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











Thicket





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.

Love

moist,
shit-laden,
fertile
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 
house.

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
endless
wilderness 
of this fleeting
love filled life.


















































.







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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