Lynne Harbaugh is a Romantic artist living and working in Los Angeles. Although American by birth, her art is deeply shaped and influenced by the English history and poetry that she has been immersed in since childhood. Constable, Turner, Keats, Arthur, Christina Rossetti. These are some of the voices that have long kept her company and ignited the fire of her imagination so essential to the alchemy of her art. As a landscape painter, poet, and songwriter she maintains a devout belief in the artist's ability to provide humanity with spiritual and emotional healing.  Lynne's paintings are available for purchase on her website at  Her collection "The Wintergrave Poems"and accompanying CD will be available for purchase at the Village Books.

Come Lie Upon My Winter Grave
Come lie upon my winter grave.
Still in my hand the rose you gave.
So near the sun two hearts were bound.
Though now I weep below the ground.

When first I saw my winter home
Twin angels spoke then wept and moaned.
No dream nor kiss from year to tear.
Know this, there is no slumber here.

Love's footsteps sound my winter birth.
Here now your hand upon my earth.
For ere my soul remains with thee.
All grey until you run to me.

Come now unlock the winter gate.
For you alone my arms await.
Do not ask if love was saved.
Tis here upon my winter grave.   

Bury Me in English Earth
Bury me in English earth.
Beneath her sky, within her wood.
A chill despair came with my birth.
 My life, my soul on sorrow stood.

Lead me into English heather
Beyond the cold and passing bell.
Unleash the lion, cut the tether.
Send the demons back to hell.

Carve my name on English stone.
Beside the wild and lonely oak.
Echoes of my teardrops moan
And stir the grass where I awoke.

This Peace In My Soul

This peace in my soul
Rips through the sorrow of the world
With healing grace.
I wonder at your perfection
And your hands.

Once the moon was my only source of light
Helping me not to stumble
With quiet guidance.
Now we are three and I smile at everything
And your hands.

Blades of grass brush against my ankles
Whispering secrets only for me
With gentle passion.
I pretend they are your fingers
And your hands.

Lynne Harbaugh poet at Moonday Poetry
2010 Lynne Harbaugh

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