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







Morning





This
winter
light

the deep
orange
changing
to pale
yellow
above
the frozen
canvas
of fields

What
have 
we lost?
















































.

The Map

        



On these nights
when a map 
of writhen branches
appears along 
the fire banked west

and a giant peach
moon rolls
into the black 
sea above 
our wooden houses

I watch 
my daughter’s
shining eyes
just before 
she disappears

I feel the
dark embers 
of my wife’s
exhausted body
and heart

until finally
with daughter 
fast asleep
we sit wrapped 
in our blankets 
of fatigue

holding hands
and listening to
the northern
winds retaking
the prairie.

They descend 
in their long
black coats
and run through
the empty streets

pushing on
the wavy glass
of immigrant windows
and whispering
wintry prayers
to slake our
burning hearts.











































.


The Last Dance of the Trees






They only give 
us a moment 

with our churches
and our wars

holding their 
arms wide 

catching 
the sun

in each branch
a map of time

just long 
enough 

to shower us
with color

before they 
slowly retreat 

into the darker
halls of paradise.

















































.

Red Music






The notes come tumbling out of
the battered accordion of fall.
A dark red music
with the bodies of leaves
littering the streets.

My hands shake
thinking of my mother
as I change 
the hurricane’s diaper.

A catalogue arrives
selling the dream
of a well-manicured life.
Organized
clean
with the patina 
of nature
displayed
in clever
and artful ways.
There are no humans 
in the photos.

Ants, bats, raccoons, spiders
cats, very bold squirrels
and fleas sneaking in
on the Trojan horse
of our geriatric poodle
have been guests in our home.

The sun continues
its pilgrimage
through the yard
only a darker yellow now
and even some orange.
I cannot remember a single day
when I have not stopped 
to read the book of time
on the light flying out
from its oceans of fire.

A barely perceived
inevitability creeps
into the news.
Didn’t I hear 
these stories 
several decades ago?

The hurricane arches
and kicks
and shits
and pounds
and eats
and eats
and eats
and screams
and giggles
and farts
and cries
and destroys 
and eats
everything in her path.
The nature 
of the universe

Love is such a sweet destruction.

She watches everything
with eyes as deep as the ocean.
She is voracious 
and tyrannical 
in her need to explore.
She is ten times smarter
than previous generations.

I assume it will be
ten times harder to live
but already
her heart 
is so full.

My father sends photos
from our early years.
He works each day
sorting through them.
They have a square
white border 
with tiny dates 
like 7- 65
and a fog
is slowly blooming
across their 
shiny surfaces.
There is always 
an underlying
narrative to the ones
that he sends.
A man of few words
his actions
are poems of love.

He laughs with joy
on the phone 
when I describe
the hurricane’s escapades.

The four small rooms
of our house are 
torn asunder
each day.
The scattered debris 
of exhaustion 
love and chaos.
The violent 
energy of our days 
as we fall 
through the light. 

Hang on friend
as we fall
ever deeper
through the beautiful 
destruction.































.








Black Thatch




There is a black thatch of clouds
across the dome of the world this morning
except along the eastern edge
where a red snake
stretches and burns.

Walking through the dark
giant winds from the north
run across the prairie
and push me in the back.

Everyone is racing
in their metal cars 
as if they were cars
on a long gone
roller coaster called
The Roller Coaster
which is leaning and rusting
in the theme park of time.

Crosses with dirty plastic flowers
and faded photos in warped frames
and stuffed animals with dirt-matted fur
and deflated foil balloons
are all sinking along the roadside
as a thousand engines
fly past with their
smoky violent music.
Nobody knows who died.

Time is ending
but it’s taking its time.
The music of failure
is in the air.
Those who have made
survival a god
are hopelessly lost.

Everyone 
is running late.

Now the whole
sky is on fire!

































.

The Tall Grass Futures





I am driving across
the comb-over
of the prairie

up to the north
where the stars 
are less pretentious

though on a still night
a mirror universe
will sometimes
burn its way across
the black skin
of the lakes.

At the truck stop
all the strangers 
are familiar.
The rain
the children
the diner,
all familiar.
Our drop ceilinged
fluorescent lit
discount America.

Back on the road
in the belly of the storm
halfway between 
here and there
I scan the radio
for the farm report.
Nothing but the occasional
sound of lightening
and the wipers rhythm
in the curtains of static.
Or is something else there?

Finally, from some 
distant planet,
a young woman
with the voice 
of tall grass
reads the futures
of the wet earth.

I’m driving to see my father
in his apartment
above the interstate

with an almost view
of the stone brown river.

He is alone 
for the first time
in eighty-seven years.

Eating frozen dinners.
(All my mother’s spices
gone.)

Attending Mass
as often as he can.

As gentle as
a step-wide stream
surrounded by a thousand
miles of prairie grass.

His prayers 
are the falling leaves
in the north.

They’re the cars
with exhausted
people inside.

They’re the water
that moves underneath
the fields.

His prayers
are our bodies
and the years
and the stars

still here
but fading
as they move
into the distance.




































.



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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