stony gravel paths

stony gravel paths
disappeared beneath my feet
unstable darkness
passageways through ink-washed trees
disguised by indigo night skies

By Lynda Lambert

 foggy forest at night


Lynda Lambert Author PhotoLynda McKinney Lambert lives in the rural Village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction essays. She retired from teaching as professor of fine arts and humanities at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvannia, USA. Lambert’s first book, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage was published by Kota Press. Her work appears in Spirit Fire Review; Indiana Voice Journal; Magnets & Ladders; Stylist; Breath & Shadow; Wordgathering; The Avocet; Proverse Hong Kong; Behind our Eyes: A Second Look – Anthology; and other literary journals and anthologies. She is also an actively exhibiting fiber artist. Major themes in her creative works are Nature; Mythology; Art and History.

Lynda McKinney lost most of her sight in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy. She creates her art work and writing projects via the use of technologies for the blind.

Visit her Blog: www.lyndalambert.com
View her Author’s Page: www.dldbooks.com/lyndalambert
Contact her: riverwoman@zoominternet.net

Song of the Goldenrod

In my dreams, some afternoons drift randomly
almost without notice
entangled in the filtered dapples of sunlight
flowing on a wooded path
subdued – even more than usual

Today is remarkable
twilight came early.

Faint nocturnal music
like the glisten of amethyst crystals,
is familiar. Welcome.

I step onto the first rung
of a weather-worn silvery-gray ladder
poised in the middle
of the woodland path.
With a heave of my body
I begin the upward climb into the cloudy mist
The earth disappears below me.
No end in sight. The ladder sways in wide arcs,
unattached to anything above me
I breathe deeply with the realization of imminent peril
Obscure. At the apex of
a septuagenarian decade –
my eyes grow dim in the mist.

Soft nocturnal music,
like the glisten of amethyst crystals,
is familiar. Welcome.

My memory is sharp
Oh! The fear of plunging.

I remember yesterday’s bright sunlight
Offered clear focus like a citrine stone
A contrast to murky prophecies
I hear in the changing ocean tides.
The lively sonata of midday skies
responds to the muted notes of night stars
time is temporal. Unmeasurable.
Our last summer dance is coming to a conclusion
I can feel the music as I twirl about amid the changing
landscape of late-blooming Goldenrod.
Saffron yellow blossoms spring from
Leaf-covered woody stems.
These wild perennials are higher than my head.
I reach out – touch
edges of long, slender leaves
velvety textures, delicate-scented buds.

I watch for the Solar Eclipse to begin at noon
over the meadow and along the churning streams.
Tiny slivers of golden sunshine shimmer over the fields of Goldenrod
in my small shard of Appalachian foothills.
An inner cry urges me –
“Dance again.”
“Dance again!”

By Lynda Lambert Sept. 17, 2017

field of blooming goldenrod


Lynda Lambert Author PhotoLynda McKinney Lambert lives in the rural Village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction essays. She retired from teaching as professor of fine arts and humanities at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvannia, USA. Lambert’s first book, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage was published by Kota Press. Her work appears in Spirit Fire Review; Indiana Voice Journal; Magnets & Ladders; Stylist; Breath & Shadow; Wordgathering; The Avocet; Proverse Hong Kong; Behind our Eyes: A Second Look – Anthology; and other literary journals and anthologies. She is also an actively exhibiting fiber artist. Major themes in her creative works are Nature; Mythology; Art and History.

Lynda McKinney lost most of her sight in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy. She creates her art work and writing projects via the use of technologies for the blind.

Visit her Blog: www.lyndalambert.com
View her Author’s Page: www.dldbooks.com/lyndalambert
Contact her: riverwoman@zoominternet.net

Our truest life is when we are in our dreams – awake.” Henry David Thoreau

Photo by Jason Ross of field of blooming goldenrod at Colored Sands Forest Preserve in northern Illinois

The Grodig Stone

Deep ruby red wine
a color in shadow

The delicate flakes of metal
like diamond dust in my drawer

The bottom is plain gray
flat indentations not easy to see

My finger rests on the subtle scar
A pointed oval shape

I am always a visitor
as I walk the familiar path of the village

The winding bicycle paths
surround the mountain peaks

In the crisp early morning light
a rainbow has covered the mountain

Even its memory has vanished
as I walk through fields of Queen Anne’s Lace

In the twilight I look back to the village
the church steeple points to my return

Twilight will soon fall downward
Cover the red tiled roofs and marble staircase.

By Lynda McKinney Lambert, 1999, Salzburg, Austria

rose quartz rock amid stones

I lived in the village of Grodig every summer and taught a course called “Drawing and Writing in Salzburg.” This poem was inspired one day as I stooped over to pick up a pink stone along the road.


Lynda Lambert Author PhotoLynda McKinney Lambert lives in the rural Village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction essays. She retired from teaching as professor of fine arts and humanities at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvannia, USA. Lambert’s first book, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage was published by Kota Press. Her work appears in Spirit Fire Review; Indiana Voice Journal; Magnets & Ladders; Stylist; Breath & Shadow; Wordgathering; The Avocet; Proverse Hong Kong; Behind our Eyes: A Second Look – Anthology; and other literary journals and anthologies. She is also an actively exhibiting fiber artist. Major themes in her creative works are Nature; Mythology; Art and History.

Lynda McKinney lost most of her sight in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy. She creates her art work and writing projects via the use of technologies for the blind.

Try To Capture September

I’ve spent days thinking about September. How can I write a poem about her? Rapid changes are occurring all around me this month, and I’m getting dizzy! I’m downright giddy with bursts of nervous energy. This zest charge was unexpected, hidden in the mists of the crisp early morning. I floated, it seemed, at the crest of September with my feet stretched downwards to dig into the sands of its shoreline. I have been unsuccessful! Since the beginning of this fast−moving month, I tried to pay attention to the small nuances and living details I experienced. I moved carefully, even cautiously, from day to day through the month of ever–changing September. Yes! I am standing at the midpoint of the month, and I still feel like I am lost at sea.

I take a deep breath, hold it in for a couple of seconds as I remember my fingers. I look at the computer screen. I exhale. Nearby, my sleeping dog shifts in his black, furry bed. In his sleep, he snorts, and my leather chair squeaks as my fingers pound out some letters on the stiff keyboard. I move my body forward again and bring my mind back to September. The sun streams through the dusty window.

My back seeks the stability of my solid chair. I raise my hands to my face, close my eyes, and think about my breath. As my chest rises, I become aware of the sharp, piercing call of the eagle flying above the trees outside the window.

Author hiking on forest trailAt the beginning of the month, I took short walks in the woods. I saw subtle changes. My two dogs stopped and sniffed the breeze. They tried to catch the news of the day, to bring it home and share it with me. We paused on the path, and I watched them stop and stare into the privet bush, then up into the trees. They paid close attention to all the wildflowers as I touched them. I tried to concentrate on the details—to memorize each little fine distinction of a fragile yellow crownbeard flower or the dark blue–green leaves of the white snakeroot plant. I asked, “How does it look in the shade? How does it feel to the touch? Try to remember it all!”

I reached out, touched the trunks of trees as we traveled together in the afternoon sun. I recall the feeling of textures and the girth of a tree in my arms as I tried to encircle it. I needed to touch the overlapping surface of the locust tree, to put it in my memory bank, where I can retrieve it when wintry days become anxious and lonely. Eventually, I realize what I searched for in September. Every new day in this quest twists and turns in on me as I search for the form that would be perfect for my September poem. I begin to visualize myself as a whirling dervish. I swirl in circles, round and round, and my feet are on sifting and shifting sand all the time. My thoughts race far faster than I could ever write. My entire body quivers inside because of all the raw sensations that this month gives me.

I realize September is the one month of the year that is a charade. She is undependable, captivating, Sun setting on golden leavesand quixotic. She cannot be captured in the pantoum I had intended to put her into. I think, I’ll catch her by a sliver of one of her yellow petals! Then, I’ll flatten her out between the pages of a villanelle. But as it turns out, she becomes a book of sand, and I simply cannot get a grasp on her!

This morning, I tried to put some words to my paper. I had to step over obstacles of images and feelings. I said, “I have to just go after a little piece of September. I need to catch her unawares, and grab what I can. It might be just a fragment, or an adjective. Do it quickly, and run fast, bring that piece to my paper and slap it down with glue. I’ll have to use E–600 for this job! What will be large enough to hold uncooperative September?

“Yes! I’ve got it now. My tribute to September will be an ode. It will celebrate precocious September perfectly.” My “Ode for September” must be hefty and as unsettled as she.

My ten–line stanzas will be a passionate song about September, the whirling dervish.


Lynda Lambert Author PhotoLynda McKinney Lambert lives in the rural Village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction essays. She retired from teaching as professor of fine arts and humanities at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvannia, USA. Lambert’s first book, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage was published by Kota Press. Her work appears in Spirit Fire Review; Indiana Voice Journal; Magnets & Ladders; Stylist; Breath & Shadow; Wordgathering; The Avocet; Proverse Hong Kong; Behind our Eyes: A Second Look – Anthology; and other literary journals and anthologies. She is also an actively exhibiting fiber artist. Major themes in her creative works are Nature; Mythology; Art and History.

Lynda McKinney lost most of her sight in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy. She creates her art work and writing projects via the use of technologies for the blind. The essay above is taken from her book Walking by Inner Vision.