soil and dirt?

Why is there always mud on my shirt?

Does everyone grow good things to eat?

And why are cherries always so sweet?

Yes, plants give us food it’s easy to see,

But, they never, ever do it for free!

They bake in the sun and drink up the rain,

Keeping them weeded can be quite a pain.

Now, the plants feed us, so we must feed them...

But, why must we feed the flowers again?

So, I’ll use my new set of gardening tools

As I learn more of the gardening rules.

I will ask my questions until I learn

And this is the title that I shall earn...

“GARDENER”

©Deb Lambert 2009

MISS KWANZAN INSISTS

2009-03-11T11:07:00.000-04:00

"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...

2008-11-20T18:54:00.004-05:00

"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

2008-11-11T05:26:00.000-05:00

"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"

2008-11-03T06:18:00.003-05:00

"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

"The Mighty Atlantic"

2008-09-04T18:28:00.002-04:00

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!

2008-08-11T15:23:00.003-04:00

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"

2008-07-14T05:08:00.005-04:00

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

Dancing with the Silky Cat

2008-06-19T11:03:00.003-04:00

"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

2008-06-15T09:31:00.007-04:00

"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

After the Deluge

2008-05-28T18:49:00.004-04:00

After the sudden squall

After the storm's fury

We view the sunset through a thousand liquid diamonds,
its glory undiminished after the deluge.

©Deb Lambert 2008
Photos ©CBI 2008

Waltzing Matilda

2008-05-13T19:59:00.003-04:00

"Waltzing Matilda"
By Deb Lambert

I call her "Waltzing Matilda." She is a free spirit. She is a hard worker. She has proven herself invaluable, in the daily cycle of life. Attentive to details, almost no task is too large for her to handle. I don't know where I'd be without her.

Since 1993, Matilda has been by my side... my "wing-girl" of domesticity, an expert on whom I rely. Yes, we make a fine team. She, calm and unflappable, juxtaposed with my sometimes peppery personality. I really felt we had a solid working relationship, a friendship that blossomed over the years... until that fateful day.

It was one of those frigid, blustery February mornings, with snow piling up at an alarming rate. I'm still not sure what set her off, but it's a morning I'll not soon forget. It was so unlike Matilda.

"It's as much as I can do, to shift this load of stuff 'round! I'm taken for granted. It's 'Matilda, do this - Matilda, do that!' Why I'm no better off than an indentured servant! Faith, and isn't the arthritis payin' me a call this mornin'? Sure, the missus and her wee brats are all snug and warm upstairs, while I shiver away "below decks" in the gloom."

As her rantings escalated, so too, did the volume. Heat rises. Evidently, anger also rises. Soon, Matilda's epithets rose up the stairway, drowning out the Doppler storm update on the radio. She was clearly hurling her anger directly at me. I had been plopping down spoonfuls of oatmeal cookie dough on ancient metal sheets, but dropped the spoon, when I realized how upset she'd become. I went to the top of the stairs.

"Why, Matilda, whatever is the matter? I've never heard language like this from you! Let me get these cookies in the oven and I'll be right down."

That seemed to assuage her, for the moment. I gazed out into what now seemed to be a blizzard. "Don't go out unless it's an emergency," the announcer advised. Oh, well, it was nice and cozy in here. The first batch of cookies had perfumed the whole house and the second batch was on its way.

"Some people are so inconsiderate! I'm no spring chicken, you know! Sure, and its probably the ague on top of the rheumatiz," Matilda asserted, her slight brogue becoming more pronounced, as her temper flared. She'd turned up the volume by several decibels, by now.

Normally fairly sedentary, Matilda seemed to be moving about. I padded down the stairs, anxious to be of assistance. Imagine my surprise, to find her so agitated, dancing around from one foot to the other - again and again.

"But, Matilda, I didn't think..."

"Aye, that's the trouble, ya great big fatty... shame on ye! Why din ya no take the clothes down to the river and beat them clean? The exercise might reduce ya by a few stone... Ya big lout!"

"Now, Matilda, if you'd just hold still for a minute, I'll make an adjustment. I know it's a lot to handle, but you're such a strapping girl, I thought, 'No problem - Matilda's up to the task!' "

"Oh, aye, I guess I'm feelin' a wee bit better. Maybe I can finish." Matilda was visibly calmer.

"There's my girl," I said trying to rally her further. "Now let's get you back here, to your favorite spot. That's enough sputtering and dancing for one day. After all, it's only a quilt and not worth all this fuss, really."

Since that snowy day, Matilda and I have had several rows about heavy bedding... some sputtering and lots of dancing, across the basement floor.

Yes, that Matilda sure can dance. So, henceforth shall my washing machine be known as "Waltzing Matilda."

©Deb Lambert 2007

A Mother's Hands

2008-05-11T04:51:00.004-04:00

"A Mother's Hands"
A Mother's Day tribute to my mom
and moms, everywhere.
By Deb Lambert

It's all there, in a mother's hands...
Those caring, nurturing, industrious hands,
that bring solace and evoke memories.

The hands that toiled in the garden,
soothed a fevered brow and mended scraped knees.
The tapered fingers that played piano and violin,
also hooked and braided rugs for the parlor.
They stenciled serving trays, painted walls and
designed garden elements, which my father completed.
They sewed entire wardrobes, over the years,
for a growing schoolgirl.

The hands that scrubbed a kitchen floor belong to a
talented cook, who kept a family delightfully fed.
They plied an iron and crocheted a doily with equal alacrity.
They grew vegetables, planted bulbs and inspired
the next generation of gardeners.
These hands would knit, tat and needlepoint a myriad
useful and decorative items, throughout the years.
They polished, scrubbed, dusted and swept, as she
maintained a well-ordered household.

These are the hands, browned by the sun, at the
commencement of yet another season in the garden,
that evoke so many memories.
They held the flash cards, as I mastered multiplication
one long, hot summer and held the heavy volumes of
Charles Dickens she read aloud, all through my youth.
They rifled through the bird book, as we identified
our many bird feeder patrons.

And while every day should be Mother's Day, there's
something special about a tender spring morning, that
puts us in a reflective mood and moves us to pay
homage to our mothers and extend our appreciation.

Look at your mother's hands on this Mother's Day,
or just visualize them, and welcome the flood of
memories that may overwhelm you...
It's all there, in a mother's hands.

©Deb Lambert 2008

YOUR MAY 'CORLISS CLIPS' IS READY!

2008-05-01T14:31:00.001-04:00

The latest issue of the 'Corliss Clips' garden newsletter has just been published... 4 long pages of garden updates and reminders, to assist you with those May gardens. What a great time of year to be a gardener! Come in from the garden, relax a bit and click on 'Corliss Clips' for the latest garden "buzz." Enjoy!... Deb Lambert, Garden Author

The Promise of April

2008-04-24T09:10:00.002-04:00

"The Promise of April"
By Deb Lambert

April is warm, tender and generous.
She is responsible for sprouting and unfurling.
Her gentle showers wash away the indifference of March.

April is philanthropic... warming and irrigating
freshly-turned soils. She carpets the ground with deep
scilla-blue and showers a forsythia skeleton with gold.
A quince erupts in double apricot exuberance. Fruit trees
tantalize with the promissory notes of fall's harvest.

Pansies dance joyously in a sudden breeze, their cheerful
faces nodding encouragement. Jonquils are the big, brash,
brassy trumpets of April. Tulips join the early spring concert
in syncopated hues. Songbirds are the soloists, filling the air
with courtship serenades.

Hyacinths and mayflower viburnums perfume the air. Children
present mothers with sticky-stemmed bouquets of shaggy,
yellow dandelions and mothers are duly impressed.

Woodchucks lumber about, arranging their first meal
of the season, after a long hibernation. Chipmunks enjoy lunch,
atop a sun-warmed, stone wall. Baltimore orioles announce their
return, in a flash of orange, streaking through the tree tops.

It is the great awakening, as flora and fauna yawns and stretches,
after the long winter respite... as all nature responds to April's
attentions.

April is March's postscript and May's prelude. Let us believe in
spring's assurances and embrace the promise of April.

©Deb Lambert 2008
Photo: Star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata)/©CBI 2008 (Deb Lambert)

Spring in New England

2008-04-20T15:35:00.001-04:00

"Spring in New England"
By Deb Lambert

Spring creeps into New England, ever so slowly
Dashes our spring hopes with unexpected snow
Pierces our skin with angled sleet
Cakes our boots with dark brown mud
Spring is a fleeting entity, teasing, cajoling
Holding us captive in her relentless grip

Spring in New England is an oxymoronic proposition
With absolutely no respect
For a lavishly pictorial wall calendar
The spring equinox
Or a winter-weary gardener’s schedule
It marches on relentlessly, day after soggy day

But, suddenly - spring does relent, if only for a day
Under her seventy-degree breath, she melts
The thick white blanket,
Deposited two days ago, in a fit of pique
Spring is a fickle force of nature
Raising and dashing the hopes of housebound gardeners
Still, somehow, she remains the object of our affection

©Deb Lambert 2008

Just Put on a Happy Face!

2008-04-15T15:27:00.005-04:00

"Just Put on a Happy Face!"
By Deb Lambert

I see you, with your shaggy brows and rough beard
Ogling Siberian squill whose dangling cerulean bells
Chime in the errant spring breeze, seducing the gardener
Into inactivity, admiring the vernal blue dance.

How does it happen, dear pansy, that you maintain such a
Sunny countenance and even disposition in the face of the
Whims of a capricious spring, never venting your spleen on
Her for the inhospitality of frigid nights and wet days?

You nod a welcome to spring from garden, basket and
Window box and coax gardeners into gardening. All the
While, the last bit of chorus from an old song drifts
through my mind... it suits you, "Just put on a happy face!"

©Deb Lambert 2008
Photo ©CBI 2008 (Photo by Deb Lambert)

Where are You?

2008-04-03T14:35:00.003-04:00

"Where are You?"

By Deb Lambert

Where are you? I wait patiently,
gazing out upon a gray-brown world
without sun. I half expect you to ring
my doorbell or tap lightly on the windowpane.

My calendar came preprinted with the date of
your arrival... where are you? Would it be rude
to call you fickle and inconsistent? Would it surprise
you to know that many regard you so?

Perhaps you've been detained. Perhaps, even now,
you're winging your way to us. Where are you?
All winter, you've been hobnobbing with folks on the
other side of the planet, while Old Man Winter settled in
for a good, long visit. His presence wears thin... a greedy,
grumpy guest, monopolizing our time and trying our
patience. He is not inclined to leave on his appointed day.

Where are you? Your arrival, on schedule, is critical.
For, when you breeze in, toss your baggage on the lawn and
recline on my garden bench, Old Man Winter usually takes
the hint. Some years he takes his sweet time packing his bags,
reluctant to leave. But, as you crack open bud scales, warm
the soil and coax the birds into song, winter realizes it's time
to move on. Where are you?

You needn't wait until that Date Certain. Nobody minds if you
arrive early... everybody seems to mind if you arrive late.
Which will it be this year? What is your ETA? Where are you?

I know gardeners... I hear reports. You tease them with crocus,
which winter crushes with wet snow. You've been spotted
in the general area, but have passed by this neighborhood.

We will endure your capriciousness. We will survive if you coat
our dangling mist cherry blossoms with ice, overnight - if you
force us to replant the peas - if you overwater the potato and
onion sets, and they silently rot away.

We weary of your hide-and-seek game.
All is prepared. We await your arrival with eager anticipation.
So, tell me, spring...
Where are you?

©Deb Lambert 2008

PERPENDICULARITY

2008-03-26T19:37:00.004-04:00

"Perpendicularity"
There are some words that roll around on the tongue, just so.
They have a good sound and feel. This, I think, is one of them...
By Deb Lambert

With ever-increasing rarity
Do we speak with crystal clarity
Perhaps it’s verbal imparity
And perhaps this is just charity
It may be only polarity
Spawned by our insularity
Assaulted by the vulgarity
Of electronic barbarity
Pushing the dissimilarity
With alarming regularity
Language muddied by unclarity
Demise by unpopularity
And we mourn the great disparity
Proceed with complementarity
Together with solidarity
Cementing familiarity
Possessing particularity
With edges of angularity
And with a hint of hilarity
I present to you... “Perpendicularity”

©Deb Lambert 2008

Shamrocks and Easter Eggs

2008-03-23T11:32:00.004-04:00

With Easter coming right on the heels of St. Patrick's Day, there may be more truth than poetry in the following scenario...

Four little chicks wear Easter bonnets,

Two little bears share Irish sonnets.

Along hops a bunny, white as snow,
"I'm afraid you chaps will have to go!"

"Please, Sir, give us just one last chance,"

To wear the green and jig one last dance!"

Along came a chick of artistic bent,
"I wondered where all the shamrocks went."
"It seems, on Monday, they were all the style.
But now, on Sunday, the eggs make us smile."

Then did another chick appear on the scene,
There, on her head, a-wearin' the green!

Said chick number one, "This is gonna be big...
Painting and hopping and maybe a jig!"

And, in the end, they wiled away the hours,
With dancing, eggs, shamrocks and flowers.

The Three Disciplines of Writing

2008-03-20T18:23:00.004-04:00

"The Three Disciplines of Writing"
In the midst of an undisciplined writing life...
By Deb Lambert

THE IMPULSE...
The impulse, or drive to write, is not to be denied.
Whenever it calls, I must answer this impulse.
Nature's force, is not to be ignored, among the afflicted.
From a rocky shore, impulse beckons, a tenacious siren.
As necessary as sweet oxygen, this wordsmith's life.
From whence comes this overwhelming need to write?
Why must I heed, feed such an addiction, at personal expense?
Assignments deferred, till the last moment, as I wander off...
Leaving the road to answer my muse, an insular experience?
So, what is my reward? A glowing satisfaction, quite indefinable!
My own impulse, my own creative drive, just impossible to deny!

THE MUSE...
As simple as a blue sky, as complicated as the human condition...
one’s muse, or inspiration, is entirely unpredictable, striking without warning...
it’s a bit like impulse, in this respect.

In fact, I’m not sure that we can extricate muse from impulse, with any degree of certainty. For that matter, process, too, is an integral thread of this rich brocade.

Which came first, the impulse or the muse? Personally, I believe it’s often a two-pronged attack, leveled on unsuspecting writers. A glorious “hash” of empowering inspiration!

It’s almost a curse, this ability to scan a room and find a ready muse. It’s about 999 on the distract-o-meter. As for nature, well you can imagine what a plethora of muses await one!

So many untapped muse sources - so little time!

THE PROCESS...
'Poetic License' - a phrase I cherish and honor, daily. Taking certain liberties with the English language, inventing new words and otherwise moulding this purveyor of emotions to suit my purposes, to cleverly turn a phrase.

An old envelope, a grocery list pad, scraps of paper, as likely to turn up on the kitchen counter or bedside table, as on my desk. Random acts of writing that resist capture.

But this flood of ideas is not easily stemmed, bits and pieces of inspiration, personal flotsam and jetsam, eddying across the surface of this writer’s life.

Am I a quitter? Procrastinator? Or just plain lazy? (Maybe just a bit!) Mostly, I think it’s a matter of delayed muse. Inspiration meets marination and results in richer, tastier writing! Not to be overlooked - the challenge of resumption!

©Deb Lambert 2008

"Tattered Remains"

2008-03-17T10:53:00.004-04:00

Amidst the flotsam and jetsam of an untidy kitchen drawer, reside beautiful keys to nowhere, a broken camera, packs of stale chewing gum, garden twine, pruners and spare sunglasses. From beneath this incongruous collection, peeks a slip of yellow paper. Curious, I tug on the corner and discover a bit of hastily scribbled, momentary inspiration, stashed in the drawer for safekeeping.

After donning my deerstalker and engaging in some serious sleuthing, I was able to rule out my extremely intelligent dog. She is a vertically-challenged Chihuahua mix, with limited knowledge of cursive script. I concluded that she could not have reached the top drawer. Anyway, it was my handwriting.

Imagine my surprise, here in the tattered remains of a drawer, to find the beginning of a poetic essay. And so, dear reader, without further adieu, I present...

“Tattered Remains”
By Deb Lambert

Unfinished dreams slipped to the floor, when no one was looking, caught in a tornado formed by the vortex of a passing foot,
swirled beneath a bookcase, pushed into darkness, amidst gathering dust, lying ignored, forlorn and forgotten until the day of discovery.

Another dream patiently marks a passage in a cherished volume,
waiting for the day of liberation, when the distracted author, performing feats of research, discovers its existence and rediscovers the merits of this forgotten inspiration.

Tattered remains of sudden inspiration, so important at conception, that the author was compelled to capture these slivers of brilliance, lest they evaporate, like steam escaping from a steam radiator, swirling around like autumn leaves and lost for all eternity.

The germ of an idea, a precious nugget, bright spark of imagination, flickers briefly, then dances away beyond reach, often lost forever, between the humdrum of daily life and that higher plane where dreams reside, occasionally revisited, but more often completely eluding recapture.

But why this concern for the ragged, the near-forgotten?
Is it not true that many of these fragmented inspirations were better ignored than explored? Not worth the second look?
A spark not deserving of that initial, fleeting, acknowledgment?

And what if one of these sparks, left totally ignored, unrecorded, were the basis for one’s best, most inspirational work? Rarely, lightning strikes twice, and the spark revisits the source. Tragically, such re-inspiration is quite infrequent.

From a germ, a skeleton emerges, awaiting a fleshing-out process, the application of substantial, meaty words, a rounding-out of form,
a moulding, contriving, manipulation of words, turn of an ear-pleasing phrase, allowing us to more effectively convey the germ, the nugget, the brilliant sliver.

To halt the author in his tracks, forcing recognition on paper, such insistent inspiration must have been fanned from flicker to flame, demanding that he drop all else, holding the present in abeyance, pending the capture of this particular spark.

Scribbled in haste, tossed in drawers, slumped behind books, these scraps are quite literally tattered remains, all that remains of some amazing revelation, one that stopped someone’s world, if only for a moment.

"Honor your neglected inspirations,
before they become tattered remains..."

Get Red!

2008-03-13T15:31:00.003-04:00

"Get Red!"
This a short story, an ode to the color red,
presented in the the American-noir style.
After writing an essay on this color
(see 'Braggadocio' on 2/20/08), I decided
to set myself this little challenge - enjoy!
By Deb Lambert

Chapter 1

It was hot - so hot you could bake strawberry-rhubarb pie or fry up some of the butcher's blood-red hamburg, right here on the sidewalk. Guess I've got food on the brain. It's tough gettin' three squares when you're on the lamb.

Seemed like old Red was takin' all the heat for splashing red all over this city. My wife Ruby had wanted to paint the town red, every night.

"Oh Rich," she'd plead, "we could have steak at the Red lion, catch a show at the Cerise Kit-Kat Club and you could drink champagne from my red satin shoe!"

Yeh, I could, but I wasn't gonna. She was too much, and in the end, had flitted off to the flashing red neon of the big city, with its red-faced big shots, red-light districts and red-carpeted speakeasies. Me? I wasn't staying, either. They wouldn't have Rich Red to kick around anymore. This was one gumshoe who'd had enough! Every time a body turned up on Red Rock Island or there was a crimson stain on a garage floor, there was a city-wide red alert to "Get Red." I kept my ear to the ground and the coppers knew it. They'd grill me like a cheese sandwich on a red-hot grill, hoping I'd fold like a two-dollar suitcase. Yeh, it was time to move on.

I am more than painful, scarlet sunburns, crimson bloodstains and leaping red flames in an empty warehouse. I am not only the color of disaster. I got my soft side, see? Not that I'd ever let on to the mugs, around here. They'd think I'd gone all soft pink.

Chapter 2

Many pink dawns and vermilion sunsets have intervened since I last heard "Get Red!" That tidy inheritance from Uncle Rufus bought respectability and all that went with it - a country cottage, velvety red roses peeking through a white picket fence and rosy-cheeked children playing with the Irish Setter. Ruby, in red gingham, was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes, still warm from the sun.

Supple maroon leather covers my wing back chair in the library and many of my cherished books. I am becoming a man of letters. Life is good. The young ones have my carrot-red hair and their mother's brown eyes. Yes, I've mellowed - so has Ruby.

The "old" Red was the color of anger, belligerence and violence. The "new" Red is a red straw hat on Sunday, pots of scarlet geraniums, the polka-dots on Ruby's best dress and the cherries on her hat, the kids' shiny beach pails, their pedal-car and the red plaid bows in my little girls' pigtails.

I am the red stripes in the fourth of July bunting that hangs from our porch railing... the red-checked oilcloth covering our picnic table, the red china plates and juicy red summer fruits. Ruby skims by with a bowl of strawberry punch, pausing to plant a raspberry lip-print on my cheek.

"You're a million miles away, Hon. Could you bring out the Red Bliss potato salad? It's on the bottom shelf of the icebox."

How wonderfully domestic and mundane, I thought. A backyard picnic - lips stained red from Ruby's punch, fingers stained with just-picked strawberries, children making death-defying turns in their shiny red Radio Flyer, squeals of laughter, reminiscing adults and the interaction of family and friends.

Yes, these are the colors of the life I now embrace. Rich and Ruby Red are in and ready to receive guests. I saw an impressive cardinal coupe pull onto the gravel drive, heard the commotion of guests arriving, out front.

Ruby's voice rose above the din, starting with a phrase I used to dread, "Get Red! Someone get Red? I think he's out back. Tell him Joe Burgundy's here!"

The florid face of my publisher suddenly appeared by the back porch.

"Rich, thanks for the invite! Now, let's spice up some of Ruby's punch and talk about your latest mystery. Refresh my memory... what was the title?"

"Get Red," I replied.

©Deb Lambert 2008

A Gardener's Journey to Spring

2008-03-09T10:58:00.003-04:00

"A Gardener's Journey to Spring"
By Deb Lambert

Crinkum-crankum... noun denoting
"anything full of twists and turns"
A fine-sounding expression, in its own right,
with a good "mouth-feel"
(Like an impertinent little wine)
Let's face it - some words and phrases
just make me smile,
As I await an appropriate place to insert them

The archaic "crinkum-crankum" perfectly describes
The twists and turns that nature places in our path,
on the way to spring...
Ice, snow, sleet and way too much rain
Shady corners where ice still lingers
Pale, uncooperative sun that changes little
Cold, unrelenting March winds
Mud that gushes up into your garden clogs,
Making you run back inside to don your Wellies
Cold, wet, untillable soil
Vegetable scraps and orange skins still frozen,
huddled atop
the still unturnable compost pile
I guess I'll look elsewhere for spring!

So, I pick up sticks and fallen limbs
Mend the trellis
Dump standing water from the frozen soil
of container gardens
Rebuild the stonewall, so carelessly tumbled apart
by winter and busy chipmunks
No, a gardener's journey to spring is not an easy one
And I say of this particular journey (say it with me...),
"Oh, crinkum-crankum!"
(Now, didn't that feel good?)

Deb Lambert ©2008

The Indifference of March

2008-03-06T19:42:00.002-05:00

"The Indifference of March"
By Deb Lambert

A sad, gray, windy month, really -
whatever sun struggles through,
fades away all too quickly
at the end of each short day.

The soft roses and brilliant hearts
of Valentine’s Day are but a memory
and the warmth and sweetness
of April is still a dream.

Somehow, March seems an indifferent month,
giving us an occasional warm day,
followed by a blast of arctic air,
cold rain and often snow!

It is surely indifferent
to the rhythms and cycles
of cold climate gardening
and those who garden there.

We want to release tender plants
from their winter protections
and uncover the roses,
but March makes us hesitate.

In fact, March’s great indifference
often accounts for our own indifference,
our general ambivalence,
and not just as gardeners.

While April whispers in soft breezes,
March roars into one ear and out the other,
sending us running for shelter
then luring us back out with sudden warmth.

It blows hot, then blows cold...
maybe fickleness is in its makeup,
alternately caressing and rebuffing
the walker, biker, shopper and gardener.

Of course, the inveterate gardener
makes the best of an indifferent situation
by pruning, clearing away winter’s remnants,
planning and starting crops indoors.

Yes, I find March to be quite indifferent
and I would remain totally indifferent to March,
but for one important fact...
it brings us 31 days closer to April's gardens!

"I, Viridis"

2008-03-02T10:48:00.004-05:00

"I, Viridis"
An evocative journey into the color green
and all that it may hold for you, the reader.
By Deb Lambert

“It’s not easy being green,” warbles Kermit the Frog, to the delight of youngsters.

I am Viridis, giving voice to green, rejoicing in my multitude of manifestations.

I am resplendent, in all my many hues. From the churning green of heaving, storm-driven seas to the fragile green of a maidenhair fern, I intimidate and stir admiration.

I am the pale hexagonal foliage of Lady’s Mantle, beaded with raindrops.

A leather-bound first edition, with gold leaf on its spine. Black-green velvet, lining an old jewelry chest. Distressed leather, covering a dome-topped trunk, idling in the attic. The leather collar from your first puppy, lying dry and cracked in the bottom of that old trunk. Heart-shaped Cyclamen leaves, subtly covered with lacy netting. Yes, I take credit for all these things, as well as the bitter dandelion greens you pushed ‘round your plate, as a small child... “Eat your greens, they’re good for you,” your mother chided. Equally abhorrent to children, is the pale green Lima bean... I humbly beg your pardon for my part in the creation of the latter two.

The good news is, there is a strong probability that Brussels sprouts will become more tasty, as you reach adulthood. The bad news is, that slimy, pointy, distasteful asparagus spears never improve with age (yours) - you’ll always be an “asparagusophobe”... or, you’ll always consider them a springtime delicacy, paying exorbitant fees to maintain your status as an “asparagusophile.” In any case, I, Viridis, extend my apologies.

I am snapping beans into a pot, shelling peas into a colander and the handles of your favorite secateurs, the pair you keep losing in the grass. Iceberg lettuce you are told to eschew, unpalatable dark “greens” it is the fashion to enjoy, cracked rubber wellies that let in the rain, the new green wellies on your wish list and a gardener’s tote bag.

I am the hazel green eyes of a proud father on graduation day.

The green thumb on those silly yellow garden gloves... not in my “top ten.”

Being green, or environmentally friendly is a good thing... gardening in this manner is an even better thing. Green, however, in firewood, bananas and stale bread is a bad thing. If I’m to be brutally honest, I have some quirks, foibles and short-comings. But, for the most part, I am eminently embraceable. You drink in my essence like a springtime tonic, after the long, bleak winter. You seek my cool, shaded glens when grasshoppers perch atop the dry, brittle green grasses of summer. You revel in the final weeks of fall, when heavy dews drip from my autumn-tinted green leaves.

I am smooth and cool as table linens, yet wild and woolly as Virginia creeper, engulfing everything that stands in its way. I am the bindweed that suffocates your roses and perennials. You say you’ll keep up with my vibrant new shoots, but I always win!

The lusty wave of fox grape, flinging itself up the hill, invading your gardens under the dark of night... me, again. In an old camp, smelling of ancient pine, I am the dark green window shades, creased and punctured from too many revolutions around the roller. At the bottom of a forgotten cedar chest, I am that green and gray woolen snowsuit that kept you snug, as a child of four.

I am the coarse corn husks that protect the tender kernels, stuff mattresses and become delightful corn dolls. I dwell in the kelly green border of your favorite patchwork animal coverlet, so lovingly crafted by a great grandmother, a hundred years ago. I was the pale green of the old-fashioned push lawnmower, propelled by you at the tender age of nine.

I am not the golden johnnycake, but I am the pea soup, on the side.

I am the grassy hill at your grandparents’ house, the site of youthful rolling contests, largely responsible for grass stains on light summer clothes. The rusty metal frame, upon which your pole beans climb, was once covered with my shiny enamel. From it, hung an assortment of swings, slides and teeter-totters. It hosted such athletic events as hanging upside down until your nose bled.

The center of interest, I am the village green, around which are clustered the library, town hall and white-steepled church. As a green, I support concerts at the bandstand and boast comfortable wooden benches, strategically positioned beneath verdant, venerable shade trees. I am also the green painted crosswalk, leading you safely from the drugstore to the library.

The first time you mixed yellow and blue finger paint, you created me.

Part of the rainbow, I also dot the hillside with myriad hues of green, just beyond your office window. I color the disagreeable, slimy algae and congestive duckweed that chokes ponds and swamps in summer.

I proudly claim every green calyx that securely fastens every blossom to every stem.

I am the chartreuse haze of maple blossoms, the first green sprout of a fall-planted bulb and the multitudinous variations of quilted hosta leaves.

And what a part I play in coloring the tightly-knit turf, where argyle-clad gentlemen chase small white balls, high atop the craggy cliffs of St. Andrews. What else? The green in a grandfather’s black watch plaid flannel shirt. A 1950’s green ruffled apron and a set of Fire-King green mixing bowls. A green marking pen, wandering off the paper to inappropriate venues, in the hand of a five year old.

Part of the rainbow.

The olive drab of a soldier’s uniform.

Grass tennis courts and the rolling greens of old estates. A turf race course, where horses thunder around the oval track. The limes in your lime rickey and mint julep. The tangy key lime filling, sequestered beneath a top hat of meringue. The twist in your sparkling water or cocktail. These are all an integral part of green.

I may be your favorite jelly bean, lollipop or Life Saver. The olive in your martini. The avocado in your guacamole. The “green screen” of television and movies, awaiting electronic intervention. The forest-green broccoli trees, pushed ‘round and ‘round the dinner plate.

I am not the bright yellow mustard, but I am the green tomato relish on your hot dog. I am the green hatchback you drove in college and the green metal pail that spawned so many sandcastles.

As buds swell and their scales give way to the blandishments of spring, I am revealed. You’ll find me unfurling in the fiddleheads, that poke through leaf litter. In the leathery green of oak leaves and the vulnerable green of seedlings, I make my statement. I’ll entice you with emeralds and peridots and rebuff you with noxious weeds.

I am the color of “Go.”

An enormous bullfrog, bellowing “jug-o-rum” from his glistening lily pad.

And how you relish my pungency, as you snip my basil foliage into a bowl of fresh tomatoes. For I am the green of all these, and more. The jaunty, green bandana around a Retriever’s neck and seaweed, gathered on the beach, to nourish your garden. Swollen daylily buds, waiting to explode.

The tenacity of chicory, surviving in a sidewalk crack.

The fragile green cloak that spring assumes, as she heralds the start of a new gardening season. The dull green of summer, as plants languish under the crackling scourge of an endless heat wave.

A ‘Granny Smith’ apple.

The deep green sea of a mother’s dress, a flotilla of large white dots floating across its silken surface. An algae carpet lining the bottom of a sun-dried swamp in August. A retired green rucksack, slumped in an attic corner, its glory days of mountain hiking, long since past.

Fried green tomatoes and odd, green potatoes.

Baize covering of a billiard table. Lawns blushing spring-green.

I am the green of “Green Goddess” fame... a term of endearment, employed by a father, to tease and amuse his sickly child. Green gingham oilcloth, covering a camp dining table. Forest-green shutters on a sunny-yellow farmhouse. The rolling green of Vermont and the level green of an Iowa cornfield.

The irregular green of abandoned fields, reverting to forest, yet still constrained by tumbling stonewalls. I am the regimented green of western farmlands, whose neat squares are stitched together into an enormous quilt... you peer through a jet’s porthole and are duly impressed.

The verdigris of a venerable copper weathervane.

A toddler’s favorite crayon, worn flat from overuse. The myriad greens of watercolors, oils and pastels, with which artists capture and pay tribute to nature. And the advancing green of a moss carpet, seeking the dampness of a woodland brook.

Confuse not Fenway Park’s ‘Green Monster’ with the green-eyed monster. Be not green with envy that you’ve never seen Vermont’s Green Mountains. Treasure always, and carry with you, the memories evoked by this simple phrase... “The green, green grass of home.” Most importantly, always remember that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence!

Note: Perhaps I should have enticed the reader who, with dogged determination, managed to read this piece in its entirety... perhaps with the promise of an award. Presentation of said award would go something like this... "For such perseverance, in the face of excessive verbosity and overwhelming odds, I present you with the 'Golden Spectacle' Award... for courage under fire from flying adjectives, as well as for your sticktoitiveness. Congratulations!" (Why 'Golden Spectacle?' Because by the time you reach the conclusion, you may very well need spectacles! )

©Deb Lambert 2008

"Yesterday's Weathered Dreams"

2008-02-28T16:29:00.000-05:00

"Yesterday's Weathered Dreams"
By Deb Lambert

So many seasons have passed
since that erstwhile gardener
splayed out the creamy roots
of this splendid rose
across a mound of rich, black soil.

Serenaded by the ghastly creaking
of an ancient oak
in a scene illumined by the glow
of tentative moonbeams
he thought not of unborn generations
but of his uncertain bride
seeking to allay her restlessness
striving to avert an impending storm.

And so he labored, intent on symbolism
convinced this effort would be seen as
a token, a metaphor, for longevity
and commitment, when viewed through
the nervous eyes of his uncertain bride.

What of that bride
and industrious groom?
Did the rose thrive and become an emblem
of persistence and joy?
A cross-legged girl sits beneath the slant
of a farmhouse roof, turning the brittle pages
of a time-yellowed diary, learning the answers
high above the fragrance of a rose garden.

A great-great-granddaughter of that gardener
who, with such earnest desire, entrusted that
infant rose to the warm, moist, black earth,
she now finds a jubilant conclusion
to that midnight endeavor.

Wrapped, season after season, in winter's
silent shroud of snow and awakened
each spring by the equinox,
the rose garden has persevered.
A ten year-old girl, braids dangling from
that attic window, leans out for a closer look
at the centerpiece of this garden...

Determined red roses, tossing their heads
in the winds of yesterday's weathered dreams.

AN OLD, WORN SOFA

2008-02-26T15:45:00.005-05:00

"An Old, Worn Sofa"
By Deb Lambert

From the comfort of an old, worn sofa
Hot English tea is steeped
and delicate cakes eaten
Mysteries are solved
They sit breathing friendship’s stories
and discover that living fills loss
Watching the change of seasons
And specks of dust dancing away
the afternoon in slanted sunbeams
That fade the old blue carpet

From the old, worn sofa
They are sailing over the waves of history
to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow
A little older, a little wiser, these women of a certain age
Are free to ignore obstacles, break down barriers
And push limits never tested in their youth
“Old age” is an alien notion
An occasional wheeze or stiffened joint
can’t compete with iron will
It’s “mind over matter” with these five friends

From the comfort of an old, worn sofa
Arises a certain pride in the weathered hands
that have grown humans, plants and relationships
A satisfaction in the softening of a hard heart
Anticipating the next unborn season
Telling time through the eyes of youth
Buffering the blows of sorrow
Ignoring the extraneous commotion of daily life

From the comfort of an old, worn sofa
They remember the importance of smiling,
even when it’s not convenient
Peals of laughter ring out
from the depths of the old sofa
Welfare of the spirit is high on their list
Every Wednesday,
cumbersome world problems are settled,
as are issues of the heart
These women of a certain age
are free to live, love, laugh and play
Free-wheeling their way
through the second half of life

The sofa sits empty
Cold winter sun splashes lace curtain designs
across the faded blue carpet
A grandfather clock keeps track of time
Until Wednesday when the women reunite
In the comfort of an old, worn sofa

©Deb Lambert 2008

"Waltz My Pen"

2008-02-24T11:45:00.004-05:00

"Waltz My Pen"
'Waltz My Pen' was the inspiration
behind this particular blog.
By Deb Lambert

Waltz my pen ‘round abstraction
Take me to the delicious, dizzying heights of creativity
Where inspiration orbits infinity, seeking unity of expression
Higher still, words are irritated into lustrous pearls of wisdom
A hesitant moment at the crest of the peak
As vision and spirit stream like ribbons on this rarefied air
I hold my breath in eager anticipation, as iridescent thoughts
Stream down the mountain of inspiration
Descending toward their mystic, poetic destination
Where creativity circles the new page, as I endlessly
Waltz my pen

©Deb Lambert 2008

I Call Her 'The Intrepid Gardener'

2008-02-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

"I Call Her 'The Intrepid Gardener' "
By Deb Lambert

Season after season, she trails across the lawn,
burdened with the accoutrements of a gardener,
to tend a wayward patch of ground.
Each year, the trip seems a little longer and the lawn’s
hummocks a little higher, but still she persists.
This is the season that her cottage garden will flourish.
The first wave of lusty, young weeds flexes its muscles,
prior to invasion.
But the onslaught is checked
with the business end of a hand-forged hoe... and weeds
are cut down in their prime.
I call her, 'the intrepid gardener.'

Up and down that hilly, hummocky front lawn she’ll trundle
the mower, an electric hum tracking her progress.
Her four-pronged cane rides comfortably atop the mower,
ready for action.
A kneeler-bench, in the shade of a rhododendron,
provides a welcome seat.
Creative and inventive, is this gardener... easing and
simplifying so many tasks.
She is browned by the sun, buffeted by the sea breezes
and unfazed by limitation.
Lawns are mowed, shrubs pruned, brush cut,
porches painted and gardens tended.
With green wellies, sturdy gloves, proper tools and
determination, all things horticultural, are possible.
Neither hot sun, nor threatening storm, will keep
this daughter of a postal inspector from her
appointed gardening rounds.
She remains undaunted, a striking example of Yankee
determination and an inspiration for all younger gardeners.

I call her, 'the intrepid gardener.'
Oh yes, I also call her, 'Mom.'

A Piece on the Merits of the Color Red

2008-02-20T16:17:00.000-05:00

"Braggadocio"
by Deb Lambert

I have been a scarlet letter, in my checkered past, but my future is rosy.

I tint the Georgian clay and streak the Colorado canyons.

I am the pulsating red of the tango and pasodoble.

I am Dorothy's ruby shoes, a planet, the "lady in red" and a real gem.

"Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning," but how you ooh and ah when I lavish the western sky with vermilion!

I am seven red stripes on the American flag and red-stained battlefields, where heroes made the ultimate sacrifice, defending our liberties and Constitution.

Rosy cheeks, candy-apple red fingernails, June strawberries, July raspberries, August watermelons, telltale lipstick, fire engines, university bricks, sticky popsicles, beefsteak tomatoes, a clown's nose, blushing brides, stop lights, faded red high-tops, strawberry-rhubarb pie, a fireman's suspenders, crabapple jelly, "power" neckties, crisp apples, chapped hands, autumn leaves, a robin's breast and the cherry lollipop stuck in a little girl's braid? All my doing!

"Red as a beet"... the color of embarrassment.

I am the florid countenance of W.C. Fields and the velvety-red of a single ‘Mr. Lincoln' rose, proffered by a lover.

Scarlet holly berries, red twig dogwoods and male cardinals on a snowy day. Burgundy tulips, maroon sweaters and red-hot Corvettes... me, again!

"Better dead than red" cannot be meant for me.

If you are "in the red," you may "see red," but be not resentful, for I am ebullient, powerful, intoxicating, ubiquitous, impassioned, persuasive, dramatic, irresistible and altogether immodest. Embrace the red!

©Deb Lambert 2008