life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “fun”

dancing… 

 

 Music is playing, 
music with an aim, produced,

music of collusion and desire,

insistent and sexual.

Hard not to move with the music.

Hard not to fall into the rhythm,

seduce and be seduced.

But don’t slip on the blood 

on the floor.
Other music plays,

silent, within.

Different feel, different band.

Music of a beating heart,

melody of tumbling water,

lullaby whispered for a lifetime,

song of hearts set free.

The Beloved cuts in.

“May I have this one?”
No one to impress, only to offend.

No one to dance for, only with.

Dance.

Let joy move you,

even in the face of evil,

let love move you.

Before the guns, 

behind the prison bars,

on the gallows, dance.

Dance on your own grave.

When they threaten you, dance

the other dance that at last

will consume them as well.
Unseen, though you know within,

the Beloved takes you in steady arms.

Dance.
__________________ 

Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Unfolding Light

http://www.unfoldinglight.net

💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻

 

 the story of your name is written in my book, your beginning, the moment where you felt you ended and I begin. That is your beginning, child. 
 

You begin where you end and I begin. 

 

And the story keeps writing, child. After beginning there is adventure. After beginning there is trust and falling and catching and believing and choosing and waiting. There is much waiting and beginning again. 

 

Your story running right off the page with Me.      – Loop Devotional from Gather Ministries 

💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻

Listen to Lee Ann Womack sing I Hppe You Dance  http://youtu.be/RV-Z1YwaOiw
💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻

photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513

  

 You don’t need patience to do what you love. You need passion.      – Michael Barata

 
  

  

  

   

  

 
  

   


  

  

Listen to Bon Jovi sing It’s My Life http://youtu.be/9SKFwtgUJHs 

photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513

 

do it again….do it again

  Our Lord has written resurrection not in books alone—but in every leaf in springtime.   – Martin Luther

  Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead.

For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. 

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. 

It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. 

It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.

It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

G K Chesterton

 

 Hope and renewal and rebirth are at the heart of things. 

The world in winter looks so much as if it’s dying—and yet, and yet …

The frozen streams heard him sigh…

“We’ll run again!” they seemed to cry.

The tall dead grasses all were rustling…

“But we’re not dead, we’re only sleeping!”

The lost flowers were singing on and on…

“But we’re only hidden, we’re not gone!”

That tiny green shoot preached to me that morning. About hope. About joy. 

And about vulnerability—which isn’t weakness, but true strength.

Everywhere we look, God is speaking to us. His creation is singing to us. The Heavens are shouting it out. It’s not what it looks like! There is hope beyond the walls of the world!

That Joy is at the heart of things.

That a Light shines beneath it all. 

That Love runs the universe.

The more childlike we become —  the more like God we are.

And really, it shouldn’t surprise us that God is “younger” than we are.

After all, it wasn’t a general, or a warrior, or a politician God sent to rescue His broken world —

It was a baby.

👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻

   – Sally Lloyd-Jones on A Holy Experience 

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/05/when-youre-desperate-for-some-hope-in-the-midst-of-a-monotonous-life/

  

 

Photos by Fisherman Dan @ Branford CT

Listen to Keb’ Mo sing Closer http://youtu.be/Fdv-KafABk4 


I am a poet

  It has taken a while to embrace the poet.

The desire having been born much later in life,
to write poetry,
to bring to life, with words,
what I see, feel, moments of sanguinity.

I have never doubted the words I have written
because they were written in truth, my truth.
But I did doubt the title.
Poet.
What? These lines? Poetry?

There was too much significance behind the title.
A poet.
Wordsworth, Shelley, Dickinson, Frost, Walt Whitman…
Oh my. The idea left me breathless.
What was I playing at?

But then, the answer was blindingly simple.
Take away the significance.

Aren’t poems moments of grace, of revelation?

Humming to a birdsong,
delighting at the sight of valleys and mountains,
closing our eyes in ecstasy at the sweetness of a fruit
or the texture of bark under our fingertips…
Aren’t these the poetic murmurings of one’s heart?

While some of us choose to put it all on paper,
others choose to carry it all within their hearts.
Well then, underneath the cloak of conventionality,
aren’t we all poetic?
Aren’t we all poets?

👤👤👤👤👤👤👤👤

I am a poet by Rama Desai

https://ramaink.wordpress.com/author/ramaink/
👤👤👤👤👤👤👤👤

 

   

  Listen to Lake Street Dive sing We Love All the Same Songs http://youtu.be/9sNbyjfgccc
photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/513

Derby Day

  On a pleasant May day perfect for the racing events 

The Churchill downs of Kentucky proudly presents 
The finest champion thoroughbreds of all time 
With forthcoming foals of champion bloodline 
Attention please, the speaker was saying “We have an honored guest” 
A lone horse with “Jerry Bailey” in the saddle by request 
Yes, we have your favorite star 
The famous champion “cigar” 
The crowd became estatic, cheering as the judges gave an award 
A bronze replica of the wonder horse with gold letters “cigar” 
By this time the music began to play, all stood still to hear 
My old Kentucky home they love to so dear 
The jockeys suits of outstanding vivid colors as they rode 
Their mounts to the post 
Matched the bright ensembles of the enthusiastic hosts 
Oh! There is number eight, he does not want to cooperate 
Number nine like most is in his prime 
Ok now they are all in line 
Their off oh no, cigar want to go 
He doesn’t know he was only there for show 
Number eight that was slow to go to the gate 
He is now by the side rail 
Only two horses does he trail 
He is coming down the stretch fast 
Yes one of the horses he did pass 
The crowd is on their feet he won fair and square 
A little elderly man with a hearing aid said “Who was he that rode into victory?” 
Sir, it was pulpit that won the race 
And Captain Budgit came in second place 
And Concerto was in third today 
When I awake I hope it’s true 
About the Kentucky Derby as I told to you. 
Now that the race has been run 
There was laughter, chatting and fun 
And the celebrating has just begun 
The horse owners, jockeys, trainers and their families 
All met in the diner, ordering drinks to their families 
The happy people were dancing to rock, pop and who knows what 
And when they settled down they talked about racing a lot 
Questions and suggestions, like- Was Pulpit really that hot? 
Will Cigar run again or was he just for show? 
We will ask Allen Paulson- He knows 
What about Thesaurus- he won four races on turf- Wow! 
He is ready for big time and he is ready now 
My goodness, what time can it be? 
I slept too long 
I enjoyed every minute of my dream, is that so wrong?

🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎

Dreaming of the Kentucky Derby by Jeannette V. Steiner

    

Listen to Dan Folgelberg sing Run For the Roses http://youtu.be/61cceAXnC6w

🐴🐴🐴🐴🐴🐎🐴

http://www.kentuckyderby.com

settling in to happiness

  What happens when your soul

Begins to awaken
Your eyes
And your heart
And the cells of your body
To the great Journey of Love?  

First there is wonderful laughter
And probably precious tears

And a hundred sweet promises
And those heroic vows
No one can ever keep. 

But still God is delighted and amused
You once tried to be a saint. 

What happens when your soul
Begins to awake in this world

To our deep need to love
And serve the Friend?

O the Beloved
Will send you
One of His wonderful, wild companions—

Like Hafiz.
💑💑💑💑💑💑💑💑💑
What Happens by Hafiz
 
 Today I want to greet joy

Without a trace of protection 
I want to open my eyes to the light
Without a blink of dread
I want to look at my past
Without a whisper of shame
I want to look at my future 
Without a hint of fear 
Today I want to dance
Without pausing to think
I want to belly laugh
Without caring who hears
I want to open my arms
and twirl in the sun
Until I fall breathless
free to be myself
full of the joy
that I open to allow
completely letting go
Without even a smudge of suspicion 
or an instant of hesitation

ACL 3/4/13

 
Listen to Stevie Wonder sing For Once In My Life http://youtu.be/3oZClso_yUQ
Photo sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513 

love letters

 As I gaze into the world, I realise

that nothing falters in its
ability to reflect what
I’ve come here to see.

 

My challenge remains
to admit
to what it is
that I’ve seen.
👓👓👓👓👓👓👓👓👓👓👓
The Reflection by Nic Askew

 It is time to write.

To blog.

To truthtell.

To confess, expose, reveal…

be real and raw and silly-serious moment by moment me.

Here. Now.      -vs-.       Someday. When.

Someday when I know what I’m doing?

Have it figured out?

Plotted, schemed, planned, blueprinted, outlined?

READY.

Ptttthhhhh! You know THAT day, right?

I am a beautiful messy mess heap of chaos and presence

Wanna know something?

My insides are scribbling.

I am scared. Scared of being scared. Scared of being scared of being scared.

Yesterday I shared with friends that I do not comprehend why I get

So. damn. frozen. stuck. stymied. in my lack of tracks

when.ever. I. contemplate coming here                                                                                                 (yes, here, to a wordpress screen, fingers on keys)                                                                               and writing any.thing.at. all.

(as clearly evidenced by the chronic non-posts pervading this site, right?)

And I think I must find out what is “wrong” and-or “why oh why”                                                             in order to overcome and be                                                                                                                 the golden-hued, prolific, profound, insightful, inspirational blogging goddess                                       that we all know is in here                                                                                                       somewhere.

(Ohhhhhhhh…. could that be why?!)

They told me to just write. Write me. For me.

Not for you. Or them. Or any grand scheme purpose.

Simply to write. Express. Allow words to come. Flow.                                                                     Have their inexplicable way with me.

So here I am.

Shaking. Criticizing. Condemning. Regretting.                                                                          ALLOWING. Receiving.                                                                                                                     Sharing.                                                                                                                                             (Insert loud screechy horror movie scream here)

Writing words from voices whispering, hollering, quivering and shimmering

Fastwriting over, under, beside and through the scribbley scary insides

Less pretend pretense.

More real raw-been Robin.

I am a writer, after all.

I am also a Leader of Laughter and Guider of Dreams and Creativity Coach.                                       And that scribble and scrape-slops my insides, too.

I just want to hide. Run away. Hibernate. Meditate. Extrapolate.

You have no idea (wait, but maybe you do?)                                                                                         just how much energy I spend resisting

what I’m meant to do.

Fighting, warring, tugging, slugging, ugamugging.

It is ongoing, this internal bickering with all the voices

vying to be heeded and heard,

whining, cajoling, singing, snorting

All these damn voices, yearning.

I am hushing you (shhhhhh now, it’s ok)

setting you free

be unleashed upon a page, a stage,

keep me real, release release

have your way with me.

It is time to write. 

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

      – Robin OK @ http://laughndream.com/2015/03/truthscribbles/

 

photos and sources found at www.pinterest.com/al513 

we’re all just ex-babies! embrace it!

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…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
http://www.onbeing.org/program/inner-landscape-beauty/transcript/1125

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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
http://m.frederickbuechner.com/

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photo source tracks found at

listen to the day

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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 Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with—some will be delighted to hear—

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,
and—clap your hands—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

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snow!!! 💞

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Photo by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT

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backyard tree and pig by me 😃

The whole world is a poem today
I walked 2 miles in snow paradise
Hoping I would remember each amazing
Beautiful
Breathtaking
Moment
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
Until…
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

3/8/13

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Beautiful photos by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT

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

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Nick Ortner

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