Dear Friends,

I have gathered a selection of my poetry from the last twenty-five years into a book called THE SEASONS. (You can preview or order the book here.)

I am grateful to everyone who has read and responded to the poems over the years. I will continue posting my new work here and in twenty-five years (or less) I will have book number two ready for you.

Warmly,

Kevin











it is spring




full moon rising at dusk.

the old cardinal 
lands on a branch
with buds like tiny clocks
pushing everything forward.

a congregation of lightening 
is growing in the west.

today in the garden
my daughter held worms for the first time
like a giant 
fumbling with curiosity 
while wrestling with the instruction 
to be gentle.

the feeling 
of compassion.

it is spring.

rumble rumble.

my prairie chest
is storming across the roll
is rolling across the stumble
is roaring about the reeds
is snoring around humble
Rumble Rumble.



















































































.

The Wide World





This sagging house 

wraps her hundred year 

old arms around me.

The house that no one wanted 

on the north side. 

The first family she held 

lived here in the darkness 

of the war to end all wars.

A world war.


I am working for my daughter

and for everyone who can still

look deep into my eyes

and hold my hand

and for everyone who can’t.


In the great chain of humanity

perhaps all we have to do to rise

is to look at our deep flaws

and reach out our hand. 


We thought we would have one kind of time.

It turns out that isn’t the case.

So like those chess players in the park

the timer has just been slapped

on our lives.


I know it's serious. 

That many will be lost.

Even so

amidst all the work

we cannot forget 

to consult the sun

the water and birds

those clouds

that women singing to herself

in the street


or our faith will crumble

under this great wall of fear

that is moving across the land


and, even with death,

there's so much more than that.












































































.



Cities

















I remember the big one.
It was stacked
so high with
what needed
to be ignored
in order to survive
that the sky
would often
disappear for days
in the rush.

























Far out 
on the plains
this little city
still feels
the ancient
body beneath
its streets.
There are
oneiric days
when the sky
is a deity
silent and slow
and I can breathe.



























































.

Cleaning




   Kids play area at a laundry-mat in South O





I am cleaning
everything 

          except the corners
               stained dark 
               and sweet 
          of mangled time

like someone 
has died.





















































































.

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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