life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the month “February, 2018”

I contain multitudes

Of course I didn’t.

But I feel like I wasted a month.

A year.

A few years.

Definitely today.

Of course I didn’t -(I don’t believe in that, tempting as it can be)

Oh – I may not have made the most of it – of them –

Still, I’ve had them, moment by moment,

obscure unintended unintentional oblivious as they seem.

I have hurt and honored and honested.

I have lied awake, sweating and doubting.

And I have slept.

Is that so wrong? I have a judgment about that.

It doesn’t look at all the way I thought.

(But ok. Herein lies truth. Herein lies poetry. Herein lies… )


Running Past by Robin OK

I’m not sure if I am standing

but I feel faint and dizzy

the room spins,

as the world tilts,

as death hangs out in the dining room

shuffling papers on the table.

I witness daily fading.

The land of the living feels very far away.

I want to run.

I want to seek fun –

people and activities.

I want to walk in sunshine and fresh air.

How can I have courage at a time like this?

How can I wait?

How can I wait for God?

For impending death?

How can I know that strength will come?

That is ground will hold my weight?

How can I bear wasting my life in this manner?

Aren’t there more important things needing to be done?

How can I trust,

what I cannot do on my own?

Can I possibly do it through waiting?

getting out of the way?

allowing this to be the plan?

Live into surrender, when it’s so unbearable?

I have seen many things before now.

faithful things.

Miraculous things.

I have never been abandoned.

There have been times I did not wait,

I know them well,

they turned out badly.

And so, I will wait,

I will see the goodness of what is behind

and before

and especially right now.

and so, having done all I can,

I stand,

I wait,

knees knocking

hands shaking,

smiling watery,

way too woozy to walk.

This, my friends, I have suddenly realized,

IS what courage looks like…

on any given day on earth.

Hang on, little tomato

life is for you,



Amy Lloyd

And then tomorrow comes

The stars have disappeared, for now

Sunrise has given us a beautiful newly fresh canvas

to adorn with the colors of our

adventures in living

we are here with our morning routine

And a fresh cup of coffee that tastes new to this day

We check the weather

We talk to the trees

We give thanks for our breath

and move into this gift called living

Where every day is an adventure

full of miracles

Once we wake up

and choose to see the magic

of the cardinal that sits

on our windowsill

staring us right in the eyes

we delight in

the tingling expectation

of visiting friends for dinner

we shake off the ghosts of last nights discontent

nothing ever goes to waste

the best is always yet to come

some of our juiciest days are just around this next bend

Everything is grace…

if we believe


Amy Lloyd

becoming the morning

Early morning dark and quiet,

so still you can hear God,

then the sun rises like slow jazz,

vibrating through thin clouds,

they look like strings of cotton candy

stretching sideways,

you listen to the morning birds,

the thought of coffee makes you smile,

but the jazz is so smooth and relaxing,

you slip back into a drowsy dream.


J. D. James

you’re embarrassed by your own om

you say—planning your funeral

considering deep drones

only a limited number of patterns

exist for such a song

played in one breath

a prayer for a pregnant woman’s easy delivery

a tender preamble for a new instrument

a piece played for expressing gratitude

a state of mind resembling moonlight

a lighter one for festive occasions

a piece for overcoming difficulties that could have been handled better

a piece representing manifestations of self-discipline

an offering at a service for the dead

a piece expressing longing for home

if there are indeed

“still songs to sing beyond mankind”

we’ll need those



shakuhachi repertoire, handwritten from liner notes by Jen Bervin

I will have become

like the madman


to see the moon

in the window,

the hawk

I saw tracing

the cliff edge

above the river.

I will be the man

I have pursued

all along

and finally caught.

I will be

all my intuitions

and all my desires

and then I will walk


down the steps

as if dressed in white

and wade into the water

for a second baptism.

I will be like

someone who cannot

hide their love

but my joy will become


and everyday

and like a lover

I will find out

exactly what it is like

to be the happiest,

the only one in creation

to really


how much,

I’m just a hair’s breadth

from dying.

Excerpted From



New and Selected Poems © David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

Before I take communion

I confess my

ancestral malady,

weakness of the will.

I long for a comforter

to strengthen me with

the grace of heaven.

Therefor in the evening,

I listen to the thrush.

In the morning,

raindrops on ferns.


Fred LaMotte


We tend to focus on, and speak about the soul-life of an individual in terms of spiritual comfort and deep nourishment, qualities which are a central, and abiding dynamic of its presence, but the equally unsettling and disturbing quality about this strange, often wild and courageous faculty of belonging inside us we have come to name ‘the soul’ is its ruthless, and almost tidal wish to find its own way to a fuller union with the world. The soul is a planner’s nightmare, the career counselor’s central puzzle, the biographer’s conundrum, the saboteur of the puritanical and the unimaginative; an internal abiding spring that is both a source and a flow: an internal stranger at the door of our outer life about to break everything apart; a pilgrim often suddenly more in love with the horizon than its home; and most disturbingly, someone who would much rather fail spectacularly at their own life than succeed drably at someone else’s.


Winter Thoughts © David Whyte 2018

morning messages

I walked out my door in the early morning mist and caught a fox walking past. She stopped and made eye contact for a long (eternal) minute.

The solution to a problem is at hand. The Fox spirit is the grand problem solver. She will guide you to solitude and silence until the way out is shown. A healthy combination of persistence and patience will strike a balance that picks apart a problem until it is solved.

Fox Symbolism

The symbolic meanings associated with the fox are:

• Physical or mental responsiveness, increased awareness

• Cunning; seeing through deception; call to be discerning

• Ability to find your way around, to be swift in tricky situations

• Affinity with nocturnal activities and dream work

Fox Symbolism & Meaning. The phrase, “cunning like a fox” came about for good reasons. … Fox wants you to get past illusions, adapt to your discovery and see things clearly before moving forward any further.

Feeling special…💞 🦊

get real

Abandon the illusion you’re a self-contained individual.

Be a part of this wounded world,
and find yourself with Christ.

Set aside your own desires,
give yourself fully for others;
be the hands and heart of Jesus.

Renounce self-protection,
accept your brokenness,
and reach out for love.

Let go of your own plans.
Join in the healing of the world.
You will not be alone.

Follow your soul, not your ego.
Follow it right into people’s suffering.
Follow it right into the heart of God.

Pour yourself out;
let the world pour in;
then you are one with the Beloved.


Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

Sometimes, if we can be very still, eyes wide open, silencing the inner commentary for just one moment, we might see somethings we’re missing.

Like the crazy beauty and unbelievable resilience of human beings,

The resurrection of the sun each morning,

How even those we oppose- those with “positions” different than our own- love their children.

Oh, I’m not hoping or wishing for endless harmony. I never really was a Kum ba ya girl.

But, I try not to protect my heart by pretending the children who are dying in the war in Syria, and schools in America, and the young indigenous man shot on a farm here in Canada are not all “our” children.

And what would we not do to protect our children?

There are times to stand up and shout, and times to be quiet and listen deeply. Of course I’ve sometimes gotten that wrong- had something to say when I needed to listen; hesitated to speak up when something needed to be said, or shouted, or sung by a solitary voice or in unison by thousands.

At night as I drift into sleep something touches me- a larger Presence, the Beloved, the God whose Love I have known since always- and I know that in some way, deep at the core of Life, everything is and will be okay.

Knowing this, I can see without fear that here and now, in this shared world, there are things that are not okay, things that sacrifice children, things that we must change.

Decades of experience has eroded my certainty that I have the solutions, but deepened my conviction that we can find a way forward together.

– Oriah

The glorification of busy will destroy us. Without space for healing, without time for reflection, without an opportunity to surrender, we risk a complete disconnect from the authentic self. We burn out on the fuels of willfulness, and eventually cannot find our way back to center. And when we lose contact with our core, we are ripe for the picking by the unconscious media and other market forces. After all, consumerism preys on the uncentered. The farther we are from our intuitive knowing, the more easily manipulated we are. The more likely we are to make decisions and affix to goals that don’t serve our healing and transformation. To combat this, we have to form the conscious intention to prioritize our inner life. To notice our breath, our bodies, our feelings. To step back from the fires of overwhelm and remember ourselves. It may feel counter-intuitive in a culture that is speed-addicted, but the slower we move, the faster we return home.

⁃ Jeff Brown

Can I tell you something?

Im finding a battlecry uncurling within my stomach

it’s been waiting to get its chance to speak for over 50 years

the pressure I’ve put on my tongue has created diamonds

the seagulls understand me

they’re not afraid of that hard pounding surf

they delight in sea-spray-spittle on they’re faces

changing winds ruffling they’re polka dot tail feathers

why are kids killing kids?

let’s stop these stupid raw arguments

the ones that deflect responsibility to someone else

let’s look for the roots of this horror

in our own reflections

in our minds eye

in our most intimate of idols

in our illusions of love

in our addiction to our personal brokenness

let’s do something different

let’s sit in silence

and chill the hell out before our next inciting Facebook post

Just stop. Hard stop.

rest for a full minute.

God is here. Now. Repent (aka: turn around).

Be the change. Yes, Let your life be continually changed by goodness. Stop glorifying busyness. Decide.

Turn off your tv. No more 24 hr news. Smile at that weird teenager with the baggy pants down the street. Say hello to your neighbors. Show everyone you meet your baseball card collection. Tell them about your dreams of flying a kite Expect miracles to fall like rain. Spend your money to help someone – even if you don’t think they deserve it. Make art. Sing at the top of your lungs. Show unconditional love to someone with no desire for anything in return. Be personal. Allow yourself to fail often. look past your own neediness and fill a real need.

Let go of your stubborn opinions

Learn something good from everyone you meet.

Keep calm and carry on.

That is all.


Amy Lloyd

make room for the sacred

Mark Nepo tells us to,

‘put down what doesn’t work –

so that we can find what is sacred’.


What worked so well yesterday,

may not work today.

We wear out our structures of known truth,

the frameworks of what we use for living,

for healing.

Let them go,

trust in the new architecture –


with our personal, classic twist.

We are always becoming.

The seasons gracefully change every year

the same

yet not.

Watch for the signs of structural failure,

for the daffodils blooming bright

against the dreary brown world

build a new bridge,

delight in this magnificent design,

in the dots of brilliant color

those amazing cranes hanging in and over the water

strong, foundational columns

green stalks alive with promise

rising from deep within the waters,

creating the new skyline of your dreamscape

the new landscape of your best-to-come life

welcome this new place of crossing

the early soft fuzz of new growth on the earth beneath your feet

It can handle rush hour

or the heaviest foot-traffic

the ground will always hold our weight


the bold build

the celebration of every sign of spring

always awake to the possibilities of this very moment

remember to trust your intuition

remove what is not working

water things well and often

before the old fully implodes

before the grass turns an ugly shade of brown

right underneath our feet


Amy Lloyd

I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their same-

ness. The way a tiny pile of snow perches in the crook of a

branch in the tall pine, away by itself, high enough not to be

noticed by people, out of reach of stray dogs. It leans against

the scaly pine bark, busy at some existence that does not

need me.

It is the differences of objects that I love, that lift me toward

the rest of the universe, that amaze me. That each thing on

earth has its own soul, its own life, that each tree, each clod is

filled with the mud of its own star. I watch where I step and see

that the fallen leaf, old broken grass, an icy stone are placed in

exactly the right spot on the earth, carefully, royalty in their

own country.


Looking for the Differences by Tom Hennen

February on another coast is April

here. Astrology is months:

you are February, or are you

June, and who is

December? Who is books

read in spring, wingspan

between midnight

and mourning

Another starry tree, coastal

counterpoint where magnolia is

a brighter season

peach and pear

are grafted onto the same tree

fear and fat stick

to the same sprained bone

For this adolescent reprise

recycle everything trivial

but this time bring

the eye into sight:

make sight superior

to what is seen

A decade is to look at June

and see April

to look at April

and see February

Relief of repetition

seasons mean again,

one flowering branch suspended

in the half-light of spring

We sat on steps

beneath a tree

No: I walked by

The tree bloomed

and I looked up


Virginia Street by Jennifer Hayashida


You only owe love a chance to grow

– rumi

into deep waters

some days there are no poems

made of words

just the sight of Poseidon

filling my mind

my eyes

my soul

from the ground

from the sand

through the fog

it is enough

poems come in many fine forms

today’s is an extraordinarily well written one


Amy Lloyd

backwards & forwards

Library of Celsus in Ephesus


When the sooty corners of our dark night

absorb into porcelain skin at last

leaving it a whole new shade of refined

When the geese in their skeined wedge take another enchanted voyage across the endless blue

When we wake up to this new day

loving life in spite of all that has gone before

When the one who loves us allows us joy in our exile

until we are ready to break our silent bread

When we allow the challenging heaviness of our limiting beliefs to enter into our arena wrestling until we have achieved Olympic gold

When we trust the great freedom of what has brought us to this very moment

When the wine of our heart

in it’s purest burgundy of bubbling merry or deepest sorrow

pours clear and jeweled in its crushing

When we give away freely our best crimson to everyone we meet at this royal wedding

When we finally recognize the truth that there is no journey of arriving

there is simply life

this grandest celebration of skin touching skin

the sharing of moments

the wonder of storytelling

the ancient ancestral linage of our tree-relations

the wonder of teaching and tasting and exploring

coffee and kisses and learning any odd/old/new thing with the ones you love

then we have arrived at our true work

the why we have sought so desperately to uncover for so long

lying crumpled and useless in the trash can

as we, a bit drunk, on our own exquisite vintage

make love to the world in blissful ecstasy

shhhh…there are new songs playing


just listen…

to Dark Star…live

In this world…

a new dead-head is born

I’m so glad there is you


Amy Lloyd

what a difference a day makes


In the evening, love returns,

Like a wand’rer ’cross the sea;

In the evening, love returns

With a violet for me;

In the evening, life’s a song,

And the fields are full of green;

All the stars are golden crowns,

And the eye of God is keen.


In the evening, sorrow dies

With the setting of the sun;

In the evening, joy begins,

When the course of mirth is done;

In the evening, kisses sweet

Droop upon the passion vine;

In the evening comes your voice:

“I am yours, and you are mine.”


In the Evening by Fenton Johnson

Tomorrow I get a window

to sleep beside

a whiff of fresh air

blowing curtains

a square of rounded sunlight

to begin my days

Tomorrow I get a path

to the ocean

a few steps away

seagulls and surf

a whole bunch of sand

to lighten my way

Tomorrow I get a place

for this moment

a family to help

a new one to assist

friends to be made

a new place to stay

Tomorrow I take a step

into my own life

a way to begin

it’s really a start

just one tiny step forward

from these feet made of clay


Amy Lloyd

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