life: acoustic & amplified

illuminated

Bob:

Can I be your lazy eye, your wander-

lust, your grave without a headstone,

your bleeding gums, your buck teeth

and your walk bowlegged at the knee? Can

I be your fortune hunter, your glimpse

of wild geese, your red russet shoes

that poison the feet? Reckon this is the best

of my seed. Been stripping cane and blind

robbing the bees. Reckon you’ve thought

of swimming the creek. Last night they came

on horseback, white hoods like phantoms

scanning the trees, burning torches, shattering

sleep. I dragged the shotgun from the door

and stepped squinting onto the porch.

〰️

from Descent by Lauren Russell

One stood among the violets

listening to a bird. One went to the toilet

and was struck by the moon. One felt hopeless

until a trumpet crash, and then lo,

he became a diamond. I have a shovel.

Can I turn it into a poem? On my stove

I’m boiling some milk thistle.

I hope it will turn into a winged thesis

before you stop reading. Look, I’m topless!

Listen: approaching hooves!

One drowned in a swimming pool.

One removed his shoes

and yearned off a bridge. One lives

with Alzheimer’s in a state facility, spittle

in his white beard. It

turns out words are no help.

But here I am with my shovel

digging like a fool

beside the spilth and splosh

of the ungirdled sea. I can’t stop.

The horses are coming, the thieves.

I still haven’t found lasting love.

I still want to hear viols

in the little beach hotel

that’s torn down and gone.

I want to see again the fish

schooling and glittering like a veil

where the waves shove

against the breakwater. Gone

is the girl in her white slip

testing the chill with one bare foot.

It’s too cold, but she goes in, so

carefully, oh.

〰️

Lives of the Poets by Kim Addonizi

this trash – collected

this treasure – trumped

this friend – missing

this enemy – unknown

this flower – patient

this weed – a wish

this life – daring

this death – a stream

this beginning – after

this end – before

this good – abundant

this evil – unchallenged

this empty – receiving

this full – pouring

this token – memorial

this covenant – unlimited

this truth – evolving

this lie – exposed

this power – chandelier-ing

this slavery – shameful

this day – courageous

this night – for rest

this love – unending

this lust – lame

this busy – distraction

this patience – active

this bitter – uprooted

this sweet – running slow

this later – accepted

this now – my gift

this laughter – bubbling

this grief – deep blue

this doubt – faithful

this certainty – the war

this faith – foundation

this hopeless – a question

this beauty – sacred

this ugly – profane

this star – shining

this stone – singing

this me – beloved

this you – same as me

this many – imagine

this one – dreamer

this world – peace

this God – maker, creator, redeemer and friend

☯️

Amy Lloyd

Don’t be fooled by the neon friendliness,

like a “burgers and shakes” sign.

Don’t fall for the allure of great figures,

Moses and Elijah and Elvis assuring you

you’re on the road to the stars.

Don’t be waylaid by your cleverness

to have brought a box,

a very theological box, to put this all in.

Let’s be honest: it’s terrifying

to stand too close to a speeding train,

to get near to the power of God,

the light that can change you

into your own unknown,

the mystery that will surely consume you,

the love that will crack your life open

till the light all spills out

and you’re drawn to the cross,

kicking and screaming and grateful.

Maybe Jesus himself was a little freaked

at first to be turned into pure light.

As with any great force, if you’re not scared

you’re not paying attention.

Pay attention. Bow down, and listen.

__________________

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

and so it goes

My life is not tied up

in pretty blue bows

not many straight lines appear

on my map to this place

where I find myself today

I’ve chosen to go off grid

well maybe the truth is…

I found myself off grid

and after a while I realized it was the gift!

So I began making difficult, but purpose-filled choices,

again and again to stay there

I’ve skated thin ice and jumped with no net

over and over despite my own stable-craving nature

these tough years teaching me so much

in solitary silence

I’ve learned that somehow the ground always holds my weight

the universe conspiring to help me

and so, I live mostly on the edges

where adventure steals

all the comforts of an easy chair existence

where there is no sinking into the clouded cover of ‘safety’

when risking it all in the danger zone of unconditional loving

takes everything you have

a complex living

of big picture purpose

of loving the world enough to sacrifice pride

to stay small and humble

does anything I do matter?

sometimes Im not sure

But, all I know for sure is…

If anything does –

then everything does!

and so I must

and so it goes

💞

Amy Lloyd

https://www.facebook.com/nortner/posts/813317832191593

I met a new friend today who is absolutely WAY out there…

which means we will become forever friends,

as she needs me and I need her…her name is Maxy!

She doesn’t know how to bow yet…

but does a curtsey as she enters the wooden gates to the cottage.

She enters the front door with a bit of hesitation,

then brings forth her entire body into great expression

as she begins to view the colors on the walls…

two shades of green…

and the delicious soul that breathes into the spaces…

she smiles, tips her head, gestures towards the singing bowl,

the tiny blue Hindu elephant on the counter near the photos,

she wraps her arms around her chest and peers into the coral bedroom, peeking around the corner of the French doors,

where she sees the altar on the long blue wooden dresser and the suitcases stacked with a wooden tray as the nightstand near the bed. Vases of flowers, she smells them.

She asks me intimate, personal questions,

as we’ve just met , yet known each other forever…

she wants to know how it all came to be,

why in this lifetime could I appear?

She narrows her lips and rubs a finger across her cheek

while I share God in the mystery, the mystical, the crazy opening of portals in morning and evening hours,

perhaps the deli line,

or when I walk my dog past the little wooden library stall

that my neighbor keeps full ,in her front yard, near the mailbox… and I stop to look in for the titles and authors and Sylvia comes out in her bathrobe and Christmas slippers.

She wants to know how God can live so easily in the Midwest, on the coasts, in the heat of the south and the countries and continents that we barely know.

Maxy has a few muses of her own…and every archetype

that mentions abundance and creativity…

She met me because I wrote a book and she wanted to see the little yellow cottage…

She sat with me for two hours…and when she left another inch of snow was covering the top of my car,

the cobblestones to the gate were no where to be seen,

but I knew Maxy was a piece of the God art for the day

and Mayberry Street would never be the same to me after entertaining someone who saw through and into the heart

of ” Finding God on Mayberry Street.”

Beauty,

Donna Knutson

https://youtu.be/qIfuNPbBaaA

taking me home

why does freewill break my heart so often?

why do I find myself standing stock-still

as I go cycling through miles and mikes of old shaded valleys

on this go-to adventurous morning?

why do I still believe there is so much good in the world?

that everyone (mostly) is doing the best they can?

even me???

why do I drive with tear blurred eyes towards the sand and surf

knowing it will free me from my false sense of importance?

taking me into the surrendered place within it’s power

where I release

and once again trust the bigger picture.

that platform of rest and faith in my present place

the deepest deep calling to deepest deep

peace flowing into my soul

assuring me once again,

well done, my child, you are loved

joyful, blessed assurance –

I am enough

💞

Amy Lloyd

with a little light

Wonder and worship grows out of our own ability to acknowledge our smallness

it would take just a small miracle to light her fire once more…

she had drown so many times the light was never far from her Self…

the miracles she had seen allowed her to believe in,

walking on water,

flowing and free…

and

the ministry of madness

took off alongside the twirl of a Sufi,

the eyes of returning as a child…

a love song we all remember before entering Eternity…

and yet even here

where earth knows heavenly shadows

and time pieces of clocks,

we are given choices

to be will…

to be life

to know Spirit praying within us

and no worry as to where God lives

as holy is Home

Beauty,

Rev. Donna Knutson

bookended 12’s driving from day to night

Screw-topper-ed red backed up to screw-topper-ed white

snuggled in sand drinking that grit-lovely wine

kiss of the tide, moonlight on waters shine

holding your hand under that blue-blood moon

tongues find their way, licking sweet off the spoon

wind in our face, footprints upon the shore

losing our spot, finding its mark once more

circling round, stars crossing diamond gold

risking it all, life honors those most bold

sounds of the sea bringing back memories

touch of this day filled up with you and me

tugs at the heart, seasons of cold change soon

soon spring will find us, ready for love to bloom

🌺

Amy Lloyd

Once,

The moon followed

me home,

I know,

because I watched her

out the back window of the car.

Occasionally slipping

behind trees or buildings

like a secret agent,

she kept up with us

effortlessly,

as I strained against

the straps of my seat

to meet her gaze.

I felt her interest

and her smile,

happy to have made

a new friend.

Once,

not afraid of the night,

but of the day

that would follow,

I was invited

by my Mother

to gaze on the Moon

outside our house,

and greet her as

Our Lady’s lamp

protecting all,

guiding all home,

wisdom

passed down

from her Father,

whom I had never met,

but always felt

I knew.

He loved the Moon

she said.

There is hereditary

of the heart,

as well as of the blood,

it seems.

To this day

I miss her calls

that would begin always

with

Have you seen the Moon

tonight?

For I cannot look up

at the Moon

without looking

within

too.

Once,

I spent the night

in a wood made pure

silver

by her presence,

and felt the life in every thing

stir and sing

and dance

in a wild celebration

that is hidden from

the day.

I sat stone still

and watched

Foxes play

about me

and a Badger

pass by like an ancient sage

busy on his own quest,

and I believed

in magic again

by her light.

Once,

I remember her

appearing during the

long drawn out days

of dry schooling,

and seeing her

still serenity

so far above

the awfulness

of that age

made me breathe out

a breath

I did not even know

I had been holding

on to for years.

She felt like a friend

checking in.

We greeted each other

then,

as we do to this day,

each noticing the other

in the blessed acceptance

of being.

Once,

Sick and fevered I rose

gasping in the middle

of a winter’s night

and pulled back the curtain

to find her shining

over snow so newly fallen

that not a flake

had been disturbed,

but glowed in her gaze

cascading in curves

over a street I knew

but saw again

for the first time,

now softened

by snowlight’s reflection

of her blessed touch.

I looked and looked

at this gracious gift

of enchantment’s echo

until I felt I was being

looked at in turn

and blessed too.

In the morning,

I woke

well.

Once,

I walked the pier

between my parents

on the night before

I left to follow

the path.

We watched her rise

together,

in silence

and listened to a mandolin

playing in the distance.

We did not have to speak,

the Moon sang for us,

soul songs only we could hear.

Always remember this night,

they said later.

As if I could

do anything

else?

Once,

Feeling bereft and lost

I caught sight of her

rising over a strange city

(Though I remember her,

and the feelings,

but not the city it was.)

and I did not feel lost

anymore

How could you be lost

when you are always

under her graced gaze?.

How could you be alone

when everyone you know

and love is beneath her blessing

too?

I asked myself.

Once,

I saw her,

loom so large

as to almost

be alarming,

bedecked in harvest

gold and heavy seeming,

she lit the land beneath

so beautifully

that the cattle on the hills

cried out to her,

and the birds began their chorus

for a dawn

that was yet hours away.

I danced in her light

that night,

beneath the trees,

a slow sandaled

shuffle of monkish sort,

and bowed deeply

as she passed.

How could you not?

When all around

and within

was

psalming

celebration

of her compline

completeness.

Once,

I watched her rise

sickle sharp

over Assisi.

As though making manifest

the unseen divine smile

hanging in the air

over this holy place

where joy was married

to peace in the song

of brother-sisterhood.

I smiled back and felt

the saint smile too

behind it all

and wondered what

his long silent nights

of prayer

must have been like

measured only by her dance

across the sky

slowly revealing her face

to him,

as grace comes gently

to fill us

only as we empty

and so seem

to disappear

into divine darkness

just like

her.

Richard Hendricks

Candlemas Feb 2nd 2018

speak to me

in the world between worlds

where the shimmering abstract

holds all the secrets within us

words are absent

no scripture exists

there are no definitions

as there is no need for such things

in our eternal knowing

we are ever-being known

the mystic colors of God fill us

unseeable in this earthly realms obscured vision

they hold us there

where we don’t need to be understood

or understand anything

we are simply

all we could ever hope to be

we are the lover and the beloved

eternal love

eternally loved

complete

You in I

I in you

one

🌌

Amy Lloyd

I walk the Bridge of Sighs

with wonder,

through ornate gates

I pass to plunder;

I go to collect

dates gone by,

and to gather names

of those who have died;

ornate structures

in this marble town,

rise above

the sacred ground;

I see crypts and tombs

so beautiful and grand,

I see a granite angel

with praying hands;

I listen there

among the dead,

and appreciate

the things they have said,

and still speak

through their eternal silence.

– J.D. James

showing up in love

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at

night with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

~ Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

love is the flame

all people yearn for the flame

some people never discover there actually is a flame

some people ignore the flame

some people avoid the flame

some people examine the flame

some people research the flame

some people control the flame

some people fear the flame

some people admire the flame

some people use the flame

some people walk on the flame

some people dance with the flame

some people dance in the flame

some people become the flame

some people are consumed by the flame

your choice…

how will you burn?

🔥

Amy Lloyd

Those who are drawn to the root of love are mystics. Mystics are not satisfied with the surface patterns of love, with the emotional tangles and insecurities of human loving. They seek a purer wine, a more potent passion. They need the essence of love, its divine substance.

~ Irina Tweedie

What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more – something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words – to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

– C. S. Lewis