Lianne Kamp came to Boston many years ago to write poetry. As is often the case, life had different plans than she did. Poetry has always been present but it is only during this last year that she has chosen to share it in a public forum. She has been published in a number of journals, primarily by Prolific Press, and in Tuck Magazine. Mainly, she writes poetry to make the world more panoramic by watching it more closely.
Lullaby for a Weary Bird Watcher
On this blanket hushed night under
yellow moonlight and lost stars
I crawl on concepts of magic carpets,
hovering above your dream infused sleep,
to mutter a stream of nocturnal wings
fluttering into your ear.
I whisper a scarlet tanager,
cerulean warbler, dusky
flycatcher and a sparrow or two,
breathe a deep thrasher, cedar waxwing,
goldfinch, then finish with a lark.
I fill you with birdsong
and blessings that you wake
with tiny bird feet impressions
on the soft part of your cheek.
When Dad landed a new gig they would load us up,
my two sisters and I, along with everything we
owned piled into the back of our aging station wagon.
I was happiest during these journeys which always
involved night roads, moonlit trees, and pajamas –
they were lullabies in a series of uncertainties.
I recall our small bodies squirming on a mattress
in the back, muffled Laughter, and my parents hushed
voices from the front seat, that we knew enough to ignore.
We couldn’t tell you where we were going but we knew
the walls would be bare, the rooms would be small, and
for a time the adventure would be over.
Wherever it was, each night I would bury my face
in my pillow, hold it tight against my eyes until I could
see beyond the four walls of water stains and peeling paper,
past the dreary light and over the basket rim of my
hot air balloon - sailing high over a magical new kingdom
free and fictional as Dorothy herself.
Beckoning in Ruins
I walk through the woods and the clearing finds me –
it always does. There is nothing here now except
leaves and sunlight patterning the forest floor.
Stay, it says and I sit with eyes closed – watch the walls
fade into view. Fall colors bleed into the brown hues of the
floor boards. Memories take shape inside its frame.
Close your eyes, you said and my eyelids
transformed into a kaleidoscope of light as the sun
laced through the veil of trees above our heads.
Trust me, you said and fit my hand into yours.
I listened to the sound of the leaves parting
in autumn waves beneath our feet.
Look, you whispered and led me inside
this place that was longing for a reason and we
breathed our secret into its tired abandoned walls.
I know now – It was our breath that kept it standing.
When I open my eyes the walls will evaporate under
the sun and the air will rush from my lungs.
I press my eyelids tight – reach for the walls, trace
the grain of the wood with my fingers and listen
once more to the echoes of our secret.