Kristin Chambers

Recently, sifting through some old poetry in search of inspiration for new music, I came across this poem I wrote many years ago for my Father’s 50th birthday. It’s always a tricky thing to write about love of any kind, or any place that is sentimental. You want so much to recreate how you feel, and so many times you fall short, because words are in essence just letters strung together. I spent many of my childhood Summer’s back on the coast of Maine, and as the poem states, my Father is a fixture in almost every memory. His spirit of optimism to this day remains my inspiration-one that gets me back in the ring every time I have been knock down. Hope you enjoy.

Past the Pale Picket

Go East
and east again,
and at the edge
of asphalt
stop.
to breathe
a lighthouse.
an ivory candle,
holding up miles
of sand.
We’ve walked there many times,
past the pale picket and
painted yellow shingles, to
where it was spit up from
granite and a thousand years.
And Dad would fly his dreams
like a kite, and I would learn how
strong a lighthouse must be,
how it calms the salty monsters,
steers lives to the right,
and stands strong in rain, and
pushing wind. How it shows love by
standing still.
When August would end,
I would know a lighthouse as a friend,
and later,
I would realize that if you
Go east
and east again, and
at the edge
of asphalt
stop.
what you will see
is my Father.