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.





In April I watched my daughter
struggle to take her first breath of air

in May I watched my mother
struggle to take her last

all the while the spring rains
fell across the rolling earth.

Now it is August and the museum 
of days deepens into red.

My father eats dinner alone by the window
watching the northern clouds burn
as they sail into the night.

Remember swimming out
to the far dock for the first time?

If you grow too tired
you can float on your back and rest.

We are building a fort in the thicket
of love called family.

We are swimming out together
across the lake of time.


The Crickets

The crickets
are back
from the northern 
meadows of time.

Back down to our
hairy prairie land
of high summer
just in time
to save my sorry ass
with their dark 
green chorus
in the cool
night air.

The eerie
fibrous music
circling in the moonless
air reminds me
of where I left my joy
and just like that
it’s back 
old friend 
by my side
on the back steps
where I am sitting
with a cigarette
in the middle of this 
holy night
along the crooked
road of time.

I don’t smoke.
That’s why the cigarette
is in the poem
and in my hand
in the darkness
in the backyard.
Drastic measures 
have been taken
with the confluence
of sadness and loss
of struggle and pain
the bloody 
crush of love 

mostly of love
with its carefully 
laid out garden
overtaken by weeds
thick and twisted,
wild and alive
they sting
leave a rash
wrap around 
the body
and hold on tight
then flower
with nectar
and the bees 
tumble by
humming their 
yellow prayers.


urine soaked
with the iron will
and vicious genius
to find the deepest
the oldest veins
of pain and dig
into them
o drill     
o needle
o fiery lash
of lightening

that love

Love love.

I stand and walk
into the back yard.
There's the dipper
quietly flashing
in the black
while balancing on
the sagging roof line
of our beautiful 
old, tiny 

Seeing that I am
no longer blind 
the trees crowd in.
They lean over me
these giants of time
on the move again

and I can see

I can see 
the thick
of this fleeting
love filled life.


thirty birds

                                       for jenny

so grateful
to feel
these waves
of love
the shores
of time

while our 
tiny days 
are caught
in the wind





The Little One 
with open 
hearted violence
punches and kicks
and sighs and grunts
and arches and rails
as the dark unwinds
its final strands.
In the tangled nest of bed
the mother and father 
and dog and child 
attend the wild fray
of night into the day.

On this rough 
morning along
the narrow
road of infinity
let us fight
with every 
exhausted breath
the razor wire 
of Standards
as light 
comes in a crash 
helmut flying
over the dome 
of the earth
through the furnace
forged glass
through our eyes
which do not see
and into the silent
storm which does.


The infant stares out the window
as her diaper is changed
              golden liquid 
              gently wiped 
              from her tiny butt
entranced by the Birch leaves
lost in the flicker and spin 
of greens and blues.
Quietly looking 
without the idea 
of leaves
or trees 

Little daughter smiles 
every morning
as brightly as 
a miniature sun.
Her eyes 
are filled
with joy.


Poem in Two Lines

                   Has the moon returned
                         or have I returned to the moon?


The Cardinal

The Cardinal whistles
at the bitter coffee
leavened with thick cream
and brown cane sugar.

The breeze runs and stumbles
through the planted grasses
and blooming flowers
above the hidden prairie.

Slicing through the morning
the bike descends the bluffs 
to the wide flood plain
with its tilting houses.

The sweet green air
is rising with the sun
from warming lambsquarters
pushing up through cracks.

The old water tower
on rusting legs
turns its bird-filled body
toward the fiery east.

And here we sit
in this tumbling day
parsing out the wild joy 
of the ever unfolding.


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.