life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the month “January, 2015”

One of the lies we tell ourselves is that if we do not allow ourselves to dream completely, then we will be less hurt. – Julia Cameron



Nothing I have ever done or will ever do
can separate me from
or bring me into the heart of the Beloved.

Oh, I can distract myself from the longing
that whispers day and night for that sacred union,
and some days I am too tired to notice
that what I ache for is and always has been here:
. . . . right here in and at my fingertips,
in the way the breeze lifts my hair,
the way the earth pulls me to her,
the way shared laughter makes my sides ache.

Nothing I have done or will ever do
can make me worthy or unworthy
of being touched by the Loverโ€™s hand and heart,
of being the Loverโ€™s hand and heart in the world.

Grace โ€“ the way Infinite Love
gives Himself to us in every moment
the way God unfurls Her tender mercy in our hearts
is a constant invitation to say with the fullness of our being:

~Oriah Mountain Dreamer (c) 2015

photo source tracks found at

we’re all just ex-babies! embrace it!

…everyone is involved, whether they like it or not, in the construction of their world. So, it’s never as given as it actually looks; you are always shaping it and building it. And I feel that from that perspective, that each of us is an artist. Secondly, I believe that everyone has imagination. That no matter how mature and adult and sophisticated a person might seem, that person is still essentially an ex-baby. And as children, we all lived in an imaginal world. You know, when you’ve been told don’t cross that wall, because there’s monsters over there, my god, the world you would create on the other side of the wall.
– John O’Donohue

King Lear
THERE WOULD BE a strong argument for saying that much of the most powerful preaching of our time is the preaching of the poets, playwrights, novelists because it is often they better than the rest of us who speak with awful honesty about the absence of God in the world and about the storm of his absence, both without and within, which, because it is unendurable, unlivable, drives us to look to the eye of the storm. I think of King Lear especially with its tragic vision of a world in which the good and the bad alike go down to dusty and, it would seem, equally meaningless death with no God to intervene on their behalf, and yet with its vision of a world in which the naked and helpless ones, the victims and fools, become at least truly alive before they die and thus touch however briefly on something that lies beyond the power of death. It is the worldly ones, the ones wise as the world understands wisdom and strong in the way the world understands strength, who are utterly doomed. This is so much the central paradox of Lear that the whole play can be read as a gloss if not a homily on that passage in First Corinthians where Paul expresses the same paradox in almost the same terms by writing, “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise. God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong. God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are” (1 Corinthians 1:27-28), thus pointing as Shakespeare points to the apparent emptiness of the world where God belongs and to how the emptiness starts to echo like an empty shell after a while until you can hear in it the still, small voice of the sea, hear strength in weakness, victory in defeat, presence in absence.
I think of Dostoevski in The Brothers Karamazov when the body of Alyosha’s beloved Father Zossima begins to stink in death instead of giving off fragrance as the dead body of a saint is supposed to, and at the very moment where Alyosha sees the world most abandoned by God, he suddenly finds the world so aflame with God that he rushes out of the chapel where the body lies and kisses the earth as the shaggy face of the world where God, in spite of and in the midst of everything, is.
-Originally published in Telling The Truth

photo source tracks found at


If I could lift that corner of sunlight that slants
that cuts a dashing swath of burnt yellow across the room,
I would swirl it around without a care and toss it
across my shoulders and breathe in its warmth,
its musty breathe redolent with time without end.

I would huddle within its glorious arms, sinews melting,

and dream of fields under a summer sky.

Rama Desai







Gayatri Prayer

You who are the source of all power,
Whose rays illuminate the world,
Illuminate also my heart
So that it too can do Your work.
While reciting this prayer, visualize the sun’s rays streaming forth into the world, entering your heart, then streaming from your heart’s center back into the world.


source photo trackbacks found at

clearly I will see you

Become That Which You Aspire To Be
Life is not a race-but indeed a journey. Be honest. Work hard. Be choosy. Say โ€œthank youโ€. โ€œI love youโ€, and โ€œgreat jobโ€ to someone each day. Take time for prayer. Be thankful. Love your life and what youโ€™ve been given, it is not accidental. Search for your purpose and do it as best you can. Dreaming does matter. It allows you to become that which you aspire to be. Laugh often. Appreciate the little things in life and enjoy them. Some of the best things really are free. Do not worry. Forgive, it frees the soul. Take time for yourself. Plan for longevity. Recognize the special people youโ€™ve been blessed to know. Live for today, enjoy the moment. โ€” Bonnie Mohr




listen to the day

Beautiful photo by Kerri DeBlasi
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed.
the All Aboard Childrenโ€™s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along withโ€”some will be delighted to hearโ€”

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
andโ€”clap your handsโ€”the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Snow Day By Billy Collins


let’s be friends

If I could see you
and you see me too
look straight into my eyes
cause I’m dying inside
If we could wait for a moment
pause in the crowd
smile at another
say good morning out loud
Well, what would that matter
at the end of the day?

There’d be one less stranger in the world
one less stranger looking for light
If we would just shine
as we walk through our day
there’d be one less stranger in the world

If you would just speak right from the heart
and let me do that right at the start
If you could allow me my point of view
I’d try to do the same thing for you
If we both ask questions
of answers we seek
Then sit in silence allow each one to speak
Well, what kind of world would these words create?

There’d be one less stranger in the world
one less stranger looking for light
If we would just shine
as we walk through our day
there’d be one less stranger in the world

see beyond the fear
see both far and near
shine your little light
shine with all your might

ACL 1/25/15

When an iceberg gets flipped over…






perfect surrender

I am always amazed that poems are willing to lie down and sleep inside the flat, closed pages of books. If poems behaved according to their essence, they would be out dancing on the seashore or flying to the heavens or trying to rinse out secrets of the mountains.
– John O’Donohue



snow!!! ๐Ÿ’ž

Photo by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT

backyard tree and pig by me ๐Ÿ˜ƒ

The whole world is a poem today
I walked 2 miles in snow paradise
Hoping I would remember each amazing
Even the port-a-potty
Looked romantic
Covered in it’s white cap
With it’s blue door welcoming
the desperate stranger
I found a discarded pair of snow pants
Hoping the loser
Was some place warm by now
It was too wet to use my phone
So it stayed in my pocket
I made the most amazing snow angel EVER
And couldn’t resist trying to get a quick shot
I was mostly alone in my magical land except for the occasional snow plow doing it’s duty
and one lone woman raking piles off her car
Hoping to get somewhere safely
I tramped through piles of unmarked snow,
Dirty black muddy snow
And Slushy melting snow
splashing on my boots
I followed some footprints
which were so far apart
I had to take two large steps to reach each one
I wondered if it was a yeti getting his snow on?
I felt like I was an explorer off on a great adventure
Like Sir Edmund Hillary climbing Mt Everest
Ha! Visions of grandeur.
I battled the elements
Legs feeling new muscles
not used in a coons age
My gloves got wetter and wetter
From the snow,
and oops,
I forgot tissues again
It was like walking in a just shaken
snow globe world
(Without the dizzy side effects)
I cleared a spot of heavy drift
and sat briefly on a bench until the wet
freezing thru my pants
forced me get up and dance
The water and sky were gray
Meeting about 50 feet from the non-existent shoreline
no beach today in highest tide
Seagulls and ducks floated on the water
Watching the beauty
having conversations about it
I think they were excited to see me
by the amount of chatter between them
On my second mile I stopped back by my brilliant snow angel
Already filling in
I fought my way back up and down
past the river
Where I stopped for another
eye-feast of beauty
making my way carefully
so not to slip
Thinking of another
fun-friend-shared snow day
when I did.
It never gets old
This walk
This view
This gorgeous world
I hear my breathing
In steady rhythm with my steps
My core is as well heated
As my nose is cold and drippy
I make one last snow angel
outside the kitchen window
and then strip in the mud room.
Soaked to my chilled-reddened skin
I laugh as I run up the stairs
for warm dry clothes
Full of joy
and exhausted
I settle in to write it,
then on to a nice book
and a warm cup of potato soup
Buddy the dog
had an adventure in the snow
this morning as well
and is now sleeping off his excitement.
I watch the snow dance
outside the window
as I wash morning dishes
teasing me to come back out and play
the snow angel winks at me
I realize we know each others secrets
It knows my delight in it
I know it’s truth and beauty
We are more than friends
I have just been intimate with this storm
We are lovers
Yes, I have made love to the world
For the last hour and a half
and I am completely satisfied





Beautiful photos by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT

Yeats: The world is full of magic things/patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.


๐Ÿฑ furry friends


I know. I know.
they are limited, have different
needs and

but I watch and learn from them.
I like the little they know,
which is so

they complain but never
they walk with a surprising dignity.
they sleep with a direct simplicity that
humans just canโ€™t

their eyes are more
beautiful than our eyes.
and they can sleep 20 hours
a day
hesitation or

when I am feeling
all I have to do is
watch my cats
and my

I study these

they are my

my cats by Charles Bukowski




More photos and cute videos @

dark night in a blue sky day

On the day I died
water ran through pipes,
footsteps identified people in the house and
the dogs nails clicked quickly on the wood floors above my head,
insisting it was time to go out for relief.
I still needed coffee,
light with cream,
2 sugars.
The sun was bright
and I remember the sky was that deep blue,
romantically named, azurite.
There was cockscomb,
half alive in pots near the wooden footbridge I walked over.
I used to love them when I was alive.
I touched their red, velvety, blooms seeking to feel something.
I mistook fluttering angel wings for birds,
battles fought,
just beyond where I lay
on the words of Wendell Berry –
the only thread
keeping me tethered to this world.
I sat on benches beside ghosts
of those gone before me.
I could still only feel them beside me,
I was in the world between worlds.
There was darkness, a fire swamp, screaming, clashes of swords,
I could not save myself.
God was everywhere.
I found myself in a boat,
where I stayed for 2 years, until,
in recent weeks,
the call came to step out,
to start walking on water.
Late in the day,
I stood in the bathroom,
accepting the most insulting job offer I have ever received,
then sat on a stool,
trying to act as if I was alive,
pretending to look for puzzle pieces,
slightly aware of the colors and shapes,
singing echoes of songs I used to love,
with my beautiful Robin,
who seemed very much alive.

ACL 1/21/15




In his little boat the fisherman
floats out on a deep
mystery that provides.
His net woven of many strands
is a gathering, for gathering.
He casts it into dark waters
and hauls in light.
Not for himself
but those hungry in the village,
from the unseen he offers


The fly fisher admires the river,
runs her eyes along its surface
like her hands on fine furniture.
She sees beneath into the depths
and sees unseen the beauty flashing,
knows without knowing
the life given there.
Not with will to overpower
but adoration of the holy
she casts, she works the fly
and waits
for the communicating tug,
the splendor rising.

With this focus,
not to catch but to evoke,
not to control but to connect,
she loves people,
and seeks out the grace
flashing beneath their eyes,
the love
rising in them.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light


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