all the things they do
βspite of heaven and hell
or city hallβ
Nothingβs wiser than a moment.
No oneβs chance
is simply changed by wishing,
right or wrong.
What you do is how you get along.
What you did is all it ever means.
π
Place to Be by Robert Creeley
My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style. – Maya Angelou
π
Oh yes, this is my motto!!
These four things for the rest of my life:
Passion
Compassion
Humor
Style
Maya is my friend
She knows me well
We are soul connected in so many ways
Thank you, my sister
For your words
Your journey
Your passion
Your choices
I am ever grateful for your teaching
I will do my best to live
the same way you did
within the space I have been given
So my song
will be transformed from
breaking free from my cages
and I will sing my personal song
of freedom
πΌ
AL
Don’t leave home without your sense of humor. Don’t come home without it either.
We are here essentially to risk ourselves in the world. We are a form of invitation to others and to otherness, we are meant to hazard ourselves for the right thing, for the right woman or the right man, for a son or a daughter, for the right work or for a gift given against all the odds. And in all this continual risking the most profound courage may be found in the radical and simple willingness to allow ourselves to be happy along the wayβ¦
π
LONGING by David Whyte
It’s not how we leave one’s life.
How we go off the air.
You never know do you.
You think you’re ready
for anything;
then it happens, and you’re not.
You’re really not.
The genesis of an ending, nothing but a feeling,
a slow movement,
the dusting of furniture
with a remnant of the revenant’s shirt.
Seeing the candles sink in their sockets;
we turn away,
yet the music never quits.
The fire kisses our face.
O phthsis, o lotharian dead eye,
no longer will you gaze on the baize of the billiard table.
No more shooting butter dishes out of the sky.
Scattering light.
Between snatches of poetry and penitence
you left the brumal wood of men and women.
Snow drove the butterflies home.
You must know how it goes,
known all along what to expect,
sooner or later β¦
the faded cadence of anonymity.
Frankly, my dear, frankly, my dear, frankly
π
Only the Crossing Counts by C. D. Wright
Well I won’t back down, no I won’t back down
You could stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won’t back down
Gonna stand my ground, won’t be turned around
And I’ll keep this world from draggin’ me down
Gonna stand my ground and I won’t back down
[Chorus:]
Hey baby, there ain’t no easy way out
Hey I will stand my ground
And I won’t back down
Well I know what’s right, I got just one life
In a world that keeps on pushin’ me around
But I’ll stand my ground and I won’t back down
Hey baby there ain’t no easy way out
Hey I will stand my ground
And I won’t back down
No, I won’t back down
This day maybe be rough and bloody and heartbreaking but it is here and it is now and it is bursting with untold potential and possibility and our response to it is of utmost, urgent importance.
there is terrible beauty in every human heart
tell me a story that will live with me forever
love always shares grace always wins
you can’t miss if you show up
pay attention…
the message is always revealed at the appointed intersection
letting go brings the right miracle
at the right time the song playlist repeats
crazy love flows into mystic waters
deep calling to deep
honor chooses to say yes to the best invitations
making the call brings me the messages I need to build the new bridge from the friend bench of this manna-filled moment
there is always more than enough to share
gratitude buckets fill and overflow
removing scales from blurry, tearful, kaleidoscope eyes
as perfect peace falls into rightful place
color shards blooming into new masterpieces of never before seen glory
diamonds dance on the water
flaming beauty evolves, drives me to my knees,
shedding shoes, and fear,
as we talk
I lift my face to the sun and free soar
full wing, open soul, with the gulls,
who always fly in trust, never a shadow of doubt, that they are loved to the sky
right here, and in every tick of time,
in, and in between, every click of the second hand,
around the bend of eternity and back again
the way a weeping cherry tree delicately drapes pink branches
against the blue sky.
the way a jagged cut tree stump
covers itself with luxurious moss
and pours out green English ivy all over the ground around it.
the way the tires of a bulldozer
make such interesting patterns in the sand
on the way to the salt water.
the way dandelions keep on
cheerfully spreading wishes
and polka dot sunshine
no matter how many times they get labeled weeds.
the way the smell of an orange
colors your hands,
long after the fruit is consumed.
the way a great conversation,
of kith and kin,
on any ol’ friends bench,
can take you miles and miles
around the moon
and back again
changing the course of your day,
sometimes,
even your life.
yes, poems are born
in the senses.
no need for pen or paper,
poems are created
while paying attention,
in the heart of
our ordinary,
extraordinary,
living of life.
π
AL
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Relax.
This won’t last long.
Or if it does,
or if the lines make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on the T.V.,
deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand such things.
Its feelings cannot be hurt.
They exist somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime.
Start it in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like.
Look, there’s a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he’ll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you’re busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it’s sex you’ve always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party’s unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don’t think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don’t know what music this poem can come up with,
but clearly it’s needed.
For it’s apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music
when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer than life.
I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I’ll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don’t give anything for this poem.
It doesn’t expect much.
It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house.
And if you’re not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh.
π
Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry by Stephen Dunn
The purpose of poetry is not to create literary criticism. It exists to delight, instruct, and console living people in the sloppy fullness of their humanity.
life: acoustic & amplified 