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If you follow this blog, you know that poetry is not something I have ever featured. Today, that changes. Two reason: 1) April is Poetry month. This many not be common knowledge, but as a librarian, I know about these things, and more importantly 2) K. R. Lehman is a friend who has recently released a book of poetry called Moontouched.
The human body consists of anywhere from fifty-five to sixty-five percent water, and just as the moon effects the bodies of water on Earth, it stands to reason that it effects the human body as well, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. This book is a journey through the phases of the moon, the cycles of the human psyche, the emotional ups and downs, the dark nights of depression, the bright glimmers of hope, the imaginative wanderings of the mind, and the indefinite longings of the soul. I invite you, dear reader, to take this journey with me, to take my hand for just a little while, and see what we may discover along the way. -K. R. Lehman
I have enjoyed reading Kathi’s poetry so I asked if she wanted to be featured here. She has graciously provided some unpublished poems to introduce you to her work. Then, I hope you will check out Moontouched
I know somewhere a warm wind blows
through grass on the slope of a hill
that I have yet to lie in,
that I have yet to feel
It stirs the dreaming aster
and recalls the forget-me-not
to fairer days and laughter,
when young ‘mid Alpine rocks
It rushes down the hillside
and bids me to come hence,
to cross the mighty ocean,
then hop the nearest fence
Where there the grass is rolling
in green and rippling waves
on a hill in my heart’s homeland,
nearby Cadagno lake.
At the end of things
there is a quiet,
in spite of the thrashing about in your heart,
there is nothing to hear,
unless a deep inhale
and a shaky step forward.
Night starlit and holy,
how you set my wheels to turning!
Even as I gaze across town at the
scatter of twinkling lights from
curtained windows!
I know that a few brilliant minds
sleep within those abodes;
sleep, as brilliant minds in small
towns ultimately do.
And after musing thusly for a space,
I slip inward to my own abode,
and pace back and forth before the
curtained window,
hoping…
praying for sleep.
On an afternoon such as the morning,
as the clouds hung low in the sky,
and something of the day was left wanting,
I sought to give you reply.
But the words would not come at my bidding,
though I ardently willed them to,
yet I sent a message unwitting,
for silence meant the same thing to you.
Oh Muse, bring to me the cup.
Offer it to me,
hold it out for me to take,
for I am thirsty beyond what other elixir
could suffice.
How dark it looks,
swirling about in the chalice,
how depthless, and peculiar…
how powerful, and promising.
It weighs so heavily in my hand,
as if it holds the very secrets of the universe,
or all of the meaning of life.
Oh I am thirsty,
but I am afraid.
Muse, I am curiously afraid.
I hesitate,
in one long drawn-out moment,
I consider.
And the Muse watches,
waiting.
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