life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “art”

what am I missing? 

The speaker points out 

that we don’t really have

much of a grasp of things, 

not only the big things,

the important questions, 

but the small everyday

things. 

“How many steps up to your back yard? 

What is the name of your district representative? 

What did you have for breakfast? 

What is your wife’s shoe size? 

Can you tell me the color of your sweetheart’s eyes? 

Do you remember where you parked the car?” 

The evidence is overwhelming.

Most of us never truly experience life. 

“We drift through life in daydream, 

missing the true richness and joy that life has to offer.” 

When the speaker has finished we gather around to sing a few inspirational songs. 

You and I stand at the back of the group and hum along 

since we have forgotten most of the words.

😜
The Speaker by Louis Jenkins


Mary Oliver reminds me

to let go of any need that might linger in me

to, even try, to impress anyone. 

But to stay alert to the extravagant impressiveness around me, 

puddling at my feet,

drowning my life with goodness. 

To be easily astonished,

easily filled with wonder,

to let life boggle my mind.

To stay a child of joy and nature,

a collector of miracles. 

To stay in awe of sunsets

and dandelions,

coffee shops

and grasshoppers.

To gasp every time I get a view of the ocean,

to be breathless at the view from a mountaintop road at sunset. 

To feel wonder when I see a leaf change color.

To crane my neck, every single time, to catch a glimpse of sunlight on water,

to thrill everytime I touch the curve of a babies cheek. 

To get a chill of macabre delight

at gnarly, old toenails,

and bats hanging upside down

in a dark damp cave,

or flying around a street light as darkness falls slowly through the air. 

Such things keep me alive. 

These are the true riches of our living. 

Extreme miracles everywhere around us. 

We are here to witness, 

here to share descriptions of such beauty, 

even our feeble attempts are so amazing

they boggle the mind. 

Thank you, Mary Oliver, for this reminder, 

with your every beautiful, glorious word. 

We are each here to do our part,

to record our miracles

in our own voices, 

pens,

paints,

dances,

lyrics,

artistry,

we make up this tapestry,

we record the blazing glory,

the divine masterpiece. 

We each add notes to the grand symphony,

allowing the rocks to stay silent – 

at least for those who

don’t care to listen for the exquisite, out-of-this-world music they share – 

we play on through each day 

with such brilliance, light and passion,

savoring delight, 

everywhere we go…

until we are gone, 

and those who come behind us

find it all fresh and new once more,

and begin to tell their part of the story, 

in their own beautiful, unique ways. 

💞

AL 

let the desire for beauty rule your life


Abandon every

program and routine.

There is no sequence

of postures.

Stand valiantly and

gently sway

in the breeze of your

own breath.

Let your body rise and fall,

circling slowly, a vast

starry firmament between

the ligaments of each bone,

muscles washed in

attention, moving

out of their ocean wheels,

galactic cells, Wordless

creations of the infinitesimal…

There are no instructions.

There is no book.

No, more slowly.

Go nowhere,

micro-movements

inventing themselves

from molten stillness.

Now it is your own dance.

_________________

Classless Yoga by Uradiance 

💃🏻

http://yourradiance.blogspot.com/2016/05/classless-yoga.html?m=1


Excuse me while I kiss the sky. 

Pardon me while I hug the moon. 

Forgive me while I dance with the ocean. 

Give me a minute while I ring up a few stars. 

Hold your horses while I sing with the angels. 

Patience my old friend while I make love to the world. 

Get some rest while I fly the skies with the eagles. 

Count some sheep while I paint a masterpiece with Mother Nature. 

Then…

Come lay beside me and hold me close, 

touch my soul with lovers hands,

whisper the secrets my heart longs to hear, 

sing to me softly, 

kiss me like butterflies, 

while I love you forever

and ever, 

and we fall asleep together 

each night, 

for a thousand years

then a thousand more. 

Sweet dreams, 

my love. 

and good night. 

💤

AL



what if?


May this be a morning of innocent beginning,

 When the gift within you slips clear 

 Of the sticky web of the personal

 With its hurt and hauntings,

 And fixed fortress corners,
A morning when you become a pure vessel

 For what wants to ascend from silence,
May your imagination know

 The grace of perfect danger,
To reach beyond imitation,

 And the wheel of repetition,
Deep into the call of all 

 The unfinished and unsolved
Until the veil of the unknown yields

 And something original begins 

 To stir toward your senses

 And grow stronger in your heart… 

💞

John O’Donohue
Excerpt from, ‘For the Artist at the Start of Day’

 BENEDICTUS (Europe) / TO BLESS THE SPACE BETWEEN US (US)


…quietly just now, just one word:

Believe. 

Believe the best.

Believe the hard is being worked out for good.

Believe the best is still to come. 

Believe in the One who is Best.

Believe. [Mark9:23]

💞

   Ann Voskamp @ aholyexperience.com



extra special

  
An extra day —

Like the painting’s fifth cow,
who looks out directly,
straight toward you,
from inside her black and white spots. 

An extra day —

Accidental, surely:
the made calendar stumbling over the real
as a drunk trips over a threshold
too low to see.

An extra day —

With a second cup of black coffee.
A friendly but businesslike phone call.
A mailed-back package.
Some extra work, but not too much —
just one day’s worth, exactly.

An extra day —

Not unlike the space
between a door and its frame
when one room is lit and another is not,
and one changes into the other
as a woman exchanges a scarf.

An extra day —

Extraordinarily like any other.
And still
there is some generosity to it,
like a letter re-readable after its writer has died.

💌

February 29 by Jane Hirshfield

  

 

Catch that poem 

 

 Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

– Mary Oliver

 

 Running to Catch a Poem: Remembering the Poet in the Story 

Poems came to me

As if from far away.

I would feel them coming,

I would rush into the house,

Looking for paper and pencil.

It had to be quick,

For they passed through me

And were gone forever.

💫

– Ruth Stone, “Fragrance” (in her last collection “What Love Comes To”

💥

As a poet myself, I feel for Ruth Stone, because thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert, Stone’s mode of chasing poems like runaway horses is favorite, but few have read the poet herself or even remember her name. It’s well worth seeking out her work and noticing, along the way, how she rose above a dark river of grief and pain, especially after her second husband (also a poet) hanged himself from a door in the family home.
Oh yes. Then there are two delicious further revelations in Gilbert’s account of how she heard it from Stone. When a poem got away from her, she felt it galloping away, “searching for another poet”. Then sometimes she would manage to grab an escaping poem by the tail, and would feel herself pulling it back. “In these instances, the poem would appear on the page from the last word to the first – backward, but otherwise intact.” (Elizabeth Gilbert, “Big Magic”, 65.)
Many of us dreamers know exactly how that works, as we pull back dreams by the tail as they run away. How many of the dreams that escape go searching for another dreamer?

💫

Robert Moss

 

photo sources found @ http://www.pinterest.com 

🌟
http://www.mossdreams.com

http://maryoliver.beacon.org

 

 I string words like pearls
Knotting silence between each one

like silk thread

in a jewelers skillful hands

long strands or chokers

strategic placing of diamonds

where needed

sometime a sparkling featured

brilliant jeweled pendant 

always taking special care with the hardware

the finishing is the most important

must stand up to daily use

easy for right or left hands alike

then a final polish before bagging

when each piece is complete

💦

AL
 

What is our relationship to that which is larger than us?    – Mark Nepo 

  
Picasso, when asked if painter’s ideas come to him “by chance or by design answer: “I don’t have a clue. Ideas are simply starting points. I can rarely set them down as they come to my mind. As soon as I start to work, others well up in my pen. To know what you’re going to draw, you have to begin drawing… When I find myself facing a blank page, that’s always going through my head. What I capture in spite of myself interests me more than my own ideas”.

 

   
  

  
Thank you, in advance. It’s what I desire. 💞

awareness. appreciate. gratitude. abundance. 

  
   
    
    
 
   
 
   
 
  

don’t try too hard

 

 God just likes making things.  
He doesn’t try too hard. Comfortable. 

No particular message in mind –

Bugs, 

Flowers,

Birds, 

Stones,

Trees,

those beauties with leaves and sap.  

Shells of all sorts, 

revealing the sound of the ocean – 

even in the middle of the desert. 

He never runs out of fresh ideas,

new angles, 

dazzling variations of old themes.  

He makes masterpieces, 

out of scavenged and wasted things.  

Beauty within ashes and scars. 

Gardens and vegetables from rotted orange rinds and other scraps.  

Jewels from lumps of coal. 

Our creativity, at least in part, 

comes from resting in,

spending time with,

opening from within. 

Prayer as emptiness. 

Prayer as silence.  

Prayer as stillness.  

Prayer as rest. 

Prayer as opening. 

Prayer without wanting or asking. 

Prayer as presence. 

Then,

sometimes, 

God, 

the muse,

shows up,

hangs out on the sofa,

and our hearts begin to sing,

and we simply just can’t help making things ourselves…

💞

AL

(based on the book: the holy wild by Mark Buchanan) 

 

  

 After the glut of sparkle and sentiment,
all that heavy gold and glory,

it’s kind of a relief to return 

to an orderly house, a clean mantle,

a blue and white shirt, the regular dishes.
The world is plain, snow is crusted, 

trees more bare than in November.

The marsh like the underside of a carpet,

the cattails bland and spent.

The asphalt road has nothing to say,

the gray sky shrugs and says, “Ditto.”
God stands there, 

hands in the pockets of a drab jacket,

gazing at the brook’s blank of ice,

says, “Yeah, I like to hang out here.

It’s relaxing. Clears my head.”
I come home to a quiet house,

refrigerator humming. This too is holy.

I sit on the couch, gaze out at the yard.

“Huh,” I say. “What do you know?

Pockets.” 
__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

 

   

 

for the love of all things poetry 💞  

 

 I fit words together, 
hoping they mean something.  

Wanting them to make sense. 

To myself. 

To others. 

Allowing them my raw emotion. 

Willing to give them up freely. 

Creating a monument, 

for this one moment in time, 

to share with the world. 

These words become something tangible. 

A thing, 

a gift, 

a piece of art. 

A part of me, 

stays with them. 

Little pieces of me live, 

like shapes in a puzzle, 

becoming 

a picture, 

a flower, 

a song. 

Small particles of my soul, 

like tiny rose buds,

opening in my hand, 

mesmerizes with it’s 

beauty, 

touch, 

fragrance. 

I write words on a page, 

and feel love 

spreading outward, 

as the flowering happens, 

as this thought blooms. 

As words become thoughts about… 

As the pieces become beautiful… 

As the poem is born, 

of water, 

blood, 

star dust 

and becomes… 

a small piece of my soul,

left behind on pages, 

for others to find, 

sharing a small moment, 

never to be lost, 

because it has been 

recorded, 

acknowledged, 

emptied. 

Gratitude makes room for new 

miracles, 

learning, 

beauty, 

as they find their new home 

ready, 

emptied, 

expectant. 

Waiting for more 

truth, 

goodness, 

love, 

to flow and enter in. 

There is always more, 

and more than enough. 

The heart that gives gathers, 

but never tries to hold anything hostage. 

Love, 

giving, 

pretty much everything, 

about life, 

only works when we allow it, 

all of it –

every sacred cow, 

every color on the wheel,

every tiny wildflower we see,

every spec of mud, 

to be free. 

AL

 

  

  
Photos found at http://www.pinterest.com 

  

handle with care 

 

   

 

   
Hanging on by the proverbial thread

heart hungry for more

feeling ready

to break 

properly

crash and burn to ashes

Am I the only one

on the edge of sideways

trying to walk a straight line

as that slight right turn 

ends up being a hard right circle 

where I end up facing myself

in an old west gun-slinger shoot the lights out,

death of my dreams

duel?

Am I the only one? 

I hold my heart in my hands tenderly

hoping my repairs hold

that it won’t give way

and slide through my fingers

like sand on a summer day

which can never hold a shape 

longer than when the next high tide

washes it away
AL 

    
photos found on http://www.pinterest.com 

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