“Between the Hours” Now Available for Purchase

Although I’ve recently begun to post again on Flowerwatch, I had stopped regularly putting up new content some time ago as I was preparing everything for publication in book form — I happen to be one who prefers to hold in his hands the tangible and tactile article! That volume is now available. It’s called “Between the Hours.” I’m so happy to have it completed and available for purchase. I’m confident that readers of my book will have an experience similar to mine and that of some friends and family members who have now been living with it for the past year or two. Their experience has been that it is pleasant to open it up at random, or to read page by page nightly. I’ve heard that it’s relaxing or inspiring. I’ve been very happy with these comments because I see no reason to publish works that don’t provide a real reward to readers, something that uplifts, soothes, relaxes, inspires, or brings other forms of pleasure that last longer than the time it takes to read a few words printed on a page.

Between the Hours is the fruit of my heart’s labors in this garden of earthly life. These poems arise from my interactions with the forces behind the visible while I’m out in the woods, the fields, the lawn or garden, or during the night in the company of stars and crickets. I hope that these treasures that were given me while engaged in such excursions might in turn purchase for the reader something of the peace and pleasure that they have for me in the silent moments of their creation.

Between the hours is a collection of two decades worth of the author’s poetry, writings, and art. The works have been integrated into a natural progression of time through the 24 hour cycle of the day, each period representing characteristic qualities of natural principle. In the early morning hours we find ourselves waking to a new day, new inspiration, new insights, new energy. In the late hours of the night, one finds the vastness of time and the cosmos overwhelming the senses and calling for a deeper, inward reach towards greater insight and a more whole perspective on one’s life. Between the Hours can be a night-stand book that will provide soothing relaxation, deep reflection, pleasant diversion, and new perspectives to fuel dreams and inspire action.”

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Flowing Down the River

When Princess Di was taken out of the world at a young age back in 1997, and around that same time Mother Teresa also, somehow it really hit me that the world was moving into a new era that would demand much more of each individual. It seems there is currently unfolding another such period of time, taking things up a whole step in significance and requiring a new degree of spiritual fortitude.

Of course, where much is demanded, much is also given. These dichotomies of destruction and renewal are like birth pains, it seems to me. While difficult, in order to bring about a new life they also seem to compel the soul perspective so that the mind may be relieved of the troubles of its unavoidably limited scope. If the spirit can be allowed to enter into the picture, then maybe the dust of the whirlwind will be transmuted into the descending gold of renewal. An age of greater balance could be the child that’s given.

In 1997, while I was musing over the significance of the passing of those two women, the following song, which I call “Flowing Down the River,” poured out through my fingers and streamed across the piano keys. The song, for me, was a kind of refuge and a reminder, a restorer and a comforter, through which I found myself deepening into the inner strength that is as great as one’s love. Having forgotten the song awhile back, it returned again recently. I spent some time last spring refining it a little, and then I made the following recording.

While I’ve written music ever since high school in the 80s, my life has placed other demands upon my physical resources and so I will ask for your forbearance: I’ve not been able to spend the time required to refine my performance skills! But, I wanted to share it now. I hope you enjoy it!

More of my music is here, if you’d like to explore further.

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When Love is New

When love is new
as the gods’ own dawn
it seems endless true,
innocent and pure as a faun.

True love ages well,
a vintage to keep and savor;
love that’s merely passion’s spell
will quickly lose its flavor.

A true heart fixed and full
will outlast time and grow;
the fainter kind can never pull
the force of change all know.

Confounding the mind,
one may seem the other,
and seeming isn’t sure;
life holds high a path of wonder
the strong and true of heart alone endure.

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Robbie’s Day

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From this Ruin

Maybe what I didn’t know all along this path
was that all my heart’s feeling was nourishment,
like rain water filling the roses.
I thought it was a fire in a tinder dry wood,
a hail of flaming comets at world’s end —
I had to hold onto the rails.
I hand-cuffed myself to them.
And I closed my eyes and ears.
Then Life crushed the chain and tied me to the mast.
And they came…..

The sirens came with fire, with oil, with electricity.
Their laughter was a sword through my heart.
Like smoke in the house they flew past locked doors.

Now, as I walk the abject ruin of the past,
I see, because the sun is up,
it was grace that came in guise of destruction.
Grace that came with weapons and a blazing eye.
Grace that sat beside me and tried to push its sword into my hand.
I’d swallowed my heart and had not the eyes to see.

Grace brought:
Flame that cauterizes the insidious infection of involuted thought,
it purges the contagion;
Oil that dissolves the heavy tar of fear;
Lightning that comes where the heart lay in ash;
And roses begin to pierce that mantel —
an attar of intoxicating fragrance rises.

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Ibn Arabi’s Nazim

Epilogue

He: She was
mysteriously veiled
She was
the magnet for my eyes
She was
a woman
and
the magnet for my soul

She: I was
mysteriously called
I was
the space where his eyes learned to see
I was
a woman.

… All paths are circular …

Ibn ‘Arabī

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The Cat’s Comfy Corner

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A Day in Her Company

Kevin Trammel · A Day In Her Company Duet (Clarinet & Bass)

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Yeats Via Kilmer

I think it was Yeats who said… You see a tree, and you observe a truth about the tree. And you’re hit with it. The magic of the tree. It’s a spiritual thing. Beyond the physical life form of the tree. So then you write, and write, and write about the form of the tree, and the life of the tree. And the spirit of it. Until your own personality is gone from the words. When you’re gone from the poem, it’s a poem.
-Val Kilmer, Val

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The One Who Carries the Knife

“God guard me from those thoughts men
think in the mind alone.”


-William Butler Yeats

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Water with Friends

With Tu Fu and Li Bai I drink
this wayside rock-spring luminous water
missing not at all
the wine we shared
at the Temple Mount Tavern
just the night before.

The belly-deep laughter it brings
rises even more easily
and cleans away the heavy air
that clings from city troubles.

-Kevin Trammel
9/18/2021

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Late at Night

The swirl of wind relenting; 
the turn of water descending;
the slow winding down
        of the cat into sleep.

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Caravan

It seems to me from years of grace
that the best poems come out of the night.
They softly, swiftly descend
on wafting leaves with starlight glistening.
They never guess nor ever look back.
They mince no words and pour images
that tingle in the heart like flowing wine.
They reach forth from before time
and travel from their origin
like the khabir leading a long awaited caravan
of treasures ’til then unguessed and ever unsurpassed.

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Love’s Stride

Life is sacred and holy.
Life is free and lovely,
free as the summer breeze
that turns silver in the trees;
lovely as my sweet belle
bent over the brimming well
and beaming surprised when I from behind
reach ’round to make her mine.

How sweet the breath of life,
the pruning of our strife,
the lifting of the heart
in the brilliance of day’s start.
Like the face of the sea,
life’s face chameleon be,
and tunes its shape and color
to the air, the sun, stars, and wonder.

What she tells in her stride,
and all her majestic abide,
extols the smallest thing
and graciously humbles the gravest king.

-Kevin Trammel

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Robert Frost’s Alchemy

He came from the orchard with something new —
fruits of unseen forms, containing
rhythms before undanced, rhymes ’til then unsaid,
born forth in a long meter indulging its labors,
like a man with a load going uphill
and coming back down again just for the thrill.

He grasped the dust of sunset
settled upon the farmer’s brow
and unwound threads of apple burlap
which he steeped with dew from sunny vines
on which the sprinkled dust became gold.
He held the weathered industrious sparrow
gently in an equally weathered hand,
and whispering to it what he couldn’t write
brought song that made the workday trials light.

When a man in an empty house is graced
with a rosy-cheeked guest from winter’s waste,
he raises the hearth-fire and brings
a jar of hard cider from rare visited wings
and a pipe and ‘baccy are brought to bear
and soon the stories spill forth to share —
this is Robert’s gift and grace.
We come for warmth and leave drunk from his place.

-Kevin Trammel

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Sweetness

The cat while hunting pauses
and lifts his nose to taste
the nectar of morning.
He softly blinks his amber eyes
from the pleasure of the kiss
of dew scented air.

-Kevin Trammel

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Her Arrow, My Awakening

Through a heart-shaped opening
    in the forest canopy, the moon
         descends like a silver arrow.

-Kevin Trammel
6/24/2021

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Looking Down, Up

Yellow dandelion dust
   on my sandals —
a smile returns.

-Kevin Trammel
6/20/2021

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Breathing Easy on the Path

The cedar smiles
in mists’ billows
above the dancing falls

Kevin Trammel
7/2/2021

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Walking the Old Road, Sunset

A pigeon and a junco
    browsing windfall seeds
along the dirt road —
                  sunset.

-Kevin Trammel
5/6/2021

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Feathers of Stillness

Feathers of Stillness
by Kevin Trammel

Feathers of stillness fall
too soft to excite,
down from the shadowed shelves of night.
They drift slowly along
the now still, smoothe sands of day,
languidly leaving shallow lines
of mystic calligraphy
soon to dissolve in lapping tides of sleep.

Lie down, sweet, with a soft smile, my love,
and tender take the hand awhile
of the lavender-gowned mistress
who breathes enchanting lays
in subtle rhythms that seduce
the restless mind to lie at ease
and let the dreaming soul arise.
She it is who sweeps the skies at night
with her broom of gentle clouds
that star-born dreams may restore
and mend to crickets’ susurrous applause
what it is that you most fondly live and adore.

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The Fate of John the Pure of Heart, the “Bright Star”

The Fate of John the Pure of Heart, the “Bright Star”
-Kevin Trammel

The world cares not at all for the poet —
Man’s world, that is, for Nature’s loves her, or him,
with a soft love
that is harsh only for the flowering of insight and eloquence:
insight in the sleepless night of a thousand crickets;
eloquence on the stream of laughing waters.

But Man’s world hates the poet.
Even when It professes love, It holds
beneath Its darkish cloak a glinting knife
of jealousy and contempt for all that’s love and loved.

Man’s world is based on commerce not upon the beloved.
Commerce of ego, commerce of contempt, commerce of greed,
that strives even against nature to make a commerce of love.
Love of sky and love of Man
is not the love of so many men.
Their numbers inter the songs of crickets under concrete,
and exhaust the laughter of waters unto a dry parcel.
There is no room in such dungeon of a heart
for ought but festering creep and dank shadow.

Nevertheless, the poet sings still,
and still, by the still waters,
sees in that mirror what makes a heart a heart,
what tells the love of Man to live,
for living is love’s way no matter all this dying.
And for the poet the song is enough,
though he starve and scrape along the streets
or under the dripping eaves
for some bread, some hearth, some idol of a heart.
She smiles when the sounding words flow in like wine,
when they pile up like blossoms under the plum,
while they spin a yarn of thick warmth
for a cloak about his shoulders and
a pair of heavy weather socks upon her feet.

And all mankind is lifted up.
All of love is lifted up.
What is light and life are made to shine.
For all mankind is it done… and never undone.

July 27, 2021
After watching the film “Bright Star,” about
John Keats and Fanny Brawne

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