Dear Friends,

On the eve of the birth of our daughter and the beginning of my fiftieth year I have gathered a selection of my poetry from the last twenty-five years into a celebration/book called THE SEASONS. These poems, as the title suggests, are loosely gathered around an architecture of the seasons. I began writing them in 1989, the year that I moved to Omaha to help start the Blue Barn, and they have been a kind of ever expanding love letter since that time.

Matt Mason, Executive Director of the Nebraska Writers Collective (and kind man that he is), had this to say about the collection:

“THE SEASONS is a collection of meditations on home, heart, and the world we watch from a window in our geocentric universes, trying to figure out these planets and suns in orbit around us. Each season passes thoughtfully and wonderfully, with a splash of wisdom and a fine-tuned eye for joy."

I am excited to share this book with you and grateful to everyone who has read and responded to the poems over the years. I will continue the tradition of posting my new work here and in twenty-five years (or less) I will have book number two, poems inspired by family life, ready for you.

Warmly,

Kevin


Link to THE SEASONS







The Storms




The storm rolls 
across the bed
three rolls 
then a sit up
dazed and lost 
and upset
then collapses 
backwards
in a dead fall
arms splayed
feet splayed
and out cold.

At four I am up 
changing a diaper.
I pull off her lion 
tights that say 
“super cutey”
on the back 
making me wonder 
what hands
from far 
away places 
made this clothing
gifted to us 
so kindly
but likely sewn 
by shaking hands.

I hand them to the storm
and she looks at me
with an expressionless 
expression and tosses them 
onto the floor.
I pick them up 
and hand them back
and she throws them 
down again.
I pick them up 
and toss them 
on her face 
she pulls them off 
giggling in the darkness
and throws them down.

When I finally hand 
her off to her mother
who rolls her back 
into the nest
Lulu the dog decides 
that it’s time to go 
out for a pee
so we creak our 
way down the stairs 
and out into the dying edge 
of the wild storm.

Poop happens
but it doesn't go 
as well as hoped for.
I bring the elder in 
and clean her ass 
with baby wipes.
And this is life
cleaning one ass 
after another 
in the middle 
of the tumbling night.

Once everyone 
is settled 
back on the raft 
and sleeping soundly
I find that I am wide awake.

Downstairs 
washing the dishes 
a small spider 
rappels down 
from the front 
of my cumulonimbus 
hair and stops 
at eye level 
for a moment
before seeing 
my expression of fear 
and quickly dropping 
to the slanting floor. 

And the lightening 
carries on
with its instant
destructions
selecting 
where to burn 
by some fiery
unknown calculus.

Upstairs I look 
in the mirror 
and remember
that I had forgotten 
to remember 
that life cannot 
be controlled.
It comes back to me
like a long lost map
of relief.

All the next day 
thunder storms 
drift over the city
like alcoholics 
after hours
stumbling along 
the black streets.

Somehow a sunset 
happens through 
towering clouds
and a fragile
golden light 
stretches across 
the upper reaches
of what we know.

Well, 
we know more.
We know about dark matter
and cancer and market drift.
We know about systems
to channel energy.
Managing loss.
Systems like gauze
for unstoppable wounds.

Another night
another storm 
moves in.
Back in bed
in the raft
all is quiet
all is dreams.
These people
that I love
have gone 
somewhere 
without me.
I watch them
in wonder.
Each one 
a horizon
lying on her side
like horizons do
slowly breathing
rolling over 
unfolding 
themselves.

I am trying
as I watch them
but I cannot
stop time
before I have to 
leave for work.

The storm fights 
through the south
rumble rumble
or is it the west
rumble rumble?

Far below 
our toy houses 
the almost 
empty giant
buried 
in the dark
listens 
and waits
for water.

More storms 
are coming.
The spring
unfolds.

I cannot forget 
to remember.
































































.




That?







In the cold, red air
of an April twilight
I carried my daughter 
around the yard wrapped 
in a soft blanket
like an infant queen
of the grasses
from long ago

while her mother
worked inside
on another story
filled with blood
and flashing light
that burns the eyes
to give us sight.

The Little pointed 
every seven seconds
asking, “That?”
and I stumbled
to remember 
the names
of things
the words
like spells
or tiny birds
flying out 
of our mouths.









































































.


first spring moon


                            
                                           Detail from portico mural by Jenny Heineman




sitting in the grass
like two frogs
on their asses
the wild
girl laughs 
as I point 
to the moon.

birds flit 
over head
while joyfully singing
and the sun’s
western bell
ends the day 
with red ringing.

all the small
secret places 
are appearing 
again with their
vibrating laws
that crack open
old men.



















































































.


the poetry of Kevin Lawler

The gift economy . . .
from Wiki - In anthropology and the social sciences, a gift economy is a mode of exchange where valuable goods and services are regularly given without any explicit agreement for immediate or future rewards. Ideally, voluntary and recurring gift exchange circulates and redistributes wealth throughout a community, and serves to build societal ties and obligations.


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