life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the month “October, 2014”

becoming

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Do you know who you are

O you forever listed
under some other heading
when you are listed at all

you whose addresses
when you have them
are never sold except
for another reason
something else that is
supposed to identify you

who carry no card
stating that you are—
what would it say you were
to someone turning it over
looking perhaps for
a date or for
anything to go by

you with no secret handshake
no proof of membership
no way to prove such a thing
even to yourselves

you without a word
of explanation
and only yourselves
as evidence

To the Happy Few by W.S. Merwin

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be you 😎

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The people gathered around Aaron, and said to him,
“Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us.”
—Exodus 32.1

We tire of believing in a God so slippery,
a Lover so invisible,
so we make little ones
that we can set somewhere and not lose.

The golden calf of being busy.
The idol of producing.
The image of conforming.
The little god of being right.

We worship the god of having things under control.
We bow down to the idol of understanding things.
We give our gold to fashion the calf of being liked.
We adore the image of a happy, easy life.

Forgive us, God.
Take away our golden idols
that have so spectacularly failed us
and give us yourself instead.

Teach us to repent with each breath.
Help us to let go and trust
your Mystery, your Presence,
your Infinity, your Love.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
http://www.unfoldinglight.net

fly

http://youtu.be/kPRABXtOUgs

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I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. – Lucy Maude Montgomery

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Some October, when the leaves turn gold, ask
me if I’ve done enough to deserve this life
I’ve been given. A pile of sorrows, yes, but joy
enough to unbalance the equation.

When the sky turns blue as the robes of heaven,
ask me if I’ve made a difference.
The road winds through the copper-colored woods;
no one sees around the bend.

Today, the wind poured out of Canada,
a river in flood, bringing down the brilliant leaves,
broken sticks and twigs, deserted nests.
Go where the current takes you.

Some twilight, when the clouds stream in from the west
like the breath of God, ask me again.

“Some October” by Barbara Crooker

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on writing a poem

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I string words like pearls,
Knotting silence between each one
like silk thread
in a jewelers skillful hands.
long strands
or chokers,
built with love.
strategic placing of diamonds
where needed.
sometime a sparkling, featured,
brilliantly jeweled
pendant
swings carelessly.
always taking special care with the hardware,
the finishing is the most important.
it must stand up to daily use.
easy for right or left hands alike.
then on to a final polish before bagging
when each piece is complete.

ACL 4/11/13

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oh happy day

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awareness changes everything

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No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.

The mind of the day draws no attention;
It dwells within the silence with elegance
To create a space for all our words,
Drawing us to listen inward and outward.

We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one.

The Inner History of a Day by John O’Donohue

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beautiful

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I sit with the storm,
watching the wind do what wind does –
visible-invisible work.
It howls through the roof tops,
blows leaves past the window.
It is quite the showoff this morning.
The tree drips sorrow.
Thunder and lightening,
scare the dog into the bathroom,
but thrill me with their ferocity.
All morning it goes,
as I work at my 4′ space
pausing,
occasionally,
or more,
to watch the crying games just a few inches away.
Then,
suddenly,
my writing lights up.
It’s dramatic,
startling even.
I look up to see what has happened.
The storm is completely gone.
The sunlight has broken through the overcast sky.
The trees are drenched in golden glow,
leaves glistening like glowing emeralds.
It is so beautiful it takes my breath away.
I sit and stare for timeless time,
drinking it into my soul,
into my storehouse of these glory moments.
Then I go back to my work,
full of wonder and hope.

ACL 10/04/13

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Every now and then I sit and watch the sun rise to remind myself how it’s done – peacefully, steadily, warmly and in beautiful color. – Richelle E. Goodrich

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If I write a love poem
you will read it.

If I say my lover’s eyes are oceans, or galaxies
you will understand.

If I say I long for the feel of the curve of her waist
your hands will feel empty.

If I say her comfort is my earth
you will smile to yourself.

If I say she is larger than the world
you will grow confused.

If I say she is older than music
you will become wary.

If I say she is God
you will sigh and put the book down.

What can I do but sing of my love,
her hands like fields of wheat?

So I will not tell you the secret part,
only that her mouth is a river I kneel and drink from,

her love makes dawn arise in me,
her voice is like rain.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
http://www.unfoldinglight.net

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welcome

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watercolor paintings by Mary Lou Peters

October. Its brilliant festival of dry
and moist decay. Its spicy, musky scent.
The church’s parking lot deserted
except for this one witness,
myself, just resting there.

Somewhere a radio plays Flamenco.
A spotlight of sunshine falls on the scattered debris.
Blood-red and gold, a perfect circle of leaves
begins to whirl,
slowly at first, keeping the pattern,
clicking against the blacktop
like heels and castanets,
then faster, faster, faster. . .
round as a ruffle, as the swirling
skirts of an invisible dancer.
Swept off into the tangled woods
by the muscular breeze.
The hoarse cheering of crows.

Inside the dark empty church,
long cool shadows, white-painted wood,
austere Protestant candles thriftily snuffed,
Perhaps a note on the altar,
Gone dancing. Back on Sunday

Outside by Dolores Stewart

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