Catherine Ann Lombard, M.A.

Poetry

Writing

In September 2011, Catherine co-produced  the inspiring Rhyme Me to the Moon for the Grenswerk Arts Fesitval in Enschede, The Netherlands. Catherine and other internationally published poets, writers, and musicians recited selections from Dante and Persian Sufi poets, along with their personal writings. Interludes of music by Katell provided the sounds and rhythms that transported the audience even higher.

Catherine's poem One-Minute America, written for the festival's Hello Earth was also performed and accompanied by jazz saxophone. To see this performance, go to YouTube.


Lastest Poem

Please go to YouTube to hear One-Minute American read
and accompanied by saxophone for the
Grenswerk Arts Festival, Enschede, The Netherlands

The Hummingbirds

We went to watch the hummingbirds
swoop at dusk.
Crone, child and I.
Sky was falling all over us.
Soft confetti light.
Pink…purple…blue.
Ruby-throated acrobats hovered and buzzed
while we tried to inch closer.
Statues that shadow shift.

Then the boy of twelve,
light mustached,
turned to grandmother and asked.
Can I do anything for you?
Do you need anything from me?
And broken woman, half-deaf, stared.
Stunned by the Love that had suddenly
swooped from the child—
like the tiny birds.

The Love that now hovered between us.
Stopping heart.
Speeding heartbeats.

Her eyes filled with soft raindrops
of nectar.
Her head imperceptibly shook.
No, I’m okay.

Mother’s mother.
Stared through held back tears
and whispered.
He’s so good.

 

Catherine Ann Lombard
Oceanside, California
©  January 15, 2012



WritingMar 18, 2012

One-Minute American

I turn West searching for familiar landscapes.
Open skies full of California sunshine.
Pacific waters stretching along long empty beaches.
Mountains covered in redwood forests.
Death Valley tinted sunsets.
Wide highways speeding towards deep horizons.

Instead...

I find myself on narrow bike lanes.
Endless flat grasslands lined with hilly dykes.
Cows stare back promising me round wheels of Dutch cheese.
Clouds billow across a windy sky.
Icy winters fill with rain.
In spring, rainbows of tulips.

Bicycle wheels turn round and round.
Weaving my story between home and where I live.
Dreams soar though both countries.
Languages blend into one song.
My heart beats between them...

Tot ziens America.
Hello Holland.
Tot ziens America.
Hello Holland.



WritingDec 27, 2011

Here I am Lord

Here I am Lord.
In your fire again.
Under the weight of
your golden hammer.
As you once again
try to forge me into
a full human being.

Here I am Lord.
Frightened and weeping again.
Under the weight of
your awesome Love.
As you once again
try to embrace me into
the beauty of
who I am.

Here I am Lord.
Raging resistant again.
Under the fierce Light of
your omnipresence.
As you once again
try to bathe me in
your mercy,
shadows redeemed.

I am here Lord.
Inching closer to Joy.
Under the guidance of
your mysterious hand.
As you once again
try to nudge me towards
wholeness
and my place
in this world.



WritingAug 23, 2011

Here I am Lord (in Arabic)

أنا هنا الرب

ترجمة:محمد أحمد شبشة

 

أنا هنا الرب

في نارك.. مرة أخرى.

تحت وطأة

المطرقة.الذهبية خاصتك

كما كنت مرة أخرى

محاولا تشكيلي في

كامل إنسانيتي

 

أنا هنا الرب

مرتعدة وباكية مرة أخرى.

تحت وطأة

حبك الممتاز.

كما كنت مرة أخرى

تحاول ان تشملني

بجمالي

الذي أنا أصلا عليه

 

أنا هنا الرب

تستعر مقاومتي مرة أخرى.

تحت الاضواء الشرسة

لوجودك الكلي

 

كما كنت مرة أخرى

تحاول أن تغسلني بالمفتدى

من ظلال

رحمتك.

 

أنا هنا الرب

أقترب ببطء من الفرح.

بتوجيه من

يدك الغامضة.

كما كنت مرة أخرى

تحاول دفعي  نحو

كمالي

ومكاني

في هذا العالم.

آن كاترين لومبارد

شاعرة من هولندا-انشيدي

تعمل مدرب ومدرس للغة الإنجليزية

 

I am greatful and honored by Mohamed Ibrahim's translation of this poem into Arabic.



WritingAug 23, 2011

Lynn's Visit

It was during the time when
I was praying for courage.
Not the fierce kind
of lions and warriors.
But rather the quiet steady kind
of ants as they tug
unswept crumbs across the kitchen floor.

And then Lynn mysteriously appeared
for a mere ten days
thousands of miles from her home.
Unsteady on her feet.
Always about to fall.
Hip hinged like a creaky door.

Yet

Her eyes did not waver.
Nor her voice tremble.
Nor her dimples fail to flash a smile.

Lynn had the courage I had been praying for.
Climbing each unknown stairway
with a heart of gratefulness

and accepting soul.
Her feet unsteady were so well grounded,
rooted in her deep sincerity.

I felt humbled and in wonder
at how courage is so simple
when the person’s will is bold.
And how prayers are sometimes answered
in whispers.



WritingAug 5, 2010

 

Reflection on Lynn's Visit

These poems are some of my seeds. Several were written in the middle of the night lit only by the darkness of my soul’s journey. Others were spontaneously written under the intense illumination of my recent studies of psychosynthesis in London. And still others were written years ago while living in Ireland and Italy.

Often I wondered: Why I am writing these poems? For what purpose do they serve? I would scribble them down in a notebook, sometimes share them, most of the time not. And then one day while living in the Netherlands, I received a mysterious letter that had been forwarded to me from Italy. The address on the envelope only bore my name and “Giove, Italy”. It was a letter from a complete stranger in California who had received my poem “Lynn’s Visit” through a woman’s group she belonged to. Oddly enough, her name was also Lynne and she too suffered with a debilitating disease.

She wrote: “I have been struggling with my purpose even though my life is very full. I have experienced depression and each day searched for the unanswered question: what is my purpose? I have been studying Buddhism and any spiritual reading that might assist me in my search.”

Lynne continued by explaining that during the group’s meeting one month, someone brought my unpublished poem to share, which the women then read together. The next day, Lynne took the copy out of her purse and read it more carefully.

“Suddenly, it became so apparent to me that my purpose did not have to be the one of productivity, but so much more simplified. I realized that my purpose is to live my life courageously, with a grateful heart and accepting soul. Instantly, I knew my struggle was over. I have peace with me now, something that I have never experienced before.”

I had to cry when I read her words, for her search for purpose had ultimately come full circle. Miraculously, this poem had nearly followed my own journey—from Italy to California, back again, and onto the Netherlands. And once again, my prayers had been “answered in whispers.”

Why am I writing these poems? And for what purpose? They are the seeds of my life. And like a tree that, with the help of the wind, simply spreads its seeds, I scatter these poems so that they may grow or lay fallow, burn or bare fruit.

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