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.




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.


ten thousand

for Tim

warm evenings
with doors wide
  cigarette rolling
    slivo laden
golden evenings
of sweat
       after the rush.

ten thousand
   plates later
there is so much
       wild earth coaxed 
           and turned
chopped and ladled
     fired into
    waves of life
that roll
ever onward.


loss and night

the darkness 


as it sets in.

the red curtain


with wind.


Haiku Fugue

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
        Storm clouds gathering.

       In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Windows wide open.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
        Time is disrobing.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       My wife grabs my cock.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Daughter kicking crib.

      In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Blue light in the sky.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Symphony of farts.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       I rub my wife's back.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Longing unassuaged.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Tiny child’s laughter.


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.