life: acoustic & amplified

that field

Remember that meadow up above the ridge
where the dog ran around in circles
and we were tired from the climb up
and everything was tilted sideways
including the running in circles
of the ecstatic dog his bright tongue
lapping at the air and we were
leaning into the heart of the field
where no battle ever took place
where no farmer ever bothered
to turn the soil yet everything
seemed to have happened there everything
seemed to be happening at once enough
so we’ve never forgotten how full the field
was and how we were there too and full
❤

The Field by Tim Nolan

photo on Left by m.e.

❤

blue storm. yellow seeds.

Will you join me in this day out of time, drink a cup of life in a sweet pair-o-chairs?

Will you step forward into this moment of no moment, sitting on a friends bench, not numbered, to talk about the secrets of living?

Will you sing with me as the blue storm clears and the blue sky parts and the yellow days begin so full of the color of our passion?

Will you plant with me, all the yellow seeds of hope and home to make the weary pilgrims smile?

Will you stay with me, lay with me, in the fields of gold, where the children laugh and play? 

Will you grow old with me, under the ancient green oaks stately and, oh-so-wise, or when everyone else leaves, will you go too?

Will you love me today and still again tomorrow hold this empty space with me, even when the whole world begins turning once again and most everyone else forgets to pray? 

Amy Lloyd

{photos from google images}

❤

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won’t come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don’t you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

❤
Dark August by Derek Wolcott

Sunflowers Photos by Charlie Doane / find Charlie on Facebook
Website link here

❤

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

Rumi –