life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the month “April, 2014”

transformation

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I cast my suffering away and bind it onto you—
or so I think.
But pain is a thick cord, a sticky strand,
a thread spun deep within that does not break.
The web, once woven, only joins.
Every act of cruelty or blame, every thought
that someone deserves some pain,
every permission given for one to suffer
for another, secretes another thread,
a stronger cord, and weaves a thicker web.
I cast the lines, and they wholly bind me.
Anger winds me in its sheets.
I am matted together in one mass
with all whom I have rejected or hurt.
I am covered in my own life-sucking cocoon,
unable to move, to breathe, to imagine,
doomed never to change from life into life —
until, because we are wrapped together,
I see my victim, my neighbor as myself,
and in the burning anguish of my seeing
dissolve the binding ropes, and then
come out, so fragile and small,
and willing to be wounded,
finally free.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
http://www.unfoldinglight.net

the opening of eyes

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That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.

“The Opening of Eyes” by David Whyte, from Songs for Coming Home. © Many Rivers Press, 1984.

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thank you, Paulo Coelho, for your words

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stay curious my friends

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oh the places you’ll go (the challenge to write my way out of a paper bag)

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I googled it
what was the history?
the meaning?
my ability to write,
along with me,
had just been put into this container – a paper bag
that I couldn’t write my way out of???
It felt like a throw down challenge.
how difficult is this challenge?
and, by golly,
how did I get into the this giant paper bag?
armed only with pen,
quite obviously
a silly decision.
Why didn’t I think to bring scissors?
or
chocolate?
If I had chocolate
I wouldn’t really mind being in this paper bag
I should have seen this coming
been prepared…
just in case I can’t figure out
how to write myself out.
Of course,
I didn’t really intend to get stuck here
in a paper bag –
it just somehow happened.
I got caught in a cross-fire
of two people
with razor-sharp writing skills.
(are they better than mine –
or do we all just have our own voice?
hmmmm)
maybe I’ll just stay in this bag
and take a nap.
it’s pretty comfy here.
Oh nice, I have an orange in my pocket.
I can write myself out later
I’ve never found myself in a paper bag before –
think I’ll just enjoy the novelty of the adventure
before I go home for dinner.

AL 1/6/13

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i am a little church

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i am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor
of hurrying cities—i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are the prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

I am a little church (far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature
—i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, I life my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

“i am a little church” by e. e. cummings, from E. E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962, edited by George James Firmage

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